I'm sitting here, listening to music, cozy under a faux mink blanket.  I've been feeling the pull of the fall season to slow down, to snuggle up, in my body.  I've noticed for some time that I am either energized or slowed down by the seasons - there's an attunement to the earth and her cycles.  I want to live more seasonally, follow the cycles; rest and contemplate during the dark months, run and achieve during the sunny warm ones. 

I started reading "Slow Time" by Waverly Fitzgerald, but have been pulled elsewhere and have barely made it through the first chapter.  But, what I did read has been on my mind.  She talks about how certain seasons are perfect for certain activities, and making a project calendar that reflected the kind of energy each season brings.  This really spoke to the energetic feeling I have now that winter is coming upon us.  This is a time when my energy is drawn inward; I am more introspective, more introverted.  I look toward time alone with excitement, and this aloneness is brings a wonderful calmness to it. 

Recently, D.'s schedule changed so that he works in the evenings.  Suddenly, this aloneness I'd been craving, appeared...and made me realize how starved I'd been for quiet time alone.  I've been serving others, which was becoming an emotional energy drain.  In my contemplations, I realized I've been far to other oriented than is perhaps healthy.  It's the proverbial oxygen mask situation.  Again.  When will I learn?

This weekend, a friend, V.,  is moving in and becoming a roommate.  The house we're in is not large - we're talking about cramming three adults and one child (plus a part-time pre-teen) in a house that is less than 1000 sq ft. -  and I have no place, but my side of the bed, to call my own.  How and where and when to retreat has suddenly become foremost on my mind. 

As it turns out, I will be changing jobs, and with that, my hours will be such that I will be at home alone while Seth and D. are at school and work respectively.  My only challenge will be making sure that I don't deplete my self-time by visiting too much with my friend/roommate V., who is currently unemployed and who's company I enjoy immensely.  I'm already fantasizing laying in bed, reading a novel, working on some project or another, playing piano, baking...or taking a nap. 

More than refuse to get sucked into the busyness the festivities of this season brings, I am simply going to follow my feeling and slow down and do what feels the most natural to me. 

It has been far too long since I wrote.  There has been so much going on in the last 7 months, and I offer this not as an excuse, but rather as an observation.

I stopped writing for these two initial reasons: 1)D. was reading my blog, and sometimes I wanted to write things that involved my relating to him, and wasn't sure how he'd handle that 2)D. had moved in two weeks after N moved out, and only after us dating for 4 months, and I wasn't ready to hear the judgment from others about that.

Then, I didn't continue to write because the beginning of living together with D. was extremely challenging for me in many ways, and I wasn't even sure how to write about it.  Ultimately, inertia and focus elsewhere continued my lapse in writing.

But today, as I was updating my FB status, I noticed how lengthy the post was going to be, and thought, "this is something for my blog" and so here I am.

I am supremely content right now.

In some ways, the last 7 months have been challenging - strange feelings for both D. and I about our open relationship, which led to closing it for a time, fights with D. which not only included him packing and threatening to leave, but also my pushing him physically (although I could imagine myself capable, I never actually thought I'd do that - what the hell is wrong with me?!); water and gas being turned off because of lack of funds, sucking up my pride and applying for Food Stamps, worrying about eviction because of late rent payments, a ruptured ectopic pregnancy that rendered me close to death in the ER and required two blood transfusions, growing to dislike my job and finding another one and working both until all I did was eat, sleep and work...not to mention all kinds of drama involving my father hurting my mother (in which police, restraining order, and lawyers are now involved) which has amplified the subtle divisiveness regarding the dysfunctional nature of our family...and the list goes on.

There was serious neglect happening here in a variety of different ways.  But now, we are in a place where we are able to give attention to that which needs it.  D. has found employment, I have almost full-time hours at a place I love, and am erecting proper boundaries in regards to my family, paying my bills on time, excited about a pending move to SE Portland (can't wait to be out of the suburbs!).  Things are changing and positively so.

D. moved in with us in December to help me with rent and look after Seth.  He was unemployed at the time, and living with his mother on the other side of Portland, so the distance was getting to become more challenging, especially when N moved out.  At first, honeymoon period.  He came in and tidied up, insisted on arranging furniture (he has a wonderful aesthetic eye) and putting up paintings I'd done over a dozen years ago in college.  He picked Seth up from the bus so I could get the sleep I needed.  He cooked and cleaned.  He took care of me when I needed it.

We are both passionate creatures, and so when wounds are opened, we rush in to protect them, each in our own way.  His is to express himself and then retreat.  Mine is to lash out - I'm like a caged animal that's been abused; it's hard to get close to me when my wounds are open, and if you're not strong, all you will see is an angry, monstrous animal.

This is my most recent discovery, a vein of gold; that I have a very deep wound around being believed - that being accused of dishonesty is extremely painful for me.  

It was a Saturday morning, and I was preparing for work, but wanted to have a family breakfast with everyone first.  I needed some ingredients at the grocery store, and so off I went.  When I came back, I could see/feel that D. was upset.  I inquired as to what was going on, thinking that it had something to do with one of the kids or some babymama drama.  His response was "As if you didn't know."  We'd worked so hard on communication that I was thrown by this.  It was very passive aggressive, and I hate passive aggressiveness.  My response was "I wouldn't ask if I knew, tell me!"  Long story short: he'd gotten up and wanted to play his World of Warcraft game on my computer, and it had been deleted.  As I'd been deleting some podcast from iTunes the night before, he assumed I deleted that as well, without telling him.  No matter what I said, he simply did not believe that I was telling him that I did not delete it.  Things devolved, and I grabbed his shirt and pushed him.  He raised his fist, but stopped himself.  I taunted him saying, "Go ahead, hit me!"  I was ready to fight it out.  He refused to do so, to his credit.  He told me later that the thought he had was that he did not want to hurt someone he loved and that he thought if he raised his fist it would scare me enough to stop (it didn't, I literally had NO fear).  My brain was totally engaged in fighting, but I had one foggy thought, which was that I wanted him to grab me and hold me tight - that I didn't really want him to hit me, that I didn't really want to fight at all.

That's pretty fucked up psychology right there.  What kind of person asks for love by pushing someone and wanting to physically fight?  And, all that because he wouldn't believe I was telling the truth?  What the FUCK?!  Usually, I'm able to maintain a clear head when D. is upset, which allows me to help him get out of his own funk.  I totally lost my shit.  I had been sucked completely back into my ego self and it was calling the shots.  This was a huge wake up call.

We were able to resolve things before I went to work, and it was good to be at work, with my hands on the dough, talking with others and just allowing it to have been, and letting it go.  D. was much more able to let it go than I, I was so astonished by myself, and thought that this was certainly going to drag our relationship into a place of ruination.  It has not.  If anything, it has brought us closer, as our disagreements usually do.  BECAUSE we talk about them and get at the root of what's really going on - looking at the defense mechanisms, the thought processes or ingrained patterns of thought/response.  We understand that we awaken wounds in each other, and we are in each others' lives to heal those wounds. 

Something like this could have created a new wound, had it not been for our understanding that it was wounding that brought it about, wounding that needed to be looked at, and that it could be healed through understanding and forgiveness and ultimately, love.

Although I asked D. to next time grab me and hold me tight (because that's what I really want/need - I need to know that I am loved even when I'm monstrous), I'm hoping there won't be a next time.  I can see clearly the origins of the wound - having big feelings and never feeling heard or acknowledged; being an incredible storyteller as a small child, and being called a liar when I admitted to making it up - and in awareness heal the wound with the help of loving gentle-yet-strong people around me.

I think of all the times when Seth comes to me saying, "so-and-so called me X" and I would say, "well, are you X?" and he would say "no." and I would say, "well, you know the truth then, so it doesn't matter what so-and-so says, does it?" and I wonder that I could not apply this logic to myself - that I knew I was telling the truth, and whether D. chose to believe me was outside of my control - why did I need him to believe me so badly?  What about his not believing me scared me so much?  What do I think it says about me, to be someone who's seen as dishonest?

As I've been studying the Enneagram over the last several months, I've found that my personality style is very much involved with "the truth."  So I sort of know the answers to those questions in that in hindsight, I'm not surprised that I would be so upset about being accused of dishonesty, as someone who prides herself in being radically honest.  But it begs more questions: Am I as honest with myself and others as I seem to think I am?  Is this obsession with radical honesty really another egoic structure of which the pride of it is an ego soother?  That that makes me a good person?  Where is that judgment coming from?  Who said I was bad?

Wow.  A lot to ponder and resolve.  Let the healing continue...

I was just looking over last years' posts - the ones in December that were a part of a month long posting meme entitled "30 days of truth." I was actually thinking of doing it again, because I know in some cases the answers would be different. And, by doing that exercise everyday, I can see how it propelled me forward toward growth much faster than I would otherwise have gone. It also helped create the tone for this blog - one in which I treat very much like a diary, although I do leave some things out because it isn't actually a diary. Even as open as I am, I do appreciate some privacy. Some things, while true, aren't always necessarily beneficial.

But I think that exercise is no longer necessary, at least with those specific questions. I could create my own, new and improved version, but I have so many other projects on my plate that this would just be a distraction, and blogging is already a bit of a luxury, although something I feel I need to do - first, to create a bit of a record for later on in life, and second, to express myself as a way to dig deeper into the truth - there's a bit of a therapeutic quality to it.

So much has changed since last December. Different, bigger house, N. has moved out, I have a job and thus my own bank account, I lost over 20 lbs, I have a new appreciation and love for my friends, I did some art (!!!), I have a conscious, open relationship with an amazing man (D.) who gets me, adores me, and doesn't let me get away with using my neuroses as excuses, and I feel more confident in who I am and who I am not - which is something I'm discovering more and more everyday, Seth has lost teeth, started school, and is becoming ever more independent.

It's been a tough year. There were times of intense sadness, loneliness and grief. There were times of intense joy, connection and happiness. It's a refiner's fire, really, this personal growth process, this awakening. The non-essentials are falling away, revealing the essence of my being.

I know that there will be times of sadness in my life, as well as happiness. I learned long ago that accepting this fact is actually the key to getting out of a depressive funk (sometimes this is easier than others). I also know that as I let go of my need to control people and things, as I let go of my expectations that things be other than they are, and as I allow myself to feel the way I feel and thus dissolve those feelings as they occur, and as I continue to practice gratitude and presence, I will be able to ride the wave of sadness and happiness with joy, knowing that without one, there couldn't be the other, and that this is all part of life. A life which I have chosen to participate in. Fully.

schooling, revisited

Yesterday was Seth's first day of kindergarten. I really struggled with having to make this decision, but a couple of things calmed my heart and gave me more things to process.

When bemoaning to D. about my worries of Seth being bullied and picked on because he's so different (aren't all our children?), he pointed out to me that I was letting my own painful school experiences color a projection of what Seth's experience would be, and that perhaps I ought to allow for the fact that it won't be the same for Seth. My initial response was one of denial, that I wasn't doing that, and that my school experience wasn't bad, that I'd loved school. But as the words left my mouth, I realized just how much I'd been in denial, and I cut myself short.

The reality is that I did not love school, but that I'd some how learned to say that I did. I love learning, that is true, but that is not the same as school. I loved the initial excitement that starting school brings, but after a month or so, it wore off, and I was looking for more interesting things to do. I was constantly behind in my homework (which I rarely did, or when I did, I turned in late) and even in college I rarely actually read an assigned text and am amazed to this day that I managed to finish school with the decent grades I did. I was bored. I would find ways to hide novels behind my math book, do word puzzles in science class. I would purposely misspell words on spelling tests because they were too easy.

The other reality is that I was teased and bullied mercilessly. Admittedly, in the fifth grade I became a bully, but that was short lived because I actually wanted to have friends. Because of my reaction to protect myself by physical means or through angry outbursts, I was not seen as someone who was being picked on, but that I was equally responsible, and I would often get in trouble along with the boys who were picking on me. And perhaps I was responsible in a way, because I couldn't say no to a good fight (I still have difficulty in this).

And, so, yes, my fears for Seth were founded in my own repressed wounds that were now brought to the surface. (God, I love D., he's so perceptive and wise.)

I could see this clearly as I watched Seth through the window to his classroom - he was so excited, he was safe, no one was treating him badly. At the end of the day, he was excited to tell me about the obstacle course, which was his favorite part of the day.

Yes, the large school overwhelmed me. But that is my feeling, not his. Yes, I was a little tripped out when I saw when the end of recess bell went off, all the children stopped in their tracks and waited for instruction. But that is mine.

These fears made me think about my own early school years, of which I have little memory. I moved around a lot between the ages of 3 and 7 - 4 places, to be exact - a different school for kindergarten, first grade and two different ones in second grade. So, of course I was afraid and overwhelmed by the giant school. And, I thought, perhaps I'd spent a little too much time with Gatto and Holt, using their arguments as my own to support my own feelings of distrust in schooling (do not fear, unschoolers, I have not thrown away all I've learned!).

So I made a promise to myself. That as long as Seth is enjoying himself, I will be happy for him and support him as I can. When he's not, I know exactly what to do, and I will make it work, somehow. I've never willingly become a victim to any system, and I'm not going to start now.

Habits for self-care

I've been thinking about this for a while: creating new habits to create a life that supports the direction I want my life to take.

I'd read somewhere that the best way to do this was to spend one month doing one habit and to start with something small and easy to do. I'd done this very thing this past spring/summer with exercise - I'd started out with 10 minutes of exercising at the gym, and then later turned into running a bit of the nearby trail until I was able to run the entire thing. Unfortunately, some major life changes left me unable to continue (moving away from the trail, for one). But it inspired other growth and an understanding that I didn't lack self-discipline as I always thought I had. It's more that I didn't understand the importance of the making self-care a priority.

But I do now. And have been slowly been working on changing that. So I've decided to set up a new habit to develop each month, beginning in December. I've already written down several that I'm hoping to accomplish. I'd also read that sharing openly with others what I'm wanting to do is also helpful, so each month I'm going to share my new habit and the progress I'm making.

So, the first habit I'm creating is one that I used to have but fell by the wayside when I began school last year: creating a weekly dinner menu and then cooking dinner each night. It sounds strange, probably, to hear that from me - someone who loves food and loves to eat and loves sitting down for dinner with the people she loves.

It wasn't only starting school that caused it to fall by the wayside. As I made dinner tonight - which I found I had to force myself to do, since Seth is at N.'s, there was no one to cook for, but myself - which I suppose only highlights a belief that I have, which is that I'm not worth spending the time and energy to cook for - I considered the fact that I wanted to make meals for N. and Seth, to enjoy as a family, but that I rarely felt appreciated for my cooking ability by N., or that he even cared about us sitting down and eating together. I realize that my feelings on this matter don't necessarily reflect the actual truth - I'm sure he did appreciate my cooking and sitting down together. But, because of this feeling, I stopped cooking so much, until I wasn't cooking much at all.

So here I am, making lasagne and confronting feelings I didn't even know I had. Feelings of lack of self-worth, feelings of doubt about my ability to cook (which, as I would say to others, "Cooking is not my thing" or "I can't cook", I knew to be somewhat of an untruth - the reality was that I didn't want to cook for people would wouldn't or couldn't appreciate what I'd make), and feelings of loss over the family I'd tried so hard to make, feelings of anger over not being able to recapture something from my childhood that was so meaningful to me - mealtimes where connection/reconnection happened.

Now that I have more awareness, I can move forward creating a life of my own, facing those fears. Fortunately, I'll have a lot of good food to eat! And Seth is wonderful company, and in need of a connection and reconnection with me now more than ever.

Tomorrow: Pork Chops, Rice and Spinach.

oxygen mask, or learning the art of self-care

I have never been great at self-care. I forget to plan meals and then, when famished, end up eating whatever I can wrangle together or really late at night. Or just don't remember to eat. I pick up clothing off of the floor, smell it, and if it's not too bad, wear it. For a long time I didn't shave, wear make-up, spend a whole lot of time shopping for clothing that fit properly or that I liked.

That has all be slowly changing. This week alone, I plunked down some money on a sexy, sparkly bra and panty number and had serious hair removal done. No, I'm not doing some form of extreme DIY self-makeover. I've been working myself up to this since April, I think.

It started with shaving my legs. I had this inner conflict - the angry feminist in me abhorred the idea of shaving off hair for someone else's titillation; the natural earth mama in me wanted to honor the naturalness of my body; the environmentalist/economist in me wanted to avoid using a whole lot of products; and the rebel in me just wanted to be different.

Wait, I take that back. It started when I started culinary school, with the simple act of wearing make-up. I wanted to look nice and professional in my uniform, and I knew how wearing make-up made me feel - there's a reason they call it a mask! So, I got in the habit of wearing make-up more, as well as general facial care. A lot of my blemishes (mostly self-imposed, I'm a zit-picker) decreased greatly as a result of both wearing make-up and the fact that touching one's face is a no-no in the kitchen (unless you want to be constantly washing your hands!).

But that was pretty much it, until I started considering shaving my legs and armpits. Finally, I decided to sanction the posse in my head on grounds that they were not considering how I felt. It feels good to shave. Well, not the act itself so much as the result. I like how my skin feels, I am not self-conscious that people are looking at me, thinking how gross my unshaven legs are. So I decided that I was going to do it for that reason alone - because I wanted to, because I liked it.

Up next was clothing, but only because I'd lost so much weight that my pants were uncomfortable to wear cinched around my waist, and I didn't feel sexy in them anymore. And it's important for me to feel sexy and attractive, since I am, after all dating (around), and it's important for me to feel confident. Fortunately, I had a few pairs of pre-pregnancy jeans in the bottom of my drawer. But then I had to get a pair of black pants for my graduation. So I found two I liked, and bought them both.

Also, as a result of the weight loss, I needed new undergarments, specifically, bras. Because I knew how much fun he'd have, I invited D. to shop for these things with me. Of course, I regretted it the moment we walked into the store. I suddenly felt extremely vulnerable. The angry feminist was pissed because of the tiny plastic mannequins made her feel insecure again, as shopping of most kinds generally do. But D. wasn't going to let me get away with making another excuse to not shop, and we finally found some things I found tolerable (I find animal print and pink to be both aesthetically atrocious and utterly annoying), tried them on, felt sexy, and away I went, with my purchases.

At this point, I may have reached a "if you're going to do it, you might as well go all the way" mentality; I tried on the sexy panties and realized that there was some serious trimming that needed to happen, and since all other voices were quashed, posed a query on FB for a place to get waxed (again, with the "go big or go home" attitude!), decided to go with sugaring instead, based on a referral from a friend who I refer to as the queen of self-care, C. (so much I can and am learning from her, and she probably doesn't even know it) and booked the appointment.

I feel good. There are some voices who are trying to rise up with the guilt trip, but for now I'm ignoring them - saving them for a good session with S., perhaps. I've never been this "high maintenance" and I did warn D. that I was probably going to become a little high maintenance as I find balance, because I'm the kind of person who has to go to extremes in order to figure that out.

It's not that I think that I have to do all these things to feel good, some of them I knew already made me feel good, the shaving, the make-up, the sexy bras. Others, I have to try on for size to know. For the most part, though, as I spend more time focussing on caring for my body, the better I feel about it. It feels as though it as an act of love. And it helps me share that love with others more readily.

I often think about the oxygen mask analogy - you know, on the airplane, where they say to put your mask on first before assisting a child or someone who's having trouble. These things are my oxygen mask. I've been so deprived of oxygen, however, that I've needed several good inhalations to clear my head well enough to then focus on helping others.

Up next? Botanical Body Wrap? Hot stone massage? Sounds fun and relaxing, but I think I need to focus on getting my diet under control (and I don't mean a special diet, just the act of eating regular nourishing meals). And there's a whole other posse in my head that has opinions to weigh in on this...

a birth story

Six years ago today, Seth was born, making me a mother, for the first, and so far, only time.

I've not really written our birth story, although I did tell it once, a couple of years ago, in the Red Tent. So, since I'm thinking about it, here it is.

For the better part of my pregnancy, I was depressed and a bit lonely. I was 4 months along when we moved from Japan, where I'd been living for 5 years (hello, reverse culture shock!), to Port Hueneme (Ventura County), CA. N. was getting sent on deployments that lasted 3 weeks at a time, and I knew no one. And I couldn't drive.

I quickly found a midwife, K., which I'd researched online before even moving back to the States; I knew I did not want a hospital birth long before I'd ever gotten pregnant - after reading John Robbins' "Reclaiming Your Health" I wasn't going anywhere near a maternity ward or an OBGYN. Through her, I found a group of women, some of whom I'm still friends with, even though now it's long distance. I would even say I'm better friends with them now than I was then; I was so socially inept at friendship and scared of intimacy of any kind I kept most of them at arms length (I did this with K. too, thinking we needed to maintain "professionalism" - although I really, really wanted to allow myself to be mothered by her). "Am I being rude by being blunt? Did I say something wrong? How do I know what's rude or not? Will they think I'm being too permissive a parent? Too strict? Am I natural enough? Am I progressive enough? I'm not a vegetarian anymore, will I offend? Wow, she's so pretty, how does she keep it together? Wow, her house is so nice and tidy, I'd better not invite her over..."

Although I still sometimes think these things, for the most part, I've tossed them aside for a more gentle and less judgmental, relaxed, 'being myself' Maria. And I have friends. Really great friends. Who care appreciate my directness, and don't mind that my house is messy.

But I digress!

So, I spent my pregnant summer in this manner: for the second trimester I went swimming a few times a week - I'd been training for a marathon when I got pregnant, but I was so unhinged by the unplanned and unexpected pregnancy that I'd immediately stopped my training (running was more difficult, I got tired a lot quicker and it was harder to control my breathing) and almost given up exercise entirely. We had cable TV, and, having grown up without a TV and feeling the need to "catch up" with my peers (who in HS and college made fun of me for not understanding certain references - I still get that sometimes, but have given up attempts to catch up) I watched a lot and knitted and crocheted. I knit a throw for the couch, crocheted a baby blanket for Seth, and then knit a bunting for him to take home from the birthing center in. I also read a lot, although it was hard for me to maintain long periods of reading like I was used to; something about being pregnant made it difficult to concentrate for long. I read books like Naomi Wolf's "Misconceptions" and Ina May Gaskin's "Spiritual Midwifery." I also read Viktor Frankl's "Man's Search for Meaning." Those are actually the only titles I remember reading, although I know I read more. K. would give me all kinds of articles to read, which I devoured. I watched a lot of TLC birthing reality shows. I'd shout angrily at the TV when one intervention led to another in a hospital birth, and cry with joy and happiness when they showed a drug-free water birth in a birthing center.

I also really liked to watch crime shows and remember that the night before I went into labor I'd been watching yet another "Law & Order." I remember this because I'd known I should have gone to bed at a decent hour, but chose to stay up until midnight instead. A couple of hours later, I woke up with contractions. After a couple more hours, I had N. call K. She instructed N. to bring me in around 7am. So, we did, timing the contractions through the early morning, and, on our way to the birthing center, seeing the Ventura Hills ablaze.

I made myself comfortable in the room immediately. It was a familiar place - all of my hour-long appointments had been in there. And it was comfortable and homey, with beautiful art on the walls, a nice quilt on the bed, plants, calm music playing - a really warm and inviting place. K. insisted that I drink gatorade to remain hydrated, and the waiting game began. I can see now, that I was there much too early. Hindsight's always 20/20. N. massaged my back and feet, mostly my back, which was in excruciating pain - K. determined that I had back labor, the result of the baby being face forward, instead of face backward, and said to me, at one point, "I know it hurts, honey, I'd take it away from you if I could." At one point, I said to her, "I don't know if I can do this anymore." She suggested that she check to see how far along I was, and then we'd make a decision about whether to go to the hospital for an epidural. I was 7 cm dilated. In a moment of rationality, I thought through what going to the hospital would mean: I'd have to get dressed (I'd stripped after the first or second trip to the bathroom, and I'd been in the tub for a bit), get into the car, drive to the hospital, get out of the car, go into the hospital, fill out paperwork, then wait for the anesthesiologist to come and give me an epidural, which was going to be painful, all while going through contractions. Whether it was logic or pure laziness, I decided against it - I was over halfway dilated, how much longer could it be? I wasn't really watching the time, although I then hopped in the tub, and spent the remainder of my labor in there, because it felt much better than any other place or position.

I'd had a fantasy of having a water birth. So I was preparing for that by being in the tub. During each contraction, I stared in focused concentration on the clock above the doorway. I have no recollection of the time during any of those staring sessions, I was looking through the clock, not really at it. At one point, I looked to N. and saw that he was crying. My thought was, "You gotta be kidding me! Well, I guess I'm truly in this alone." It was then that I realized that there was no one who could help me do this but myself.

I did not have the water birth I fantasized about. I got out of the tub and ended up birthing on a Dutch U-shaped birthing stool (appropriate given my heritage), N. sitting on the bed behind me, and K. poised to catch. There were a few minor complications: my water still had not broken [we had thought it did earlier when I was laying on the bed, pushing, but it ended up being pee] so she gently told me that she was going to have to break it - maybe she asked, but I trusted her to make the right decision at this point, I would have said yes to anything for her. When she did, she said there was a bit of meconium, and that she was going to have to cut me to get him out faster, because of the danger that posed. I remember thinking dissapointedly, and perhaps I even said it, "oh, well, I won't have the ring of fire feeling then," which was immediately trumped by the extreme pain of my unanesthetized perineum being cut. Somewhere, during this time, I was also given an oxygen mask (no surprise there, now that I think about it, I have a tendency to hold my breath or not breathe). I pushed his head out, she told me to stop pushing, I think the cord was around his neck and she was gently pulling it over his head? and then I pushed some more and there he was, on my naked chest, covered in a towel.

I sort of zoned out; I think I'd gone into shock. N. helped lift me onto the bed, and K.'s assistant, B., was trying to help me latch Seth onto my breast, so that it would cause more contractions to help the placenta out. The placenta wasn't coming out, K. stabbed my thigh with a pitocin shot, and a few moments later, told me to push it out. I said weakly, "I can't." She said, "I know your yoni hurts, Maria, but you have to push it out." I mustered some last bit of strength and pushed it out. She inspected it and found that a small piece had torn, Seth was given to N. and I was shuttled to the bathroom to get cleaned up. I remember there being a lot of blood. There was more attempts at nursing, there was weighing and cleaning Seth(not by me, by K.) K. wanted to keep me there for a while, just to make sure I'd be okay, because of the torn placenta. But because there were two other women who were possibly going into labor, she needed to clean up the room, so I took up residence on the couch in the living room. N. fell asleep on the floor while I laid there, holding my baby, wide awake. We finally went home around 10 or 11 that evening (Seth was born at 4:09). I lay in my bed, with Seth next to me, wide awake - I should have been exhausted, but my body was in some sort of flight/flight mode, I think - and every little murmur Seth made, I'd reach over and say, "Mama's here" and the moment he heard my voice, he quieted. He knew my voice and it comforted him. I have no idea what thoughts were coursing through my head, or feelings (it's been so long that I can no longer recall them) and eventually, I must have fallen asleep.

I've struggled over the years with feelings of inadequacy as a mother, feelings of resentment of how becoming a mother has changed my life in many unalterable ways. I can't say that I wouldn't trade it for the world - that's what I'm supposed to say, that the wonder of my child trumps those feelings, because I'd be an evil, child-hating bitch otherwise - because sometimes I've wanted to. I can say, however, that these feelings do not diminish in the least the feelings of tremendous love and gratitude I have for Seth and his presence in my life. The work on my own personal development has been jump-started and inspired by his presence. I remember once, when I was pregnant, hearing a woman say her daughter was her guru, and I didn't really understand. Now, I know exactly what she means.

Happy Birthday, my darling sweet Seth. You are my favorite boy in the whole wide world.

[Here is the link to the site of the wonderful midwife who supported my wish for a respectful, natural, non-medicalized birth]

polyamorous me

For the last few months I've been in a somewhat monogamous relationship with D. Mostly by default. Mostly because we felt as though we'd finally found each other after years of looking. Our connection was so strong from the start that we wanted to spend as much time with each other as possible. Since neither of us was gainfully employed at the time we met, we were able to do so.

I'd had a four month "relationship" with M., a man not previously mentioned here, mostly because it was sporadic and what I'd call 'relationship lite' because it consisted mostly of movie nights at his house followed by a sleepover (yes, the adult variety). He was a very busy doctor, but beyond that had several relationships, of which I was probably the lowest priority, and I often felt I was just a fun diversion for him. Not that I didn't have my own similar reasons for seeing him - there was probably a bit of an escapist factor. We then took a trip to Seattle with his primary partner (a very lovely lady with whom I got along well), and while fun, it seemed to enhance some incompatibilities of our characters (ironic already that he was a doctor - I have an unhealthy disrespect for doctors in general). And I had just met D. the night before, who I'd fallen for. So, without even trying very hard, our relationship slowly ended, mostly because I'd stop texting him and arranging dates.

During this time, of course, I was also engaged in a "long distance relationship" with L., who was a busy but also slow-to-warm up kind of man - we mostly spoke on the phone, having great conversations for an hour, but often a couple of weeks or a month apart (I could sense his caution, and I was also tired of being the pursuant, so I just allowed it to evolve naturally, without too much effort on my part). I had a dream in which he called me and asked to meet, and that very day, he did (I had another dream about him a few weeks ago, and he called that same day again; today I dreamt of him, but instead of waiting to see if he'd call me, chose to call him instead). We finally got together about two months ago, but I made a grand scheduling error and ended up having to take Seth along (no worries, we went to a park, and he likes children so he was quite forgiving). After that false start, and then a lot of busyness on both our parts, we are finally going to spend some quality time together this weekend, and I'm very excited.

I've never really had two emotionally and physically intimate relationships of this sort simultaneously, and there is a possibility of this (I'm working very hard at not having any expectations, but I've got a bit of a crush, and that doesn't allow me to remain very grounded or detached). So, of course the big question is, "I talk a big talk, about love being everywhere, in everything, for everyone; that it expands the more it's felt and shared with others; but can I really live it?"

It really requires a certain fearlessness or sheer courage because intimate relationships require exposing vulnerabilities. And I'm not particularly good at allowing myself to be vulnerable. I have layers upon layers of armor protecting my heart. It was an adaptive strategy I learned to protect me as a child. But when we lock ourselves in, we also lock others out. My relationship with D. has really pushed me to unlock myself and to allow myself to be loved (and thus giving me the ability to love myself). As I slowly reveal myself, and find myself loved as I am, it allows for those tender wounded areas oxygen and light and the chance to heal.

So, whatever unfolds with L. also brings this sense of vulnerability exposed - just today while talking, I shared something with him that I am very afraid to share with anyone, it's not the kind of thing that one 'shouldn't' share, but rather for me it's very personal and close to my heart and something I want to "keep safe" and protect from others' judgment. Yet, share I did, and found myself not judged as perhaps I thought I might, and that perhaps any judgment I think others might have is really judgment I have on myself.

I've also found that since the tiff I had with and for D. (written about in the post entitled "anger management") the level of intimacy and depth of feeling I have with D. is that much bigger and deeper, which has allowed me to open up to L., so now I have stronger feelings for him that I didn't have before (and thus a bit of a crush).

Because D. and I have been pretty much otherwise monogamous but have defined our relationship as open, the possibility of another relationship has found it's way into our conversations with each other, and brought out some interesting things. D. recently shared with me that he's not interested in being with anyone but me. I asked him if he needed me to be monogamous, to which he responded, "No" and to which I replied, "Good, because you know I couldn't do that." I certainly would try, because I love him, but the reality is that I cannot promise something that is tantamount to imprisoning myself and it wouldn't last very long, and would likely damage the trust we're building in our relationship, perhaps even beyond repair. And I've already been there, done that (not quite in the same way, but the damaging of trust and attempting to repair it once it's crushed to smithereens, is even too hard for me, at least right now).

Sometimes, I think it's strange, that I'm choosing to engage in relationships with more than one person - the strange part being that I'm actively choosing and seeking this, not the multiple relationship part - but then I think of how wonderful it is to be so empowered to make choices that further enhance my personal growth. S. (spiritual life coach) once told me that I can choose how fast or slow I want to go. Apparently, I'm an adrenalin junkie, because I'm going fast. And showing no signs of slowing.

not all me

I feel anger brimming inside of me. It feels like it should be explosive, but it doesn't have the quality of anger that I normally feel.

In an effort to protect N.'s reputation, I've largely remained silent on certain maters - but since neither of us are prominent in our communities nor do I have a large readership - I'm not sure where this comes from. Perhaps a selfish need or desire not to be perceived as a vindictive bitch by slandering N.

And here's where I allow myself, just for right now, to express some feelings of victimhood.

Because I'm kind of pissed. Mostly because I feel as though things are not fair. That I've been made out to be the mean bitch in this whole situation, when in reality we are both responsible for our parts (and I'm fine with owning my mean bitchiness, but taking it all on? I don't think so, buddy!).

I'd written a whole diatribe laying out the shit that makes me feel a high level of disrespect for him (aka, blaming him and tipping the scales in my favor), but decided perhaps it's too much and it's going lower than I know should. Apparently, I have some integrity.

The reality is that there are things I want to say to him - to get him to admit are true - things that make him realize that this is just as much the result of his own choices as they are mine, just so I can respect him a little bit in this whole thing.

But he won't. He takes the victim's stance and puts me in the perpetrator's role. And that's what pisses me off and makes me anticipate his moving out, which can't happen soon enough, at this point (it's happening on Saturday, the day after Seth's birthday - my reaction: "who does that? It's not hard enough for Seth that we're splitting up, and you choose to move out the day after his birthday? WTF!"). It's not all my fault, and I'm not going to take it all on.

My own introspection of my whole internal disturbance is one of wondering: "what's this really about? Why do I suddenly want and need to 'share my side' and recruit people to see that I'm right, and he's wrong?" And, it's true, even if it's low, that I do want someone on my side, to say that I'm in the right, that it's not all my fault. But mostly I want him to see my side of things, to admit his own culpability, to show me that he sees his role in this whole mess. And the likelihood that I'll get that? So long as he believes he's the victim to his life's circumstances, he'll never take an responsibility for his own choices. So I can't hold on to any hope for that. I've got to let it go.

But I don't want to. Why?

dropping balls

I've realized that I've bitten off more than I can chew. My eyes usually aren't bigger than my stomach - not literally anyway, I can eat some people under the table as it were - but trying to handle two jobs with all the commuting, single-momhood, handling living in a house as opposed to an apartment (I never knew there would be as many as 4 different utility bills, good grief!), schooling of a child, fostering a relationship that has helped me grow immensely and brought me much joy, and then furthering my education, online? It's not happening. Balls are dropping all around me.

The first ball to drop was the second job, which I already posted about. I'd been thinking throughout this week that the online school might not be handle-able, but wanted to give it a go. Then I finally realized today - when I was locked out of the portal because I'd failed to get the proper financial aid paperwork in on time (and not to mention not posting my homework yet this week, which I was going to do tonight, my night off), that perhaps it was a sign that I'm trying to do too many things at once.

I didn't spend too much time feeling like a failure, which is good, because usually once that downward spiral sets in, things get pretty ugly, and quickly. There is a sense of, "when will I learn to think before I act?" but, apparently, this is the path, this is the when and the how. I tried on the relief, which felt nice. Then I wrote a letter to the admissions counselor with my regrets and apologies. More relief. And of course, thoughts about more mess that I have to clean up. I guess this is how one also gets good at cleaning (my house is another story, but in my defense, I'm not the only one making the messes).

I suppose the value of my current situation in it's entirety is that with awareness and willingness to learn, allows me to see just how much I am capable of, and how much I'm not. It also serves to highlight the kind of expectations I have for myself, and for me to inquire where some of them come from, and encourage me to show compassion for myself much in the way I most certainly would if a friend were to bring this all to me.

As much as I'd like to be the kind of high-energy person of super-heroine proportions, the reality is that I feel best when life is simple, routine, and organized, with plenty of relaxing down time. Sounds boring, I know, because even I think that from time to time. Seeing shiny people flurry about excites me and makes me want to do it too. Yet, having a stable home to come to, a schedule I can rely on, and things nice and tidy and slow feels like freedom to me. I've often thought about the amazing women who managed medical school while single, with a couple of kids and pregnant, and wonder how they ever managed that, because it seems so out of my realm. And since they amaze me with their strength, I would have to try something similar. And fall flat on my face...a few times, just for good measure. Dust is easily brushed off and bruised pride looks a lot worse than it actually is.

I know that some of my expectations are dormant ones I absorbed growing up in a highly academically driven household. Of course, I know now that degrees do not equal intelligence level or success. But it took me a long time to really know that, and of course, I'm still learning to accept the love I receive from my family without thinking that they surely must think I'm a lesser being for only just graduating with an Associates at 33 (who's really thinking that? I am! huh). Even thinking about this brings up feelings of comparison and insecurities. It was the weekend that my family was visiting that I applied and enrolled in the BA program, and I was feeling an acute sense of failure about my relationship with N.; this can be no accident - was I trying to buoy myself up? It seems so.

I also know that I'm a hands-on kind of person; it's one of the reasons I was able to successfully finish culinary school - most of that was about showing up and giving it your best. Online school is a whole different ballgame. Perhaps it reminded me of all the other undergrad schooling I attempted and was unsuccessful at because there seem to be so many more silly, and at times, arbitrary hoops to jump through. Hoop jumping wasn't so bad when I was able to bring home breads, cakes, croissants and chocolates. Show me the next hoop, please! I'll even wear a cheesy uniform while performing, if that is what makes you happy, and I'll make it fun and sexy!

So, this juggler is taking a break. Let the balls fall where they may. Some will certainly land in my outstretched hands. The world will not end and life will not cease. All will be well and all is well.