misplaced mama

In gratitude.

Today: My Mirror

[i will preface this was something off topic.  last post i totally cold-dissed my computer and sure enough 20 minutes after I hit send, my computer was pronounced dead.  it’s gone.  so my ‘30 day in a row of thanks’ business will be ‘30 days when i can get on another computer’. unfortunately, uncle sam went and took a bunch of money i was hoping for to buy the much lusted after ibook, so patience will be my practice as i await the funds for my new machine. hand jobs on the corner anyone? 20 bucks a pop].

* * *

Sula! If you don’t give me that right now I am going to get a better toy and I am never going to share it with you ever!

Sula! I am gonna smack you in the head with this bowl at your head if you don’t give me the blue marker!

Sula! I am going to throw you out the window if you don’t give me my book!

* * *

Mia. Those words you used with Sula today are not kind ways to talk to anybody. You can choose words that will make you feel better and won’t make Sula sad.

Long after the fact of the numerous five-year old volcanic expressions, I sat down to talk to her.

But mama, you talk like that.

And I look in her big brownish, greenish, yellowish round saucers for eyes with lashes that are illegally long. She looks right back at me, then glance away for a moment, knowing in some little kid way that what she is telling me is going to make me react somehow, she knows that what she is saying to me is big for me.

I don’t use those words, but evidently my sentiment falls through the holes in the sieve.

I do? I talk like that? I don’t say those things to you.

More quietly than she has been all day Yes mama. You talk mad last day and today. I am just talking mad like you.

* * *

And everyday I get to look into this mirror. Today it looked ugly, like beyond bad hair and acne. It was horrible mother day in my river valley. Yes. She is right. My level of stress has been so high and my voice reflects how totally and utterly unconscious I am about it. Sometimes a straight up look in the mirror is all I need.

I have been watching how my voice sounds, the energetic quality and the words I choose even when I am totally frustrated and want to throw every last one of the out the window, shedding, slobbering four-legged friends included.

Thank you mirror, for reminding me how to walk my talk.

How about buttery toast with nutritional yeast?

Where’s the traditional geese?

Sprinkled on top of it.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I don’t waaaaaaaan it. I waaaaaaan IT oooooon the SIIIIIDDE..

Okay. Fine.

No. I. Don’t. Wanit! I want something else!

What then?

She pauses. Her eyes gaze up to the sky, her slender, sturdy feral-like body rests on a shady patch of green, the light weaves above it, sprinkling brightness within shadow. Her fingers pick and poke, separate and pet at the blades of grass that is her bed. One leg rocks to beat that is undoubtedly the soundtrack in her head, a mix of African ceremonial and British 70’s rock. The other leg is limp, relaxed, rolling off to the outer edge of the limb, open and receiving. Half her body in corpse pose, the other half ready to leap through the air.

She looks up at the mother, standing above her, waiting, looking down at her wondering if the tantrum will pass quickly like a mid-day Island summer storm or if she is just in the eye of it and any moment expect a torrential downpour of will. It was one of those days, the many where the Mother lived in utter not knowing, or un-knowing. Mystery was above all her life with children.

I want the clouds.

The clouds? Well, okay. Coming right up.

So the mother walks into an open sunlit square a few steps away from her daughter.

She looks up, plants her feet into the ground, lifts up her arms to the perfect gathering of cumulus in the robin egg blue sky above her. She reaches up past her ears and head and above the crown. Her jacket lifts and exposes the loose flesh and the marked paths of pregnancy mapping like deep canals in her skin. She stretches her body higher, opens her hands and takes hold of the clouds pulling them into her arms, picking them like cotton, gathering them like sheets from a clothes line in a hurry before the rain . She exhales down, holding the bundle of white fluff and wetness, of nothingness, the ether, and she carefully walks back to her daughter with an armful of her request.

Here. Here are some clouds for you

She smiles at her mother, a sparkle in both their eyes meet up.  I want the sun now.

The sun? Okay.

The mother walks further into the yard where the sun beats down larger, like a blazing drum, bouncing off dahlias, spiderwebs and fallen green apples. This time she lifts straight up, raises her chest, raises each leg up, and down, up and down, climbing further and ladder-like, pulling down air and bringing her body closer to the original flames. She squints and sweats, grunts and sighs. She passes the tops of the tips of the cedar and aspen, she ascends above clouds, she makes eye contact with a turkey vulture and ducks her head as it cruises by. Damn, those birds are huge. Finally she is at the sun. She wipes her brow, looks behind her right shoulder, down at the yard, making sure the baby is still okay on the quilt under a leafy tree, taking a nap. And then she heads backwards and down, holding the flaming orb on top of her head, like a tribal woman carries a basket, while her feet search below for each step descending until she is back on the ground. She carefully walks over to her daughter, making sure she doesn’t drop the sun on any living thing below, and gracefully offers it to the spot next her her.

The sun, my love.

She giggles, wiggles and pretends to touch it. It’s hot!

That tree. Now I want that tree. She is happy to continue the game.

She points to the tree to the west that’s rumored to be the second tallest tree in the whole town, it towers above any that she could see, but the story goes that there is one taller, somewhere in the valley.

That one? The big one? My pleasure.

The mother heads over to it’s corner and look up at it. She reaches her right hand around her backside and rubs at the cusp of her sacrum and her ass, gently massaging a large knot out. This one would be hard, heavy. She takes a forward fold and then a squat, hoping to prepare her body for the hard work of uprooting a 200 foot old growth tree. She pulls her fleece hoody over her head and kicks off her sneakers, using the opposite one to pry off the other. She inhales and exhales. Plants her feet, all toes root into the ground, like on the deep brown tree bark she faces. She aligns her spine over her hips, tucks her pelvis ever so slightly, lifting the perineum just enough to gather strength and lock it in and to keep her bladder from prolapsing (after the third that area went a bit haywire) and squats down, all the way to the where the trunk meets the earth. She takes hold the large tree body with her arms and hands and grunts, tugs, wiggles, loosens it, rips up, loosens a bit more, like working a tooth ready to pass on, and then a huge arrrgggggggghhhh she finally, with all her might gathered from every corner of the Universe, she pulls the whole tree up from the chunky black earth. The dirt separates and sinks deeper and deeper into into itself, lifting up communities of creepy-crawlers and million legged slitherers. The tree roots dangling above the gapping whole which was it’s home, ragged and thick, like an old witches dreadlocks, spiraling down to the newest growth, the shooter, which has been ripped from it’s womb [something that makes the mother feel a tad guilty, but this is for her daughter. A mother must do what she must.] Slowly and with caution, making sure the tree doesn’t drop on her younger daughters or hurt the gravenstein tree growing nearby, she carries it over to the older girl who still lounges on the ground, watching every move her mother makes.

My love, the tree. She sets it down next to her daughter’s body, it’s roots take hold of the earth and grown downward, secure, back at home. There we go.

Maaamaaa! Thank you! She is beyond herself with glee, kicking up her legs and flapping her arms like wings against the earth.

Is there anything else?

I have the clouds and the sun and the tree! I have everything!!!

Is there anything else you want? Because I’ll give you anything, anything.

I began my mothering journey keeping things from me kids: TV, certain kinds of foods, certain kinds of people, words, images, places. I kept things from them because by doing that it felt I was giving them innocence. But what kind of life is living in subtraction? From now on, I give. I give freely. Even if giving means giving nothing at all, a No. Not Now. Another Time. A shift in perspective: I won’t keep the world from them, it’s theirs to explore while I breath and trust.

Mia, you are five. [FIVE!! I yell this in disbelief] How did this happen? I try to remember how your porcelain skin was once chubby and rollie and without a trace of dirt or paint or scars and scabs.  I try to remember what your toes looked like at 5 months? 7 months? 2 years? I will never forget the way they looked at one day old, but after that they grew so fast I have forgotten.  I look at your elbows now and know they look so different. Your elbows when you were about 13 months and  were chunky and dimpled, I’d chew on them and kiss them and think you had the most incredible tasting elbows in existence. You’d giggle and give me a couple toothed smile. Now those elbows live on a long and strong arm, very little chub left, muscles growing beneath soft blond hair.

And now you are five. Five is. Earth. Water. Air. Fire. Akasha. Five is. Womb. Birth. Baby. Toddler. Kid. Five is. Mama. Dadda. Mia. Sula. Zadie. Five is. Mia. Rose. Little. Moon. Rock. Five is. Thumb. Pointer. Middle. Ring. Pinkie. Five is You.

This is the hardest birthday letter I have had to write yet. This is because I love you more than ever. Isn’ that something? To love you even more deeply than here, or here? It’s because mothering you the way you ask me to do is harder and more demanding than I ever imagined.  The symbiosis doesn’t come easy, it’s not totally innate,  but it reveals itself through time and space, and love of course, although love isn’t the only ingredient, it’s the only foul-proof one that works time and time again.  We have had our struggles.  You are grumpy in the morning.  So am I.  You sensitive heart runs infinitely deep.  So does mine.  You’re loud.  Me too.  You make your own choices, no rules apply. Yup, same over here.  You need me.  I need you.  You get lost in creative play.  So do I.  We like to come up against all things, hard and passionately.  Sometimes it’s just as much fun to rip apart a flower to see what it’s made of than to carefully adore it from afar.  Neither of us are afraid to climb narrow cliffs with raging waters below.  But I get scared when I see you do it.  You seem nervous whan you watch me.

And I say this so we remember how very perfect it is that you and I were brought together. You are my greatest teacher, you don’t mirror me as a child, you mirror me now, a reminder, a poke, a shove sometimes to become The Presence in just that moment. And at the same time you came here for me to teach you about containment and safety,  about loving with abandon without getting caught in the web of drama. You’ve come here to teach me to step forward towards giving; giving freely to your heart’s requests is at least the first step in knowing how to truly love you.  And the world.

Today you asked me what The President was after a prolonged conversation with a canvasser [yes they have them out in the country] who came by with voter registration forms for me.

A Leader. The simplest reply I could find at that moment.

How do you be one? [not sure if you meant what do you have to do if you are one, or what you needed to become one].

I thought for a moment. Ummm. 35 years old and born in the United States. You thought for a moment, I could see your eyes dance while your mind worked. And then you grinned ear to ear, showing my your sparkly teeth you work so hard to brush every morning with your battery operated Dora brush.

Like Me!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes!!! When you are 35, Yes.

I am five. Today I am five! I am five so I can be president.

*

Mia, you could be president, though I am not sure you would want to. Leading a rock opera symphony perhaps or a womans bling-bling futbal league, where boas, scarves, glitter, and puffs are required while displaying hard-core kicking and passing and championship stradegy.  You are all at once the Fanciest Nancy I know and the roughest, toughest chick in town. But president? You might just end up too smart for that job, unless of course things change, this world changes. The pendulum swings. Someday maybe presidents won’t be such a bag full of shit.

Mia, you won’t read this until you are much older, but I can say it now. You are a beautiful gift to this world. Know you possess everything, all the elements, the magical alchemical combination of equal part air and dust, earth and flower. You are your Motherline of Stregas and Midwives, Storytellers and Musicmakers. Scientists and Engineers. You are the scion of Peace. Know you are more than enough to love yourself. To love your partners. To love this earth. You are an evolover as each year passes I am reaffirmed at my job to hold you while you live The Art of Peace. It’s not always easy, but it is our path. It is possible. I didn’t have you to muddle the waters, but when they get that way we have a means to a cold glacial river to rip through and crystilize the murkiness.I channeled you down by the greatest grace, the blessings from my womb, to this world.

I won’t be here forever, but I will be here until you are old and gray. And when you came crying to me tonight in exhaustion and high on stolen Hershey kisses and a cake with chocolate bread inside and looks just exactly like a pumpkin outside [your request. I tried my best. it looked more like a basketball but at least it tasted good], you collapsed in my lap and bawled that you wanted to be a big girl but you wanted to be a little baby. That you wanted to be little in my arms like Z and you wanted to be a big girl still, but still a baby. I wanna be a baby too and a big girl but i want you to love me like a baby. You were so confused, being four and now five and wondering what it all really means. Theses transitions aren’t easy for any of us. Even the most seasoned of us flinch and fight, toss endlessly in discomfort at night while we allow death and life to meet, while we all ourselves to be the change. 

*

You are FIVE. May this year bring you the tidings you deserve, you long for: a container of love, the community you aspire to create, the glitter you long to spread, the music you continually make with your voice and hands and feet and beating heart, the crunchy and tacky pepto-pink princess dress who eye everytime we go to wee-one’s consignment shop.  FIVE. It’s been a year for you: from desert to rainforest, city to country, one school to another un-school, rental house to ownership. But really, as much as you are aware of these changes and transitions, you feel them to the core of your bones, you are fine. You are fine when I am fine. We are learning together, to Let It Be.

I told you your birth story this morning. You looked up at me and said: Mama, thank you for saying that, when I was coming out. That was nice of you because I know pushing baby out is hard.

Saying what, sweetie?

Saying thank you to me while I was coming out. When you were getting me out, you said Thank you, Baby, thank you, baby. That was nice of you mama. I liked it.

I’m glad you liked it. I said it because I meant it. You know when I say: Mia Rose, you are driving me CRAZY?

Uh-huh.

Remind me of what I said when you were coming out, k?

K. mama.

No, really, thank you. I don’t even know how much I bow to you yet, but something tells me little by little more and more gifts will be revealed. I can only handle so much love at a time.

Happy Birthday Mia Rose Little Moon Rock. Your spirit name has been announced to the world now. I ask the world to receive you fully.

More love than I know how to say,

Mama.

respect

I am not everything I write, or everything I feel, I just am. In moments of the recklessness, the chaos, the unkempt, the profane, in those moments when i speak to myself with a fist in the air and snarl on, I settle down in the Sacred. I become True Self.  It has found me. There are no lessons or teachings or paths to go down except to listen.  I listen.  And sometimes I write.  Sometimes I think about what to write and other times I just write.  And sometimes I just rejoice and give thanks and most of the time I do it all at once, because life is crazy like that.  As I don’t file my paperwork, I don’t file my emotions.  They are in one big bottomless box.  Dig in and pull out.   I am lost and found in many different moments of motherhood.  Each one I hold with reverence and equality.  I am in no rush vanish the darkness.  It is my teacher, and although there is space when I will move on from it, for now it lingers.  And I take the pressure of myself to Feel Better or the opposite of Depressed.  I can’t hold either of these two differently. 

I think of the winter here and how really dark it is.  It’s wet and emotional, muddy and messy.  It’s the underbelly, the shadows, the wind, the water.  The sun does not show it’s form until late; 8:30am.  And it goes away by 4pm.  That is the truth of the winter, it’s just dark.  But if only I had the words to describe the vibrancy of the green and the purples and the oranges and whites and the pinks and the yellows and the blues that hip-hop around me right now; a jubilee of fruity-pebble summer time electricity to roll in for hours.  This vibrancy would never be possible, this amazing shit right out my bedroom window, the true definition of Green.  Without those months of dark gray drizzle and sitting inside the center and waiting out the storms, it could never be like this.  The winter is no different than the summer; different expression of the same ego-less Force.

 ***

How did I end up here?  The Pinnacle.  The Peak.  Acme. The place where I look out my door and see Koma Kulshan (aka mt. baker) and hear the dance of rivers and creeks and waterfalls and the song of coyotes?  This place where tonight a spotted owl landed right on a tree branch in my yard and we looked eye to eye for what seemed like forever.  Magic and astral planes, witchery and wisdom, nocturnal secrets of the milky way and the bottom of the forest floors. How did we land in this speck of a town where people of all sorts live together; mix and match all types and you get a rural melting pot, a celebration of diversity yet with a common thread: we all love it here.  And not one person have I met that I have not liked.  This is something new for me.

There is park on the next ‘block’ over behind the elementary school, which is really a step away from being a cozy one-room schoolhouse.  We went there the other day, to play at the park and to get the info I needed from the school regarding being a part-time homeschooler (the actually subsidize you for taking your children’s education into your own hands).  And I have to say, I could even send the girls there, as a matter of fact, it’s the wamest and sweetes public school I have ever been in.  And they appauld you, support you, encourage you for homeschooling, inviting you to partake in their resources when you want/need.   What seems like a fight in other places, seems to natural and easy here.  Country folk tend to be a bit radical.  Perfect.

At the park we ate blueberries fresh picked and carrots from our friends at Uprising Organics.  We ran in the open field and climbed on the park gear which is somewhere between safe and not-safe and I like that fact a lot.   We heard a racket coming from the thick green forest that encircles the back of the school.  Some boys came barreling through lugging a skate ramp and rail, a bomb box, and extension cords.  They were 9 or 10 years old and showed off their tricks for us as an unidentified punk band blared through their speakers. 

 We played hopscotch under the shelter of the outdoor yet waterproof basketball court.  And we stumbled up on this message in chalk.

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 Indeed, to the kid who is proud of their simple town; we agree.  Acme rocks.  Peace and love.  I have heard the stories of the small tribe here and I hold them to my heart, fiercely protecting this new home.  You won’t read much of it here.  You just have to come and visit to know how special it is.

***

The blackberries in the front and the apples trees in the back are bursting with sweet and sour life.  We pick them like it’s our career, carry baskets of berries in to be washed and bags of apples to the butcher block to be chopped.  Blackberry-apple muffins are a staple this week.  Apple crisp and blackberry syrup soothe our sweet teeth.   We walk to the Post Office and the girls take turns getting to unlock our box and retrieving the mail.  On the way back we stop in the cafe for a berry shake.  We go home and collapse under the cedar tree in lactose overload, aching but happy bellies.

A couple days ago we started out on mysterious adventure heading north and ended up at a horse farm and signed up for lessons and a hand holding as we walk our way to the soon to come day that we own our own horses.  Mia turns 5 soon and besides a tool box and a sewing machine, she would like a horse. First things first, and so we begin to learn about these big hearted creatures.  She seemed satisfied with that and we start riding together next month. Then we ended up in an converted airstream trailer turned hair salon at the base of the Tall White Mountain.  J, our stylist, gutted the place and had a handy person install gorgeous muted stamped silver ceiling tiles, black and white checkboard floors, an antique barber chair and freestanding stove that once belonged on a boat.  We all have new haircuts and got them in the coolest place I have ever gotten my haircut.  Mia has a mullet to even out her self-inflicted chop months back and Sula got her first little trim (besides what Mia had done to her with the kiddy scissors). Bright red now peeps out from underneath my  mane and strands of rope-like dreads form in the back.

***

Mia and Sula both start school this week.  Mia will spend two days a week at a homeschooling cooperative (Three Rivers School) that is nestled a top a hill, what was once an old chicken farm is now an earth-based, environmentally and socially conscious centered school  It’s my dream come true, where alternative education comes with no dogma or agenda; just a space to learn and feel supported while we all raise and teach these kids in the most creative and liberating and compassionate ways. It’s only about 10 minutes away so it’s perfect. Sula will be saturated in dogma at a local Waldorf preschool for 2 days a week, but it’s sweet and peach and warm and smells lovely and will be a perfect for her soft and whimsical little soul.  She often dances on other planes while the rest of us chug along in the reality.  She needs a place of her own, without Mia, for only her.  She can make her own friends and bake bread and swirl paper with water colors.  It’s safe and peaceful and that’s all i ask for that sweet girl until she is old enough to go to Three River School.

I can see, just around the bend,  I will have some Time.  Some spaces in my days will be missing one or two of the girls and I can manuever throughout with just one arm full.  This will be big.  Autumn arriving and to have a schedule and some time alone.  Three kids has been a lot for me.  I am humble in this journey,  I am the first to admitt I have close to drowned on many occassions by the love and guts of parenting.  One kid I thought was huge for the heart, and it is.  With two kids I thought I would just burst with love and awe and insanity.  But three?  Three girls?  Holy shit.  To all the mamas with three girls, wow.  Wow.  I walk with you as my teachers.  I always knew it would be hard.  I always knew I’d have to work to get us out and into the car and to a place to hike or play or learn or shop.  I always knew I’d be the mom that forgot things like snacks or water or flippin wipes for god sakes, and I am.  I am so the mom whose car has nothing but useless toys scattered on the floor and not a drip of water to drink. I feel lucky when we all get somewhere alive.  Fuck the diaper bag I left on the front porch. But I am slowly figuring it out, seven months later, I am finally feeling the weight of all these people lift and becoming this one, this person here I joked about back then. It has not been easy.  Sometimes it hasn’t even been fun.  But for the most part, I see how it has been full of leaping into love.  Especially days like today, where we spent it here. 

The chains are loosening.  I am re-remembering who I can be, the strength and the capacity I have to endure the mundane, the tantrums, the lonlieness, the messiness, the beauty, the wild times.  I have it.  I am it.  I fill myself with purple: authority.  I wear a pair of of early 80’s cowgirl boots and I yell and I hug and curl up on the grass and tell stories.  From behind the curtain I peak out and I see.  I see.  I see.

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How did this happen? Little one, gentle one, Happy Birthday.  You are THREE.  It’s been a big year: moving and weaning and becoming a big sister and going to playschool and getting your own bottom bunk.  Wow.  Three.  And as you like to say, Mama when I’m three I can play with razor blades and drink wine, ok?

No.  You can’t.  But we think it’s funny to hear you say it. 

I can tell you right now all the ways you bless our lives: your smile, your silly faces you make when you think nobody is looking, your funny and simply loveable nature make you a joy to wake up to every morning your appetite. Your artwork on my walls, little spirals which you call energy, are even easy to get over because you my dear, really are one of a kind.  Somedays I just look at your poppy and I ask him, how on earth did we get her? How did we get so lucky?  We just did, he always answers.  And it’s the truth. 

The other day I showed you photos of your birth, The Birth, the one that makes me sing inside when I think about it.  Yes, mama, that’s me and and that’s you and why is dada’s hair not all crumply?

He had it cut short when you were born.

And where was Mia?

With our friend.

Mama, was I like a mermaid and you like a mermaid?

uh-huh.

Mama, mermaids bring blessings.

They sure do.

When Mia was born was I there?

Nope.

Was I at the Souris (the source)?

Um, well, were you?

Yes, I was at the Souris.  Who was I with there?

I don’t know baby, who were you with?

I was with Gandhi.  Yes.  I was with Gandhi at the Souris and now I miss Gandhi.  I want him to come back.

And that’s you in a nutshell Sula.  Blessed.  Divine.  Sweet.  One of a kind.  A girl who has been around the world and back, a universal gypsy.  You have done your work and I know it’s not for me to say, but you are a wise old soul and I think instead of your own work here, you came down to help me with mine.  You seem to be done with the karma, but kind enough to hold me through my own.  You’ve been my daughter time and time again.  Our eyes lock and no words need to be uttered.  You are a woman of service and love.  This world needs you.

I love you.  We all do.  You sweep through space with magic and delight.  Happy third birthday.  You make my job so easy.  Thank you.

mama

continued with words.  soon. fierce. but for now, some snaps of my teachers.

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these teachers expect a lot, but they are the best i’ve ever had.

Finding rhythm each day has proven to be a challange with three.  I repel schedule and routine, but rhythm is something that keeps all of us interested, aware and present.  There was only a handful of places or things the two girls and I would attempt to do outside the house in AZ; picnics at parks when the weather was cool enough.  When is was scortching hot, lazy mornings at the coffee joint that bled into cozy afternoons spent next door reading endless books at the library (which probably, besides people, is the most missed ‘thing’ about AZ.  Scottsdale Library is truly phenomenal).   Besides being in a new place, and having a new kid, and living in a delicate and sometimes pretty dark state of mind post-partum, I have been rhythmless.  I haven’t been able to figure out anthing yet.  I need time to heal, process, and ease into this new life,  but it’s been wearing on me, getting old, this not knowing what to do or how to get dressed.  I’m getting sick of being bound by this state of indifference to sadness, frustration to anger.  It’s time to crack open the paralyzing armor, or at least poke out from underneath the covers.

Today’s was good.  Mia to school.  The rest of us walk 3 miles to a park.  Play.  Walk back.  Pick Mia up.  Fast trip home (insist girls all wait in the car), grab no-prep to-go lunch.  Head to the beach for a picnic of apples, strawberries, cheese and raw cashews.  Walk to the bookstore.  Cookies and tea and browse through books.  Home.  Play.  Pull out stuff for dinner. Wait for B to get home to make dinner.  Make life easy and wear Z the whole entire time, except for daiper changes.  Breath.  Laugh. PLay music. Watch the moon get bigger. Bath. Sing The Beatles Blackbird 5 times. Bed. Today was good.  No dizzy spells or anxiety.  No stuffing my face in a couch cushion and cry/screaming.  No sobbing phone calls to husband or friends or sisters.  No wishing my life away.  No yelling.  Living and trying to function so close to a birth is fragile.  In our tribeless (literal) state of a culture, I honor my hard times, my depression and overwhelming moments.  And I celebrate when I can slide back into my comfortable skin, the mask I know intimately and I really enjoy wearing. Happy and Mellow.  Balanced and carefree.  Flexible and gentle.  Strong and energized, maybe even a little hyper.  Silly. Dancy. Singy.   I got there today. It felt fantastic and it was just normal.  Me.  Today I felt what it’s like to dive in and enjoy being a mother again, because the past month has been a stuggle to see the light, no matter what there have been days where I felt like a stranger in my own body, my own life.  One day at a time. 

*

Mia cut her hair again.  When one is preoccupied with a newborn one will sometimes give a suspecious four year old kid craft scissors and paper and glue for fun and entertainment and then not really pay attention to what they are doing and go do a load of laundry (okay given her history -or histories- perhaps there is no real excuse for not watching her like a hawk).

Her short side:

Her long side:

People ar very impressed with her sense of style.  I request they don’t encourage it.  Really.  I like the cut, too, sorta mod meets Johnny Scissorhands.  But please.  Don’t encourage it.

Punk Rock Warrior and Berry Eater: