Stupidity the in-thing

Being a woman seems more difficult with each passing day.  Ask Lilith...after all she couldn't get it right so Eve replaced her...and look what she did.  Go Ladies!  Getting it all wrong makes for a better adventure I'd say. 

Money was invented when the planet's inhabitants discovered the service industry.  It was much easier to pass some metal or gem as payment than carry a chicken or cow or bushel of corn to the local watering hole.  The kings and their lackies decidedly had enough barter and trading when the store houses brimeth over and said sparklies are pretty...go get me more.  And fictitous money was born.  Don't question my history lesson.

What a crock of shit.  No matter what I do to keep things a float I can never get enough water out from the bottom.  I'm just sick of it.  Pardon me while I wretch on the bill collectors and doc offices and insurance companies and supermarkets and gas stations and everyone that wants a piece of the sparklie, that, frankly, doesn't exist.  I was one of those kids who got credit too soon and quickly fell into the "bad" pile.  For years I worked to remedy my youthful foolishness and was finally able to buy a car and a house and nice things.  I was so proud of my ability to get it right.  I meticulously budgeted and managed flow and savings.  I was prepared for emergencies.  Yeah right, no one ever really is.  I feel betrayed.

So, before I bitch and moan and complain about life not being fair, let me sympathize with all my bretheren and sisteren because I know I'm not the only one.  News folk...shut up about the bad economy.  Stop pointing fingers at the politicians and Wall Street and bankers.  They all suck and all had a part in ruining our American Dream.  And really, let's really think about that American Dream.  Was there ever an attainable one?  Did it die out after the industrial revolution?  Who sold us that dream....those same politicians, stock markets and bankers...think Madoff times infinity. 

Being a woman adds to this hell.  We fought for equal rights; still fight for equal pay; we want to be mom, wife, supermodel, CEO, and woman...ROAR.  You know I just want to say fuck it sometimes!  I'm tired of bringing home the bacon, frying it up in a pan, and cleaning up the grease afterwards.  I don't need this kind of life.  We were so hyped to be free we forgot to build in protections, like keeping family first, not needing two incomes to survive, keeping men manly, and enjoying this short trip to earth before it ends.  WTF?!  How in all our infinite wisdom did we let this happen...we're women after all.

I'm just done with it.  Motherhood has changed me.  I'm so different that it's no wonder I look in the mirror and wonder about the strange creature looking back.  I'm actually liking this creature more and more.  She makes me rethink everything.  But she's also a bitch.  She hasn't much power, and I feel sorry for her.  She's sad and angry and feels so helpless.  She hates the world and life and things.  But her heart is bigger than the universe, sucking in all that is like a black hole.  Not many people understand her.  She hates herself sometimes.  But I like her.  She's becoming my earth mother...I want to find a way to dry her tears and placate her cries.  My daughter loves her.  Nothing else matters.

The tea movement, the coffee movement, operation this and that, stand up, blog, write letters...5 minutes of fame and the candle goes out.  Who hears me?  I hear me.  I'm tired of listening to me.  Screw me and all my wishes and wants and complaints.  Me and the rest of us.  Well how the hell do I fix it?  No don't tell me, it's only more unwanted advise and cliches and Charlie Brown's classroom.  Everything is broken.  But we live in a disposable society so we will replace and replace and replace instead of fixing it.  And we say we're the smartest beings on the planet?  We are dumb.

My Blue Giants

I don't like being angry.  But I am.  A good deal of the time.  Maybe I just realize my anger more than my quiet.  One of my dear friends once told me that age will bring out my cynicism, and that we are fragile, not resilient.  I didn't want to believe her, but I do now, and I blame motherhood more so than age.  I've always been loyal and steadfast, held strong to my convictions - at least after I learned I had them - but remained open to alternate perspectives, and supported those dear to me without waiver, giving of myself even after I had nothing left.  I'm still loyal, but to an ever smaller circle; my convictions...I'm less likely swayed;  I support, but clearly have limits; and stupidity...no time or patience for its existence...get off the planet.

Thought warp.

I'm not one to pretend to be a film critic.  I like my bubbly films for different reasons and not necessarily because of their story line, fantastical effects, political agenda, or actor-studdedness, but just because.  I'm perfectly happy being this type of film watcher, takes away any stress really.  I like Bridge Jones because I am an anglophile and she filled a void for my modern day Marc Darcy craving.  I salivated over Moulin Rouge for its true love story and cinematography, and let's not forget what it did with some favorite songs.  I emmersed myself in the Tomb Raider films because Angelina Joilie is hot and I love a woman who is smart and kick ass; I like Indy and period and comedy and kids movies mostly, but I have my moments of wow for those mass market masterpieces.  My husband even turned me on to comic gone big screen super heroes.  But in general I like it or I don't.  I watch to escape and be absorbed by the story and characters, not for some greater purpose. 

As an english major I have more than read my share of classics and shoulds and musts and definitly the don't-tell-anyone-I-read-that ones.  I do bandwagon with my reading compatriots that the book is far better than the film, mostly because it's true.  Take Chocolat for example.  The film destroyed any faith I had in book turned movie - Harry Potter remedied that though.  Joann Harris' Chocolat richly painted the small French town and its inhabitants: there was no mayor, only the tempted priest;  no love afair with Johnny Depp, just a symbol of the gypsy life as yet another decadent tempation to the folks of the Christian town.  The book stepped out on a limb, dancing with witchcraft and undermining abstinence - Eve became the savior.  When the book went big screen it was considered too risque and was forced to undergo a makeover, thus a beautiful film to watch, but a story lacking free thought.  Enjoyable, but for different reasons.

I haven't bought or rented any film in longer than I can remember.  I refuse to pay a week's salary to dinner and a movie on a Friday night, and who has time to rent and watch anything with a 1 year old flitting about.  I haven't joined NetFlix and my DirectTV doesn't have OnDemand, and no DVR either folks.  But I was determined that I was going to experience Avatar.  So much hype and commentary abounded regarding this film, and frankly, I thought it might just be cool enough effects alone.  My household sits in front of an old 32" tube TV with a curved screen.  There is no HD, no widescreen, no surround sound to be had.  Don't freak...there really are houses that haven't caught up with the Jones'.  But really we don't know much different, and don't care to since we'd rather experience real life than reality TV.  My husband hadn't heard much about this movie, he kept asking me what it was about.  Honestly, I didn't know myself, but decided there was something about this movie that we had to see.  Target, debit card, thank you.

Dinner time Anya decided that it was time to melt down...epicly.  She didn't want her strawberries, she didn't want her fish, she didn't want her ravioli, she didn't want her dolly, but maybe her milk...nope.  We gave her a bath and some motrin and tried the milk again.  Clean and tummy full of milk she still fussed and cried and didn't know what she wanted.  Then...after a few more rejections and tears...she stopped, got off the couch, went to her toys and started playing like nothing was wrong in the universe.  humpf.  Really?!

Select to Play.

Anya nestled in my lap and fell asleep just in time for the Navi Avatars to stand up and run.  Nice.  What beauty and spectacle!  I was in love.  I'm not here to give a play by play summary or even an official personal review.  One cannot mistake the commentary or underlying meaning.  You can always debate true love of a woman or love of having his limbs returned?  Was technology or spiritual energy the true god here?  Maybe one day I will review all the detours I want to take.  But for now I want to be one with the Navi and their world and their beliefs. 

I closed my eyes during the fighting sequences.  I couldn't stomach the pain.  I cursed at the Colonel and Parker for their reckless destruction.  And even though I knew that Jake Sully would come around, I hated him for being such a jack ass to start.  I'm a little over all the anti hero crap really.  But the movie was more.  I admire the age old warning of respect to nature, I was pleased to see the interconnectedness of life taken to a newer platform, and I was fascinated with the Neuromancer feel, but as natural, not machine...softer edge to the matrix.  The movie was a pleasure and I could probalbly debate meanings and sequenses and philosophies and religion and politics for hours.  But for now I'm going to languish on Pandora without questions. 

I feel an urge to start excavating, but I know exhaustion is near.  I'll have to pop it into the DVD a few more times then have vodka and a discussion party.  Any takers?  What a tease...even for me.

The Monster Under my Bed

The whole writing thing for me is like that first dip of the season in the freshly opened pool...first the big toe, then maybe a whole foot, then back out.  Then right foot followed by the left foot, and then sitting on the edge splashing my upper legs.  When I finally get my whole body in it's that moment of shock, perhaps I'll call it numbing pain, and then it's as if everything is gloriously comfortable and perfect submerged in the water.  Then, the next time...it's just the same old thing.

I'm a cluster writer because of this.  Or maybe you say I'm not dedicated.  Perhaps my writing self-esteem is lacking.  Or maybe I'm afraid of what my soul may give away.  Haven't I vanquished enough demons?  Doesn't the world now know my deepest and darkest?  Maybe, but I still keep the boogie man under my bed for safe keeping. 

So what about me?  Really?!  After a year of nightmares, therapists, doctors, groups, articles printed and emailed, videos from the doula, and you still ask, "what about me?"  Honey, get a grip...this one is not about you.  And if you keep trying to get me to turn back into my co-dependent-wonderwoman-miracle-worker it ain't ever gonna happen.  Seriously, am I supposed to think it's cute that you've developed a sibling rivalry with your own child?  Fucking man-up, dude.  Life is not cherries or chocolates or warm fluffies.  It's lemon in your papercut, salt in your razor burn, and vinagar for wine.

ARrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrg.  Heartburn.  Exhaustion. Disgust.  Disappointment.   

I want my child to strive for what her heart desires: to work hard, to achieve goals, believe that anything is possible.  But.  But she also needs to learn that nothing is free, hard work doesn't always pay off, you can't always get what you want...and contrary to the Rolling Stones commentary on life, sometimes you don't even get what you need.  I've grown sour on the motto that you can have or be anything you want if you just work hard and give it 110%. Opportunity knocks and closes doors, and you aren't always standing in the right doorway.  You have to learn survival and have back up plans and know that life isn't paved in gold and dreams are to be reached for, but can't control your choices.  In the end we have a lazy, self-righteous, ingracious group of adults who think it's ok to merely be.  Hippies went out of fashion for a reason, and with them the notion that the Universe always provides.  Go live in Haiti or Brazil or the Congo; go anywhere but here, and you'll see that it doesn't always work out in the end.

"It always works out somehow."  You're kidding me right?  People die.  Families separate.  Poverty is a fact.  Pollution and disease are real.  Money and power are evil.  It really doesn't always work out: you just learn to be miserable and survive and shut up.  And for those lucky ones that get to put on a pair of rose colored glasses and say it's half full, I'm happy for you, but I lost mine, so I hate you.  Conspiracy theorist and bandwagonist are the true anti-christ, spreading messages of panic and fear in the modern people.  Does anyone have original thoughts anymore?  Is there really nothing new to invent?  Are we really that thoughtless and careless? 

I used to be an eternal optimist.  I could pep talk and comfort the hardest hit.  I would pick up and dust off the downtrodden, and take most of them home to mend and stregthen.  They say people come in and out of your life for a reason for a time for a season.  I do believe that.  Or at least I did.  With the advent of technology and social networking we prevent this beautiful experience from enriching our lives.  We can't come and go.  We can't hide and seek.  We are all just bobbing in the same wave.  Don't get me wrong.  I am enjoying this shared moment.  I love the proximity that modern technology has given me to those old and new, near and far, dear and not so much.  Hey conspiracy folk - the Matrix is already here.

Who the heck is this woman?  My patience.  My humor.  My strength.  My love and peaceful nature.  Maybe I gave them away.  Why am I jaded and dark and pissed?  The boogieman is whispering...time to close shop for the day. 

 

Bounty, the quicker picker upper

More than a month past...should I apologize for being away.  I'm sorry.  Really.  Every day I log in and then log out.  Or just stare at the link, debating what to do with it.  I'm confused perhaps.  Have I gotten shy all of a sudden?  Do I not want to share my secrets?  Am I just so different that I don't feel I belong here any longer?  None of that for truth. 

When the fog started to lift I wanted to take in all the clarity, and I believed the more distance I put the easier it would be to comprehend.  I am afraid that I was incorrect.  The more time that passes the less sense I can make.  The pain still jabs and I want to cry for those days yesterday, and now I want to cry for those days tomorrow.  I found a new pain...the growing kind.

Anya has gone from tettering to running in moments.  She gives tude and responds to what she's asked to do even though she can't really talk back.  Her grunts and screams and limited sign language at a minimum help us to meander through the new connections her brain makes, and by the way I think we're getting close to those first words.  She's developed a personality with a rainbow of color with her squishy smile and belly giggles.  She takes running leaps and crashes to the floor; she tastes food, discarding what she doesn't like that moment as dog food - yet chooses to sneak dog food out of the bowl as a treat; she gives hugs and kisses, then turns biting, pinching and pulling like Jekyll and Hyde.

This little creature never stops.

Hubby got a part time job (thank the universe!), and maybe now the financial devestation can start to rebuild - just before total ruin.  We're adjusting to the new schedule.  She loves her Wednesday nanny; and, we love our Wednesday nanny.  Freyja on the other hand is making the day a little too noisy, and we hope she adjusts to our weekly house guest soon - who wants a bark collar!  The daily routine changes so there is never a bored blink, making it very difficult to get Anya's routine set.  Poor kid, no wonder she's become so demanding.  Poor mom and dad really. 

Work is work and most days I have to remind myself that without my job Anya will have to live in a box under the county line bridge.  Not an option.  I still hate being away from her.  I miss so much, and I think some of her lashing out at me is because she doesn't get enough time with me.  I feel guilty.  I don't want to be super mom nor do I need to be.  I just want to be mom right now.  But life sees it differently.

I catch myself having to change the song on the radio, like when Live, Lightening Crashes, comes on, because the words make my heart hurt.  I have to change the channel on my favorite shows, like CSI and Criminal Minds, because they remind me of the dangers out there.  I want revolution for this; I want to bitch smack that person; I think this person deserves the chair (mind you I'm anti-death penalty); I fear that natural disasters might separate me from my child or I can't get to her; there is terror when I think about someone grabbing her in that second I blinked; I can't stand stupidity.  Now none of this paralyzes me as it did before, but Im becoming hyper vigilant...just as exhasuting.

I've got myself on good vitamins.  I've started dancing again, and even got a gig teaching belly dance once a week.  Who would have thought.  I have to admit I needed that confidence boost.  Now if I'm working out at home or lesson planning Anya tries to mimick me or turns off the TV video. 

I do feel much more human than I have in 2 years.  I am forcing my body to move even when it hurts...sometimes I win.  A sense of humor, one of my prodigal sentiments, started to assimilate back into my emotional responses.  Wow that feels good.  I don't like being so serious.  Maybe it's just that I can partake freely of my vodka and coffee again.  What ever it is...thank you...my family thanks you...and maybe my friends will like me again.  It's clean up time.

The 12 month Program

She stood in her purple tutu looking like a little girl.  She toddled around fascinated by the colorful presents stacked in the corner and the strange little folk, just her size, invading her play area.  The grown ups fawned over her walking skills and her gestures of affection.  A special day just for her; a secret special day for mommy.  We all gathered in our home on the day of the 2010 monsoon to celebrate the passing of a year; my little Anastasia turned one.  I looked at a picture from moments after her arrival, and realized that time is precious and fleeting, and a year of growing and evolving into this little human passed by while I blinked.  My little 6 pound 19 inch crying and sleeping bundle morphed into a 20 pound 29 inch mini-being, with an attitude and personality all her own.  No longer my baby, but my little girl.

Everyone said to me that she won't remember her 1st birthday so take care not to go overboard.  I listened to a point: balloons and paper plates, snacks and homemade cake, no special games or decor or themes or grande feast.  She may not remember, but I will.  This 1st birthday was less of a milestone for her than it was for me, the anniversary of becoming a mommy.  All I needed was to watch her spend her day exploring and enjoying the adventure. 

Reflecting on the past year produces a headache and tumbling stomach.  I feel agitated and frustrated and something I can only comprehend as guilt.  So much pain, physical and emotional, taint this first year of her life.  Part of me hears the cliche that children are resilient, she will remember nothing of her mother's struggles, nor will they affect her evolution.  The other part of me screams LIAR.  Children are fragile, dependent creatures affected by their environment every moment, every breath: just because they cannot voice their part of the suffering doesn't mean that they are unscathed. 

Modern mothers tell themselves what they must to make it through the day.  Our lives are different from our parents or grandparents.  We don't live with or close to our families and most need dual incomes or more to survive.  We don't know our neighbors, and if we do, we may wish we didn't.  The village no longer supports the family; we leave ourselves stripped of the community energy.  We are the post-women's lib generation with its pros and cons effecting every aspect of our daily lives.  We want to work, be independent and strong; we want equal pay and responsiblity, and we want to be a mother and wife and keep house and socialize.  Somewhere in there something has to give.  How do we justify it?  Why do we think we have to be superwomen or super human to have worth and value?

I see woman who fall victim to the Jones' mentality, and treat their children like pawns in the game of who has or hasn't.  We voyeuristically accept this as normal through our reality TV extravaganzas.  This hurts our children and creates generations of adults who feel entitled and don't understand the word no.  When did love turn into money.  Money is both a necessity and a luxury, but it is not equal to the emotion that is shared by people that produces sentiments of fondness, appreciation, respect and affection. Love is not something tangible.  Love is when my daughter reaches up to caress my cheek or twirl my hair. Love is her giggle and hugs.  We've forgotten what is important, perhaps, or maybe we have just chosen to turn our back.

Long ago I lost my faith in popular religion.  I spent 8 years in Catholic school and my entire life in the Greek orthodox faith.  I watched my father painfully lose his on his death bed, and that crushed me even more.  I know I need something to believe in, and science doesn't cut it.  Do I believe in God or gods or Powers that Be?  Some days.  What I respect about religion and its faith is its determination to bring harmony to an otherwise chaotic life (and death).  I appreciate the ethics and fair treatment that inevitably leaches through the preachings: not so much the morals, but the values.  I stand in conflict wanting my child to learn the community lessons of faith, but me being too lazy and uninterested to wade through the church services.  I know I can find support there amoungst the believers, but shame keeps my distance.  To teach my child good values and ethics and respect I stand against this wall.  Society has turned religion into a war or falicy or cult, but I need to find a way to surmount to instill its side effects into my daughter.  I need to figure out how to rasie my child in a world that seems menacing and hateful without boundaries or respect.

Rewinding a year in my mind is sort of like falling down the rabbit hole: moments flashed and thoughts passed, nothing really clear; some things seem larger and others smaller and time doesn't exist or exists too vividly.  I know I see my mother as a different being now.  I forgive her for things I blamed her for, and respect her for things I didn't understand.  And this is only the beginning, I know.  I weep for my hurts and her hurts and all the hurts of my ancestral mothers.  I have a new hurt for those who will never come to this place of womens hurts.  A mother's pain from birth to the ends of time is a blessing.  Now I can see my year in review and not resent how I felt or even the fog that blinded my path.

I think about being a teenager and how horrid (and stupid) I behaved.  The suffering I caused my parents I can never take back.  The nights of fear and tears that they shed for my stupidity tear at my heart.  I know now how even minutes after curfew must have ripped my parents to pieces with fear.  The need to protect and guide is so powerful, so instinctual, so fierce.  My child will hurt and be hurt and I cannot stop it from happening.  For all my parents did to help me navigate this life, I still hurt.  They made mistakes, but we are human and fallible and don't know the questions to 42.  I spent hours, days, weeks, and months crying to be with my daughter every moment of her early breaths.  I needed to protect her from the world.  I couldn't comprehend how to manage this life and motherhood because there is too much dark in the world.  I resented the life I brought her into because it wasn't ideal.  I hated the causes of my pain.  The love I feel for her cannot be touched, explained or compared.  My inability to comprehend this rush of emotion raged within me, and still does, but with filters now. 

So far away from my beginning I've wandered.  My daughter turned 1 yesterday.

The party brought friends from near and far and family members to share our moments.  I felt happiness and contentment for the first time in ages as I flitted about the day less concerned about perfection and more concerned about the miracle of childhood.  I watched in amazement as she moved about the house inspecting all her visitors and experimented with new tastes and made friends and the curiosity that passed behind her eyes.  The friends that have grown with me helped make the day easy.  I love my friends dearly for being a part of my family, and for welcoming Anya into their hearts too.  The day was spent early with a happy and tired little lady nestled in my lap sucking her thumb, dreaming of the day's strange adventures and treasures.

At 8:33pm on March 15th I snuggled in bed with House on TV and the lights out and kissed my baby girl a Happy Birthday.

My Merry-Go-Round

Signs of spring are everywhere.  I can smell it in the air...well mostly just sneeze.  The icebergs that dominated our landscape these past few months disappear more each day.  Some poor bulbs try to poke through the thawing landscape, and mud, dark, brown, wet, mud everywhere.  It's refreshing to see the sun, blinding as it may be.  O and the beauty of light beyond 6pm delights my sensibilities.  Most people call spring the season of hope.  Even the Christians with their Easter holiday capitalize on the emotions the spring thaw instills in the people.  I use to feel renewed myself, but not so much this year.

Am I better, honestly, I should say mostly.  But am I well, not a chance.  The fog that tried to choke me for the better part of last year has lifted and I see blue skies.  I'm sleeping more hours at a time, but not through the night.  I'm restless with random insomnia...looks like a trait my little peanut has inherited as well.  We both toss and turn and sit bolt upright at random intervals in the dark.  Did we hear something?  Do we smell something?  What thoughts burst through our slumber so regularly?  Whatever causes us to lose precious moments of sleep I despise.  Some nights we manage a full 6 to 7 hours...but ahh those nights are rare.  Mostly we're on a 4 hour holding pattern, better than every hour on the hour, but still not optimal.

With those blue skies I bear witness to the burning orange of the sun.  The fiery ball inferno that blinds and engulfs...not life giving warmth, but rage that stirs beneath, seizing when opportunity arrives.  My ocean of clarity is not the calm blue sea but a tumultus anger.  Some of it I can justify.  We've been on a down trend of luck for some time now.  Where's that Harry Potter vial of prized potion? Generally I'm not an angry person.  I use to be the epitomy of patience and trust and optimism.  I use to love people and conversation and opinions.  I use to relish in a good debate and sharing of stories.  I'm impatient and short and stabby...my adventurous piscean senses have turned dolphin to shark.  I don't like my new world vision.  I'm cynical and distrusting.  My ability to be open to perspectives diminishes daily.  I can't tolerate ignorance, stupidity and lies. 

Everywhere I look I see sadness, pain, loss, fear.  I see a world out of novels.  People...humanity...lost.  Sounds a bit dramatic, and I feel obligated to apologize, but I won't.  Perhaps the veil is my own devise.  Maybe I'm inflicting it upon the world at large.  Perhaps I should take note of my female compatriots during the industrial revolution.  The soot and dirt that tainted their food, clothing and breath is not so much different that our 0s and 1s encoding the technologial revolution of present.

Where are the neighborhood children playing in the streets and turning the entire neighborhood into a game of tag?  Where are the farmers providing local fare at the more affordable prices - when it's cheaper to buy a big mac than a salad there is something seriously wrong with our priorities.  Think of those famous works of art from a time not so long ago. It was vogue to have girth because that meant you had money to buy food.  And those wane and feeble were the peasant class who barely had bread or porridge to calm their grumbling bellies.  Now the overweight and obese are the poor and the super-model thin are the wealthy; the poor can only afford the worst foods and the weathly have nutritionists and organic meals prepared for them. Pfft.  When the government feels it's their responsibility to remove freedoms of one to placate another someone hasn't read the constitution.  Don't get me wrong, I'm all for safety, but making rules for rules sake and ignoring the more important larger issues at hand has become a staple for our government and takes precious time and attention away from the plagues that sicken our nation every day.  The people take itty bitty dislikes and turn them into life or death decisions instead of letting the human race evolve as it has for thousands of years.

Something as ridicuouls as Snuffalupugus being made real because imagination is bad - the bandwagon perception of 20+ years ago - now snuffed out too late - told generations that thought and invention was detrimental to society.  We created zombies of ignorance.  We let the fairies and invisible creatures of wonder back into our children's lives again.  But we also gave them TV and internet and Nintendo.  The adventures they have are simulated, shared imaginations.  Will we have another Einstein or Ben Franklin or Motzart or Fitzgerald or Michelangelo?  Who will fill Baryshnikov's shoes or Sinatra's microphone?  The arts are relegated to starving artists - the free thinkers and risk takers cast out of society's mainstream for failing to drone.  Theaters and novels are outdated ideas: IMax and Kindle take any adventure away from the human experience.

I caught myself watching Disney's classic Snow White the other night and thinking how they should re-dub the voices for a modern sound.  Shame on me.  I disgust myself.

I'm entranced by Muse.  The music revolutionists of my choice: angry enough, intelligent enough, loud enough, and controversial enough to feed my thoughts.

The healthy institutions of yesterday entrap today.  Money: real estate, banks, hedge funds, bonds, oil, natural gas, biofuel, everyone wants a piece.  Marriage is disposable...and so are children.  I've watched so many of my peers suffer through the challenges of infertility: some with success, some without.  Then there are those graced with the gift of parenthood who abandon and murder the helpless humans of tomorrow.  Forget about the gangs and pediphiles and drugs that destroy senslessly.  Natural disasters cause enough death and suffering, yet the human race still behaves in its primeaval ways.  Communities fail their people.  No the people fail their communities.  Two income households are no longer a luxury, but a necessity.  Our nuclear family seems quaint and so American, yet we've lost the bond of family and support of our neighbors.  Our grandparents are in homes for the dying.  Our children are raised by strangers.  Our 24 hour day is spent providing service to the machine rather than enjoying this temporary life.  Ugh, Who am I?!

I'm not sure who speaks my voice.  My head hurts from fighting myself.  I've become someone that I don't know and I'm not sure I like.  Out of the fog into the fire. 

I don't want my child to lose her hope.  I want her to learn to love life and the natural world.  I want her to play with her imaginary and real life friends...in person.  I want her to learn value and respect and loyalty.  I want to feel that she is safe.  I need to turn off the news and close the papers with their fascination of the morbid and horror.  People need to re-learn respect and selflessness.  We seem to have forgotten that we can't take it with us and we need each other.  We've lost any sense and form of balance.  We've lost the reality of time.  We put ourselves here, but do we care enough to save ourselves and each other.

My precious gift is turning 1.  I've lost a year of my life, and what should have been one of the best years of my life.  At every stage I've looked upon her feeling like this was the best stage of all.  I understand why a time comes to pass that we want to have another.  The rational side of me says that children are resilient and she will never remember what her mother suffered during those early days; she won't remember my sorrow, my physical ills, or my disillusionment; she won't remember my impatience and confusion.  But something deeper makes me think that children aren't as we have convinced ourselves to believe.  They are fragile.  I'm trying to become the mother I've always wanted to be.  Some days I have the strength.  I'm looking to breeze to sing me my hope.

For what it's worth

I have something to say.  I'm sure of it.  I'm blank though.  Dark and empty.  I don't even know how to feel.  I'm angry and sad and just fed up.  I'm tired too.  Another morning of white outs on my drive.  I used to love the snow and a free work from home day and eating comfort food, and not always French Toast like the rest of the locals.  I had to leave the house.  I needed to get to the office, tired and blah. 

For the first time in almost 2 years we went out to a bar to have a drink and grab some junk food and listen to some friends take us back to a time when life seemed more simple.  I showered and curled my hair and put on makeup and a cute little outfit of black.  Slimming you know.  My sis came over to play with Anya and get her to sleep so we could enjoy a few hours of us time.  We met friends and enjoyed a clanking of the glasses in honor of our little adventure.  A lot of chatting and a smokless bar of 20 somethings made me feel bored and tired much sooner than I had hoped.  I didn't, however, feel the urge to call home. 

As the clock neared 10 I felt myself nodding.  Geesh one beer and I'm a gonner; it doesn't help that I'm up all night with the baby and at work by 7am.  I think Fridays are the hardest day to survive let alone try to extend into the hours of the moon.  I tugged on his shirt for the whatever time, asking if we could head out before I embarassed myself by falling asleep at the table.  He rolled his eyes, ordered another beer and walked away.  We stayed for quite a few songs and I finally stood up and put on my coat.  With much resistance and obvious pissed-off-ness (if you can allow me) he stood up and we walked to the car.  I said thank you, we were home and I went to bed.

The next day was full of distraction and visiting and by the time we arrived home it was past bed time.  The baby and I shuffled off to bed and left him to play the Wii for a few more hours.  I woke up alone save for my little precious nestled beside me.  I wake up alone on most mornings because we can't get the baby out of the family bed and he feels cramped, or he ate something he shouldn't and was stinky, or he had insomnia, or he fell asleep on the couch.  But this...this was Valentine's Day.  The day I've always resented as a Hallmark day that should be scoffed at or ignored.  But married now I tried to feel something akin to smugness.  Instead I woke up feeling single and unattractive and alone.  The same thing I have always felt, and I was seething.  I dropped the baby in his lap in the spare room and slammed our bedroom door shut. 

I tried to fall back asleep and ignore my guilt and the tantrums downstairs.  I tried to enjoy a little more time to settle my rage and change my attitude.  After a half hour of tossing and tears I dressed and went down, picked up the baby and hugged her tight.  I helped with her breakfast and had a snack myself and attempted to have a day that wasn't burdened with explosions.  I don't know when or how long or what prompted the comment, but at some point I was standing in the kitchen, doing the dishes maybe.  Or was I at the computer checking email.  In any case, he walked up to me and said, "For what it's worth Happy Valentine's Day." And he walked away. 

Since we weren't planning on going out to dinner we invited some friends over to eat with us.  We went to the grocery store and took early naps and bathed the baby.  At some point I even tried to get intimate, but was ignored.  So.  We busied ourselves with cooking and the dog and picking up around the house.  Dinner was a great success and by nightfall the tension had dispersed a bit, or was it the beer and lots of chocolate. Shortly after I went to bed he followed and we all slept.

The next day we had some work around the house: forward momentum was a must.  Crabby, learning-to-walk baby and dishes and pesky dog and plain old end of the weekend blues - a three day weekend no less - made the day seem restless and unwelcome.  We set off in stages moving the books from the first to the third floor and rearranging everything so it looked nice and neat again.  The motion and movement was a welcome outlet to my frustration.  The evening ended with homemade soup and exhaustion. 

I'm just empty.  I feel sorry for the world we brought our angel into.  I'm a fighter.  I don't give up, especially on something that I believe in.  But I'm dangling.  The blame is on me; he said he doesn't care.  He refuses to take even half the burden from me.  I don't want to go down a path darker than this crossroads, I will hold on because I must.  When is enough enough.  When can I be angry. 

The Land of the Living Lost

Gasp...plunge.  Two points to fragility.  A three pointer to the abyss.
Now really.  Is this necessary?!  How much can one person take?  I'm sick and tired and hateful.  I can't listen to anymore do-gooder platitudes and niceties along with their pats on the back and false smiles.  I'm sick of the bile burning in my throat.  I'm tired of my shoulders in my ears and the hammer in my head.  I resent the liars, cheats, destroyers of life.  I'm numb from constant combustion.  I sink into the scortched frozen lands far from Elysium.  A zombie.  Sterile and pointless.

Faith?  Hope?  Justice?  All dead.  See their beautiful landmarks in the endless green?  Ahhhh...Here lies Faith, reads the angel Gabriel perched high in concrete splendor, the mother of love and promises of protection.  May she rest in peace.  Over there the marble room houses her daughter Hope.  Hope was larger than life, and life destroyed her in jealousy.  What a lovely resting place for such a grand princess.  Now Justice...far off in the corner, simple...ignored.  Her stone reads...Justice was slayed by the human race, flawed and ugly with their greed and lies.

Don't worry, this too shall pass.  You are only given what you are strong enough to face.  You will get through this.  There are people in far worse situations.  Be grateful for what you have.  What doesn't kill you will make you stronger.  You have to think only of your daughter and family.  Stop panicking.  You will be ok.  It will all work out in the end.  Don't question what is.

The justice system failed since he with the most money wins...and let me take what you don't have and your ends won't meet.  All because of a part time job that he never would have taken if any of that were true. 

My head is exploding and my eyes bulging and under my fingernails bleed.  My body keeps twitching and my mouth is dry.  My teeth hurt and I taste iron in my throat.  My lungs are flaming with each breath.  I'm thirsty.  I'm thirsty.  I'm thirsty. 

I give up.  I really do.  Every time I feel like I've gotten a grip and I can move along something new comes at me and now I'm buried.  I'm walking the fields looking for my lost beliefs.  They are all here.  Eating worms.  I don't have the strenght to dig them up.  Maybe I'll just sit here under this tree.  I worked too hard to watch my life crumble like the mortar in my basement.

My basement.  It's a scary place - all stone and crumbling mortar - spiders and creepy crawlies are freeloading residents.  The inspector said it was in great condition...the foundation is solid.  The house I live in was built in 1880.  The day we saw our house we knew it was ours.  It felt like ours.  We felt it call to us to bring life back to its halls.  We had looked at so many houses already with dismay, and this house we had crossed off our list, but we needed to kill time.  And this house...this was the one.  The man and his wife before us lived amoungst the things of several generations and the filth of 7 years that they couldn't let go.  Our realtor held a tissue to her nose as we walked through the devastation of the zombie life.  The husband was physically, and from our perception emotionally, broken.  He walked room to room with us pointing out the love that he wanted to give the house, but couldn't.  We walked along enchanted by the house itself: the transom windows, porcelain knobs, original mouldings, plaster walls, original light fixtures, wavy glass windows, three stories of advnture.  The man and his wife were losing this house, this home, to the bank.  But we were going to save it we promised.

Our offer went in and the games began.  O another offer has come in...same specs...what's your second offer...we have to move settlement date...he did get the grass cut...we need to make it later.  Two months of nail biting and determination and settlement day arrived.  We arrived at the house excited as first time homeowners to do the walk thru...ahhh we would get to see the house empty.  The day had other plans...the man and his wife who had moved into a new home two weeks before had not vacated the property and in no way was it broom swept - our relator wouldn't even let us in the house.  The flurry of a devils doing unraveled.

Our relator feverishly got on the phone with others from her office and the man and wife's realtor.  What to do now?  How can this go through?  What...it went into foreclosure today?  He's swinging an axe in the yard yelling at the hauler you sent.  Do they still want to go through with it?  I sat on the curb and cried.  Yes, we wanted this house.  But.  3 hours after our scheduled settlement on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend we were wisked to the realtor office and told that we would do this in separate rooms and we wouldn't have to see the man and his wife.  We will build in left over monies from settlement to pay for a hauling company to come back tomorrow, the man is not right in the head, the wife's son needs this house sold, we will add a clause that forbids him from returning to the property...you could call the police if he does.  If we really want this we can do this.  They aren't making anything on the house...they owe too much.  Let me know what you want to do.  Papers signed, we were handed the keys, and we had to wait until tomorrow to go back to the property that we technically owned today.

Our relator is one of my best friends.  We were her first, and last client.  She gave me a hug, handed me a card and bottle of champagne and said she was sorry for our experience.  But we were happy, we loved our new house.  We were happy it was finally ours.  We would build our first home together here...our wedding was four months away.  Plenty of time to bring this house to life once more.

The next day I arrived at the new house alone.  The haulers that were ordered would arrive by 9am.  I had an hour to walk through alone for the first time since we decided we wanted to buy this house.  I unlocked the door, whose lock would be changed in a few hours, and walked inside.  I knew Nance said it was bad.  And I expected bad, but this was living hell.  The stench was suffocating and I couldn't open the windows.  I held my Teeshirt to my nose and did my own walk through.

The tears...they started...and I couldn't stop them.  The kitchen brought on dry heaves.  The sink was full of dishes and cat food and unidentifyable morsels.  The refridgerator was filled to bursting with spoiled food years expired, and jars, and cans, and boxes of leftovers...how could they live like this.  The bathroom tub was filled with mud and more dishes and mud and junk.  The floors were covered with animal urine and feces and trash and more trash.  The dining room hosted floor to celing phone books from years gone by from locations near and far and wires and cables and newspapers and debris.  The living room no longer even had a path.  I was afraid to go upstairs.  I walked into the first room and saw it just as I had on our first seeing.  The fly paper still hung from the ceiling next to the dead mother's bed.  I gaged.  The master bedroom was devoid of furniture but unwalkable with debris: pictures, clothing, dishes, chachkis, junk.  I didn't even walk up to the third floor.  I ran down the stairs and out the door and burst into sobs.  What had we done.  Hyperventilating I called Rich to tell him it was worse than we thought and I don't know what to do.  He reminded me that the haulers would be here soon and he'll be over as soon as he was done work, and so would my sisters with some bleach and rags.

The haulers arrived in parade fashion with their dump truck and pick ups and dungareed treasure seekers.  They saw me slumped and bleary eyed on the porch stairs, introduced themselves, and said that when they were done I will be able to call it my own.  I warned them that it was ugly, and they replied, "we've seen everything, don't worry."  I mostly stayed out of their way and watched in amazement how they systematically went room by room, they decided to call in more recruits and work separately.  They pryed off the storms from some of the windows and let the air in.  They stripped the caulk from the balcony door and swung it wide.  They pulled the dump truck on the lawn and just tossed from second and thrid story...look out below.  Every once in a while I would hear one of them call out...look what I found...and every once in a while they would ask if I wanted to keep something.  Then at some point I saw it pull up...the blue PT cruiser and the man and his wife dove into the dumpster after their things.

The haulers told me to stay in the house and they would take care of everything, and if need be they would call the police.  They will take care of this too.  I was paralysed.  I began to feel dirt like never before.  I knew I smelled like the house.  Now that stacks and piles were disappearing I realized that the entire house, floor to ceiling was grey.  Everything everywhere grey.  I felt grey.  I couldn't eat or drink.  I had no one left to call.  I waited and watched and held doors and bought hoagies from the deli across the street for my miracle workers.  At times I felt a pang for the man and his wife.  How did they get so desparate?  What happened to their lives?  Were they always like this?  How sad to watch your family history tossed with giggles into a dumpster.  Then I looked around and my pang turned to anger.  How could they let this happen?

8 hours, 4 dump trucks, 9 haulers, a hundred rubber gloves, 5 brooms, thousands of trash bags...and they were gone.

My sister came with 4 gallons of bleach and more rubber gloves and buckets and brooms.  We filled the buckets and started in the kitchen and bathroom.  We bleached the fixtures, the floors, the walls, the moulding, the doors, the sinks, the closets, and the shelves.  Then we worked our way into the main house and tried to get some grime from the windows and woodwork before we collapsed.  When she felt as grey as I, she stood up and said I'm sorry.  I thanked her, and she left for a shower or sandblaster to clean up.  By the time my husband came the house was empty and smelled of bleach and urine.  He entered and instantly turned grey.  But he hadn't seen what I had.  And never would know what it felt like when the house took its first breath after 7 years.  I felt the shutter and the heard the creeking and I wiped my forehead and said tomorrow we pull up the rugs.

That next day Erica came.  We donned masks and rubber gloves and clothes we'd be willing to throw away and cut and tore and shredded the carpets.  Floor by floor room by room we lifted one layer of grey out of the house.  The stench was corrosive, and the sticky ickiness left our stomachs upside down.  We worked for hours until the daylight started to sag.  Once we lifted the carpets we found rug sized linoleum: we lifted the linoleum to find newspaper from 1943.  We read headlines of WWII and the comics eerily maintained their brilliant color.  We saw advertisements and sale fliers from $.10 bread and and $2.00 dresses.  We hollared from one room to the next about the secret news under the floors.  For scattered moments the house told us her stories. 

We surveyed the house now bare of all carpet and bleach now penetrating the urine burn, and felt that she was thanking us.  One last item before we said good night...the stove...the avacado green stove with broken glass and food particles in its belly...needed to go to the curb.  We all heaved and hauled it outside amidst the piles of rolled grey bound in duck tape.  The green was so faded and worn it gave way to the twilight and knew it had met its time.  We locked up for the night, and knew that hour long showers would be the least of what we needed to feel clean again.  But tomorrow we paint the walls.

Day three of homeownership and we were having a painting party.  Slowly all our brave friends showed up to see the nightmare in person.  They would help us defeat the somber grey and stench of neglect.  Every room was abuzz with spackle and sanding and primer and bleach.  We had high hopes for this day.  Yet like everything else the party came and went with progress, but so far away from any sense of accomplishment.  Pizza and beer and laughter and cigarette smoke mixed with bleach and primer.  All the windows were now open and you could breath the air without gaging.  By the end of the day we hugged all our helpers and thanked them for believing in us and our home.  Some snickered on their way out in disbelief of the tasks still at hand.  Everyone was eager to see what we would make of our adventure.  For four months we painted and repaired and replaced and carpeted and built and decorated.  Our grey house was now alive with color and happiness.  We feel safe and protected and know that our house is thankful for the redemption. 

In almost three years we've put in a driveway, regraded the land, put up a fence, replaced walls, put in new windows (well mostly), replaced the stove, fridge, washing maching and some air conditioners, and converted to a gas heater and did a lot of rewiring.  We were ready to install the kitchen when my husband lost his job and I was 5 months pregnant.  All those things that enchanted us, now irritate, and there is no more money to continue with her transformation.  I sit here wondering if we will have to give up this house that I love to hate.  I wonder if she was not calling us to rebuild her, but a life sucking curse to all those that live within her frame.  I look around at the vibrant walls I decorated and think maybe they are too bright and we should go neutral.  I wonder...and I cry.

Xtra Xtra: Dairy Maid goes on date with Sandman

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.

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.