Bring on the Suck

I should’ve known when my previously straight hair went haywire that the proverbial poo was about to hit the fan.

Grade ten, three years after my first menstrual period, and apparently just long enough for my hormones to hit their stride, I chopped my nearly waist-length hair to above my shoulders. And it corkscrewed.

Wow, I never knew you had curly hair. You should’ve cut it a long time ago. Look what’s happened now that all that weight’s gone.

Looking back, I think it had everything to do with weight, but not the long drawn-out weight of my tired tresses.

I’m now three years out from the birth of my last child. And I’m miserable.

This is the longest I’ve gone without being pregnant or breastfeeding since 2004. That’s a feat in and of itself. I should be on top of the world. Instead, I’m at the bottom of some pit, the one where my hormones get back on track to torment me.

I’m out of that stasis where my body is in some sort of tenuous cycle, tentatively burgeoning and bleeding because it’s out of practice. Training camp is over. It’s on like Donkey Kong. Cramps that say, get ready, I’m coming. An ache in my pelvis that threatens, I’ll bottom out if you’re not careful. And depression that moves in and refuses to leave, until it is mysteriously vacant one morning like a lover leaving an open wound.

I’ve popped the ibuprofen. I’ve seen my therapist. I’ve researched thyroid malfunctions and requested specialized blood work from my physician.

Now I ask, Is this the new normal?

After carrying and bearing three children; after wracking my body to the point of breaking; after rending my soul to its minutest form – is this the new modus operandi? This is how things are to be?

Is there a physical band-aid? A spiritual fix? Some modicum of acceptance to make this all bearable?

I’m not whining about cramps. I’m not lamenting PMS. My body is in a 28-day bag of hurt. How far into that bag I get dipped depends on the day. But no one day is particularly fun.

My daughter asked me the other day why I get my period because I’m not having any more kids. A few weeks ago she questioned me when I said I get [even more] sad and tired a few days a month. (My husband said to not go there with her – yet; keep her blissfully ignorant) Good questions. It doesn’t seem to make much sense. I don’t understand it and it’s happening to me.

My levels are off. Some levels. Who knows which ones or why. But it’s a whole new level of suck.

Piles of Pooh

Living, Poetry

Surprises

A round face filling the angular doorframe
Which should be empty at this time of morning

The five elements releasing the flow of tears

A field mouse frozen to the driveway,
its tail nudged by my toe

A frantic whoop

An anguished cry

I won’t pick you up
Brush off the snow and move on

How quickly we forget the culture of death that pervades our lives.

Until we are surprised again.

Identity, Legacy, Living, motherhood

Iron Age

Last weekend, my husband and I watched The Iron Lady. We’d seen previews for it and were intrigued. We wanted to see Meryl Streep taking names and kicking butts, which ironically I’d never thought Margaret Thatcher had done. While she was in office, I was too young to know more about her role in history than her name and position. It never occurred to me the struggles she’d encounter not only as prime minister, but also as a woman fulfilling that role. Now, as a grown woman watching this cinematic portrayal of her rise to power and its aftermath, I was angry and heartbroken.

It starts off optimistically enough. I thrilled in her preemptive speech to her future husband before she accepted his proposal. She would not bow to society’s ideas of what a woman, wife, and mother should be. And he agreed! She would be free to do as she desired with his freely and happily given support.

Then we see Ms. Thatcher as a hard-faced deserter as her children cry at the window as she heads to Parliament, shoving toy cars in the glove compartment on the way. We see her daughter jealous of her own spotlight being stolen. We see her husband questioning her devotion to her family in favor of ambition.

Why must a woman be vilified if she desires success outside the realm of motherhood? Even more so if she harbors such desires in the midst of motherhood. Yes, there are only twenty-four hours in a day. Yes, there is always the threat of feeling as if she’s failed on both fronts. Yes, children demand an inordinate amount of growing, coaxing, and coddling. She needs to prepare a person ready to face the challenges of the next generation. But what about the challenges of her own? Why does motherhood take her out of the equation in facing and solving those?

Why is there a prevailing thought that a woman must subvert her own self in order to grow the ones that came out of her?

Even with all her success, Margaret Thatcher couldn’t completely change the direction of that stiff wind – at least in this film.

In the speech to her future husband, the young Margaret Thatcher said she did not want to be trapped in the kitchen, hands in the dishwater. The film ends with her doing just that. I couldn’t help but think that plunging her hands into that water washed away all merit attached to her ambitious acts. It called them all into question. Had she made the wrong decisions? Set the wrong priorities as a woman, wife, mother? All joy that she’d excelled in at least the public half of her life was stolen by my doubt that she felt she should have chosen the private half instead.

It shouldn’t be a choice. Or at least not a mutually exclusive one.

Iron is malleable – especially when it’s heated inordinately – which is a good thing because it looks like society will continue to rake women over the coals for the unforeseeable future.

Living, Poetry

Freeze Frame

I have to start taking my camera to the bus stop.

Pine needles etched in white relief against the soil.

Green mossy mountain peaks capped with snow.

Peaks and valleys of meadow grass filled with frost.

A large oak leaf the color of cowboy boots, its stem pinched between pink mittened fingers, the snow crumbling and peeling away in the wind as it bends.

But then there are the things that can’t be captured with a lens.

The great rushing of wind through the treetops.

The force of it demanding spine erect, shoulders back.

A tingling of the checks, a tear in the eye, a crisp, fresh burn

that makes life seem new,

the morning full of possibility,

the body full of life.

* On an somewhat related note: I found many gorgeous pictures of frost on moss by many talented photographers. I, however, did not have the heart to steal them, though they would have accompanied my musings perfectly. I also learned a lot about BFFs Sadie Frost and Kate Moss.

Identity, motherhood, postpartum depression

Losing Suction

It’s been a rough few days (weeks?). I wish there was a good reason why – that might make it better, or understandable anyway – but there’s not. I’m just miserable for no good reason. Irritable because I have angst. Angst-ridden because I have hormones and a crippling sense of self-awareness? (Thank you, Virgo)

There have been days I have camped out with my laptop for hours. Stared out the window waiting for the light to change. Held myself because it was the only thing to do.

And then the strains of PBS children’s programming came to me.

The minutes and hours marked by Arthur and Thomas, Maya and Miguel rather than numbers.

And I knew I should move. I knew I should engage. I should scoop up that little wonder of a child and take her out into the world.

One day, we did. We traipsed around the yard, trekked to the mailbox, tried to imagine the garden in full bloom. But the mailbox was empty and spring was still a ways off.

Yesterday, we shut off all electronic devices and ate lunch together. We sat side by side, but I buried my nose in some manner of printed matter.

Today, we compared notes on the types of yogurt we ate; she turning her nose up at my Greek with honey, me trying to convince her she ate blue banana. green guava. purple passion.

The silly word games I remember playing with my first baby when I was a first time mama.

Learning colors through the culinary.

Exploring math while masticating.

And for the first time in a long time, my sense memory elicited a positive response. Bubbles of laughter reminding me that I know how to do this. I know how to make it fun. I know how to enjoy it.

All it takes to make it enjoyable is a little more effort. An invitation to join me as I move about my day. A question here, a comment there. Inclusion. When all I’ve been is insular.

I’ve so needed space for me, I’ve been pulling back. But all I’ve done is created a vacuum, a void they notice and try all the more vehemently to cross. Perhaps if I reach across the void, giving them what they need, I will get what I want.

Joy and peace of mind.

Being able to lay my head on the pillow at night knowing I’ve done my best and not feeling guilty at the time I set aside for myself.

There’s no sense doing a job you hate. And there’s no reason to make mothering more onerous than it is. That wouldn’t just create a vacuum; that would suck.

Identity, Poetry

Disconnect

Head vs. heart

Exhaustion vs. anxious energy

Joy vs. misery

Difficult situations rolling like water from a duck’s back; simple acts eliciting freak-outs

Distraction/perseveration

Longing, lacking,

cup overflowing

Confusion, crystalline pain

The grounding grasp of tiny clasp,

The constricting clutch of oh-so-much

Synergy, synthesis, integration – somewhere out in the ether.

I’m dying to meet Her.

Identity, motherhood, parenting

It’s All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an I

Play dates are for moms. Contrary to popular belief, they are not for kids.

It is moms who drive this runaway train off the tracks. While children like to play together, they would not give a crap if they did not organically meet Suzie at the playground. They would not cry if Sven didn’t come to their house for a tea party. They would not be scarred for life if abstract murals were not painted at the museum with the ‘it’ kids in kindergarten.

The moms would lose out.

On the opportunity to:

I’m not looking for a mate – just a partner in crime

have adult conversation
to coax their ego into believing they’re doing a good job parenting
to drink wine
to make friends themselves
to keep their sanity intact
to keep the little monsters off their back for ten minutes or more
to make sure their kids are as popular as they want[ed] to be

And while all this is already over thinking, there’s even more to the psychology of play dates.

Remember, mothers are just grown-up kids.

We worry about making friends just as much as we did in our younger incarnations. What will we talk about with these new moms? Will we get along as swimmingly as our children? What if we hit it off with a mom at drop-off or pick-up and she has a child in another grade or – gasp – of the other sex!? Sometimes a compatible mom friend just doesn’t have the right kid to hide the real intent: that moms want to make friends, too. [Perhaps more than their kids because they need an ally in this crazy road trip called parenting.]

New situations make us nervous, too. What is the play date etiquette? Do I invite myself in? Do I drop-off and ditch? How much do I discipline my kids in front of this other parent? Will they follow the kids-will-be-kids approach or think I’m lax if I don’t? Will they think I’m horrible if I don’t make my kids clean up before they go? Or will they be appalled if I walk up the stairs into their child’s bedroom looking for the toy tub?

Peer pressure, though less crippling than in junior high, still exists. Do we share our deepest, darkest bad mom moments? Will she understand and share her own? Or will she judge? Will we commiserate over this shared, easier-said-than-done existence? Will we build each other up or tear each other down? Will we be able to have a real conversation as two people who happen to be mothers or as two women trying to fit the textbook model?

“Play” dates are really just a lot of work. Our kids would get along just fine if we sent them to school; if we took them to the playground and let them chat up little Sophia on their own. What intrinsic need does it fulfill in us? The need for human [read: adult] companionship? To keep them busy before their idle hands find the devil’s work? To make it easier for ourselves?

When I was a teacher, we used to tell particularly snarky students that we didn’t need them to like us because we had enough friends. As moms, do we? Are we using our kids as an excuse to make connections for ourselves? What is it that we are lacking?

And for what else do we use them as an excuse?

motherhood, parenting

You Can’t Catch Me . . .

It’s cool to run.

And, no I don’t mean that as an allusion to Disney’s lighthearted take on the Jamaican bobsled team, though I can see Doug E. Doug’s goofy grin right now.

There is a movement in motherhood right now to run. It seems to be the mode of fitness that’s all the rage. And not only do they run, but they write about it. Blogs on mothering and running are popping up all over the place.

Always one to eschew trend (or at least be snarky enough about it to try), it irritated me at first. Let’s all run and share our times and trials and how we balance that with motherhood. Woo hoo. Jump on the bandwagon.

What’s with all these fit people!? And what the hell does it have to do with mothering?

Then, I met a mother, who for all intents and purposes, was single for the next six months. Her husband was deployed, leaving the task of moving cross-country to her and their three children. I wanted to collapse just thinking about it. She did have some family support and a great sense of humor, but it still was a trying task to say the least.

She told me how one day she asked their eldest to watch the other two so she could go for a run. ‘I just had to get out,’ she said.

Suddenly, I got it.

Mothers run so they won’t run away.

I’ve mentioned before how my favorite scene in The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood is Ashley Judd escaping to a motel room. Maybe running – even if only around the block – provides enough of a catharsis to make coming back around the bend possible. Enough of the venom sweats out the pores and steams out the ears to return to stasis. The legs know they can propel us forward if needed, the pistons fire. We can move of our own volition.

Muscles atrophied from marathons of criss-cross applesauce; pelvises pushed out of whack from babies on hips; Lungs exhausted with wasted breath. When it runs, the body remembers another purpose. It remembers its former master and serves her for at least a little while.

I am not a runner.

I am the girl who, upon reaching junior high and meeting the kids from the other feeder elementary schools, was remembered by my performance in the sixth grade Olympics – as in “aren’t you the girl who puked after the 800?” Pacing? What’s that?

I am the woman who hates being reminded of that fact that her butt is not what is used to be by the jiggling that follows her down the hill when she does run.

But I have noticed the feeling of exhilaration when I stretch my legs and pump my arms and fill my lungs. Even if it’s only chasing my toddler down the street to the bus stop, I feel the strength and feel as if it can carry me even further. And not away – but to push my limits, see how much I’m capable of, feel some sort of strength when in all other ways I’m beat down. To shift the pain from my head and heart to the burning in my thighs, the constriction in my lungs, the stitch in my side.

Don’t worry. I’m not going to start sharing my best times and workout routines. It would just depress us all anyway. But let me just say to all the mother-runners out there, I get you. Even if I can’t be you – I get you.

Uncategorized

God Bless the Tow Truck Drivers

For straightening out our stupid mistakes.

For risking their lives to save ours.

For their counsel while tending to car trouble.

For being a ray of hope in an otherwise dismal day.

anxiety, Identity, Living, Writing

Ironic Tosh of Fate

Irony.

When I titled yesterday’s blog entry, I had a song from the early career of Bob Marley and the Wailers in my head. I searched in vain for a recording or video of it, finding only a much slower version. The version I remembered had more of a rock-steady beat than rolling reggae one. A few comments online reminded me that it was Peter Tosh singing that version (with the Wailers) anyway.

I gave up the hunt, but got the ironic twist that, though the universe was handing me a slower beat, I still wanted the frenetic one.

And I remembered that a character I’d written – if whom bares any resemblance to her author is purely coincidental – blasted that song in her car as she tried to outrun her problems.

After muddling her way through study hall and forcing concentration in the rest of her classes, Kathryn finally flopped into the front seat of her car. She stared out the front window. She put the keys in the ignition, but did not turn them. She just sat. She sat and thought about nothing and everything all at once. She took vague notice of the cars moving and leaving around her, but only when they moved directly across her line of sight did her eyes actually focus. When she finally noticed that there had been no movement around her for quite some time, she looked around to see hers was the only car left in the parking lot. She reached her feet towards the clutch and brake pedal and her hand towards the keys. Peter Tosh’s voice suddenly flooded the insides of the car and ran down her eardrums and into her brain. She was awake now. Maybe the rock-steady would steady her nerves and take her out of this funk. She moved the gearshift into first and grasped the steering wheel.

Kathryn left the parking lot without having any idea of where she was going. It was as if her car was on autopilot and eventually she found herself on the highway. All the while, she bounced in time to the music and occasionally would break into song, but all of this was secondary. It was as if her body and car were simply performing a routine; her consciousness really wasn’t along for the ride. As she moved on, off, and around the major arteries surrounding the city, moving in one big loop, she had no destination. She let the CD loop continuously as the steering wheel slid loosely between her fingers.

The sun finally dipped so low it angled itself right into her windshield and her eyes. She realized it was probably time to go home. She put on her left blinker to signal her way into the passing lane. Just as she edged her way around the car in front of her, she saw the two stripes of black rubber on the road. They started right where her front tires were now and arced away from her in a gentle curve until they ended at the Jersey barrier and a broad metallic smudge and gouges began. She almost wanted the car to follow them the way her eyes had – but why? Because it was a natural progression? Because she felt she was already set up on that path? Because it was easier to continue on an established path than to start a new one not even forged yet?

Suddenly the deep bass line of another Peter Tosh song resounded through the car speakers and she jerked the car back into line with the others. She shook her head and took a deep breath. She gripped the steering wheel, her fingers resting in the grooves meant to keep her hands in place, in control, and began to sing along:

“Stop the train, I’m leavin’, stop the train, I’m leavin’ believe me when I say, stop the train, I’m leavin’, said it won’t be too long whether I’m right or wrong, won’t be too long whether I’m right or wrong.”

Personal resemblance to our characters – especially when they do things we don’t like – is a whole ‘nother discussion. But there it was. Stop the train, I’m leavin’. Maybe I can shut my mind off long enough to disembark and get back to center.

In the meantime, I can at least listen to some kick ass music.

Editorial note: Thank you for respecting my intellectual property and not sharing my work with others without my permission – unless of course you know an editor who needs new talent ; )

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile