Pregnant!?

No.  Not pregnant.

But I thought I was.

For three days I was slightly sick, just a little nausea here, up in the middle of the night in the bathroom there.  And on the third day it hit me:  this is very similar to what I felt like when I became pregnant with Celaya.  And in the hours that followed, leading up to my taking a pregnancy test another realization hit me:  I don't want another baby.

Of course, you ask, why have you been so careless to put yourself in the position of being pregnant, Shanna, if you don't want another baby?

I haven't!  I have been taking the birth control pill religiously, same time every night.  But this prescription for some reason does not work well with my body, so my menstrual cycle has been all over the place.  I haven't had one in two months.  Because I have been having this problem for several months, I wasn't too worried about it.

I even toyed with the idea of being pregnant again, how much I loved the experience.  I'd gaze at the infants with their mommies in the park while my rambunctious toddler climbed, tumbled, slid, and screeched her way out of babyhood.  "Ah," I thought, "I miss having a baby."

And it's true.  I do.  The ultra-dependence of a baby, the nonstop holding and snuggling.  My nineteen month old actually asks to be put in her bed after I read her books at nap time.  She doesn't want to be rocked to sleep!

I know.  I know.  I should be happy and proud that my daughter is confident and independent enough to put herself to sleep.  And I am.  Still, a part of me does miss those sweet, sweet baby days.

But in those hours of uncertainty, I played with my daughter, we took a walk, we read stories, she demanded to sit on the counter while I cooked, she insisted I draw squares, circles, and stars in various colors with crayons on the floor with her, she climbed all over me and lured me into dancing to the ABC song blaring from her toy laptop.  And I realized that my toddler is not fully out of babyhood yet. She still struggles to communicate her emotions.  She still needs help walking down stairs.  She has barely gotten to the point of independent play for ten minute stretches.  She is only just recognizing her own body functions and preparing for the trials of potty training.

I don't want to interrupt her journey into being a kid by trying to divide my attention between her and a high maintenance newborn.  I'm just not ready, because I don't think she is.

This realization came with another insight into my life and myself:  life is not trying anymore for me.

I started this blog because I was trying to have a baby.  Did that.  I was trying to get through grad school.  Did that.  I was trying to find my way in the world.  Found it.

Sure, there will always be things in life that I am trying to do:  be a better person, mother, tutor, teacher, wife, sister, and on and on.  But life for me is now more fulfilling than anything.

And so I am saying goodbye to this blog, and beginning a new one.  I haven't decided on a name yet, but I have decided that it will center on this firmly established, confident, content, and quite complex role I am now in, and all of the order and chaos that brings with it.

And I have certainly decided that I don't want another baby.

Not yet anyway.

Toddler Body

As I watch my child grow, I cannot help but notice all she is learning, absorbing, regurgitating every minute of every day.  Sometimes, I watch Celaya do things like tilt her head to one side and smile, that I know she got from me.  Other times, she lays down on the ground and makes the snoring sound, "ha shoo," that her auntie taught her.  Later, she'll demand "patio patio patio patio" (a word she learned from her father), and then go in search of her "uncle-uh" at his window from the outside where she has taken to giving him kisses through the screen.  She is growing so fast in so many ways, and lately I have really come to notice the change in her shape.

She has that classic toddler body now: bowed back, round puffed out butt because of the diaper, full round belly extending down from a more and more elongated chest and ribs.  Her chubby things and chubby arms just invite nibbling and caressing.  Her length seems to be stretching out daily, with legs dangling long past our waists now when we hold her in our arms.  She fits perfectly on my hip as I rush about trying to accomplish tasks that she cannot imagine allowing me to do with both arms free.

This shape is a really odd one though.  Toddler body.  Upon dissecting it, part by part, in attempting to spell out just how cute it is, I realize that it really is only cute all together -- and only on a toddler.

As I was noticing this adorable, cherubic, squishy, soft shape on my 16 month old daughter, as she tipped her head back and smiled her brilliant toothy smile at me, full lips above a double chin, I was simultaneously reflecting on the fact that it has been over a month since I have exercised with the intention of exercising.  That is, exercise other than chasing her little toddler body around the house or outside, other than running errands, other than cleaning house, other than the day to day.  In addition to this I was reflecting on how marvelous all of the wonderful food experiences have been in the last month with all the traveling I have been doing and all of the visitors we have had at the house.

And then I turned, and looked, and there it was, staring back at me from the mirror.  I was in underwear and a bra, getting ready for a shower, so it was unavoidable and undeniable.

Toddler body.

Needless to say Celaya and I added a 20 minute uphill walk to the park to our morning routine the very next day.

And I have sworn off salt water taffy as a regular snack.

There but for the Grace of... God?

I know.  I know.
Everyone has had something to say about the recent shooting of 26 people, 20 of them small children, in Connecticut.
But I cannot possibly have a blog in which I write about my thoughts on the daily goings on of my life and the world around me and not address such a tragic, life changing event.
Except that there really is nothing to say.

Often when horrible things happen, babies are born disabled, husbands are killed in car accidents, mothers are robbed at gunpoint, I think, there but for the grace of God go I.

But that statement, I realize, implies that "God" has chosen to save me and mine from tragedy.  This then means that He has chosen not to save others.  Why?  Because I am somehow meant to do something great, or my child is, and she needs me to raise her in a particular way that will allow her to do this wonderful thing in some bizarre Sarah Connor/ John Connor kind of fate or destiny?
That then means that the 20 children who died were not as important to God as the children who live long, healthy lives.

No.

That doesn't make any sense.

And that is the at the crux of all of this.

None of it makes any sense.  And it never will.  Whether or not you have faith in some higher power.

All I can do is hug my baby tighter, cry for the little ones whose mommies don't get to hold them anymore, and hope desperately that somehow, some way, they will get to see each other again.  That those mommies will get to feel their babies in their arms again, smell their hair, nuzzle their necks, kiss their noses.  Because without that hope, without even the slightest chance of a reunion, what hope for humanity at all?

Life is about love, about service to each other, about connecting, touching, feeling.  Without these things we are lost.

Many, many parents are lost out there right now, not just the parents who lost their babies on Friday, but parents all around the world who have lost their children to meaningless violence.

More than anything we as global citizens should come together to work toward an end to meaningless violence, to the destruction of children's innocence and the loss of such good, pure lives.

Think about this next time you walk past a group of laughing, playing, joyfully squealing children.
I know I will.

An Ode to J.D. Robb

I am currently reading (in all my free time) A Room of One's Own, by Virginia Woolf, and Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall, edited by Kate Bernheimer.  In A Room of One's Own Woolf opines on the reasons for the severe lack of literature by women in the history of the western world.  Writing in the early twentieth century, she points out that without the adequate resources that most male writers take for granted and some time and space in which to reflect on one's thoughts and actually follow through with writing them down, women who could become brilliant writers instead end up lost in laundry and dishes, or at best, some awesome writer's mistress, wife, or sister.  Bernheimer, on the other hand, compiles a selection of today's women writers to reflect on the impact that fairy tales have had on their own writing experiences.  She chooses women from around the world, from different walks of life, and who work in different genres.  What a difference a half century makes, huh?

So what does all this have to do with J.D. Robb, perhaps better known as Nora Roberts?

Well, for starters, she was one of those women without a room of her own.  Before she began seriously writing she was a single mother making money any way she could, holding down a variety of different jobs to support her two small sons.  Once she decided to jump in and do it, to write for a living, it took a lot of work, a lot of patience, and as she says, the mandate in her house that while she was writing she was not to be disturbed unless there was fire or blood.  Obviously her boys were a bit older than my 9 month old.  

But she did it.  She found a room of her own in her own way and has become quite a prolific, best selling author.  

Of course, I had no clue about any of this when I first picked up her books as a young woman looking for the romance that I did not have in my life in paperback novels.  I just like the way, as one reviewer put it, "Nora Roberts can sure spin a tale."

Now, after working academically and professionally on literature for seven years, much of my reading (again, in all my free time) is academic.  I read to expand my knowledge of the world, to stay fresh in my various fields of literature and education, to flesh out my understanding of subjects with which I am not familiar, to engage the Spanish and French language sections of my brain, and so on.  

But in the middle of it all, when the reading becomes overwhelming and my brain feels like it will not expand any more in this moment, it simply cannot take any more information or learning, I turn to Death.

J.D. Robb's In Death series is just fun, fun, fun.  I have come to enjoy those books more than I do any television show I follow, because in the same way that a book is better than the movie on which it is based, the In Death series is like a television series that is crying out desperately to be made, if only so we fans can lament the fact that the show can never be as good as the books.  These books are witty, gruesome, action-packed, even a bit educational, with a little bit of solid romance thrown in.  

Eve Dallas, New York Lieutenant 50 years in the future, the main character, is as badass chick as they come, and her husband, a billionaire businessman/reformed mastermind criminal hailing from Ireland, is a badass in his own right.

The relationship between these two, and among them and the other major characters in the series, of which there are many, is simply striking.  The character development is constant.  And the ability of Robb to come up with a new, riveting yet disturbing murder scenario plot is pleasantly surprising.  

In short, if you haven't turned to these books when you are yearning for a quick paperback read, you should.  

I know I'm looking forward to my next escape into that fascinating fantasy world.  

Time is Not on My Side

It's racing past me!  Before I knew it, I graduated from college, and I missed the experience, wondering if I had fully enjoyed it as I should have, wanted to.  Then, I graduated again, from graduate school, in the blink of an eye, feeling much the same way.  Could I have done more?  Met more people?  Socialized with faculty more?
My mother used to say when we were little that I was a new soul and my sister was an old soul.  In a weird way that makes sense to me now.  Take our different pregnancies.  I was content to fully enjoy the experience, savoring each day, as if this was all new to me and I wanted to appreciate each moment.  My sister, on the other hand, with her first, and now again with her second pregnancy, is desperate to just get it over with already, as if she has done it a million times and the novelty has definitely worn off.  I was happy to wait until my due date, even deliver a little late.  I loved being pregnant.
Now, with my daughter, I am having the same experience.  My television is almost never on when she is awake, so I can drink up each smile, each tumble, each unintelligible sound.  And I find that I even leave it off most times when she is sleeping, so I can savor the few moments I have of peace, storing up my energy to crawl after her as she races down the hall toward the cat, a toy, her uncle, her daddy, an electrical outlet.  Before I know it she will be in kindergarten, then middle school, screaming that she hates me and it is so unfair that I won't let her date that college boy who works at the local cafe.

All this to say that I recently received an email from a supervisor where I teach inviting me to apply for a new position my company has created that would allow me to work from home.
A dream come true!  Right?

At first, I did think so.  I imagined it:  never having to leave my daughter, all this extra time with her, my office set up at home, my sister coming in a few days a week to stay with Celaya while I diligently do the busy work that needed my undivided attention.  The hourly pay was less, but the hours were more, so I would overall be contributing more financially to my family.  All good.

Until I remembered trying to pay that bill yesterday, and my daughter "Gah gah gah gah gah!" demanding my attention.  And trying to put her down for a nap in the rocking chair as she writhes and twists for five to ten minutes before falling asleep so I can put her in her crib, then often waking up five minutes later so I can go through the whole process again.  And the long walks in the morning we enjoy whenever it is convenient for us.  And the several times a week we head off to the several different stores we shop at for our necessities.  And my husband coming home from work only to need an hour or two for his homework, if he's not heading off to class.

Right now, I have unlimited amounts of patience for all of it.  I gently hum to my daughter when she smacks me in the face before her nap.  I just throw her in the front carrier when I absolutely have to get something done.  We do it together.  She does not stress me out.  My crazy life, that would most certainly stress out a full time working (even from home) mother, does not stress me out.

Right now, I can blog.  I can read.  I can stare out my window.  I can allow my daughter as much time as she needs to get through a meal or fall asleep, or crawl around naked before bath time.  And when it seems like I'm losing myself in the mundane daily tasks of motherhood and running a household, I get to leave Celaya with people who love and adore her and go off to a fun job a few hours a week to make some good money and take a nice break.

Everything I love most about my life right now I would lose.

So thanks, deceptively appealing job.  But no thanks.

Writing For the Sake of Writing

Yep.  That's what this is:  a writing exercise.
Why, you ask?
Because every day, I look over at my computer, sitting alone, untouched, on my desk, in front of my big, bay window with a beautiful view, and think, "wow, that is the perfect location to just sit and write."
Then, instead of getting to it, I watch another episode of Criminal Minds, or Treme.
Not to say that those shows, and aaaallll the other ones that wait, calling to me from my DVR aren't great.  Of course they are.
But I have to acknowledge that I use those television shows, which I honestly would not miss if I didn't watch them, to procrastinate the writing and reading that the better part of me really knows I should be doing, and really wants to be doing!
The problem is that the better part of me so often lately gets buried under chasing my crawling ball of energy, doing dishes (so many dishes!), doing laundry, paying bills (or just looking at the bills and wishing I could pay them), grocery shopping, cooking, and on and on.  And those are just the household and motherly things to do.  Now add to that a part time job.
In all the chaos and order that is my life, granted it is the life that I love and so desperately wanted for so long, I have managed to ignore the quiet voice gently reminding me that I have an academic and scholarly side that is like a muscle.  If I don't exercise it, it will atrophy.
So, while my mind was constantly throwing writing tidbits at me before Celaya was born to the point where I would have to run to my computer, eager to get my anecdotes down, my mind now draws a complete blank whenever I so much as think, "hmmmm, what could I possibly blog about?"

Long story short:  I spend so much time telling my students that the most essential part of life, be it the day to day living or the educational aspects, is time for reflection.  Turn off the TV, even the radio, sit, look out the window, have a cup of coffee or tea, and think about what you've done, said, experienced.  Be still.

And for all those writers out there, the next step is to write.

Now, my task is to take my own advice.

Oh wait.  Hold that thought.  My baby just woke up.

My Body Image: A Lost Cause

I have always had a healthy body image.  At my heaviest (non-pregnancy) weight, pushing 200 pounds, I would laughingly say, "so, I'm a little teapot."  I truly thought of myself as chunky, thick, fluffy, never chubby, and certainly never fat.

This is not to say that I thought I was skinny.  I acknowledged that I needed to get in shape, but I still, always, have thought of myself as "cute."

Once, while living in McKinleyville, California for a year, I was jogging down the street, quite hefty, if I do say so myself, in a jogging bra and sweats.  Yep, that's right, belly chunk for the world to see.  I thought nothing of it.  A car full of boys drove past me and one actually yelled out the window, "put a shirt on!"

The shame, right?

Wrong.

I just thought to myself, "rude!  I mean I know I need to get in shape, but come on!"

This body image I've got is quite inexplicable.  I've been surrounded my whole life by women who diet, fast, take pills, push their bodies to the limits, meanwhile I have always enjoyed my pancakes and cheeseburgers (not at the same time of course), balanced with a passionate love for fruits and vegetables.  The only actual diet I ever tried was Atkins, and that was only because I loved meat and cheese so much it never even felt like a diet.  But the overkill is pretty gross; I do not recommend it.

Now, looking back on my experiences with my body image, I can laugh at my boldness, my nonchalance, my indifference to what others thought of me while I was flaunting my big bad self.

My sister sent me a text message the other day:  "I just looked in the mirror and thought, 'I'm cute!' Then I realized I am definitely your little sister!"

These kinds of revelations bring me joy.  I want my daughter to grow up with a healthy body image.  I hope I can always influence others to be comfortable within their own skin.  Current times demand skinnier bodies and lower fat (lower flavor) foods, and I think it is ridiculous.

And today I realized just how much I've still got an inexplicable body image, and probably always will.

As I was drying off, stark naked in the bathroom after a bath, I caught a glimpse of my post-pregnancy body in profile, only having lost 35 of the 70 pounds I put on.  This extra weight is not the solid, firm, heft I am used to carrying on my body.  It is rolly, poly, flabby excess weight that I certainly need to exercise back to a tighter state.

But, instead of lamenting my fairly new form, the first thought that went through my head was, "Huh, I kinda look like a Botticelli.