Finite Moments, Infinite Gratitude

I kiss the snuffalupugus lids of my youngest, take in her sweet baby smells, stroke her curly blondish lockes and remind myself how finite these moments are with our children.
I sneak in moments like these with my 5 year old boy while he still allows and with the teens I get caught gazing at them in moments of awe at their presence. They can be talking about school, or a new videogame and it will occur to me that these people were once tiny little humans who loved me unconditionally. And I them.
This journey of parenting is unpredictable. Before you had children, or if you haven't yet you have undoubtedly professed what kind of parent you're not going to be or promised to be nothing like your parents. You want to be a cool parent. The epitome of loving, nurturing and understanding. All of those things that we idealize in parents.
Truth be told being a mother has tired me straight to the bone. My soul aches when I think of all the ways I have failed my children and all the ways I will continue to fail them even as I attempt to learn and grow myself.
I console myself by recognizing my attempts to do better than my own parents. I accept that I am only human, deeply flawed and well intentioned. Being a mother is singlehandedly the most rewarding journey in life and simultaneously manages to also be the most thankless.
As a mother of four I am realizing that each of their life journeys will be vastly different and the obstacles we meet together so diverse from one another's that my previous experience will have no practical application.
We will meet each bad decision, self inflicted wound and grand injustice each day, anew.

Ten Stubby Digits, Ten Chubby Toes

Sometimes putting our thoughts to paper (or screen) can be a challenge. Even as a "writer" you can be at a loss for words that truly convey the depth of your message. Sometimes, even when you find those words they can sting and leave your heart feeling achy and empty, or maybe even brimming full, both can prove to be painful.
So, while I'm wrestling with a blog post it brought me back to some words I wrote for the Destiny City Film Festival's Story Alchemy.
The theme was "transformed by compassion" and empathy, and while I felt ill equipped to write a story, let alone read it out loud, I accepted the challenge and the opportunity to represent Creative Colloquy while also answering the call to share my words. It only seemed fair since each month I ask the same of others.
So below is my story~keep in mind, it was written as a guide to be narrated out loud and not necessarily grammatically proper. But I'm revisiting some tough times and it brought me back to this moment.

This image makes me chuckle. Because this is what I look like when I talk and I'm clearly anxious. But I did it.

Most parents will tell you while awaiting the arrival of their child that it’s not the little person’s gender that matters. Or even whether or not they inherit Grandpa Joe’s eyes or Aunt Becky’s curly locks. It’s about those tiny little digits and a happy, healthy baby. All of the corny things you hear from parents are absolutely true. We marvel at the shift of priorities. Under rested sporting tee-shirts dabbled with spit up, food and maybe even poop we manage to proclaim our pure state of awe and belief in love at first sight. However, the cosmos are forever striving to obtain a sense of balance and with all the awe inspiring moments filled with joy and happiness there is a grim flipside to things.

 Parental bliss is always, inevitably interrupted by horrifying worry, heartache and sometimes an utter and crushing sense of failure.

 I experienced all of the above about 5 years ago. My daughter now 17 was born, happy, healthy, all of those wiggly fat digits we’d hoped for and proceeded to grow into a beautiful young lady. Well adjusted.  Smart. Kind. Conveying a dry, wicked sense of humor that perfectly combined her dad and I. At twelve years old she became moody, achy and fatigued all of which you can pretty much attribute to puberty. With what seemed to be the usual side effects of becoming a woman she was stricken with a rash on her face. Her already rosy cherub cheeks and across the bridge of her nose became blotchy and irritated. After weeks of avoiding the sun, changing or trying face lotions, oatmeal scrubs and dietary tweaks we finally took her into the doctor.

 It was only after an assault of questions and blood tests that she was diagnosed with Systemic Lupus. Systemic Lupus, for those who don’t know is an auto immune disorder. Essentially her body was attacking itself from the inside. Waging war and inflicting her with not only a visible symptom like the malar rash but also rheumatoid arthritis.

 When we received the diagnosis I could only describe my initial reaction as shock. Though that doesn’t even really place it in the proper box. I’d always strived to be the Wonder Woman Mom, we hadn’t always had it easy but I strived to remain the sturdy foundation for my children to turn to. Stable. Comfortable. But with my daughter’s diagnosis I felt shaken and battered. Naturally living in this modern age I turned to WebMD to discover all I could know about Lupus.

For anyone who self-diagnoses or researches their own ailments knows this is a horrible idea.
WebMD informed me of all the symptoms that I shirked off as signs of puberty were in fact Lupus related. It went on to tell me that Lupus was not curable but Treatable. And as I read the laundry list of complications my tough mom façade crumbled.

 Not only were the complications heart wrenching to imagine. Even in a best case scenario manageable ailments like arthritis sting. I was hardly equipped to consider possibilities like organ failure, miscarriages in women and even death. Is any parent?

 I’ve always been naturally a bit cynical, not always jaded but suspicious of the inherent good in people that folks always insisted upon. Is this ‘good’ a tangible thing, can it be measured or seen or even experienced? I believed for a large part of my life that it could not. It simply did not exist. Not to say that people couldn’t be good but rather, they just tended not to be. And with that I approached every interaction, even the most superficial, wary of people. Initially my daughter’s diagnosis did not change this.

If anyone has ever visited a children’s hospital they know what I say is true. It’s a high tension atmosphere. Parents and children sit, emotionally drained and exhausted. Tired of tests, waiting rooms and traffic. Tired of being the proverbial Guinea Pig in which to tests different combinations of potions and elixirs. Sick and tired of being sick and tired. Earlier when I said Lupus was “treatable” that’s exactly what I meant. Treatable. A simple term to really mean a barrage of medications you cannot pronounce. An ammunition of pills that all have their purpose. You take one for this and another to fight the side effects of the last. All of this, the sitting in Seattle traffic, circling like sharks to find a minivan parking space, followed by a wait to be told to wait so they can sit you in another room to wait some more……It’s all quite infuriating.

 Some days my daughter would just shut down. She’s not the whiny, woe is my type but a weight would lie heavily on her shoulders. Her doe eyes would tire. I witnessed with a heavy heart how all of these physical ailments were affecting her psychologically. That, more than anything, left me feeling lost. I had no sound advice to guide her. It could not be fixed. It was only treatable. There. Was. No. Cure. 

Though all of this certainly help my disdain for my fellow human kind it left me feeling increasingly isolated……until the day I started to really pay attention.

It’s easy to get wrapped up in your own head. Mindlessly moving thru the motions and not really being present. Not ever really investing yourself. So many of us are guilty of doing it. But then there are those who take a moment to really look at you. It can be in a simple gesture that contact, that moment when the eyes connect and rather than look away hurriedly in discomfort or shame they stop and see you. Of course this isn’t a phenomenon exclusive to the children’s hospital but it was there I really began to take notice. Those little knowing glances. All of us there, whatever affliction had hold of our children were there together. Of course it wasn’t just those minute empathetic affinities. It was larger than that. Acts of compassion through connections. A hi-five from Hector the lab technician will instantly make my daughter grin. A nurse during my daughters 3 day hospital stay was one big work of compassion. Silly socks pulled up to his knee, scrubs tucked in, afro and hipster glasses conveying a character of a man who liked to have a good time would come to the window on the isolation ward and play games of hangman and adorn the window with works of art.

Before being admitted into said isolation ward, her regular doctor came to visit. Dr. Hayward is a mother as well, we’ve witnessed each other progress through a pregnancies in 6 week intervals. Each of us getting a little rounder as she inspected my eldest. She has always had a tender touch and maternal approach with my daughter but when she came to check in on Moira and talk to her about the hospitalization even though it wasn’t her shift, it was that moment that made my heart soften as tears filled my eyes. That was a big one. She wasn’t just doing her job. And she wasn’t exactly a friend. She didn’t have to be present and yet there she was comforting and affectionate. Easing this horrific hurdle, if only a little by her presence.

Tiny embers cared to will ignite bonfires of flame and warm whole families and provide light in the darkness.

These kernels of compassion strengthened my daughter’s heart. The weight though still there is a little lighter. She’s a warrior. Stronger in spirit than nearly anyone I’ve encountered and conveys compassion to me daily. Our lives woven together, I may never fully understand how her illness affects her. Her journey is her own. But she has instructed me to be less cynical and soften the edges with small gestures of empathy. She’s the one with an illness and she shows ME empathy.

Through this life experience I’ve learned to be more open hearted. Though I’m not so sure I buy into the whole “inherent goodness” within all humanity. I have seen people who care to their core. Whole heartedness shared to anyone who will have it in instances where empathy and community connectedness is the only thing that will get us through it all. Maybe not unscathed but enlightened and better for it.

Begin Again

Sometime we may think that we are in charge, that we have things all figured out. Life is usually right there, though, ready to knock us over when we get too sure of ourselves. Fortunately, if we have learned the lessons that years of practice have taught us, when this happens, we endure. We fail better. We sit up, dust ourselves off and begin again. ~Dani Shapiro

I'm in the midst of reading Shapiro's "Still Writing" and those words jumped out to me. With each milestone in life, as I care for my children, maintain a marriage and greet new endeavors with as much grace as I can muster I am still always fumbling along the way. Still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Still honing my narrative voice. Still trying to figure out this whole parenting thing. And still wrestling with my ideals and place as a mother, wife, writer and community member.

At some point in time I figured by my mid 30's I'd have this all figured out. Some days I think I'm on the right track but most I feel like I'm just hurtling down a vortex of life happenings and there's  not a thing that can be done.
 
Shorty after reading the above excerpt, I was listening to a local podcast, Media Carnivores and one of the hosts, Brent Hartinger, dared to utter the words, Failure is an essential component of creation. How accurate is that?!

Painfully so. And for me there are no coincidences. This was a message I needed at this time.

Some of my musings in the past have been in regards to how conflict is a key ingredient to the creative process. At some point in time I felt like I couldn't create because that resistance I once always felt as a constant presence was something I was not allowed to feel. I'm living some wacky form of the American dream after all. Who was I to express animosity and unhappiness with my lot in life. Truth be told though, there is no such thing as perfection. We never do know what happens behind closed doors, we only view lovely filtered versions of our friend's and loved one's lives.

A part of the human condition is some sort of struggle, whether by external forces or internal voices. We are all fighting demons of our own, juggling demands of obligations and coping in the best way we know how.

We all stumble.

Then we dust ourselves off and begin again.

Reputation

I don't often sit down to wonder what it is that people think of me. To be quite frank, I'm not too incredibly concerned with it. Don't get me wrong, I'm not gallivanting around town making enemies and burning bridges, I just don't sit around and think to myself, "Gee whiz, I hope they like me." .

Recently, I've been hearing a couple of the same questions again and again, which got me thinking. That must say something about what folks think of me. If a diverse collection of my friends and associates are coming with the same inquiries then clearly there are specific compartments that folks associate with me. Which can be funny when you sit down to really think about it. Try it, sit down and consider, 1. What is it people ask/talk/connect with you about, 2. What do you think that says about you?

The two questions I hear most often, are you ready for it?

1. At least weekly, if not more:  "Where should I go~date night, family in town, bored of your favorite~brunch, lunch, dinner, soups, brews, juices, vegan, burger~in other words where are the good places to eat and or drink?" Does this surprise me? No, my job after all revolves around either eating and writing about food or serving food so if there is anything I'm familiar with it's probably food.  Does this contribute to my pillow-y like mom figure. You betcha. That and my aversion to the gym. Speaking of the gym, has anyone else noticed how stinky the Morgan Family YMCA is? Like, Bog of Eternal Stench quality stank. But I digress.

2. Asked far less often because, duh, only former coworkers can make such a request: "I'm looking for a job. Can I put you down as a reference?" Now, to be fair I have LOADS of coworkers. Not necessarily because I can't keep a job but because I have a habit of keeping several at the same time and in the service industry I tend to move on within a two year period. It keeps me from becoming complacent and unhappy. My job is to provide a pleasant experience, the last thing you want is an unhappy, complacent server.

So what do I think these things say about me?
Well........

I'm loyal and posses  a iron clad work ethic that is equally applied to paid positions as it is those with those with no promises of monetary compensation. If I commit, you can bet it's going to be done. This makes me appear as responsible (I mean, I totally am) and therefor a good reference on a job application.
I can be agreeable at times and also brutally honest, maybe that makes me trustworthy, at least on the most superficial of levels.
I am an open book.
And I like to eat.
That's just my biased translation.

Questions I don't anticipate in the near future:
"How do you get some epic abs?"
"Do you give make up tutorials?"
"Do you want to come clean my house too?"

Okay, your turn. What are the two questions you hear most?

Dirty Little Secrets

To write or to snuggle. The grand struggle of all writer mamas.

Today I was going to confess all my dirty little secrets.

Step into my little blog space here and use it like a type of confessional, unloading all of the ways I have failed in life. As a mother, wife, writer, friend, feminist.  I am all of these things and not particularly great at any of them. I wanted to try to elaborate on all of these things that haunt me day to day. To discuss all of the things I let slip as each day finds a way to get away from me. Lay it in front of me to find some master plan to victory, self discovery and a release of guilt. Say 10 "Hail Marys" and an "Amen," or whatever it is folks do after a confessional, I'm sorry to say I'm naïve about such things as I've only seen them in the movies.

Instead I took a nap.

Not intentionally mind you. I meant to just lay my head down with the little miss to comfort her to nap herself. Gulping down a bottle nestled close to me with one hand down my shirt and on my boob, the standard snuggle position for the two of us. I was listening to her "gulp, gulp, exhale, inhale" (repeat) rhythmic ways and then before I knew it, I reopened my eyes and an hour had passed.

Just like that.

I could sit her and ruminate on the irony of it all. Maybe wag a pointed finger at my subconscious for it's self destructive ways.
Or, I could just call it how it is. I was a tired mama. Up early after a restless night to take Connor to his Occupational Therapy appointment and just plain pooped. Sometimes coffee isn't a cure all for what ails you. The hours catch up to you and your body tells you to slow down. So instead of catching up on laundry and minding my deadlines.

I took a nap.

Lean In

 

I've always considered myself a creative type.

At times I've lost my way, allowed distractions and obstacles along life's journey to make me forget the importance of the creative process to my very being. It's toxic, not finding time to create. Lush scenery begs to be placed into a story whether by way of words, or paints, or photographs--the scenery demands to be a part of the narrative with silent whispers and grand gestures.

 In recent years I found myself with a growing animosity. Not towards any one thing or person but that kernel of self-doubt grew, doubled in size and began to consume me. I couldn't decide if it was my lack of professional success that triggered it after a series of unsuccessful attempts at finding an appropriate home for my specific skill set or if it was the transition into stay at home, work from home motherhood status that left me feeling less valuable as a person. There's no reason that these things should affect me on such a negative scale, but they did and it was not only affecting my well-being but the dynamics of my family life.

 Something had to change.

Knowing this, I've been elbows deep in the journey of finding myself as a creative again. Writing more words, encouraging other artists to do the same and I have come to a conclusion. For myself and many others, in order to grow one must make themselves uncomfortable. Find the discomfort and lean in.

I've captured glimpses of my own discomfort peeking over my shoulder in the last year, making the leap with me to try something new and place myself in the midst of it all. This is an unfamiliar feeling. It is a scary feeling. It is uncomfortable most of all. A voice that shakes to match my quivering hands and a racing heart drumming the foundation of a soundtrack that throws up red flags and commands me to run for my life. I recognize this in some of my peers as well.

Upward and onward I strive to journey.

So I,

 Lean in.

It's like a workout. When you work out your muscles you break the tissue down, tear it, stretch it and it mends together stronger, more resilient. Leaning into the discomfort emotionally and psychologically is no different. As a sensible person I've placed things that make me uncomfortable into compartments, stored them in tidy bins, mentally tucking them away where they cause me zero discomfort. In the process of writing my memoir, (something I've decided to do after reading "The Rules of Inheritance" and listening to author, Claire Bidwell Smith talk during my first retreat experience Write: Doe Bay) I began to peel back the lids of some of those bins, peer inside and rediscover things that I had felt as though I'd come to terms with them. Little did I know how much revisiting those moments would affect me.

I found myself reliving a memory, a painful moment in my childhood that has seemed like hardly an issue since its occurrence. Pen to paper, in a room ocean side surrounded by my peers, I found myself with a sob stifled, stuck in my throat on the cusp. Too large to be swallowed down, the room too full to let the tears flow. Instead I stood up, walked outside to take in the fresh air and realized that this is a part of the creative process. These moments are a prerequisite to the journey of genuine creation.

It'll blindside you.            

The Journey of Sophia Grace (mostly a photo blog)

 

I am fortunate in life.

I have an amazing and beautiful family.

And amazing and beautiful friends that I consider extended family. They are a small group but are an important and lovely part of my children's lives.

One of these friends is one of my favorite people and exceptionally talented as well.  

When she mentioned her desire to photograph a labor and delivery how could I say no?

The images below are a few I'm willing to share. But overall I'm excited to have images like these to share with my daughter one day. Her entry into this world was well documented.

You can see more work from this fabulous photographer at

 http://poeticspectreimaging.blogspot.com/

 

 

This has some deeper meaning that makes me smile. Tiffany is all too familiar with the circumstances and understands how appropriate this day happens to be.

 

 

The view of Tacoma from Saint Joes is amazing. All four of my children were born here.

 

 

Connor is a big brother now!

Big Brother Andrew

Big Sister Moira

Aunt Bonnie

 

One Month Old Sophia Grace Casella.