I'm back! I'm back!
Praise the blogging Gods.
The good people at Blogger have found my deleted blog and restored her to all her glory.
I know I'm probably driving you all crazy with my new address, but I'm going back home where I belong.
Please come follow me, again.
Ordinary Art can now be found here.
Whoooo-Hooooo!!!!!
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Returning
I sat down to write a blog post this morning. I thought I would share with you how I've been feeling. I thought I would write about the anger I have at certain people in my life who have tried to hurt me. I thought I would write about the regret I have that I put myself in a position to be hurt. I thought when I sat down to try and express the anxiety that has been building in my chest, like a two-ton weight threatening to suffocate me, the words would flow out onto the page and give me much needed release. It didn't happen.
Every word seemed forced. Every setiment carefully scrubbed clean of any mention of names, dates, or places that would somehow incriminate me. I was self-censoring my thoughts into shadows. They darted across the screen before disappearing. There was no lasting impression.
I felt inconsequential. Without weight. Maybe it was me who was disappearing along with the words. I left the room. The computer screen was still on, glaring it's ghostly white light.
When I went downstairs, the house was empty. David knew I was bone-weary. He had bundled up the kids to take them for a walk, give me some room to recompose.
I traveled through the rooms of the house aimlessly, looking for something that would root me.
There was the newly converted office turned playroom, an explosion of primary color. The antinque ride-on train sat quietly, shinny, in the corner. It waited for it's new owner. This was a very generous and thoughful gift from my baby brother to his favorite nephew. I smiled at the image of Jack running into the living room, Brian holding out the plastic Firemen's hat, the two delighting as they pulled the fire hose and rang the bell.
There was the painting that David and I just got around to hanging on the living room wall. We bought it this summer at a street fair. I can still remember the vendor who sold it to us. She rose in my mind with her crooked front tooth. I recalled how she told me my babies were beautiful. That day was a bright spot in a difficult summer, punctuated by post-partum and colic. We had a fussy baby, a jealous toddler, no time for ourselves. We fought ourselves to the brink of separation before pulling back. I gained a daughter that summer but almost lost everything else. How far we have come since then.
There were the rows upon rows of books that line our dinning room walls. My hands lingered upon titles and the memories of past readings they evoked. I read Black Swan Green the summer Jack was born. He would lay on my chest for hours at a time. Sometimes I would read him passages aloud as he snuggled to my chest. That imprint of love, lasting. There was the Stranger, that haunting book by Camu. That I read during college. I inhaled books by Camu and Kafka, convinced there was no purpose in life. We were alone in a cruel and careless world. Holding The Stranger in my hand, I recalled that pivotal scene that takes place on a beach, blinding heat and random murder. Camu calls on us the reader to judge this act and in doing so our whole existence.
Can who we are ever be summed up in just one act of lust, of violence, of love? Does one mistake define us?
I don't think any of us have the answer to that. But, as I looked around my home, listened to the silent speech of objects, dug deep to recompse memories, one thing was clear.
There really is no judge worth listeing to but the one inside yourself. At the end of the day, I have to take ownership of what I've created with my two hands. I am the sum of every diaper changed, every lullaby sung. I am the measure of every word spoken, every letter typed. I need to own it. I need to need.
As I climbed the stairs that that would take me back up to the computer, my thoughts were more focused. A certain truth was finally clear. As I sat down at the desk and began to type, I was sure that I was ready to begin, again.
This is a life. To live. This is my life. To write.
Every word seemed forced. Every setiment carefully scrubbed clean of any mention of names, dates, or places that would somehow incriminate me. I was self-censoring my thoughts into shadows. They darted across the screen before disappearing. There was no lasting impression.
I felt inconsequential. Without weight. Maybe it was me who was disappearing along with the words. I left the room. The computer screen was still on, glaring it's ghostly white light.
When I went downstairs, the house was empty. David knew I was bone-weary. He had bundled up the kids to take them for a walk, give me some room to recompose.
I traveled through the rooms of the house aimlessly, looking for something that would root me.
There was the newly converted office turned playroom, an explosion of primary color. The antinque ride-on train sat quietly, shinny, in the corner. It waited for it's new owner. This was a very generous and thoughful gift from my baby brother to his favorite nephew. I smiled at the image of Jack running into the living room, Brian holding out the plastic Firemen's hat, the two delighting as they pulled the fire hose and rang the bell.
There was the painting that David and I just got around to hanging on the living room wall. We bought it this summer at a street fair. I can still remember the vendor who sold it to us. She rose in my mind with her crooked front tooth. I recalled how she told me my babies were beautiful. That day was a bright spot in a difficult summer, punctuated by post-partum and colic. We had a fussy baby, a jealous toddler, no time for ourselves. We fought ourselves to the brink of separation before pulling back. I gained a daughter that summer but almost lost everything else. How far we have come since then.
There were the rows upon rows of books that line our dinning room walls. My hands lingered upon titles and the memories of past readings they evoked. I read Black Swan Green the summer Jack was born. He would lay on my chest for hours at a time. Sometimes I would read him passages aloud as he snuggled to my chest. That imprint of love, lasting. There was the Stranger, that haunting book by Camu. That I read during college. I inhaled books by Camu and Kafka, convinced there was no purpose in life. We were alone in a cruel and careless world. Holding The Stranger in my hand, I recalled that pivotal scene that takes place on a beach, blinding heat and random murder. Camu calls on us the reader to judge this act and in doing so our whole existence.
Can who we are ever be summed up in just one act of lust, of violence, of love? Does one mistake define us?
I don't think any of us have the answer to that. But, as I looked around my home, listened to the silent speech of objects, dug deep to recompse memories, one thing was clear.
There really is no judge worth listeing to but the one inside yourself. At the end of the day, I have to take ownership of what I've created with my two hands. I am the sum of every diaper changed, every lullaby sung. I am the measure of every word spoken, every letter typed. I need to own it. I need to need.
As I climbed the stairs that that would take me back up to the computer, my thoughts were more focused. A certain truth was finally clear. As I sat down at the desk and began to type, I was sure that I was ready to begin, again.
This is a life. To live. This is my life. To write.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Alone For The Holidays
I've started the laborious task of re-posting as many of the retrieved posts from my former blog as I can. It is going to take me awhile but I'm committed.
While doing this, I realized something. I can not re-create all the wonderful comments that have been left on my blog over the past year. Comments that have made me laugh. Comments that have made me cry. Words strung together that taught me I was a part of something greater than myself.
Community. This is what I've lost. And, it feels like a small death. That must be why I awoke on my favorite of holidays, Christmas Eve, and I was sad.
Today is a day to celebrate family and I feel as though I have lost the one I spent a year building in the blogsphere.
Come back to me my lovely readers. I promise I will never delete you again.
While doing this, I realized something. I can not re-create all the wonderful comments that have been left on my blog over the past year. Comments that have made me laugh. Comments that have made me cry. Words strung together that taught me I was a part of something greater than myself.
Community. This is what I've lost. And, it feels like a small death. That must be why I awoke on my favorite of holidays, Christmas Eve, and I was sad.
Today is a day to celebrate family and I feel as though I have lost the one I spent a year building in the blogsphere.
Come back to me my lovely readers. I promise I will never delete you again.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Like The Phoenix
Do I sound familiar? That is because you've read my blog before. Another time. Another name. We are not strangers to each other.
So, you'll ask me why I left over there when I promised you I would stay.
I'm no heroine. I'm no Joan of Ark. When I feared I was going to be burned at the stake, I put my tail between my legs and I ran. Flight or fight? This bird had flown
I deleted my blog. In a second, I almost destroyed everything I had written over the course of the last year. Poems to my children. Stories I would likely have forgotten of milestones and mistakes. I had laid my aching and triumphant heart in those posts. I was witty. I was wise. I was honest. I was a better version of myself. I almost threw that away.
Luckily, a good friend saved me and most of my posts. I told myself that did not matter. I told myself that I was done. I was not going to put my life back out there on the page knowing there were people who might stumble again upon this blog, rub their greedy little hands with glee at the hopes of exposing some weakness of mine. I was not going to risk it.
But, here I am.
This blogging thing is in my blood, now. I need it.
So...
Today, I begin again to try and re-create art out of the ashes.
So, you'll ask me why I left over there when I promised you I would stay.
I'm no heroine. I'm no Joan of Ark. When I feared I was going to be burned at the stake, I put my tail between my legs and I ran. Flight or fight? This bird had flown
I deleted my blog. In a second, I almost destroyed everything I had written over the course of the last year. Poems to my children. Stories I would likely have forgotten of milestones and mistakes. I had laid my aching and triumphant heart in those posts. I was witty. I was wise. I was honest. I was a better version of myself. I almost threw that away.
Luckily, a good friend saved me and most of my posts. I told myself that did not matter. I told myself that I was done. I was not going to put my life back out there on the page knowing there were people who might stumble again upon this blog, rub their greedy little hands with glee at the hopes of exposing some weakness of mine. I was not going to risk it.
But, here I am.
This blogging thing is in my blood, now. I need it.
So...
Today, I begin again to try and re-create art out of the ashes.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Baby, Your Hands Are Free
You know I will always love you, right?
Even if you grow up to join a sorority
And have a closet full of Hollister and Juicy Couture
You will always be my girl
But just so you know, if given the choice
I would rather buy you combat boots instead of pom-poms
Introduce you to angry-feminist poetry
Teach you not to be afraid
To grab life by the balls
"we were standing in a garden and i had a machine that made silence it just sucked up the whole opinionated din and there were no people on the payroll and there were no monkeys on our backs and i said, show me what you look likewithout skin... but in the garden of simplewhere all of us are namelessyou were never anything but beautiful to meand, you know, they never really owned youyou just carried them around and then one day you put 'em down and found your hands were free"
Lyrics by Ani Difranco
Friday, December 21, 2007
Tales From A Reformed Attachment Parent
I was an attachment parent.
When Jack was born, I never laid him down. He ate in my arms, played in my arms, slept in my arms. When I actually needed to use my arms, I slung Jack in a carrier to make sure he was always close. I can trace my obsessive need to have Jack plastered to my body back to my fear that Angel, the woman who gave birth to him, was going to change her mind and take Jack back.
The law afforded her that right for 45 days after he was born. 45 days of my mothering him, bonding with him, loving him. I could have lost my son at any point during that time. We would have had no recourse to fight. An experience like that can make a woman paranoid. Trust me on that one.
I think I was also afraid that, not having carried Jack in my own uterus for nine months, I had missed some crucial bonding time. I felt I needed to catch up. I wanted to make sure Jack knew just who his mom really was. This was a silly fear. I did not realize how silly this fear was until after I gave birth to my daughter, Molly. Carrying her for nine months inside my body did not make our connection any stronger than the one I have with my son. It's the day-to-day love that makes us who we are to each other. Mother to daughter. Mother to son.
Still, back then I was afraid my son would not bond with me or that someone would come along and rip him from my arms. For these reasons, I kept him close. The result of Jackie constantly being held, never being allowed to cry for more than mere seconds, being the total center of my waking breathing world, was that Jack refused to sleep anywhere but in my arms. He needed to wrap his sweet, soft hands around my hair and rest his limbs close to mine in order for him to fall asleep. It's a beautiful picture, child lulled to sleep in his mother's arms, heart against heart. But this is totally unpractical when you are 8 months pregnant and expecting another child. Actually, this is just totally unpractical.
My husband and I realized we needed to make a change. When Jack was 11 months old, we began the method known as crying-it-out. For those of you who have ever had the unpleasant experience of being on a Mother's board filled with woman who feel passionately about children's sleeping issues, you will know that the hardcore attachment parents believe that crying-it-out is cruel. Some even go so far as to chastise parents who use this method. They call us child abusers. To those readers I say, you may want to run along now. You are not going to like what you read here. Your attempts to convince me of the horror of my ways, via rant-filled comments, will be met with disdain and raucous laughter. My husband and I will actually devote dinner conversation to determining which of you is crazier than the next.We will not, however, feel a shred of guilt.
Yes. I was an attachment parent.
I gave up the title when we cried-it-out. Two weeks later, Jack was blissfully sleeping 9 and a half hours. All through the night. He also began taking naps in his crib. Now. When he gets tired, he walks over to the baby gate at the bottom of our stairs and points upwards towards his crib. Can I get an AMEN!!!
Having had success with making my little love more independent of Mommy, at least when it came to sleep time, I was certain not to make the same attachment parenting mistakes with Molly. Even if I had wanted to keep Molly glued to me at all times, it would be virtually impossible.
Having two children under two means that sometimes one child has to cry. Sometimes they both do. Sometimes a child that wants his or her Mommy has to be put down somewhere safe and made to wait. Sometimes it takes Mommy a while to get the sippy cup, the bottle, the clean diaper, to wipe the boogie, to give the hug, to read the story, to put on the sock, to pay attention, to sing the song, to look, to see, to be there. And frankly, that is just the way things are in our house now.
This morning is a perfect example. Molly had woken up earlier than I expected. This meant her bottle was not waiting for her eager mouth. At the same moment that Molly was mounting her assault of cries stacked upon louder more aggressive cries and I was working to make the bottle, Jackie was tugging at the bottom of my pajama leg and making the sign than means he wants to play with me. This was followed by his favorite sign of More, More, More. This sign was punctuated with stamps from his angry feet on the kitchen floor.
"There is just one of me, my darlings." I spoke calmly to my children. "And right now, Mommy has another more pressing priority."
I left Molly hollering in her exersaucer and Jackie flinging his toys over the kitchen gate in protest of my lack of attention to his needs, and I walked straight to the bathroom where I enjoyed a child and guilt free pee. When I returned, Molly was busy sucking her fingers and giggling at her brother who was rolling his truck up and down the back of the living room chair. Not one of my children even looked up when I entered back into the room.
Clearly, attachment parenting is a thing of the past!
When Jack was born, I never laid him down. He ate in my arms, played in my arms, slept in my arms. When I actually needed to use my arms, I slung Jack in a carrier to make sure he was always close. I can trace my obsessive need to have Jack plastered to my body back to my fear that Angel, the woman who gave birth to him, was going to change her mind and take Jack back.
The law afforded her that right for 45 days after he was born. 45 days of my mothering him, bonding with him, loving him. I could have lost my son at any point during that time. We would have had no recourse to fight. An experience like that can make a woman paranoid. Trust me on that one.
I think I was also afraid that, not having carried Jack in my own uterus for nine months, I had missed some crucial bonding time. I felt I needed to catch up. I wanted to make sure Jack knew just who his mom really was. This was a silly fear. I did not realize how silly this fear was until after I gave birth to my daughter, Molly. Carrying her for nine months inside my body did not make our connection any stronger than the one I have with my son. It's the day-to-day love that makes us who we are to each other. Mother to daughter. Mother to son.
Still, back then I was afraid my son would not bond with me or that someone would come along and rip him from my arms. For these reasons, I kept him close. The result of Jackie constantly being held, never being allowed to cry for more than mere seconds, being the total center of my waking breathing world, was that Jack refused to sleep anywhere but in my arms. He needed to wrap his sweet, soft hands around my hair and rest his limbs close to mine in order for him to fall asleep. It's a beautiful picture, child lulled to sleep in his mother's arms, heart against heart. But this is totally unpractical when you are 8 months pregnant and expecting another child. Actually, this is just totally unpractical.
My husband and I realized we needed to make a change. When Jack was 11 months old, we began the method known as crying-it-out. For those of you who have ever had the unpleasant experience of being on a Mother's board filled with woman who feel passionately about children's sleeping issues, you will know that the hardcore attachment parents believe that crying-it-out is cruel. Some even go so far as to chastise parents who use this method. They call us child abusers. To those readers I say, you may want to run along now. You are not going to like what you read here. Your attempts to convince me of the horror of my ways, via rant-filled comments, will be met with disdain and raucous laughter. My husband and I will actually devote dinner conversation to determining which of you is crazier than the next.We will not, however, feel a shred of guilt.
Yes. I was an attachment parent.
I gave up the title when we cried-it-out. Two weeks later, Jack was blissfully sleeping 9 and a half hours. All through the night. He also began taking naps in his crib. Now. When he gets tired, he walks over to the baby gate at the bottom of our stairs and points upwards towards his crib. Can I get an AMEN!!!
Having had success with making my little love more independent of Mommy, at least when it came to sleep time, I was certain not to make the same attachment parenting mistakes with Molly. Even if I had wanted to keep Molly glued to me at all times, it would be virtually impossible.
Having two children under two means that sometimes one child has to cry. Sometimes they both do. Sometimes a child that wants his or her Mommy has to be put down somewhere safe and made to wait. Sometimes it takes Mommy a while to get the sippy cup, the bottle, the clean diaper, to wipe the boogie, to give the hug, to read the story, to put on the sock, to pay attention, to sing the song, to look, to see, to be there. And frankly, that is just the way things are in our house now.
This morning is a perfect example. Molly had woken up earlier than I expected. This meant her bottle was not waiting for her eager mouth. At the same moment that Molly was mounting her assault of cries stacked upon louder more aggressive cries and I was working to make the bottle, Jackie was tugging at the bottom of my pajama leg and making the sign than means he wants to play with me. This was followed by his favorite sign of More, More, More. This sign was punctuated with stamps from his angry feet on the kitchen floor.
"There is just one of me, my darlings." I spoke calmly to my children. "And right now, Mommy has another more pressing priority."
I left Molly hollering in her exersaucer and Jackie flinging his toys over the kitchen gate in protest of my lack of attention to his needs, and I walked straight to the bathroom where I enjoyed a child and guilt free pee. When I returned, Molly was busy sucking her fingers and giggling at her brother who was rolling his truck up and down the back of the living room chair. Not one of my children even looked up when I entered back into the room.
Clearly, attachment parenting is a thing of the past!
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Three Part Harmony
Part One
Jack pulled off Molly socks this morning and bit down. As they both began to scream, Molly in pain and Jack in frustration at being told No, I worried that having two children so close together was going to destroy us all. Until later that night, I watched and listened to my children laughing uproariously. The whole house reverberated with the deep-belly laughs of my babies as they played Molly Boo. This is our version of peek-a-boo. It involves Molly sitting on the couch. Jack crouches down beneath the sofa to build just the right amount of suspense. Then suddenly he leaps up and screams, rather loudly, directly in Molly's face. I'm not quite sure why this produces the effect that it does, but both children dissolve into fits and puddles of laughter each time this is done. I only have to watch mere seconds of Molly Boo to know that every little girl deserves a biting, screaming, Toddler Monster for her big brother.
Part Two
When I was in elementary school, I had a music teacher named Mrs. Sugar. Concerned about the disparity between the amount of Christmas songs sung in our chorus as opposed to Hanukkah diddies, Mrs. Sugar wrote and invited us to preform her Hanukkah original. The Chorus, which is better punctuated by loud and off-key shouting rather than signing, goes like this,
Sing! Hey!
Sing! Hey!
Hanukkah! Hanukkah!
Sing! Hey!
Sing! Hey!
Hanukkah's here!
For some reason this song stuck in my mind all these years. Since tonight is the third night of Hanukkah and Judaism is the religion my husband was raised with, I decided to give him a rousing version of Mrs. Sugar's song. After sing/shouting it to him in our kitchen, complete with some improvised dance moves that included pelvic thrusts and wild arms thrashing, David looked me straight in the eyes and said with earnest, You are a Goddess. He then proceeded to pull from the oven a warm and toasty pizza pie and offered me the first slice.
Part Three
My mother came over. I watched her tell Jack that she had a prize for him. She pulled from her bag a small pair of powder-blue mittens. I heard Jack gasp in delight. She gently placed the gloves on his outstretched hands. They must have reminded him somehow of the hand-puppet he has that is designed in the shape of a lion. He stretched his fingers to the sky and began to growl as he hopped, skipped, and twirled around the room. My mom threw her own head back and laughed. My mom's laughter, powder-blue mittens, and a toddler who roars. I am no match for this. The heart cracks open and forgiveness tumbles out onto the floor.
Today was a melody.
I am still singing. Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!
Jack pulled off Molly socks this morning and bit down. As they both began to scream, Molly in pain and Jack in frustration at being told No, I worried that having two children so close together was going to destroy us all. Until later that night, I watched and listened to my children laughing uproariously. The whole house reverberated with the deep-belly laughs of my babies as they played Molly Boo. This is our version of peek-a-boo. It involves Molly sitting on the couch. Jack crouches down beneath the sofa to build just the right amount of suspense. Then suddenly he leaps up and screams, rather loudly, directly in Molly's face. I'm not quite sure why this produces the effect that it does, but both children dissolve into fits and puddles of laughter each time this is done. I only have to watch mere seconds of Molly Boo to know that every little girl deserves a biting, screaming, Toddler Monster for her big brother.
Part Two
When I was in elementary school, I had a music teacher named Mrs. Sugar. Concerned about the disparity between the amount of Christmas songs sung in our chorus as opposed to Hanukkah diddies, Mrs. Sugar wrote and invited us to preform her Hanukkah original. The Chorus, which is better punctuated by loud and off-key shouting rather than signing, goes like this,
Sing! Hey!
Sing! Hey!
Hanukkah! Hanukkah!
Sing! Hey!
Sing! Hey!
Hanukkah's here!
For some reason this song stuck in my mind all these years. Since tonight is the third night of Hanukkah and Judaism is the religion my husband was raised with, I decided to give him a rousing version of Mrs. Sugar's song. After sing/shouting it to him in our kitchen, complete with some improvised dance moves that included pelvic thrusts and wild arms thrashing, David looked me straight in the eyes and said with earnest, You are a Goddess. He then proceeded to pull from the oven a warm and toasty pizza pie and offered me the first slice.
Part Three
My mother came over. I watched her tell Jack that she had a prize for him. She pulled from her bag a small pair of powder-blue mittens. I heard Jack gasp in delight. She gently placed the gloves on his outstretched hands. They must have reminded him somehow of the hand-puppet he has that is designed in the shape of a lion. He stretched his fingers to the sky and began to growl as he hopped, skipped, and twirled around the room. My mom threw her own head back and laughed. My mom's laughter, powder-blue mittens, and a toddler who roars. I am no match for this. The heart cracks open and forgiveness tumbles out onto the floor.
Today was a melody.
I am still singing. Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!
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