Live and Let Live . . . Please

I’m tired.

And sad.

And, if I’m completely honest, angry. Yeah, pretty angry.

Missing you, Autumn

Today is a slightly overcast day in South Florida. Its as close as we get here to anything that feels like fall. We’re going pumpkin-picking today. Well, we’re going to get pumpkins from a local pumpkin patch anyway.

Unplanned healing

Sometimes–well, many times, I’m learning–life just happens. And you catch yourself in a moment. And it’s wonderful.

Today that happened to me.

You see, it’s September 27. And that’s an anniversary of sorts for me. For the past 16 years, September 27 has brought with it a range of feelings and pain the depths of which I had never experienced before. The garden variety sadness, fear, and anger were there, but there were also some feelings that I can’t even put into words. (I know this, because I reworked this whole paragraph trying to find words, and I just can’t capture them.)

On September 27, 1992, a man broke into my apartment and sexually assaulted me. It was the slowest hour of my life and one that I struggle to forget and remember a thousand times over.

I remember how afraid I was in the months and even years following the assault. How I would stay up all night and sleep all day to get through my life. How I quit job after job because I couldn’t get through the day without panic attacks. How I loved walking in the cold, autumn Washington, D.C. rain, because it woke my skin up from otherwise deadening numbness and reminded me that I could feel something.

I remember reading an article just weeks after it happened from a rape victim that was “celebrating” her ten year anniversary. She talked about the minutes after it happened when she picked herself off the floor and called 911. She recounted subsequent years of milestones and realizations that she was healing. And then it was ten years, and she couldn’t believe she had made it that far.

I read that and thought,”Not me. Never. That will never be me.”

And then there was year one where I didn’t sleep that night but cuddled up with my cat and knew I was alive. It was scary and awful, and a big part of me was waiting for the door to open and for “him” to come right back into my life.

And then there were the years after where I always took the day off from work and did something special for myself. I still had problems sleeping on that night, and sometimes alcohol took the edge off.  But I started to live through it in a particular way. Nothing celebratory about it, but I learned to mark it. Still scared, still sad. But starting to live.

And then there was 1999, when the police called me out in California and told me that they had finally caught the man who had assaulted me.

What?

I mean, what?

That was obviously a very different year, marked with new feelings of reopening a wound I had thought I closed more of less (you never really close it, but still).

I remember thinking how I had finally gotten the strength to throw out everything surrounding the case–statements, police documents, potential sketches of the victim–around year four. How could this be popping up again?

I mean, really, I had healed after all.

And then there were the trials. Oh yes, I say trials, because after the first one took place in January 2000, a mistrial was declared, and I had to do it all over again in May of that year.

That was a whole new stage of healing. If I tried to explain it, it wouldn’t make sense. Suffice it to say, I emerged from that experience with an understanding and compassion for others in a way I never dreamed possible. For my assailant of all people. (I told you it wouldn’t make sense.) That experience was one of the most profound of my life. It changed me forever.

He was found guilty of some charges (he had done this to multiple women) and was sentenced to 17 years in prison. End of that story.

But then September 27 would come around, and I’d always stop and pause. I’d take the day off from work and do something special for myself. I’d say to my mom or Kyle,”Do you know what today is? I can’t believe it’s been x years since it happened.” And I just needed to be there, in it for some time.

In 2007, on the fifteenth year, I was in the midst of a home pancha karma treatment for myself (an ayurvedic fast of sorts) over the course of a few days. I booked a private restorative yoga session for myself. (And oh my god, if you haven’t done that, it’s the best way to take care of yourself. Truly. Do it. Don’t walk, run to the phone.) I remember my husband saying that he was surprised that I was doing it, because I just hadn’t seem that affected by it in the past years. I struggled to explain why I wanted to do it, but I knew I needed to. So I did.

Then wonderful 2008 came, and Delaney was 15 days old when September 27 came around. Still, I was aware. I remember hugging her and thinking,”No, you’ll never know of these things in the world. I promise.” Not consuming, but still aware.

September 27, 2009. I woke up to some back pain, which I’ve been having quite a bit lately but which is hopefully on its way out. Normal morning. Waffles with Kyle (Delaney had her first bite of waffle this morning!) and then plans to grocery shop.

“Okay, you take the dog for a quick walk. I’ll change Delaney and jump in the shower. Shoot for 10ish?”

Done.

Getting out the shower, I heard Kyle on the phone with our nephew, Liam. It was his fourth birthday today.

Oh my god.

“Do you know what today is?”

“Yep.”

I hadn’t even known the date today.

And just like that I realized that life–my life–had taken over and healed me. Had moved me from a place where it took a hold of my life to a place where my own life was moving enough to push it aside and make my current life more important to my conscious mind.

How wonderful. How unbelievable.

How honoring to that young girl who sat up all night watching the door, waiting for her assailant to return even months later when she lived in a different city. To the girl that thought she would never ever feel normal again or not feel afraid.

What a tribute to that life that seems so long ago and so distant but is still such a part of who I am.

I woke up to smiles this morning from a little red-headed angel. My heart feels like it will explode just thinking about it. I remember a time I thought I’d explode from all the other feelings inside me that I couldn’t make sense of.

What a different time. What a different life.

September 27, 2009. Nothing too special about today.

Divine moment in time.

It was a cosmic intersection: Seal, Banana Republic, Delaney, and I all converging on a moment in time. And it was one of the sweetest moments of my life. Worth writing about to try to capture some semblance of the moment.

Last weekend, Kyle, Delaney, and I made a trek down to the Sawgrass Mills Mall in Sunrise, Florida. I’ve had dreams about the Mall of America, and I’m sure this is not nearly as large. But believe me when I say it was the biggest place I’ve ever shopped. And it’s shaped like an alligator to boot.

Don’t ask. Not sure.

We made it through the equivalent of 3/4 of one section of it, which is probably 15% of the mall. It’s enormous.

The shopping was great. Thanks for asking. And those of you who know me well know that normally that might be the focus of this moment.

Not this time.

So, we were shopping for Kyle, who needed new casual clothes. We hit Brooks Brothers 346, Gap, and Banana Republic and even got some lunch in at the Rainforest Cafe (best fish tacos I’ve ever had, incidentally. so, so yummy.).

When all was said and done, we spent probably four and a half hours at the mall. Great for Kyle’s wardrobe. Potentially not-so-great if you’re toting a nine-and-a-half-month-old around.

But she was a trooper, as she so often is. Just such a wonderful little soul.

So, we’re in the home stretch in Banana Republic, and Kyle is showing no signs of slowing down (in real time, this is hour four of shopping). He’s got two pairs of bootcut khakis and two shirts, and he looks at me and says,”I’m going to go into the clearance section to look around.”

(I’m thinking that now would be a good time to ask him to see a chick flick with me, because what has he done with my husband?)

As he enters the clearance section, Delaney starts to crank up a bit. She was in the Ergo, and she started to stiffen and whine a bit. She hadn’t napped all day, so I knew she was crispy. I thought a change of scenery was the key, so I put her in the stroller.

Wrong answer.

So, now crank is upped to eleven for her (my salute to Spinal Tap, for those of you who love Christopher Guest flicks), which is still probably only a five or six compared to other kids. But for her, I know it’s time to act.

I try to get my beloved’s attention, but he’s enthralled with a blue blazer missing buttons that’s 60% off. (I believe his exact words were,”I can’t afford not to get it!” Seriously, what have you done with my husband?)

Once, twice, three times.

“Kyle. . . Kyle . . . Kyle.”

Finally, “KYLE!” (Followed quickly by the,”I wasn’t being bitchy, I just wanted your attention.” Because, let’s face it, that could have become the next issue vs. keeping our eye on the ball–the ball being Delaneys’ needs, of course. Crisis averted.)

I’m not sure, but I think he had swirls in his eyes when he looked at me. Seriously, I think he’s going to leave me for Banana Republic.

Oh well, it couldn’t happen to a nicer couple.

I had swirls in my eyes for a different reason: we had arrived at the mall at 11 a.m., before it got to be a zoo. However, now it’s 3:30 p.m., and zoo would be a nice word for what was happening around me. Banana Republic was buzzing with kinetic shopping energy. I’d like to say it energized me. Not so.

Not so for Delaney either. She needed some quiet, some recharging. Nursing always does the trick. Miraculous.

Anyway, so I grab the bug and we go off in search of a dressing room to nurse. This is where I have to use my assessment skills every time to figure out the best way to either (1) sneak in so no one knows we’re there or (2) approach the keeper-of-the-dressing-room (too often some really thin blond named Brittany or Taylor) in such a way that we get our room.

[An aside: it might sound weird that we have to do that. Or maybe it doesn’t. I’m not sure. I don’t know many people who nurse this long, so I only know what I do. Dressing rooms have become a staple for our shopping days, because it’s private and quiet. I do what I can to use them, even it if means pulling a few god-forsaken pieces from the Sag Harbor collection to tote in there with me to look legit. Come to think of it, since I’m not buying–or even trying on for that matter–I think I’ll start pulling from Ralph Lauren, size 2 to take in with me. I mean, hey, why not shoot high?]

So, we go in, and three very young but very friendly girls are there. My assessment says play on the cuteness of the baby and act confident like I’m going to do it no matter what they say, which takes the form of me starting down the hall before they actually give me permission. Oh yeah, and look a little bit frazzled and elicit sympathy.

Tall order, but I think I can do it.

First response: “Um, there’s a bathroom right back there. You could use that.” (I think there was hair-twirling and gum-smacking, but I might be just imagining that.

I kind of looked at her confused and said,”Um, I need to feed her. Can I use a dressing room?”

Second response: “Oh, I thought you said change her. Okay, I guess we’re not too busy.”

Split-second assessment followed by manipulative technique coming: “We’ll only be five minutes or so. If you get busy, just knock on the door.” (as if someone would actually do that!)

So, there we were, in our dressing room, feeling relieved, because you never know how people are going to be about it.

Delaney was powerful hungry, and it was if her body sighed in relief as she settled in. She was immediately tired, and within three minutes tops, she was asleep in my arms, lying across my body, lifeless. And I was amazed again how nursing seems to erase the past. It’s like a reset button on my little love. It’s miraculous.

I sat there for a minute looking at her, loving her so much I thought I might explode. She looked as content as a soul could be, which brought me back to the only thing that matters: the present.

I gingerly got out the dressing room door and whispered a thank you to the sales associates as we passed. And we re-entered Banana Republic’s shopping crackfest with people scurrying about, clothing strewn everywhere.

But this time, I wasn’t a part of it. We weren’t a part of it.

I walked to the front of the store, and Kyle was making his purchases. It was taking quite a while, so I stood near the front door of the store, Delaney draped across me, perfectly content sleeping in the midst of chaos.

And then Seal’s “Love’s Divine” came one. Now, I’m not normally a huge Seal fan, but something about that song cut me to the core in that moment. And I began to cry.

And I didn’t even care.

Because all of a sudden I felt like the Universe was shining its spotlight right on us, in the middle of Banana Republic. It was like the whole world was scurrying rapidly around us, but we were in this protected little circle in slow motion. It’s very hard to explain, hard to find words for it.

But it hit me hard that in that moment, I had all I needed. And so did she.

All she needed was me. I was enough to calm her, relax her, make her safe and comforted enough to just lay across my body in the middle of craziness. It was all that mattered.

So I sat there in Banana Republic with tears rolling down my face, staring at my little miracle, listening to Seal, so filled up with love and gratitude for the moment. I couldn’t believe that people going past didn’t become part of my moment somehow, but they were busy with their lives, and I don’t think anyone noticed. Kyle didn’t even see it happening.

I wish there were more words to describe it.

I know Delaney’s purpose in life isn’t to help me learn my life’s lessons. I know her path is her own, and it will be a joy watching it unfold for her in her lifetime.

But in 10 months of life, her presence has been the catalyst for my biggest lessons. And hers is only to be who she needs to be every second of the day. I’m so blessed to be able to provide her with that opportunity.

This is the part that makes my heart break over and over again and probably why I feel inspired to write so much more since her birth: I want to capture it all somehow. This particular moment was so sweet, it makes my body buzz. Pure joy, pure truth, pure love. I want to be able to step back into my skin in that moment and re-experience it whenever I want (need) to.

I know another moment will replace it as the newest wonder someday soon. For now, this sticks pretty strong in my heart. But I don’t want to lose this one when another one happens. It’s almost like I’m betraying that moment in time by allowing a new moment to steal the spotlight.

Last week, I was looking at this awesome frame we have with a picture of Delaney at around 4 months old. I remember the picture, taking it, thinking it was the cutest one ever. I said aloud to Kyle,”I guess we should put a new picture in here.” And then I started crying. He asked me what was wrong, and I said,”I feel like we’re replacing Delaney at that age with a newer model.”

And it just made me so sad. It’s like admitting that that period of time is over. Which it is, of course.

But it’s just hard. I want to keep it all. I want to be able to step into the moment four, six, nine months ago and be there when I want to. Just for a moment.

And I guess when I realize that time ticks by, it makes those moments in the moment all the sweeter and all the more important.

I’ll never forget that moment, and I know Banana Republic will always have a wholly different meaning for me than it used to.

I wish for everyone in the world to have their own moment in some ridiculous place that has no business being divine. I guess that’s what it’s about: finding the divine in the mundane, the unexpected, the chaotic. In life. In our regular lives.

Practical magic, I suppose. What a wonderful gift.

The tao of Henry.

Okay, so it’s just that when you look around at the world during any given day, there are a lot of things that can piss you off, right? Traffic, co-workers, slow computers, telemarketers. Oh yeah, and ongoing calls for Herbert Trobridge, the former owner of my cell phone number, who apparently took off leaving behind a trail of unpaid debt and some Comcast cable equipment.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a big proponent of gratitude, and I try to find many places and opportunities for it every day.

But when I’m a lesser person during the course of the day who does get angry at the woman who almost ran over my mother, my six month old daughter, and me to get the good parking spot outside of Whole Foods or the man who won’t stop calling me from Everglades University, I can’t seem to find the gratitude.

Fortunately, it doesn’t last too awfully long. There are many things that manage to pull me back to gratitude these days. And there are others that continue to make me perk up and notice the world around me in a whole new way.

Those are the interesting ones, because they cause me to pause and say,”Hmmmm, that’s interesting.” I’ll tuck that away for future reference.

One of the more entertaining and touching phenomena has occured over the last 15 months since we got our Old English Sheepdog, Henry (below).

Henry is an absolute love in our life. We adore him. He’s quirky, spunky, adorable, and fun. We didn’t plan to get an OES, but somehow he just fit for us and ended up being the perfect addition to our growing (we didn’ t know it at the time) family. So, obviously he puts a smile on our faces all the time.

But, what we didn’t count on was the number of smiles he would put on others’ faces. And it continues to be a source of complete awe and interest for me in my daily life.

In our new life in Florida, Henry doesn’t have the same spacious yard he had up in Plattsburgh, so we are out for walks both in the morning and in the evening with occasional potty breaks out in the “green area” outside our townhome. Henry gets a lot of face time in Catalina Lakes, our townhome community.

With that face time comes a phenomena I cannot adequately describe, but I’m going to try.

Quite simply, wherever Henry is, he is the Beau of the Ball, the Prom King, the raison d’etre. And people continue to remind me of that wherever we go.

An easy example: Yesterday, we were on our walk, our standard route, on the sidewalk. A minivan passed us slowly and then stopped in the middle of the street. The window opened, and a man yelled out,”Beautiful dog! Wow! Good boy!” I smiled and said,”Thanks!” and kept walking. The man sat and watched us walk by and then continued on.

Maybe it’s not that unusual. I don’t know.

I know I’ve never stopped in the middle of the street to comment on anything, much less a dog. And I’m an animal-lover, so it’s not like it would be out of character or anything.

Another example: A couple of weeks ago, I took him to be groomed. When he was finished, he came out and, of course, looked adorable–like a fluffy muppet of a dog. Before I left, two women entered the shop and stopped dead in their tracks, and one cooed,”Oooohhhh, look at him. He’s like a big bear!” The other chimed in,”He’s like the dog from The Little Mermaid!” (I hadn’t realized that there was an OES in The Little Mermaid. Didn’t that cartoon take place under water?) We left, and they continued to ooh and ahh over him all the way out into the parking lot, even after I had loaded him into the Jeep. I know this, because as I turned to go to my side of the car, I saw them pointing.

Just minutes later, as we were at a busy intersection, Henry in the front seat with his head out the window, I observed a woman in her car in the neighboring lane. She looked at him initially, and said what I think was,”Awww, how cute!” I smiled, as I always do, looked ahead, and waited for the light to change. I glanced over a few seconds later, and the same woman was turned completely around, still looking at Henry. I smiled again and thought nothing of it. I looked forward again and then back a few seconds later and she was making faces at him–not weird ones, just cutesy faces. Anyway, this continued until the light changed, and we were off again.

So, there are always more stories. They happen daily.

I’m not exaggerating. They are daily occurences.

I’m certain the only reason I know anyone in our complex is because of Henry.

“Hi, Henry!”
“How’s Henry today?”
“Henry got a haircut!”
“Oh, Henry, what a handsome boy!”
“What kind of dog is Henry again?

And then after the two to three minutes of Henry interaction:

“Oh, what’s your name again?” or “Oh, you have a baby. What’s her name?”

Or sometimes, just “Take care.”

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t care. I’m fascinated by it. Hence, this blog.

Henry just seems to be a little piece of magic in this world, and it’s wonderful.

People walking their own dogs stop in their tracks to admire Henry. People turn around after we’ve walked by to continue looking at him. The words,”Look at that dog!” have become commonplace wherever we go. We’ve answered more questions about Henry that we’ve ever answered about our beautiful daughter (she gets plenty of love and attention from lots of people, so I don’t feel too bad about it).

And I have turned into this proud mother of this wonderful dog who brings a smile to almost everyone’s face. And that continues to bring a smile to my face.

It’s that simple. But I don’t think it’s that common.

And that makes it worth paying attention to.

Because every time Henry comes over to me in the middle of the day with his telltale (tail?) whine that tells me it’s time to go out, and I sigh (midday sun is hot in Florida) and say,”Okay, Henry. Let’s go.” And I get the baby ready to go out in the midday sun, and we finally get outside. And by then I’m like,”Go, already, okay?”

But then, most times, someone is outside somewhere that notices him and greets him first and perhaps Delaney and me afterward. And it just makes me smile. Because people want to interact with Henry. And that just seems special.

Oh, and one more thing. Because of this overwhelming response to Henry, I now use him as a litmus test for trusting people. When people don’t acknowledge him, I don’t acknowledge them. I don’t mean that like he was snubbed or anything. It’s just that Henry is such a friendly and trusting presence that everyone likes him. When someone doesn’t, I don’t necessarily trust them. Simple.

So, that’s my tribute to Henry. Our wonderful, fluffy, attentive, playful, beautiful muppet of a dog.

He has caused me to pay attention in a new way.

And I’m always looking for that. Thanks, Henry.

Never enough time to do nothing.

Tonight is a normal night. Nothing too awfully unusual here.

Delaney went to sleep virtually the same as any other night and predictably woke 45 minutes later to be helped back to sleep. She’s been asleep since then.

Kyle just headed up to bed earlier than me in preparation for another busy week. He’ll be fast asleep by the time I am ready to turn in an hour to an hour and a half from now.

And here I sit, relaxing, for the first time since I opened my eyes this morning.

Oh, don’t get the wrong impression. It wasn’t that I worked all day or anything. Far from it. I spent a wonderful day with my mother and Delaney while Kyle was at the SU game in Miami.

It’s just that even as a stay-at-home mom, my days are a different kind of full these days than they were just a short seven months ago. They’re nonstop, but not in a way that’s as measurable as when I worked full-time.

So, probably like a lot of new moms, I always look forward to the time of the evening when I’m sprawled out on the chaise-loung portion of our sectional, a kitty on one side and some fluffy pillows on the other. The right television show and the laptop on my lap (where else?) just add to my contentment.

Aaaaaahhhhhhh. Peace. Quiet.

Yes. This is great.

Yep. Quiet.

Nothing to do.

Paradise.

Damn. I don’t know what to do with myself. You’ve got to be kidding me. So many options. I could really do anything.

Anything.

That’s the word that seems to fill my head with confusion and uncertainty.

Anything.

During the day, there are boundaries of sorts. Nothing firm, but just generally our lives–the things that keep us moving: changing diapers, feeding, playing, sleeping, and any short outings that fit into those other categories. 

It’s non-negotiable. These are things that need to be done. And I enjoy every minute of them.

But of course I look forward to the nights where I have some time to just spend with myself or however I choose.

However I choose.

Sounds wonderful, right?

In theory, yes. But I become paralyzed with the options. They call to me, asking me to take responsibility for my own wants and needs or simply for the things around me that are important.

They remind me of the many times I say,”I don’t know, you choose,” to Kyle when he asks me the simplest of questions.

They taunt me about unfulfilled dreams and remembrances of how much I loved to write as a child. Or the wreckage of many incomplete projects strewn about my past: massage therapy school or a doctoral program in psychology.

They sit, stacked on top of one another, like musty, yellowed newspapers in a crowded attic. 

And they serve about as much purpose. They are only there, because someone–me–puts them there. Like the elderly woman that hoards old newspapers, so do I. I hoard useless, outdated thoughts.

I hoard doubts and fears about myself.

During the day, they are kept at bay by the successes I experience as a mother.

“Oh, she’s doing the cutest thing with her eyes now . . . come look!”

“Music class was so cute today. She was so funny with the drumsticks!”

“Yep, she ate all of her banana and rice cereal today. What a big girl!”

And I love all of them. They are so much a part of everything that makes me happy right now.

But when the night comes, I am reminded of the same doubts that have been lurking inside me for so many years. And they remind me of Jon Kabat-Zinn’s Wherever  You Go, There You Are, because, although geography and life situations have changed, the core of my experience has remained similar.

There are things I know, and I don’t discount those. They are tough things. For example, I know that we are on the right path in raising Delaney the way we are. I know that I’m a good mom and that it’s the best thing I’ll ever do in my life.

But when the day slows, and she sleeps, I remember who I was before she was born, who I still am. And that is where I sit right now.

There never seems to be enough time. Except for when there is. And then?

Cheri Huber, one of my favorite authors, recalls her joy at entering a Buddhist monastery. She just knew that all the issues and haunts would be gone, because, after all, she was going to be a Buddhist monk. Surely that would clear all the ugly uncertainties away. Monks don’t have baggage, right?

She was stunned to find that after just a few short hours of silence in the monstery that her mind went running down the same path it always did. She projected all sorts of things onto the other individuals there and began to story all kinds of things about them and herself.

Buddhist monastery or home on the couch.

Wherever you go, there you are.

So, my point in writing all of this is that an hour later, here I still am, having written all of this. I feel more productive, because I completed something that goes into the category of “productive” in my mind.

And if I hadn’t?

Nothing, except for what I would have thought about it.

And there’s never enough time to do nothing around here.

Forced mindfulness and mirrors of self.

So, this weekend was garage sale weekend for our neighbors and us. Preparing for and having a garage sale is a much bigger deal than I realized, but we made it happen. As with so many things in my life, if my mother had not been a part of the preparation, it probably would not have happened with such ease. But she was, and it did.

We were all up while it was still dark out, which is extra weird living in Florida, where there is so much sunlight, you can’t imagine getting up while it’s dark. It’s just weird and makes me feel drowsy just thinking of it. I digress . . .

We were all up early, Delaney included, because when mommy wakes, Delaney wakes. She used to sleep well past my waking, but not at this point. So she was already short an hour and a half of sleep, which is pretty substantial for her young age.

Obviously, it wasn’t a normal morning, in that nothing routine was happening. We usually rise fairly slowly, lazing in bed and singing morning songs while Daddy is getting ready for work. We nurse, eventually rise, change diapers and clothes, and get ready to go for our morning walk. All of this at a pretty leisurely pace. And on top of this, I am always focused on the tasks at hand, because that’s what I focus on in the morning.

That’s my morning world, so I’m in it.

Today, not so much.

I rolled out of bed and into the shower while Delaney was still stirring, so she woke up to no one. In itself, not tragic, but not customary in our house. After my shower, I took time to sing good morning songs and say hi and then immediately moved into task mode. Kyle had joined us to say good morning, and we divvied up the tasks to get it all done before 7:30, when the early birds would surely be arriving:

Change Delaney’s diapers: Kyle. Check.
Blow dry hair: me. Check.
Pick out Delaney’s outfit: me. Check.
Get Delaney dressed: Kyle. Check.
Make bed: me. Check.
Get change for garage sale: Kyle. Check.
Make coffee for Grandma: Kyle. Check.
Feed Delaney: me. Check.
Open for shop: Kyle and me. Check.

And now the day is moving, but it’s moving with such a different energy than we usually have. Grandma and Grandpa arrive at 7:30, and Kyle and Grandpa are out the door to go golf. Grandma gets her coffee and heads out to greet the shoppers. I’m scurrying around, trying not to leave my mother completely responsible for the garage sale we–not her–are supposed to be having.

People come and go. Garage sales are interesting, because people breeze through and judge your stuff. You can see it on their faces. Raised eyebrows: hmmm, interesting, I like. Scowls and head shakes: no, not that, that’s not what I want. Picking things up, wondering if $3 is negotiable or not.

Is that breadmaker still working? It’s not in a box.
$50 for a PlayStation 2. That’s more than I want to pay.
Ooh, VHS tapes for $1. I wonder if they have Legends of the Fall.
Is that a real Gucci bag? I doubt it.
Who would buy a down comforter in Florida?
Wow, lots of baby clothes.
Milk glass . . . I wonder if it’s authentic.

It’s quite a study. I was amused at watching people play it cool as they negotiated. It was kind of fun.

But it was a distraction, and Delaney knew it. Already so overtired, she was a trooper. I had her in my Moby, so she was content to be close to me. She was taking everything in with her Daddy’s serious face on. She would occasionally growl (she does this . . . it’s a redhead thing, I think), but she was generally very quiet. She looked very tired.

And where I would generally be tending to her and the dog in the morning just getting our day moving, I was rushing around moving things, talking to people, trying to make our displays more attractive (garage sale merchandising–big business), tending to my mom and getting her coffee, all of that stuff. When I picture it, I am moving much more quickly than I actually was, but I was still just preoccupied with stuff. Again, in itself, not tragic, just not customary.

Around 8:45, Delaney showed the “big tired” signs that prompted me to take her upstairs to try to get her to nap. I laid down with her to nurse her, as we always do, and she nursed and flailed and twisted and turned and nursed and fussed and cried some and grunted and flailed and twisted and turned and nursed more. This was followed by more flailing and fussing and twisting and turning and nursing and crying and grunting.

At some point I caught myself and I found the moment. I stopped. And I realized that I was floating. That’s the best word I can find for what happens when I’m preoccupied and not present. I’m light, airy, ungrounded, and my mind is swirling and twirling–upward, it always seems.

Anyway, I caught myself as I looked at her little body and I thought: of course she’s flailing and twisting and turning. She’s the physical representation of my mind right now. Moving, distracted, unfocused, unable to settle.

And I stopped.

I put my head–formerly being supported by my hand and arm–down on a pillow and I breathed slowly and steadily. I imagined that every exhale pushed my head further and further down in the soft billowy pillow.

And I settled.
And she settled.

Slowly, we both settled.
Life slowed.
Everything became a bit more still.

She nursed very calmly and with purpose. It was rhythmic and natural, and I had the sense that we were part of a knowing that was so much bigger than us.

Eventually, she fell asleep, and her breathing slowed and deepened. She assumed her usual arm-over-the-eyes position and slept.

Peace.

Which brings me to my title of this blog.

At this point in her psychological development, she is undifferentiated from me. To her, I am her, she is me. My movements are her movements. My moods are her moods. My happiness is her happiness.

My agitation is her agitation.
My settling is her settling.

She is teaching me to capture moments. In just attending to her, I am attending to the present and also to myself.

She is my mirror.

And I don’t mean that to suggest that this is her purpose in life–to be my mirror. That’s my lesson and something I attend to through her.

But she is, in fact, the most accurate mirror.

In order to care for her the best I can, I have to find the present moment again and again and again during the day. It’s the only thing I’ve ever done that requires me to do that.

So interesting.

Life lessons spring forth from a community garage sale.
And I am humbled once more.

I believe I believe

In the power of now

I believe I will see

If I let go somehow

To be here in this moment

Is all that I ask

In the heart of forever

No future no past

I believe I believe

                            — “The Power of Now,” Olivia Newton-John

First of all, I’m laying down and typing. I guess that’s not the important part, but it felt worthy of mentioning.

 

More importantly, the reason I’m laying while I type.

 

Delaney.

 

These days it’s always Delaney. And I mean that in a good way.

 

She’s the reason for almost all of the things that inspire me or move me or push me to act, write, express, think, wonder. You get the point.

 

But I’m laying down writing, which is just a sympton of this crazy internal struggle I’ve noticed and decided to work out on paper–well, on the computer screen.

 

First of all, background information necessary to fully understand: We are a co-sleeping, or sleep-sharing family, which means that Delaney sleeps either in her sidecar bed of sorts or more usually in bed with Kyle and I. It was borne of necessity and became something that we believe in and now part of a philosophy of nurturing a healthy attachment with her a la pediatrician Dr. William Sears. Believe me, it has garnered so many opinions–none of them elicited, incidentally–many of which seem to be based in the post-WWII, antiquated tough-love, “don’t-pick-the-baby-up-too-much-or-you’ll-spoil-her” mentality, for which I personally have no use.

 

Despite all of these opinions, it’s very okay. I got it. We got it. We’re not abusing our daughter or forming “bad habits,” quite the contrary. We are teaching her to love human contact, the most natural thing in the world. We are teaching her through our actions that if she is communicating a need, we are going to do our very best to meet it. And if we can’t, we will stay up all night if we have to, comforting her. We are teaching her that the world is a warm, predictable, loving place for her to live in. We are teaching her that it is okay to ask for love and receive it. We are creating a strong base for her to build upon. And if that is habit-forming, then we’ve done our job well. That was always the goal. 

We are growing a being. That’s our job. And I believe we’re doing it to the best of our abilities.

 

Because of the co-sleeping, she sleeps between nine and twelve hours on any given night.

 

Heaven.

 

We get to wake up with her every morning (and me a few times a night to nurse).

 

Heaven

 

I get to cuddle with her all night long.

 

Heaven.

 

The big but . . . she doesn’t nap well. She goes down consistently for naps but only naps for anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour (much less frequent). If I lay with her, she will sleep for one to three hours. Here’s where the internal conflict comes in.

 

If you’ve read my prior blog, you know that I have this thing with time. (Maybe my blog should be called “this thing called time.” Well, time is a big part of how we experience life, I believe, so I’ll leave it as is.) I feel this compulsion to be “useful” and “productive.” It’s never mattered that much before, because there was never anything more important than that to me, so I just pushed the occasional conflict away and did what I could do. Done.

 

Now it seems I am being called on to address this conflict and work through it. Great.

 

The laying down while typing this: because I am trying to lay with Delaney, which is time that I (1) absolutely love and cherish and (2) know is passing at warp speed and be “productive” by doing something besides just laying with her.

 

I’m caught in a hazy confusion of what’s “right” and “wrong” and who even decides. My husband is at work, working hard, and I’m home laying down with the baby. Is that okay? When I look at it through the narrow focus of her well-being and this being a very special, very short time, I think yes, definitely.

 

I will lay with her.  And I will enjoy it.

 

And  I might even sleep. So there.

 

But then the doubt creeps in. I “should” be

 

Washing dishes.

Mopping the floor.

Cleaning the bathroom.

Folding laundry.

Cleaning off the dining room table.

Preparing the taxes.

Washing diapers.

Installing the new carseat.

Calling friends.

E-mailing people.

Scooping kitty litter.

Walking the dog.

 

You get the point.

 

And I do some of these things on a daily basis (lest you think my kitties and dog aren’t well cared for).

 

But I agonize over it. And the worst part is that it’s not even an active agony. It’s this kind of nebulous anxiety that puts a haze over my enjoyment and productivity.

 

So, if I’m laying with her, I’m not fully present, because I’m thinking about all the aforementioned crap.

 

And I’m hazy.

 

If I’m choosing to be productive, I’m not as productive as I could be, because I’m thinking about how I’d like to be laying with her and how she’ll probably be waking up soon because I’m not there.

 

And I’m hazy still.

 

But worse still, I’m just not here in the moment. And that’s what saddens me the most when I stop to think about it.

 

I miss time, and tick-tock, it’s still going.

And going.

Here’s a moment.

And another.

 

I know I can’t ignore everything around me because of my little angel. But I’m having a hard time balancing the importance of being with her with doing other things.

 

The song lyrics I listed above are so meaningful to me, because I just want to be here and present. Sometimes I am.

Mostly I’m not.

 

My sadness over time passing is exacerbated greatly by the fact that I miss some of it anyway. Nothing sadder than watching something slip away when you’re not even able to enjoy it while it’s here.

 

So, that’s the conflict right now. I’m in it, and that is at least working toward being more present.

 

Nothing to wrap up in a shiny bow here. It’s a work in progress.

And it will continue to be a lifelong process.

All worth it if I can just experience what’s here instead of mourning what I never got to experience and then losing that moment too.

 

A lot to aspire to, but so important to making it all count.

 

 

 

 

Life, redefined

Well, the last time I wrote, a new life had just begun growing inside me.  I was overwhelmed with what it all meant, how I got there.

And now?

Today, that little life was four months old. That little life is a person with two new teeth. She’s got a name: Delaney. We made her. Unbelievable.

Life

as I ever knew it exploded into a gazillion little pieces of nothing

Life

started over

Life

is a surprise every new second

What I called life before was obviously legitimate, but so very different from what I live now.

Sometimes Kyle comes home at night and asks,”So, what did you guys do today?” And I’m at a bit of a loss for words, because I no longer count my minutes by the number of e-mails I get or the number of tasks I completed (or more accurately, didn’t complete). I don’t have meetings or days where “you wouldn’t believe how busy I was.”

Time has changed. My experience of time has changed.

Quantum physics states that particles move forward and backward in time as well as existing at all places at once. In quantum physics, time doesn’t move forward. It’s everywhere, and there is no explanation for forward movement of time.

Kind of mindblowing. Whenever I’ve tried to capture that into some kind of understanding, I’ve gotten a headache. It’s too big.

This, perhaps, is the closest I’ve gotten. Not to understanding it necessarily, but experiencing it.

I remember days at work, before and during pregnancy, where one of two things occurred: time passed so fast I forgot to eat lunch or so slowly I’d be falling asleep at my desk.  Both were illusions, because time was passing at exactly the same rate. But the experience was so very different.

And now. How to describe it.

I almost feel like I can hear time passing now: the ticking of each second as it slowly passes. But not in a bored, come-on-you-gotta-be-kidding-me-that-it’s-only-2:30-in-the-afternoon way.

But in this ridiculous I-can-barely-breathe-when-I-look-at-or-smell-or-touch-this-new-little-life-that-we-created. Or in a what-if-my-heart-just-explodes-from-loving-her-so-much way.

Time seems suspended in many moments but also charges forward much too quickly for my heart to adjust or catch up. It leaves me joyous and griefstricken all at once.

The most awesome moments occur when we breastfeed. She has acquired some newfound independence that takes the form of stopping feeding and looking up at me to smile and then coo. The noises she makes are other-worldly, signs of a divine Universe, I think.

So now: life. What about it?

I haven’t a clue. And I believe that will continue for the rest of my life.

One of my favorite monologues is from Six Degrees of Separation, where Stockard Channing’s character, Ouisa Kittredge, starts to open her eyes and heart and begins to question life as she has known it:

But it was an experience. I will not turn [it] into an anecdote. How do we keep what happens to us? How do we fit it into life without turning it into an anecdote, with no teeth, and a punch line you’ll mouth over and over, years to come: “Oh, that reminds me of the time that impostor came into our lives. Oh, tell the one about that boy.” And we become these human jukeboxes, spilling out these anecdotes. But it was an experience. How do we keep the experience?

I can’t really say it better than that. But that’s the question I’m living as I love this little being more than I’ve ever loved anything. Even the word love seems so limited. It’s one dimensional.

So, life.

This thing called life.

The more I live it, the less I understand it. But I know it’s a blessing in every way. And I guess that’s enough.

How you say in your country . . . pregnant?

I know, what a stupid title. Especially for such an important piece of news.

Anyhoo, we found out we’re pregnant two weeks ago.

Shock.

Excitement.

Wonder.

Did I mention shock?

Happiness.

1/4 tsp of fear.

Awe.

Etc.

I felt feelings I didn’t know I had. It’s like the first time you do a crazy class at the gym and the day after you’re thinking, “Seriously, I have a muscle there?”

Same, just emotions not muscles.

My mom and dad weren’t home the day we found out until hours (seemed like days) later, so they were the last ones to find out. When I told my mom she made a sound I’d never heard before. Seriously, I wasn’t sure what was happening.

My dad yelled out,”Way to go, Kyle!” What a trip!

So, we’re eight weeks in, and this week is the first OB-GYN appointment, and if we act now, we get our first ultrasound and a set of Ginsu knives. Good deal.

I’ll be relieved to get the first one out of the way, just to know everything is fine. I’m fine. Baby’s fine.

I’ve been a bit nauseous (no throwing up, thank god!). I never realized there were so many smells in the world. Every one seems to be taking it’s own slow journey through my nasal passages and limbic system to create a chaotic little process of:

smell –> immediate sensation of nausea –> comment “oh, god, that smell makes me nauseous” –> (time passes, 2-5 minutes later) “seriously, I can’t get that smell of (maple syrup, fried foods, steak . . . ) out of my nose!” –> trip to local convenience store for chewy mentos (one of the only things that doesn’t have aspartame in it) or starbursts –> new smell, new start of cycle

Sounds fun, doesn’t it?

The only smell that’s consistently good is the smell of spaghetti or pizza sauce. It’s what I seem to want all the time, although strangely I don’t eat it all the time. Not sure why.

I’m looking at these as my own personal indicators that this is a normal pregnancy, hormones a-blazing and all. It is comforting to feel some of these things, as inconvenient as they are for this woman whose life is a veritable orgy of tastes and smells.

Oh, and by the way, I used to think cheese and the internet were evidence of a higher power. I’ve added another to the list: Sea-Bands. Invented for motion sickness, also wonderful for morning sickness. Thanks, Universe.

Small sacrifices for a wonderful outcome.

Anyway, I’ll be chronicling my journey in this blog, and I’m sure it will be fraught with the same patterns of ups, downs, comic interruptions, and absurdities that regular life presented.

But it’s an incredibly special time for me. For us. And I’m just trying to cherish every minute of it.

That’s why such a strange title to this entry. I kept trying to write, and I couldn’t find the right words. I kept thinking,”How do I say this?” and somehow it morphed into that first part of the title, which is a guaranteed laugh for me whenever someone says it. Not sure why, but it cracks me up.

Anyway, it felt right, and I guess that’s what I’m about at this point in time.

That’s my snapshot for today. I’ll keep you posted.