I'm tired. No, actually, I'm exhausted. My eyes are burning with weight and no toothpick is strong enough to hold up the fort. The effort it takes to lift a limb...ugh...let me go make some tea.
...
...
English Breakfast with honey...so aromatic. I don't think it's going to help me, but at least I can enjoy the moment. Mmmm.
I'm taking inventory: tired, but not depressed. Huh....that's a new one. Can it really be that I'm moving along the highway? Have I accepted or merely tricked myself into forward motion? Did someone labotomize me in my sleep? Not possible...I don't sleep. Aha...but I do...in luxurious four hour cycles thanks to a lovely invention called Playtex drop-ins with Good Start just-add-water-powder at 7:30 PM. Finally she has lost the bottle war and I'm gaining ground in the sleep battle. I remember (in my previous life) my motto being, "I'll sleep enough when I'm dead." Those words from a former party queen are foreign now. I never would have thought that sleep deprivation could affect an insomnic so negatively. I'm used to four hours a night...after all I married a drummer...I live the rock star life...not anymore...and neither does he.
You know...we try so hard to con our children away from the bottle to the sippy cup, yet here I am praising her acceptance of said infamous beverage dispenser. It's a good thing too because my boobs are protesting their continued use as milk jugs. I'm preparing now for the end of milkmaid mom. In months past this thought brought tears to my eyes and pain in my chest. Suddenly, I'm like...they are mine kid, and it's time to give 'em back. I mean really. She's 10 and a half months old. Are you going to fault me for falling short of that 1 year mark? Have I done a dis-service to my lovely angel because I've introduced formula...gasp...for shame! She's been eating baby food since she was 4.5 months old and is now eating little girl breakfast like waffels and french toast and sometimes shares a grownup dinner - if we have couscous and peas - her favorite. Her nutritional needs are being met; she doesn't rely on my liquid gold any longer. On weekends she let's my boobs engorge and ache, pushing the time limit longer and longer. Finally they are giving up, or more accurately drying up.
I've cut my daily pumps at work back to two. It's amazing how much better my workday flows. I actually feel like I can work and accomplish my tasks with less stress. I used to watch the clock like no one's business, schedule real meetings around my appointments with the pump, would pick projects with limited time commitment, and generally believe that at the end of the day nothing really got done. I couldn't seem to multi-task at work for fear that I would lose track of time and miss my expression. I pumped like it was my job and now I realize that I was only freelancing and my contract is almost up. I don't need to keep that second job. Milkmaid to mom will do just fine please.
A small voice, who I picture looks like Whistler's mother, points her finger, "Failure! You are her mother. Your milk is her lifeline. One year is not too much to ask. You aren't trying hard enough. She deserves more. You selfish woman...". I don't listen to her anymore. Instead I listen to a gentle birdsong like coming spring. I picture dresses and tops without a V-neck, new push-up bras, having beer and wine with friends - oooo and my precious martinis of yum. I envision dinners out with my husband, maybe even some dancing and seeing friends play at the local pub while Anya sucks away on a beverage of vitablock nutrients in the arms of her aunts or good friends for the evening.
Every morning I wake up and wonder, "Is this the day?" Usually the ferocious slap, pinching and clawing at my face and neck after realizing there wasn't enough milk for her to fall back asleep is enough to tell me "no." I have to convince myself that she will adjust. I run downstairs to fix her a few ounces of formula. She pushes the bottle away and twists her face into my chest. After several tries she aborts and surrenders to the bottle and I rock her back to sleep before I jump in the shower...late again. I feel success, then sadness. I know she is hurt and confused. I don't want to be the cause of that suffering. Her whimpers as she falls off to slumber make my stomach twist. But I know...I know.
I'm ready. I hear the clock ticking. I taste a hint freedom (in the guise of future vodka). I feel the breeze and it tells me it's coming. The weening process is as much of a milestone for me as it is for her. We both hurt and don't want to let go. I need to let go for her sake. The frustration she feels from an empty source will hurt her more than a nourishing bottle. I need to let go for my sake. The frustration I feel from lack of sleep and a body not my own aches more than allowing her to grow into the strong woman I know she'll be. Not too much longer...
...maybe this is the first real step out of my fog.
27 January 2010
22 January 2010
The Gardens
On an almost dirt road in Mt Sinai the little white house sat back from the road decorated by hydragas, lilacs, forsythia, mimosas, lillies, and the peach farm next door. The house was flanked by fruit and vegetable farms, so rural and foreign to my fascinated young mind. It was a world away, not earthly, magical.
The old farmhouse was simple and antique, with squeaky wood floors and worn throw rugs. The kitchen boasted metal cabinets and appliances that were an upgrade for the 1950s. My great grandmother proudly showed hommage to the memories of the Kennedy family with lifesize needlepoint and silkscreens framed of the noble family - they blessed our meals in the dining room. The second floor creeked and cracked more so than below, making sneaking about an impossibility and adding fuel to my already spooked dreams. My great grandparents slept in separate single beds - pre-Brady Bunch - and the fragrance of moth balls and cedar lingered in each room. Sterling Silver vanity sets sat atop dressing tables and mirrors speckled with age protected each room. The house breathed a history and knowledge of harder times, different times without technology, but also of family and togetherness and generations of tradition to share.
I hear stories of my great grandparents from my mother, aunt and grandmother. Some I remember and can even picture, but others speak of the more sinister side of family and appearances. I was too young to be touched by that darker side of my fairyland, and cannot connect those stories with my memories. My great grandmother was a strong and proud woman. She demanded and was firm in her convictions. I remember her always in a dress and most often in an apron with her coke bottle glasses, giving her eyes a fish bowl appearance. I have a memory of her sitting in the back yard with a tub between her knees fileting the fresh fish that would be our dinner...the smell of high tide bringing the beach to my playyard. I see my great grandfather slumped on the couch in the family room watching TV, as was his favorite pasttime, in his long underwear and flannel in 90 degrees without air conditioning. His cigar burning its fragrant smoke as incense offerings to his game shows. The remote or "clicker" as he called it truely clicked and had only 5 buttons that somehow moved the dial on his monstrocity of a TV "box". The bottons were yellowed from the nicotine and the TV black and white.
The back yard was an adventure calling. To the right next to the shed was my glorious blueberry bush. Daily I would ask the tree to share her delicious fruit and I would sit by that tree with my little fingers plucking plump berries one by one and savoring their flavor. Beyond the blueberry bush was the endless garden. The vegetables and fruits that filled my tummy were organic and fresh from this wonderland. I'm sure the garden had an end somewhere, but to my little eyes the gardens joined the wood and went to a land that I was too small to travel. Eggplant and squash, peppers and onoins, all kinds of lettuces and greens, tomatoes and green beans, potatoes and turnips: I also remember the strawberries and cherries and nuts and other fruits that appeared at every turn in the gardens. The burst of colors from the flowers splashed across the greens of the vegetables. Brilliant rainbows of color and fragrance...and bees. Hrm...that's interesting...why don't I remember being afraid of them? I would watch the little buzzing creatures flower to flower collect their pollen for the scrumptous honey I knew would be on my bread the next morning. I would spend hours with my fairies in the gardens, exploring these wild lands.
Where are my gardens? My fairies have left? Our modern world has turned nature into a machine. The farms disappear every day and you can no longer pick fruit from any tree for fear of the chemicals they've been doused with to keep the bugs at bay. Our honey bees are dying, leaving our honey supply in jeapardy. Sure I can trek to Longwood Gardens for the scenery, but where will my little angel go to meet her magical guides? What woods will honor her adventures and dreams? I realize I've become as sterile as our world. I am afraid of many things, with my fairies gone I am alone and fearful of the unknown.
My great grandparents have long since gone to the beyond as have my father's parents and my mother's father and my own father. Anya has two great grandmothers, her Omi and her Pro-yiayia in Greece. I am desparate to have her travel to Greece to play in her great grandmother's lemon trees that grow as tall as the second floor balcony. I want her to meet her fairies in the olive groves and run with them along the island shores. Why does this seem more like a dream? How can I deny my child her birthright adventures because this modern world ate her financial stability? I feel panicked because her great grandmother ages every day. Without her the island is only a vacation.
I get angry. I am afraid. It would be so easy to hermitize myself, but at a detriment to my child. Everyone drives too fast, doesn't play outside anymore, purchases goods that are tainted and poisonous. Life will only continue to so-called-advance and the days of animal farm will be conquered by the matrix. What kind of life will my child grow to have. How can I protect her if I can't protect myself? Where can I offer her adventures before the fairies are gone for her too.
The old farmhouse was simple and antique, with squeaky wood floors and worn throw rugs. The kitchen boasted metal cabinets and appliances that were an upgrade for the 1950s. My great grandmother proudly showed hommage to the memories of the Kennedy family with lifesize needlepoint and silkscreens framed of the noble family - they blessed our meals in the dining room. The second floor creeked and cracked more so than below, making sneaking about an impossibility and adding fuel to my already spooked dreams. My great grandparents slept in separate single beds - pre-Brady Bunch - and the fragrance of moth balls and cedar lingered in each room. Sterling Silver vanity sets sat atop dressing tables and mirrors speckled with age protected each room. The house breathed a history and knowledge of harder times, different times without technology, but also of family and togetherness and generations of tradition to share.
I hear stories of my great grandparents from my mother, aunt and grandmother. Some I remember and can even picture, but others speak of the more sinister side of family and appearances. I was too young to be touched by that darker side of my fairyland, and cannot connect those stories with my memories. My great grandmother was a strong and proud woman. She demanded and was firm in her convictions. I remember her always in a dress and most often in an apron with her coke bottle glasses, giving her eyes a fish bowl appearance. I have a memory of her sitting in the back yard with a tub between her knees fileting the fresh fish that would be our dinner...the smell of high tide bringing the beach to my playyard. I see my great grandfather slumped on the couch in the family room watching TV, as was his favorite pasttime, in his long underwear and flannel in 90 degrees without air conditioning. His cigar burning its fragrant smoke as incense offerings to his game shows. The remote or "clicker" as he called it truely clicked and had only 5 buttons that somehow moved the dial on his monstrocity of a TV "box". The bottons were yellowed from the nicotine and the TV black and white.
The back yard was an adventure calling. To the right next to the shed was my glorious blueberry bush. Daily I would ask the tree to share her delicious fruit and I would sit by that tree with my little fingers plucking plump berries one by one and savoring their flavor. Beyond the blueberry bush was the endless garden. The vegetables and fruits that filled my tummy were organic and fresh from this wonderland. I'm sure the garden had an end somewhere, but to my little eyes the gardens joined the wood and went to a land that I was too small to travel. Eggplant and squash, peppers and onoins, all kinds of lettuces and greens, tomatoes and green beans, potatoes and turnips: I also remember the strawberries and cherries and nuts and other fruits that appeared at every turn in the gardens. The burst of colors from the flowers splashed across the greens of the vegetables. Brilliant rainbows of color and fragrance...and bees. Hrm...that's interesting...why don't I remember being afraid of them? I would watch the little buzzing creatures flower to flower collect their pollen for the scrumptous honey I knew would be on my bread the next morning. I would spend hours with my fairies in the gardens, exploring these wild lands.
Where are my gardens? My fairies have left? Our modern world has turned nature into a machine. The farms disappear every day and you can no longer pick fruit from any tree for fear of the chemicals they've been doused with to keep the bugs at bay. Our honey bees are dying, leaving our honey supply in jeapardy. Sure I can trek to Longwood Gardens for the scenery, but where will my little angel go to meet her magical guides? What woods will honor her adventures and dreams? I realize I've become as sterile as our world. I am afraid of many things, with my fairies gone I am alone and fearful of the unknown.
My great grandparents have long since gone to the beyond as have my father's parents and my mother's father and my own father. Anya has two great grandmothers, her Omi and her Pro-yiayia in Greece. I am desparate to have her travel to Greece to play in her great grandmother's lemon trees that grow as tall as the second floor balcony. I want her to meet her fairies in the olive groves and run with them along the island shores. Why does this seem more like a dream? How can I deny my child her birthright adventures because this modern world ate her financial stability? I feel panicked because her great grandmother ages every day. Without her the island is only a vacation.
I get angry. I am afraid. It would be so easy to hermitize myself, but at a detriment to my child. Everyone drives too fast, doesn't play outside anymore, purchases goods that are tainted and poisonous. Life will only continue to so-called-advance and the days of animal farm will be conquered by the matrix. What kind of life will my child grow to have. How can I protect her if I can't protect myself? Where can I offer her adventures before the fairies are gone for her too.
14 January 2010
Limbo lives here
Whose life is this? I don't recognize it. I don't know who I am or where I'm going or how to be. Part of my identity crisis is natural. Part of my identity crisis is contrived. I can't look back and I can't look forward...so I peek to my side to beware getting side swiped.
The whole of motherhood and marriage are misunderstood. Perhaps I was raised too old world. Maybe the modern world scares me. Possibly my dream world sucked me in too far. By chance I watched too much Disney. All I know is that the idependent, strong willed, stable, multi-tasker finds herself lost, confused, scared, anxiety-ridden, and out of sorts. Everything that I once believed in seems false and lies.
It's not so dark here anymore, but definitly overcast with a passing chance of monsoon. I spend each moment on the brink. I'm aware of my facade this time. I know I'm fragile. I wonder if I just snapped and am broken enough to walk the line. I feel the swell of panic resting below the surface...I can see its reflection shimmer in the breeze. I'm mechanical and purposeful. I just have to get through the next moment.
My temper is back and so is my drive for control. I have to stop them. I don't know how. I am numb or rage...watch yourself I might bite, but I'll retreat again - don't worry. This is the place I was before and thought I was safe and free; I don't want to be here again. I know I thought it was sun before, but turned out to be a pebble glistening in the moonlight...trickery.
This holiday for kings hangs out behind my eyes. I can tune in and chill as often as I like. It feels nice to be enveloped in this rainbow of fancy. Sound and vision are focused inside, and I can hide from the demons that dance their voodoo around me. Problem is I have things to do, Lucy. That's how I know I'm teetering. I teeter at the office, I teeter at home. I teeter.
Anxiety. Panic. Anxiety. Panic. Anxiety. I know that's what this is. This teetering. The silly images and dreams that put fear in my head. This isn't healthy fear...this is nightmare fear. I have visions of disaster striking my child or my family. Everything is unsafe and a potential emergency. I'm in a perpetual state of just teetering. I have enough sense to know these are unreasonable, but I can't name them to control them. I used to be able to call my fears by name and send them out to eternal damnation in nothingness. I was powerful over them. I wonder if Alice can help me. I'm afraid of Alice helping me.
I have to stay afloat. I have to find solid land. I have to find me.
The whole of motherhood and marriage are misunderstood. Perhaps I was raised too old world. Maybe the modern world scares me. Possibly my dream world sucked me in too far. By chance I watched too much Disney. All I know is that the idependent, strong willed, stable, multi-tasker finds herself lost, confused, scared, anxiety-ridden, and out of sorts. Everything that I once believed in seems false and lies.
It's not so dark here anymore, but definitly overcast with a passing chance of monsoon. I spend each moment on the brink. I'm aware of my facade this time. I know I'm fragile. I wonder if I just snapped and am broken enough to walk the line. I feel the swell of panic resting below the surface...I can see its reflection shimmer in the breeze. I'm mechanical and purposeful. I just have to get through the next moment.
My temper is back and so is my drive for control. I have to stop them. I don't know how. I am numb or rage...watch yourself I might bite, but I'll retreat again - don't worry. This is the place I was before and thought I was safe and free; I don't want to be here again. I know I thought it was sun before, but turned out to be a pebble glistening in the moonlight...trickery.
This holiday for kings hangs out behind my eyes. I can tune in and chill as often as I like. It feels nice to be enveloped in this rainbow of fancy. Sound and vision are focused inside, and I can hide from the demons that dance their voodoo around me. Problem is I have things to do, Lucy. That's how I know I'm teetering. I teeter at the office, I teeter at home. I teeter.
Anxiety. Panic. Anxiety. Panic. Anxiety. I know that's what this is. This teetering. The silly images and dreams that put fear in my head. This isn't healthy fear...this is nightmare fear. I have visions of disaster striking my child or my family. Everything is unsafe and a potential emergency. I'm in a perpetual state of just teetering. I have enough sense to know these are unreasonable, but I can't name them to control them. I used to be able to call my fears by name and send them out to eternal damnation in nothingness. I was powerful over them. I wonder if Alice can help me. I'm afraid of Alice helping me.
I have to stay afloat. I have to find solid land. I have to find me.
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