Myopic

Right now, I can't see the forest for the trees.  End of year reflections,  new goals and objectives for the new year, resolutions to blog more and more often. ...I can't.  I can't seem to see beyond the situations circling me.

Let me start by saying I'm fine. D. is amazing. Me and D, we're solid. He is truly the Best Baby Ever. (Don't believe me? Ask his grandparents. No bias here. Natch) Xmas rocked. Many visits with family and friends.  Many outings before the weather turned frigid. I think he finally figured out the whole opening presents thing, now that there aren't any left to open. D dazzled everyone with his walking (!) and new front tooth (!) But some other family members are weighing down my heart, and my shoulders. Heavy. Both feel so, so heavy.

Let's start with the easy one (it's all relative, isn't it.) M got a promotion at work. A pretty huge one. As in, he is now kind of a public figure. A pretty visible member of our little community.  For some, this is a dream job, a career goal, something to aim for and hope that you're in the right place at the right time when a position opens.

For M, it is not exactly that. In fact,  some days it feels like torture. Constant and steady torture. It is nothing he asked for, nothing he actually ever wanted. But he was in the right place at the right time and didn't really have a choice in the matter. As in, "can I go home and think about it?" "Not really, we're making a public announcement at the end of the week." "Oh." A painfully shy person with some serious social anxiety and remnants of PTSD who is pretty averse to confrontation is now managing a staff of 20, most of whom have been in his field for 20+ years and are, shall we say, pretty set in their ways.

You would know NONE of this if I didn't tell you. M puts on a helluva a front. And by all external accounts is kicking ass in this new role.  So, if you know us in real life, ixnay on the ob-jay talk. Mums the word, ok? For all you know, all is well. The new job is "challenging," but that's it.

To the world, he's confident, knows what he's talking about, has his shit together. And he does! But he doesn't think he does. Every step is filled with doubt and apprehension. He dreads most days (And nights since he's pretty much on call 24/7 now.) If you break it down to an hourly wage,  it might not be worth it. And when I say "it," I mean losing the person I love.

Moments of joy and laughter feel rare. Even with the Best Baby Ever at his feet. At the end of the day, he's just not sure this is what he wants to do, how he wants to spend his time and more importantly, his mental and emotional capital on.

So, we're dealing with this. Do you owe it to your son to stick it out and provide for him? Have a job that he would be proud to tell his friends about? Or do you owe it to your family to understand that what some people define as success is not necessarily what works for you? Is it brave to leave a job that is sucking out your soul, or cowardly? I'm not sure.  Neither is he.

When I started this draft, it was 11 pm on a Saturday night and M was in front of 3 computer screens and 2 laptops with his cell phone on hand. Taking calls.

This is success?

It's selfish, but I want my husband back. And I would like to have just a portion of my brain back to not think about this 24/7.  I can't speak for M, but I had a dad who put "providing for the family" first, before anything else. And I can tell you it harbored resentment, not pride. I would seethe when he actually showed up for any awards ceremony in grade school, because in my mind, what did he do to help me get there?

And yes, I know. He put food on the table and a roof over my head. But he never let me forget that either. Food and shelter, essential, yes. But I think there is more to life than the first row of Maslow's pyramid.

But right now, another family member is pretty focused on maintaining that first level. My brother, through every fault of his own, lost his girlfriend, his job and fears he could lose his house. All in the course of a few short weeks.

I'm not going to go into it, because, well I'm tired of hearing about it and I'm tired of talking about it. But let me just say this, yes, it's important for someone to admit, "I f-ed up." But the next step, and this is an important one, is to STOP F-ING UP.  Like, now.

He's said things to others about borrowing money from me, or moving in with us. Both of those statements make me laugh. Out loud. Ain't happening, dude. I will change my locks first.

I had offered a month's mortgage payment when I heard the first version of the sob story, but as further editions were refined, and more info was gathered from other versions others had heard, that offer is off the table.

Because what is the line between compassion and enabling? How gray is that space? How fuzzy is the boundary? I am probably the last member of my family still in the gray. Everyone else is on the "you've made your bed...." side.  Even my mom.

But I spend my days trying to get people the resources and help that they need, so I can't really shut that off when a situation presents itself so close to home.  But I can only open the door. My brother still needs to walk through it.

And here's a little tip: one should probably lay off the FB status updates with pics of nights on the town if they conflict with the tales of woe you are feeding your family members, who are also on FB.

Dumbass.

But he's my brother. So how far do I watch him fall? How far is he going to fall? And more importantly, will that fallout hurt me? My family? Because when my brother feels helpless or frustrated,  that's when threats of violence emerge.  His reaction to feeling out of control is to regain some sense of control through intimidation. And as much as I claim that I'm used to it, these are the things that fill my mind on these days off work once D is asleep.

I hope this explains my silence. My absence lately.  I know these things will work themselves out.  I do.  M will find peace and, dare I dream,  satisfaction in his new role.  Or he won't.  My brother will dig himself out,  or he won't. And the world will keep turning and I will remember to be thankful for all of the things we have.  But right now,  I feel like I'm going through most days without my glasses,  and I can only see as far as the emotions in front of and around me.

Guest Post

Hi dudes,  this is D!

Mom would love to be blogging and talking with you right now,  but I've been keeping her a little busy.  See, I just figured out this standing thing.  And I'm pretty sure I can get from one place to another even faster once I sort out this thing grandma calls "balance. "  In the meantime, I'm perfecting speed crawling.

Mom and dad are really bad at child proofing.

We're heading down to granny's for a few days next week.  Maybe mom can tell you what's new then.  From my perspective,  life is good.

Now then, back to mischief....

It's Oh So Quiet

The baby is sleeping. M is working. And I've got that darn Bjork song stuck in my head.

It's midnight on a Friday night, and I've got the place to myself for a few more hours.

So....hi.

I start every autumnal Friday with ambitious plans. Today, somewhere between dinner, finishing up some work deadlines and wrapping presents for a wedding we're attending tomorrow, I lost the plot and sank into some facebook ogling and solitaire domination for an hour or so (iPad...the most expensive solitaire machine ever, says M). It's the time of year when the a/c comes off and the windows open. School starts, as does the fall sports season. Which means M will be in the office from 5 pm until at least one or two in the morning each Friday. Unlucky for him. Not so bad for me.

Not only do I not have to worry about child care (thank you, daddy!) during the day, but I can fill my calendar with dinner dates for practically all of September and October. Last weekend little D and me popped in to our local to dine with M's parents and their friends. Tonight we hit up a pizza joint we haven't been to in ages with our pal A. The bartender nearly fell over when he saw me carrying D.

Whoa! I guess it has been a while. Look at that! You reproduced!

Oh Scottie. Always a way with words.

Well done! You and M make beautiful babies. 

Why yes. Yes we do. And for a few moments I let my mind wander to our other babies. The ones Scottie never got to see.

**

Autumn is so lovely. It is so awful. I love it. But I really hate it. I love football season. The crunch and chill of the air, the shades of the sunsets. The game itself and all the sounds (whistles, crowds) and smells (funnel cakes, hot dogs, hot chocolates, fried everything) that come with it. But I know what an immense burden and stress this time of year puts on M, so that love is a little muted. For his sake.

Autumn is also the only time I ever got to spend with I and J. Autumn was our season together. This time five years ago, there were two little babies in my belly. Growing. Thriving. Back then, Friday nights were our special times together. I would eat whatever I wanted. Watch whatever I wanted. Fall asleep on the couch waiting for M. All the pleasures of being single made better by knowing I wasn't really alone, and a loving husband and soon to be dad was on his way home.

In those days, M also had to work a few Saturdays. I remember strolling through arts fests, apple fests, anything with fest in the name in it, I was there. Sometimes with friends or family. Sometimes solo. Always with this glow of knowing and anticipation. I feel like I floated through that autumn on a cloud.

I'm rereading some of those posts now. Gosh. What a different tone.

Those days, I would avoid blogs that talked about loss like the plague. Lalalalala my ears were plugged, my eyes averted. Months later, those same blogs became my lifeline. Holding me steady. Holding me in my grief. Abiding with me no matter what shape that grief took on on any given day.
Some of those bloggers were already a few months into their new lives, having lost their little ones the season before me. In autumn.

So every few days now, I hear a ding from my calendar. I look up expecting to see a meeting I'm supposed to be at or a deadline I will most likely miss, and instead I see a very simple note. Usually just two names. Reminding me what day - whose day - it is. And so I take a moment to quietly reflect. And to remember.

**

M just sent a text. He's on his way home. D just shrieked, as if on cue. The spell breaks. The meditation is over. I'm off to check on the baby and heat some pasta. See you next Friday, if not sooner.

Perfect Moment Monday - Yawn

Every morning, somewhere between 4:45 am and 5ish, a certain someone stirs.

After a few ounces of formula to satiate the Hunger that cannot wait (because clearly, we are starving this child), I'm left with the dilemma of "now what do we do?" Hard as I try (and to be honest, I don't try that hard) I can't get my eyelids to stay up this early. Starting the day promptly at 5 isn't an option. But it's almost time to get up, so is it worth the several minute negotiation of going back into the crib?

So, it's not time to get up, but it's not not time to get up. What shall we do? Where do you want to be, little child?

How about here? Right here. In this little space nestled between my legs, on top of the covers. Just for a bit.

I can usually coax at least another hour of sleep from D here. Sometimes, like yesterday, we both fall back asleep so soundly that we don't wake until grandma knocks on the door to come pick him up. Either way, the second waking, the waking from here, is simply the best part of my day. It's slow, gradual, leisurely, even. Punctuated by lots of stretches and dream faces, like this one:

No matter what the rest of my day holds, I know I can do it, because I get to see this tomorrow. And that, my friends, is my Perfect Moment for this month.

**

Perfect Moment Monday is about noticing a perfect moment rather than creating one. Perfect moments can be momentous or ordinary or somewhere in between.

On the last Monday of each month we engage in mindfulness about something that is right with our world. Everyone is welcome to join. Go visit Lori at http://lavenderluz.com/ to discover more perfect moments (and add your own?)

Cognitive Memory

Some amazing friends came to visit us on the Fourth of July. In tow were their two lovely and spirited daughters. Our plan was to have some lunch, saunter through the holiday street fair and to the minor league baseball park, watch the game, watch the fireworks, come home, put the kids to bed, pass out.

I'm pleased to report that all of this happened. Even with one of us on crutches due to a knee injury (note: not me), record crowds at the park and the fair, and 95+ degree heat. Yowsers, it was hot. But eventually the sun started to set, the kids started to calm and we started to make our way from the ballpark back to home in two distinct groupings: me, D, our friend B and her youngest girl. M, the oldest daughter and her dad staying to watch the end of the game and bringing up the rear.

As we were watching the fireworks, D in my arms, neck craned upwards, mouth open, eyes wide, all I could think of, over and over again as I recounted our nice day. Gosh, I wish D could remember this. 

Some days, I'm incredibly thankful for his seven-second memory span. Like when he shifts inexplicably from a furrowed brow and quivering lip to a wide-mouthed laugh for no reason. Like when the water I pour over him in the bath is too cold and he lets out a howl to let me know how he has been wronged (whoa, those little pee pees shrink quick, don't they?) Oh I am sorry, little man! Really sorry!

But on days when we have another first, hit another milestone, or just have a really, really great day with friends or family, I wish that was somehow lodged in his little memory. But it will be years until D. will be able to say, oh yes I remember....and actually mean it.

**

Earlier in the day on the way back from the game, we were crossing the river on a grated walking bridge and our friend B was telling a story about losing her favorite hairband (a cautionary tale, but one her daughter wanted repeated over and over again). What color was it? Who were you with? Why did you drop it? How old were you?

B couldn't remember the answer to that last one. And we started talking about how hard it was to place your early memories unless you have some major life events, like a new sibling or a major move, to serve as time stamp. B's husband lived overseas until he was 5, so it's easy for him to say whether something happened pre- or post- move. Before or after 5. My brother joined us when I was 4. And I usually place his arrival as one of my first memories. I'm not sure if it was. But I can say distinctly, "I was 4 when this happened and I remember it clearly. I know I was 4 because C was here."

I'm sure I have memories earlier than that. Snippets of moments, times at grandparent's houses and with cousins. But how old was I? Was it pre- or post-baby brother? Did this come before that? Or the other way, 'round. Was C here, but just not there with me during that thing I'm trying to remember. Ah, that's possible too.

Then there's the blurring of what is your memory and what is the story that you've heard so often that you've made it your memory.  M cites his first memory back to when he was 2, and uses the Super Bowl of that year as his marker. People never believe that he can remember something so early, but his retelling of the scenes seem accurate to those who were there, and he uses pieces of the game to prove it happened then.

But how many times might he have seen that game on replay? Who else in his family might have told the same story that he happened to be in? Might he be confusing this piece of a memory with another one from when he was slightly older?

How do we really know what we are remembering and what we're not? Or what's been altered? Or modified? If I tell D about something often enough, will he make that memory his own? Will he remember it as if he is actually the one remembering it?

**

After all the kids were put to bed, us grown ups talked about this heady stuff and B's husband took it to another level. I know if something were to happen to me now, our youngest wouldn't remember me. [The oldest] might. But barely.

I think we were all a little quiet as we let that sink in.

Here I was, a little melancholy over the loss of knowing some sweet moments, never once taking it to the higher plane. The loss of knowing me.

**

Memories are such a strange and amorphous thing. Can you think back to your first one, or at least one of them? How old were you? How do you know? What's your time stamp?

Observations and Truths

• D is 16 weeks old TODAY. 
• I need to get better at posting from my phone. If I can't do something from my phone, it ain't happening. At least not today. Or tomorrow. Or any day I don't have child care. Forget flashy blog posts with links, letters I need to write for work that take any sort of research or multiple layers of thought, anything that needs to be mailed....This is more resignation than observation. But there you go.
• Steel wool is amazing. I'm sure I'm late to the party on this. One day with D on my hip, I was tidying up the kitchen and got sick of looking at crusty bits here and grubby bits there, so I picked up a box the next time I went to the store. Wow! Those little rusty balls really buff things to a lovely shine. And can be used one-handed. My teapot, stove top and sink now adore me.
• If there is a crack of a space between the crib and the wall, that is where the binky will fall. And the next one. And the next one. There are binkies breeding among the dust bunnies behind the crib in the nursery.
• I think D might be teething. If he's not, we are living with a little being who drools nonstop and gnaws voraciously on hands...his, yours, mine. And makes bizarre animal-like sounds as he does. That's weird. I choose to believe he is teething. 
• babyproofing this apartment makes M and I wide-eyed and panicked. it feels like an impossible feat. Can't we just sequester him in the hallway?
• I can absolutely see the value of a standing desk, considering D squeaks every time I attempt to sit. "Squeaks" makes it sound cute.
• I now say/sing just about everything to the tune of Lullaby and Goodnight. It's a tune that works well to get D to chill, and I usually give him a little recap of the day as I sing him to sleep. But if M walks in the room I'll ask him a question or tell him something without breaking the song. Earlier tonight I was thinking about something and actually found myself thinking to myself in tune. Kind of like talking to yourself in another language, only disturbing.
• Getting offspring to sleep and to stay asleep - is this a uniquely human dilemma? Are there any veterinarians or animal behaviorists in the audience? Does any other animal struggle with tucking their little ones into bed? We hadn't, until the last few nights. I do believe we are heading into what AskMoxie calls the four-month sleep regression. You know, where there is just so much shit going on in your little brain (and mouth. See teething) that it's enough to keep a little dude (and mommy. and daddy) awake.  So, monkeys? elephants? mice? Are we the only animals that hover in that middle space just above the crib waiting to see if our shushes have worked before stepping backwards out of the room?

Back at It

I'm really glad I didn't hit send on the post that's been lingering here in the drafts for the last few weeks. I'm looking at it now and meh, it's just me sleep-deprived and bitching. There's no need to bitch. It's all good.

I'm back to work. Week one is down. Sure, it was a three-day work week, but still. Did it. Done.

Now it's week two. There are no holidays to save me. And even with my awesome MIL offering an extra day of coverage, I still need M to take some hours off work to watch D since my office scheduled a last minute meeting for me to chair this Friday.

Because child care grows on trees and is really, really easy to coordinate.

I can't complain too loudly. The transition back hasn't been as bad as it could be. I still have a job. People are happy to see me. And I'm starting with a clean slate - if you still need me to do something from three months ago, you're gonna need it bad enough to ask me again. I've erased most of my email and task lists.

A clean slate, and a new attitude. Nothing in the office is earth-shattering. Nothing is life or death. There is nothing contained in those walls that matter more than my time with D. and M. When I'm on the clock, I'm on. And focused and giving 100%. I promise. When I'm off, leave a message. There are other things on my mind.

Like childcare for D. We're patching it together now with help from family and a little bit of flex in our work schedules. But I'm wondering how long that can last. My office has already (completely predictably) shown its disregard for my calendar. How often can I expect that to happen before I need to bring a paid component into the mix?

It really does take a village, doesn't it? Especially since the United States has its head up its ass when it comes to maternity/paternity leave, or creating and sustaining any kind of policies to allow families to have babies AND participate in the workforce/economy in meaningful ways.

Focus on the family my ass.

Ok see, I'm getting cranky again. I should sign off. And really, my ire towards the politics and working conditions in this alleged first world nation deserves its own post, with some supplemental material. Links, research, annat.  I've been reading some great books I need to tell you about. Alas, no time for that this morning. My conference call is ending and now I need to multitask a few different things.

Like finding some coffee.

How are you? If you're stateside, did you survive the long weekend of explosives? We had four days of it. You? Honestly, does any country enjoy pyrotechnics more than the U.S.? I have to think we'd feel very differently if rockets' red glares were a common part of our evening skies, like they are in other parts of the world right now.

Just sayin'.

Do you miss Google Reader? Did you make the transition gradually or was it a last minute, oh shit, what's that other app called again, kind of jump? Where are you reading me now? You are still reading, right? :-)