A solitude of space

Posted on February 10, 2011 by NotoriousMLE

There is a solitude of space
A solitude of sea
A solitude of death, but these
Society shall be
Compared with that profounder site
That polar privacy
A soul admitted to itself --
Finite infinity.-Emily Dickinson

I am a person who plays well with others. Friendly, outgoing and loud are all words that have been frequently deployed to describe me. Do you need someone to be your public speaker? Sure! Want me to facilitate a meeting? It would be my pleasure.

“People” is something I’m good at.

Except… I realize now that “people” kind of takes it out of me. I suspected this but I never truly knew it until I became a Mom. When you become a parent your whole life becomes “people”. A little person in the morning who shouts “Mama!” gaily at 6:30 am. A little person in the afternoon who screams inconsolably into your arms because he is so tired he’s lost his words. With a child you are almost never, ever alone and the second I lost my alone time I realized its importance.

Alone time is the white gallery wall that highlights the art. It’s the pause that helps you enjoy the symphony’s last minute. It’s the breath before the sigh. The pinch of salt that brings out the sweet.

In the rare moments I’m alone now I can physically feel my body re-setting. My shoulders relax, my heart thumps along slow and contented. I can feel myself becoming a person again. Humpty Dumpty, filling up the cracks and misplaced shell.

Two weeks ago we had the best time ever: playing in the snow with friends who are like family. Surrounded by his doting Tíos and Tías Elian’s eyes sparkled with joy and wonder. Relieved of the duty of caring for him alone Arnold and I relaxed sloppily: we enjoyed all of the freedom of not-parenting with none of the guilt.

It was bliss.

I notice though that Elian needs time to be alone. At some point his joy makes him manic, exhausted by fun he dissolves into tears. Two Fridays ago as I kissed away the tired I remembered again how important it is to spend time alone, no matter how much you enjoy the company of others. So on Saturday I stayed at the cabin with Elian while the others headed off to Emerald Bay.

I put him to sleep and happily sat down with a bag of chips and hot chocolate to read the afternoon away. I sat there alone in the stillness watching the waves and thought of my little one, sleeping in the other room, sighing in his sleep.

I thought about the ways he teaches me what I need through displaying his limits. His need to rest reminds me that I too am sometimes so very tired. His tears remind me that we all have to remember to temper our socialness with reprieves. It’s in teaching him that I learn in ways I couldn’t otherwise. He is like a mirror to my faults; with each tear he sheds I discover a crack in my own heart that needs repairing. So on Saturday we spent time together being alone. He in his crib, sleeping in a shaft of golden sun and me on the couch curled up with hot chocolate, chips and a good book.

Together in our solitude, we filled our souls and rested our bodies.

A tale of two Shakiras

Posted on October 26, 2010 by NotoriousMLE

10 years ago I was belting out Ojos Asi admist an ocean of Chileans on the field of Santiago’s Estadio Nacional. It was the year 2000 and I was studying abroad: getting to see Shakira in concert was one of many extracurricular “perks”. I’ve been a Shakira fan since high school, as a true lover of creative weirdos she’s always been right up my alley. The first CDs I bought were Smashing Pumpkins and Pies Descalzos. I was beyond psyched to see her in concert: her voice is truely amazing live.

I like to credit Shakira for at least half of my Spanish vocabulary. When I was in high school I was inexplicably obsessed with learning Spanish so I translated all the lyrics to her first two albums via dictionary. I don’t mean Internet dictionary, we didn’t have that miracle back then. I sat down with my paperback dictionary and looked up every single word I didn’t know.

Ojerosa, flaca, fea, desgreñada, torpe, tonta, lenta, necia, desquiciada, completamente descontrolada, tu te das cuenta y no me dices nada - Ciego sordamuda

Let me tell you Shaki has a big vocabulary, and thanks to her so do I.

Last Tuesday when I went to see her at Arco Arena, not 10 minutes from my house it was a little surreal. Belting out those same songs a decade later, my life is unimaginably changed. 10 years ago I was a young college student studying abroad, hopelessly lovesick for the new boyfriend she left behind. Now I’ve been married to that same man for eight and a half years and we have a son. And as I stood in the stands screaming “Viva Colombia!” in a sea of amused Mexicans I had a “moment”.

I realized that we adopted a child from Colombia.

You’d think that I would’ve gotten over it by now, but the thing is I’m tired all the time lately. I use all my emotional reserves to shore up the patience required for a high-energy toddler. I don’t have it in me to perform extensive analysis of my current reality. This leads to weird moments when I realize what I should already know: holy crap, my immediate family are all Colombians.

Self-reflection is apparently what I do at Shakira concerts.

Si es cuestion de confesar no se preparar cafe y no entiendo futbol - Inevitable

2010 has been the hardest year of my life: sometimes I’ve felt like I wasn’t going to make it through. Last week our social worker came over for a post-visit and she said “Wow, you guys look tired.” “Do we look that bad?” I said 1/2 dissapointed that my front wasn’t working and 1/2 relieved to not have to try to keep it up. “Well” she said “I remember what you were like before and…( at this point Elian started trying to remove her glasses while shouting “No, Pam, NO!”) well he’s really a lot for first time parents to handle.”

Everybody knows that parenting is exhausting, thankless work so I’ll try not to whine on forever about how I’m tired. I am though: I am tired of the screaming and kicking, I’m tired of not enough sleep, I’m tired of feeling like a failure all the time and I’m over bursting into tears at inopportune moments. As Elian adjusts and we get the hang of things it’s been getting better but sometimes the exhaustion really breaks us.

I’ve been battered over the last year and I was sure that reminscing on my time in Chile would make me wistful but I felt the opposite: I was totally overcome with gratitude for everything I have now. Studying abroad was an irreplacable and formative experience but I was desperately lonely during that time. I was homesick and lovesick: a bad combination. That semester made me who I am today and is probably one of the reasons that Arnold and I got married but it was a hard journey.

Mis días sin ti son cómo un cielo sin lunas plateadas ni rastros de sol. Mis días sin ti son sólo un eco que siempre repite la misma canción - Moscas en la Casa

Last Tuesday as Shaki and I had our once a decade in-person reunion I saw the younger verison of myself and felt grateful for the battles I no longer have to fight. I may be tired but I am not alone in a sea of strangers. I knew at the end of this concert I wouldn’t be heading back to sleep in a bunk-bed at a freezing-cold boarding house, I would be returning to the cozy home I share with my husband and son.

Un dia despues de la tormenta, cuando menos piensas sale el sol. - Sale el sol

Sometimes living out your dream is so challenging you think it will break you but other times your heart is so full you can’t imagine that it hasn’t grown three sizes. Last Tuesday I thought I would burst, my joy was so complete. To release the pressure I screamed with pride for my family’s paisana until I lost my voice and when the party was over I went home to my family: to the man I was heartsick for all those years ago and to the little boy who’s breaking my heart so that I can build a stronger one.

Agua

Posted on August 24, 2010 by NotoriousMLE

I think I’ve mentioned before that Elian loooooooooves to ask for water. It’s “Agua, agua, agua” all day long. He especially loves to ask for it when there’s none available. He has a sixth sense about these things. It’s kind of like when your about to board a plane and the knowledge that you won’t get to use the bathroom for a few hours makes you hysterical. That’s him and “agua”.

Agua=life

The kid is driving us batty asking for agua. We say “Yes, we’ll get some soon”, and “yes I understand you want agua” We say it over and over in long, tedious, agua-only-conversation jags. We plug our ears as he screams “Aguuuuuuuuuua” at us hysterically in the car. We curse the NPR DJ who deigned to play a Spanish song whose only lyric was “Take me to the water” during one of the worst “Aguuuuuaaaa” break-downs ever. We suffer the indignity of people glaring at us all the time “What kind of parents won’t even give their kid water?” I stifle the urge the shake them and scream “He doesn’t really want water. He just drank the ocean five minutes ago.”

It’s us against the agua people.

Agua is our sunrise, sunset and dreams.

Last night when Arnold and I crashed into bed I wasn’t really surprised to hear him say “I have a story about agua.”

I took Elian for a walk and I packed a cup of water but I saved it for after the playground because I knew that’s when he would be most thirsty. We walked to the park and he asked for agua the whole way. Then we had a drink at the drinking fountain and played. Then we started the walk back and he was like “Agua, agua, agua, agua” and I’m like “Yeah, here comes agua!” The second I gave him agua, he gave it back to me and said … jugo?

Jugo means juice.

Sometimes I really miss agua.

We count only blue cars

Posted on August 17, 2010 by NotoriousMLE

10-year-old Russell wistfully memories of sitting on the curb counting blue cars with his Dad is one of the hardest scenes of the movie Up. His father is no longer a part of his life and the simple way he tells Carl how much he loved counting cars with his Dad cuts to your heart. You remember how you desperately longed for your parent’s attention and love as a child. You You see how much this little guy needs his Dad.

The Dad who left him behind.

It’s heartbreaking really.

I think of that movie a lot because it’s difficult for me to sit and count the blue cars. It’s just so boring. I really like hanging with teenagers and chatting with older kids but I find the put the blue square in the yellow box game incredibly tedious. Elian wants me to sit on the floor and watch him play all the time and I hate it. We’ve had many a war over my refusal to sit with him hour upon end.

I would love to sit and read a book with him or even color, but no… he wants to open the box. Close the box. Open the box. Close the box. Open the box. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….

I try to comply. Really I do. I think of the little boy who just wants to count cars with his Dad and I will myself to sit down on the floor. I tell myself it’s fun! And occasionally it is, but mostly it’s boring and I just sit there wishing I was washing the dishes and feeling guilty that I’m letting this time slip by. I know there will be moments not long from now when I’ll long for him to settle into my lap and proudly show me how he opened the box.

It’s like flossing. I know I should do it more regularly but I just don’t want to. I dread playtime and there’s nothing like a magic mix of boredom, frustration, laziness and guilt.

Last week though, I had an “epiphany”. Perhaps as the adult in this relationship I could introduce activities that could be fun for both of us. Perhaps my toddler does not control the world?

Say it with me now. Duh.

So now we are going to swimming lessons. I’ve got a split lip from a flailing head-butt to show for it but its way worth the price for quality time. And I’ve introduced many a game I find “fun” like “Let’s sort the laundry”, “Clean the closet” and “Fold the sheets”. Parenting 101 I know, but I never said I was good at this stuff, only that I’d do my best.

Maybe we’re not counting blue cars but nothing beats his enthusiasm while scurrying between the laundry basket and his bed, skipping as he hand-carries each of his teeny-tiny shirts to his room. I love to see him tripping with excitement at the prospect of “laundry time”

What is better than the shriek of delight he rewards me with for turning on the closet light? Only the wide-eyed “ooooooooh” he coos while breathlessly examining the contents of the linen closet. One day we’ll head to Fenton’s to count blue cars but until then we’ll be singing Kookabura in the pool and folding laundry all summer long.

Work it Out

Posted on July 13, 2010 by NotoriousMLE

I always hated exercise. I mean really. Who likes to exercise? Wasting time sweating and feeling uncomfortable when one could be watching Food Network? Not.for.me. No Thank you.

And then I started exercising a little. You know for vanity. For health! To not get fat! You know, all the normal reasons. But even though I did it, I couldn’t see myself as an exercise person. You know the ones who are all fresh-faced and enthusiastic at the gym. They just can’t miss their daily workout! Blech.

So there I am exercising regularly and quite grumpily. Like a blister though, exercise started to get to me… and then the final blow. I became a Mom.

And now I know why some people love exercising. Because it’s not restful at their home. Because they need the endorphins for stress relief. If I go home I’m not going to be lying down on the couch if I’m tired. I’m going to be wrestling with a willful toddler. I will be picking him up. Putting him down. Picking him up. Putting him down. Picking him… you get the idea.

So now I love exercise. I love the gym. I go everyday. I swim in the morning with the elderly. They aquacize around me like dolphins: benevolent guardians of our morning ritual.

I step in the water each morning and swim, swim, swim: cutting through the water until exhausted I walk out feeling clean and calm. A little baptism to start the day.

And I attend insane fitness classes where the instructor screams at us like some kind of deranged drill sergeant. “The biggest losers don’t’ do push-ups on their knees! Get TO IT!” And instead of resentment I feel a sort of gentle affection towards my abuser. I run. I kick box. I downward facing dog. I do whatever to help beat down the stress because exercise exhausts and calms you.

I admit I still despise the girls at the gym who have the audacity to first run, then kick box and THEN attend boot camp. Yeah, people, that’s how you get their perfect bodies. You eat really, really clean and exercise two hours a day. Or you can do crack.

I’ve decided against those options. I choose to be a happy law-abiding chubby bunny, eating too many cupcakes and watching too many sitcoms.

So I don’t look like a gym rat, but my heart is healthier and stronger in both the physical and emotional senses. And it helps me be a better Mom. Exhausted by one too many “non-girly” push-ups I can handle it better when my picky toddler throws soup at the wall or kicks me for having the audacity to not let him jump off the couch and crack his head. I can look at him and think, “I know it’s frustrating buddy, you are a little person in a big scary world” instead of “WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO SEND ME OVER THE EDGE YOU MINI DICTATOR!”

And every tiny bit of extra patience I can give to my little boy, to my husband, to those I love is worth so much more than the hour I sacrificed to earn it.

P.S. I’m also over at Raising Colombian Kids. Today I’m talking about the hard times that led me to become and “excerciser”. Check it out here.

Out of the mouths of teenagers

Posted on June 22, 2010 by NotoriousMLE

Have I mentioned that I worry?

Yeah, I worry a lot. I’ve always been a worrier. I worry about lawsuits and trees falling and about cancer… of course. For the most part worrying is a gigantic, big, fat waste of time and I know this, but I can’t stop. Worrying gives me a sick sense of control over things. If I consider all the terrible possibilities I will somehow be more prepared for them when they happen.

Or so I reason….

This however is also very stupid. Before Arnold got hit by a car biking to work I (obviously) worried that it would happen. And it did. My worrying did not prevent this event. It just induced intense guilt that I had suggested the bike-riding.

So yeah, worrying=stupid.

But now I have the biggest worrisome challenge of my life. Raising a child. Giving him what he needs. Not effing him up. You know the drill, is he healthy? Happy? Wholesome ? Will he turn out to be a good person? I’ve given up worrying about other things to focus all my anxieties on my child’s well-being. Worrying about him is a full-time job people!

So I was out with some friends the other day asking them various worry-based Mommy questions. I’m new at this so I had to recruit some veterans. My friends gave their opinions and we discussed various issues and it was good. And after we’d talked and analyzed and swapped strategies my friend’s 16-year old daughter piped up and said:

“You know what? I don’t think you should worry. You just have to do your best. I chose to be a good kid. In the end kids will choose who they want to be. It doesn’t matter that much what you do.”

And you know what, she’s right. With all due respect to both of her parents who love her dearly and gave her everything they had, this young woman has faced some hard knocks very early in life. She weathered both her parents divorce and her father’s untimely death. She has been dealt some intense challenges at a young age and she is a GREAT kid. She is the kind of kid you look at and say “Oh that one day my child will be like her”.

And not only is she a good person, she’s smart too. You can kill yourself worrying about everything, but that’s stupid, a waste of time really. So now I’m trying my best to follow Akaylah’s advice: I’m doing my best not to worry and asking God to help me do my best. The rest is up to my little dinosaur.