Gift Giving

I hate the unspoken rule that says that if you have a certain relationship with someone, you must give them a gift.
Why?
It creates a sense not of giving but of stress and anxiety.  It also has the potential to remove oneself from the person to whom they are giving a gift.
I am not a Christian (though I do think that Jesus was a pretty cool dude with a seriously awesome message.  Read Ghandi's quote on Christians).
But I do acknowledge that this holiday has been celebrated since long long before Jesus stepped onto the scene, and that it has always held significance in a vast multitude of cultures.  It is a very important time of the year, a rebirth if you will.
I also appreciate the idea behind giving freely to those you love, to putting thought into giving something personal to someone you know personally, without obligation or expectation.  There have been some key people in my life who have taught me this, and some not so key people who have shown me the opposite effect:  giving because you expect something in return, or giving so that you may repeatedly remind someone that you gave to him/her.  This happens at all times of the year, but at Christmas time, it seems the most relevant to discuss.

I did all of my shopping online this year, hallelujah.  I was finished before December began.  As I did my online shopping, I realized how much nicer it was to relax in my own home and truly think of what I wanted to get people I loved, what I really knew about them, how I felt about them, what I wanted my gift to them to say, especially because I knew I would be watching most of those people open up their gifts.

Interestingly, I have become more imbued with the Christmas spirit, i.e., the spirit of giving, through this process.  I know that a particular person is always cold, so I searched for scarves and pashminas online in a way that would have taken hours in retail stores.  Another person loves history, and another baseball, so searched for relevant gifts to give to them through various websites.

As I opened gifts this year and cried (remember I'm 6 months pregnant) at how well people know me (and even how well they know how I will feel about dressing my coming baby girl) I reflected back on all the gifts, big and small, that I have given and received, how the thought shines through as the receiver opens the gift, and how the existing bond becomes stronger.

Or, in the adverse situation, weaker.

This, to me, is the same as giving a dollar to the man on the street, or buying lunch for the woman begging outside the restaurant.  When we give, we must do so freely, because we see ourselves in others, because we are doing unto others as we would have others do unto us.  Giving is giving is giving, and if it is for selfish reasons, better to not give.

And so I vow, that from now on, whenever I give, I will seek to give in a way that lets the receiver know that I love him or her, that I have put thought into the gift, and that it brings me joy to give to him or her.

Or I just won't give.

In the words of the great Stephen Colbert:

"If this is going to be a Christian nation that doesn't help the poor, either we have to pretend that Jesus was just as selfish as we are, or we've got to acknowledge that He commanded us to love the poor and serve the needy without condition and then admit that we just don't want to do it."

On Being Fat

For the first time in my life I don't worry about my weight.
At least not in the same way I used to.  I think I'm a damn cute pregnant lady.  I wear this baby, and the accompanying weight, well.
Even before the pregnancy, I have only ever been concerned with being a healthy weight.  I never aimed for a particular size, or "look." For me, it has always been about how I felt physically, how fast or far I could run, how high I could climb, not leading myself toward heart disease or cancer.

My husband, on the other hand, is another story.
Last night, as we lay in bed in the dark, side by side, talking as we usually do before falling asleep, I mention to him that my family has been asking about his shirt sizes, as they prepare for Christmas shopping.
"I told them you think you're a large, even though you and I both know you're a medium."
"You told people to buy me a size medium?!"  He replies, alarmed.  "I'm going to have to squeeze into clothes like sausage into a casing!"
He's slightly overdramatic.
"Baby, I used to be a medium, before we started dating and you stuffed me," he explains.
"Well, at least I cook good food!"  I laugh.
"Ugh, I just worry that I'm going to gain too much weight and end up fat," he sighs.
"Come on, baby, let's be real.  My brother just looked up all of our BMIs the other day and you're perfectly fine.  As long as you stay in the 160s you have nothing to worry about," I reassure him.

Silence.

Then he says, quietly, seriously, "I'm 177."

Oh.  Oops.

Pregnant Women Really Are Crackheads

Well, at least first-time pregnant women.

Since I got my first real kick from the baby last Monday night, sitting in front of my computer, she (yes, we now know that she is a she) has been moving around quite a bit.
When we went in to have our ultrasound on Thursday, both the doctor and the ultrasound technician remarked on how active she was.
This kept up all the way until Saturday night, when she seemed to peak after having her daddy's spicy chipotle chicken dinner.
Kick, punch, head butt, elbow, knee.
This little one pound girl was moving and shaking to some spicy Mexican rhythm only she could hear.

Then Sunday came around.  And.... nothing.

I thought I felt the occasional kick or punch, but truly nothing compared with what I had felt throughout the week.

"Oh my gosh!  Was it the spicy food?  Was my bath too hot?"  I asked Carlos nervously.  "I mean, she's okay, I'm sure."  I said this more to assure him than myself, because all I needed at that point was for him to be freaked out too.

I spent the whole day trying to sit in positions in which I usually felt her best.  Then, I woke up multiple times throughout the night shifting and moving to see if I could detect a kick.

I could, of course.   She kicked me a few times in the night, but for some reason I had already driven off the cliff of sanity and could not calm myself down.

Now, to be clear, none of this stress or anxiety was apparent from the outside, but my psychological state was frantic.  On the inside, I was quaking.

I woke up this morning, smiled and kissed my husband goodbye... and looked up everything I could find on spicy foods and warm baths during pregnancy.
Obviously, neither of these things are a anything to worry about.  My baby is fine, and she began kicking away again today.
Apparently that hard surface I felt in my belly yesterday and last night when I would touch it was my baby's butt.  She had her back to my hand and her feet facing inward, so I couldn't feel all her rambunctious activity.

All this to say that now, honestly, what I'm "trying" to do most of all, is stay sane.

Fairy Tale Character

I never really thought of myself as a princess.
I certainly never imagined myself as living in some sort of fairy tale.

But yes, if I had to imagine my husband as a fairy tale character, I would likely have placed him among the Prince Charmings, the heroes, although certainly one of the nerdier, more comical ones.

Until last night.

My husband has been nursing the beginning of a cold for the last couple of days.  And when Carlos gets a cold, the cough is the worst cough he has ever had, he's colder than he's ever been, then he's hotter than he's ever been, his throat hurts worse than ever before, and on and on.
I'm used to this.  I make some chicken soup, heat him up some Theraflu and pet his head until he falls asleep under a mountain of blankets.  Kind of like a toddler.
Hey, it works for us.

This is the first time, obviously, I have experienced my husband with a cold and a pregnant wife.

"No!  Das okay!  I god id," he says through his stuffed nose with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he rushes to make himself tea before I can.

"Baby!  Sid down!  I'll take id," he insists, with same blanket wrapped around shoulders, hacking up a lung, as he carries our dishes to the sink.

"I'm fine.  I'm fine.  As long as I can still walk, I'll be fine."

To which I say, "Oh, yea, that's a great measure of health.  Can I walk?  Yep.  I must be fine."

But still, my hero, right?  He absolutely insists that he can still take care of both of us even with his wretched cold.

Then bedtime arrives.

He rubs himself all over with Vapor Rub, which he uses as a cure-all in the same way the father from My Big Fat Greek Wedding uses Windex.  He's not only wrapped in his shoulder blanket of the evening, but also buried under a mountain of covers in our bed, sweating profusely.  And this is all before he falls asleep.
So here I am, with an extremely sensitive sense of smell, overwhelmed by the menthol fumes, assaulted by the waves of heat pushing at me from his side of the bed.

And then the tossing and turning begins.
His knee continually comes *this* close to my belly as he thrashes about, tossing off covers, pulling them back on, trying to cuddle with me (don't you dare!), throwing one leg off the bed, scooting higher, then lower.
He can only breathe out of his mouth, in this panting, raspy, loud and labored breath, which conveniently lands directly on the back of my neck.
He sneezes repeatedly, elbows me in the rib at one point.  All of this while I am trying desperately to be patient and fall asleep.

Finally, after what seems like hours of sweet, loving, wifely toleration, I get up, wander into the kitchen and notice that it is only 12:30 AM!  It has barely been two hours.  I still have all night to deal with this.

It did eventually get better, and I got a couple of hours of sleep, as did my poor husband.

But this morning when I woke up, it hit me:

"I'm married to the seven dwarfs."

Mistakes and Regrets, Part 1

I have none.
Part of being a fighter is building on your weakness as well as your strengths.  I have fought long and hard to get to where I am now.  And today, of all days, I cry.  Like a weak, pathetic thing, I cry.
Why?
Mostly because I have enough hormones racing through me to make a statue of granite burst into tears.
But also because my mother cannot deal with the past.
My last post on this blog was a harsh look into my own past, which happens to also be her past.

This is not something for which anyone in my family should be unprepared.  I am the trouble maker.  I bring up history when everyone else would rather sweep it under the rug and smile and eat turkey.
Why do I do this?

"Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it."  ~Winston Churchill

I believe this as much as I believe in anything.  Unequivocally.

So too do I believe that I myself have made bad decisions in the past, and difficult decisions that make me sad to think about.  Am I happy that I didn't leave my first husband before starting a new love affair? Of course not.  But I don't know if I would have left that pointless relationship if not for the lust that drove me into the arms of another man, which ultimately led me to my independence, and the horrible karma I paid in return.
Do I look back with tears in my eyes at having made the decision to abort my first pregnancy?  Of course I do.  But I know beyond doubt that I would do it again, crying the whole way there and back.  It was not a good life for me or for a potential baby to be in.
I have traveled a rocky road, I have paid penance for hurts that I have caused.  I look into the past not with regret but with open eyes, determined not to retrace my steps, determined to be a better person going forward.  And what my mother doesn't understand is that she is one of the people that taught me to be this way.

Which brings me to the issue of the cycle.
I vow not to be wife to an abusive man.
I vow not to allow my children to be victimized by anyone.
I vow not to live in a loveless marriage.
I vow not to abuse drugs, to hit, to terrorize, to ignore, to pretend.

These are things I learned from the people around me, the people closest to me.  I learned how not to do what they did.  And yes, my mother is one of those people.
Does this make me love her less?
No.
I know she was a victim as I was, and broke the cycle in the only ways she knew how.
I also know that a failure to look back with eyes open, as well as a failure to face the present with the same clarity, condemns us to repeating, rather than breaking, the cycle.
And now it is my turn.

So, mom, and anyone else who has a problem with what I write, I'm sorry that people make us feel bad for wanting to understand our past.
I'm sorry that people deny us our truths.
I'm sorry that being hurt makes us want to hurt, even the innocent, in return.
I'm sorry that facing our own truths is like reopening a wound that won't seem to stop bleeding.
I'm sorry that it's easier to pretend than to take off the mask.

I know it is difficult to be the agitator.  I know it is crushing to confront a painful reality.  I know how hard it is to say "no" when everyone else is saying "yes," to say "listen" when everyone has their hands over their ears.
I know what it is like to be on the outside.
To hear over and over, "oh you're just being overdramatic."  (Yes, because it is highly overdramatic to be outraged at the memory of having my pants pulled down and spanked with the bare meaty palm of my stepfather at the age of 14, right before we leave for Disneyland, the happiest place on earth.)
I do not blame anyone for not wanting to live the life of the agitator.

But I learned who I wanted to be as a result of watching, and listening to, those closest to me.  Especially when the advice was cautionary.

"Be social.  Be strong.  Be a fighter.  Stand up for the weak.  Speak out for the voiceless.  Learn from my mistakes.  Be passionate in everything you do.  Write what you know.  Do as I say and not as I do."

Now, today, years later, you cannot be upset when my life clearly says, in response, "okay."

Why Do I Love the Rain?

Is it because bad things don't happen during colder times?
Certainly not.
My stepfather was just as violent, just as ferociously capable of tearing apart our household on a gloomy day as he was on a sunny one.  More so even.  He hated Christmas.
Is it because I have some inner sentiment that the bad guys of the world can't come out into in and hurt people in the rain?
Perhaps.
Perhaps I have some bizarre belief that good people looking for refuge can find it better in the rain, under cloud cover, in the middle of a chaotic storm when the evils of the world are consumed with themselves and with each other and only wait to prey on the innocent when we least expect it.
Yes.  I think that's what it is.
Bad things happen to good people on sunny days.  And it sucks to cry and be sad with the sun mocking you with its brilliant rays.  Happy children running through sprinklers and nice daddies washing their cars on the front lawn while your world is the antithesis of theirs, a world they never even imagined existed, something they read about in sad books or catch in a flash on the ten o'clock news.
"Girl Races Out Front Door After Being Repeatedly Stricken by Stepfather while Mother Looks On."

Oh, how horrible, they would say.  Look away, honey, there's nothing we can do for her, for people like that, they tell each other, as the sun turns their tans a soft golden brown.

She runs and she runs and the sun follows her everywhere she goes, shining a spotlight on her location, making her easy to find, easy to recover, easy for the police to say, "domestic dispute, troubled teenager, nothing to be done."

The sun shines down on the man punching his fist through the driver's side window of the car, punching to get to his wife trying to take her children and flee.  The sun shows him the way to come home early and catch them before they escape.  The sun gives him power.  The sun makes her scared.

So yes, I prefer the rain.  The rain makes me strong.  The rain makes me stand in the midst of it and dare you to come after me, dare you to try to find me, fight me, at my best.  Even if I cry, even if I'm afraid, you will never know, because the rain will hide me from you, will make me seem strong even when I'm at my weakest.  My curtains always block out the sun and stand open willingly, revealingly, for the rain.
I can feel at home anywhere in the rain, instantly.

The beaches are at their boldest in the rain.  The forests at their greenest and most magical.  The cities seem to equalize all of its citizens under their gray pallor.  Life begins with rain, and it can be wiped clean with rain.  You can't get to me in the rain.

Bring on the rain.

I Am Not In Control

I have been on my own for a long, long, long time.  Even before that, I was always taking care of people, having people in my life who need me.  And I got really good at being dependable, being needed, stepping up to the plate.  I have never really felt like I needed anyone, probably because from an early age I learned that there was not one person who would consistently and constantly be what I needed him or her to be.

This is not to say that there have not been, and are not now, amazing people in my life who have been there for me and helped me out when I was down.  For the most part, though, I have been alone in that way, and damn proud of it.

As a result, all of the intimate relationships I have had have always consisted of someone needing me, and me needing no one, refusing, outright, to depend on anyone.  I realize now that I was terrified of being let down.

Now, 19 weeks pregnant, I had the first real moment of clarity with regard to this life inside me and what this pregnancy means to the future of the family that my husband and I are forming.

Saturday morning I had a dizzy spell.  I must have gotten up too quickly, or not had enough water, or perhaps too much coffee, and my world spun for an instant and the little white lights danced on the periphery of my vision.
I sat down, had a glass of water, and the dizziness passed.  I decided to take it easy that day and had no real occurrences until Sunday morning.
I had another dizzy spell, this time while sitting down, and it scared me.  I had read that dizziness, even passing out, was quite common in the second trimester, but I had only had two other occasions in my life like this, once I had pneumonia that landed me in the ER and the other time was right before I found out I was pregnant with this baby.
What is worse is that those two times are the only times I have ever really felt utterly vulnerable, and the explanation was simple, and my vulnerability passed like a distant memory, or a vague dream.

This was different.  I had no control over what would happen with this pregnancy.  No ER will give me a prescription that assures I have no further pregnancy symptoms that leave me flat on my back.  There would be no quick fix for this vulnerability that I was suddenly feeling overwhelmed by.
My breaking point was when my husband was up and about in our apartment, cooking and cleaning, insisting that I take it easy and to let him handle everything.  He had just moved the bucket of Pine Sol water into the hallway right outside of the bedroom, so he could mop the bathroom floor and the smell of the chemical was overpowering to me.  I desperately wanted to open the window, but felt too faint to lift my head and then my body to get off of the bed and do it myself.  So, I called to him.

He came into the room, and I started crying.  Shaking my head and crying, unable to speak.

Finally, I asked him if he could please open the window.  "Of course," he said soothingly, sitting down on the bed and trying to get out of me what was so devastating.

"I just feel so....  so.....  so.... vulnerable.  So needy!"  I was crying, pitying myself and my pathetic plight.  He spent a while reassuring me, calming me down, as I explained to him through streams of tears and hiccups that I had never needed anyone before, and now I needed him.  I knew that to take care of my baby, I had to take care of myself, and now I realized that I couldn't do that alone.  I needed him.  I no longer had full control over my life, because my life was not solely mine anymore.

"Thank God," he said.  He explained to me that he had felt for so long that I would never let go of this utter and complete control that I insisted on having over everything in my life and let him be a "full partner."  I was amazed.  I hadn't realized that by not letting him really take care of me, by never trusting myself to really depend on him, I was withholding something from him.  He needed me to need him.  But, he said, he had held out hope.

"I remember one time, long before you were pregnant, you asked me if I thought you would be a cute pregnant lady."  He said this very quietly.  "And I remember thinking that I didn't know if you would be a cute pregnant lady, hadn't really thought about it, but that I thought you would be a vulnerable one.  I'm so glad I was right."

Disconcerted after all of these emotions and this entire conversation, and a little bit bothered with this new, needier self I was developing into, I wiped my eyes, blew my nose, looked him in the eye and asked him, quite seriously:
"So?  Am I a cute pregnant lady?"

Change

As I took my morning walk today (up to the top of rather large hill, I might add) I thought about all the things I've been "trying" to do for the last year.  This line of thought made me reflect on this blog and its original intent.  As of today, I am not longer "trying" to do the things that I was working so hard on less than a year ago.

I am pregnant.
I am actually finishing my thesis, as opposed to just trying to finish it.  (I dropped off my second chapter last night.)
I have abandoned the concept of community service for a year because my husband and I realized that we are just not in a position for me to devote so much time and effort outside the home, which would take away from my contributions to our household, for free.  For now, my unpaid service will go toward my family.
I have also, just recently (so recently that I even hesitate to type it now) abandoned the idea of continuing on into a PhD program.  There.  I did it.  I typed it.
This last one is primarily because I am having so much trouble imagining handing my infant over to a stranger that I have given up even trying.  (More on this later)

So, what now?  Do I end this blog entitled Life Can Be Trying?

I thought a lot about this, and then, moments before I sat down in front of my computer, it hit me.
I hope that I will always be trying.  Something.
Life is about change, and when one challenge has been overcome, one goal reached, I hope to always look for another.  A very close friend of mine told me once that when we stop learning we die, perhaps not physically, but certainly mentally, perhaps spiritually as well.
I realize that I am still "trying."  I'm just trying to get through different things.
I'm trying to be a responsible pregnant lady.  Yes, that involves huffing and puffing up hills.
I'm trying to stick to my writing deadlines.
I'm trying to be a blessing and not a burden on my household while I am not bringing in an income.
And on and on it goes, and soon, it will change again.

Carlos and I were talking in the car last night, coming back from dropping off my thesis chapter in San Francisco, about how much we've been through, how far we've come from violent and tragic childhoods and irresponsible, self-defeating young adulthoods, always feeling like we were climbing up a muddy hill, always sliding back down into the muck, never getting anywhere.  And we wondered if perhaps we are able to now move so steadily through our lives not in spite of, but because of the horrors we survived in the past.  It is an amazing thing to realize that you are no longer simply "surviving" but actually "living".  You take nothing for granted.

Now, we are overjoyed to be moving forward through life, climbing steps, sometimes small, sometimes big, through this amazing thing called life, always trying, always able to look back at where we've come from and be proud to have made progress.

Yep.  Life can be trying.  Thank goodness.

My Problem With Feminism and Women's Rights in General

The short version:  women cannot do it all.  Neither can men.  Difference:  Men don't kill themselves trying.

"Men are not the enemy, they are fellow victims.  The true enemy is women's denigration of themselves."  ~ Betty Friedan

The long version:
Since I began writing my thesis on what it means to be woman to my particular authors in my particular texts, the issue of feminism and women's rights has been one I have thought about more than I previously had.  Now that I am pregnant, this issue has taken a primary role in my thinking.  Of all the big world issues I think about, this one is now at the top of my list.
The biggest problem with women seeking equality as I see it is this:  what we have been so long seeking is not equality in its truest form but superhero status.
The latest blockbuster movie dealing with this point only proves my statement.  Sarah Jessica Parker is on billboards and talk shows lauding the superwoman for her new movie "I Don't Know How She Does It."  The bottom line?  She doesn't.
The women represented in and by this movie are exhausted, cranky, stressed, filled with guilt, and overall unsatisfied.  All the while trying to prove that we can do it all.  This is not me passing judgment on working mothers, these are words straight from their own mouths in any magazine or journal article or book on the subject, and just this morning on my Babycenter forum.
But to whom are we trying to prove it?  Men?
Men, in general, go to work, come home, and "help out" around the house.  Some men even go so far as to refer to it as "babysitting" when they stay home with their kids while their wives are out.
Then women are so grateful because their husbands say "thanks honey, I don't know how you do it, I never could, but I really appreciate what you do."
This, to me, is an outrage.
I'm not saying that women shouldn't work, or have families, or both, but we're not even trying to find balance!  And we're not insisting that men even acknowledge a need for it.
Countless women have told me they worry about how they will be thought of in the workplace for getting pregnant, waiting until the last possible moment to break the news.  A university professor recently spoke of her maverick status in the department for having a second child, while all other professors only had one.
A recent study in britain showed that the average full time working parent spends just 19 minutes a day with his/her child.  The same study also reported that only 6 percent of those women actually wanted to work full time, with the majority wanting to work part time and about twenty five percent wishing to be stay at home moms.
And this is the problem, as it stands today.  We fought for the right to work outside the home, and we got it.  We insisted we could do everything outside the home that men do.  And we were taken at our word.
But that is not equality.

"I have yet to hear a man ask for advice on how to combine marriage and career."  ~ Gloria Steinem

We forgot to fight for the right to have a true 50/50 partnership at home with our spouses.  We forgot to fight for things like telecommuting and jobshare or for working full time while men stay home more hours a week.  We forgot, and we continue to forget, to value ourselves as human beings who have a vested interest in our family lives and the raising of little human beings, as well as in our own personal growth as doctors, accountants, teachers, corporate executives, and so on.

I am not advocating that all women stay at home, or even work part time.  Perhaps some women should be focused on their careers, working 60-80 hours a week because they are the 6 percent that are truly happiest doing so, but then they should choose spouses who would like to stay home, or work part time, or simply not have children.  Not everyone should have children!
My point is that we should think about what we want when we fight for it, and if we push to break boundaries and break glass ceilings, we should make sure the boundaries and ceilings are fully broken and not dangling pieces of glass for us to cut ourselves on while we brag about having broken them.

I cannot say definitively what it means to be a "woman" (a question I'm working on for my thesis with no hope of actually answering), but I can say what it means to be equal, and we "women," simply put, have still not reached that status.  And it is never going to just be handed to us.  The women's movement is not over.  Feminism must be redefined yet again.  We were supposed to be fighting for choice.  I see little choice in women's lives today.

"Power can be taken, but not given.  The process of empowerment is in the taking itself."
~Gloria Steinem

the problem

The problem with believing that everything happens for a reason comes when you begin thinking that you know the reason everything happens.

I just listened to this evangelical christian woman from Texas talk on national television about how the blackbirds are falling from the sky in Bebe, Arkansas because Don't Ask Don't Tell was repealed.

Apparently, because Bill Clinton is from Arkansas, and the current governor of Arkansas supported repeal, God is punishing the blackbirds.

Idiot.

So let me be clear:  just because I don't believe in coincidence does not mean that for a second I profess to have any idea what the actual connections between events are.

I do not.

There's No Such Thing As Coincidence

I really believe this.

I don't believe there exists some giant male figure in the clouds (insert flowing white robes and beard here) who decides how justice will be handed down, or what rewards to give out.
I similarly don't believe in a little red man with a forked tail and a pitch fork stoking the fires of his domain (hell:  something else I don't believe in) and cackling viciously every time we make mistakes.
There are a lot of other things I don't believe in (like the Bogeyman) and many things I do (like miracles), but the universal law I believe in more than anything is that everything happens for a reason, which means, consequently, that there's no such thing as a coincidence.

I began this blog several months ago with the title "Life Can Be Trying" in an effort to let go of the stress that I was feeling about trying to accomplish so many things that are so important to me but that felt so out of reach.
The blog, among other things, helped me let go of pushing and struggling to reach these goals and just work hard and believe that if what I wanted was truly good for me, it would come.
Lo and behold, I sit here now with a firm deadline to graduate, confirmed by my advisor just today, with a baby in my belly, with the ability to stay at home and work on the things that are most important to me because my husband has a good job that supports us, with a solid lead on my application to the one graduate school which I aim to attend, and with a clarity to see the people around me as I never have before.  The minute I stopped pushing and started accepting, took off the blinders and began utilizing my vision in its entirety, everything changed.

I know that life will continue to be trying.  I also know that I will continue to face the challenges before me because I know that I have placed them there for some reason.
It is science, not religion, that teaches us Chaos Theory (that there is an underlying order to apparently random data), and Newton's Law of Motion (for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction).
How then, do we not apply this to our everyday lives?
We should.
The sooner we believe that everything we do means something, the sooner we become more conscious of each action we take.  And the sooner we begin to take more and better action.

"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat."
-Theodore Roosevelt

A Husband's Mishaps

At the Hayward Farmer's Market Saturday morning, after picking up some lovely, bright red tomatoes, and some large, plump peaches, my husband and I wandered over to the honey booth, with the vendor explaining loudly in spanish to a potential customer that his honey was the freshest, the best, the highest quality.
"Maybe I can use honey instead of agave for my chai tea in the morning, honey," I said as I stepped in for a closer look.
"Oh, babe, we have to get this kind,"  he assured me, pointing to the little plastic carton containing honey still in the comb.
"Really?  Is it good?"  I asked this question even as I was imagining this wonderful sweet, crunchy comb of honey that I could bite into like a great snack, and that would melt into my tea, thickening it with the honeycomb, as he essentially described precisely what I was imagining.

Cut to this morning and my husband furiously scooping melted wax off of the top of my tea despite the fact that he is running late for work.
"I'm so sorry, baby.  Real honeycomb would have been just like I described."

It's actually kind of cute to watch my husband try to make up for his mistakes.

"It's not the end of the world"

My youngest sister recently said this to me in regards to the fact that I'm pregnant, as if I was being ridiculous in expecting love and support, and yes, a little tolerance and empathy, through this process.

Of course, I know that teenagers are generally self absorbed, selfish and snarky, and my sister is definitely still a teenager, but it still hit me pretty hard, and I have been thinking (see: overanalyzing) that statement ever since.

And as I was walking around Hayward this morning, stopping to pick up a movie to rent later this evening, to buy some chips and avocados for the homemade nachos I'm planning to serve with our screening for two of Thor, to visit my local Starbucks and try the new Pumkpkin Spice Latte (decaf) and Pumpkin Scone that another of my sisters highly recommended, I realized how I felt about that caustically made remark.

Yes, it is the end of the world.  My world.  So much so that it is almost laughable, at least smile-able.  Normally, on a Friday night, I would be out dancing, or having cocktails, or wandering into the nightlife of a local big city.  I would be ordering take out, or going to a restaurant.  I would sure as hell order that latte with as much caffeine as they could load in, and honestly, I would not have wandered wistfully around the streets of Hayward for more than an hour thinking about how cute my city is.
I am barely 12 weeks pregnant and already my vision has shifted.  I see things differently.  I want different things.  I don't stay in now because I can't go out, but because I simply no longer have the desire to.  I don't eat in more now because I can't go to a restaurant, or can't afford to, but because I feel best putting food I make into my body.
Lights shine brighter, the air smells sweeter, the future holds so many more possibilities, and you know what?  I like the end of that other world.
For 32 full years I have given and given, always putting others first, actually searching out people to serve and to take care of.  Now, for the first time, I'm putting myself first.  Again, it's funny to say that now, because the reality is that putting myself first really means putting my unborn baby first, but so be it.
It is the end of the world.
And I'm so glad.
I love this new world I live in, and I'm looking forward to it only getting better.
Which means, of course, that I have no energy, or space, or patience, for negativity, for meanness, for snarkiness, or for selfishness.  Nor do I have time to feel bad about that.
It is, after all, the end of the world.

planning

So, far from planning what I will do when my baby arrives,  I have been planning fun activities and projects for my last trimester, which happens to be right after my graduation in December.  I'll be completely free to do whatever I want with no lingering thesis imperatives hanging over my lazy head.  Of course, many of my projects involve planning on planning for the arrival of my baby.
Three months is enough time for that, right?
But, I also have been planning some yoga, some cheap novel reading, some television show DVD rentals, like Madmen and Dexter (my dad and my sister swear it's a good show), organizing and adding to my iTunes playlists, and the latest and most exciting addition to my list of pre-birth to-do's is, wait for it...... reliving my childhood by playing old Nintendo games!
My sister just revealed to me that she went through her own nostalgic craze of actually hunting down an NES (yep, that's the very first one) and all the old games we used to play, Super Mario Bros. 1, 2, and 3, Duck Tales, Legend of Zelda, Donkey Kong Jr., and so on, on EBay and has them hidden away in her closet collecting dust now.
She promised she will give it all to me for Christmas (I told her not before then, or I'll never finish my thesis).
So form a mental picture, because I've certainly got one, of me, my large pregnant belly, and my large orange and white striped cat hanging out in my future nursery and playing Super Mario Bros.  Oh, it's probably safe to include some sort of delicious snack in that picture, too.
God bless all the little sisters of the world.  They keep us young.

The Granny Cart, Part 2

So I did plan better this time.  I took back roads and avoided gravel.  Fortunately this plan also helped me avoid some of the crazies I run into on my daily walks (although they can also be highly entertaining).

I did see an actual granny pushing a granny cart across the street from me.  I wondered for a moment if I was seeing through a rip in time and actually watching myself in 50 years.  Hmmmm.

The problem this time was that since I have my large clan of brothers and sisters coming to stay this weekend, I bought way more than the GC was prepared for, and I rolled home with an eight pack of toilet paper balanced precariously on the top of piled high grocery bags sitting on top of half gallons of juices and milks and coffee and melons.

Needless to say, I got my workout in for the day.  As did the Granny Cart.

The Granny Cart

Carlos bought me what I like to call a granny cart at the flea market a few months ago.  He didn't like to think of me hauling groceries up 4 flights of stairs, and in gratitude I have used it ever since.  I keep the granny cart in my car and use it to take the grocery bags from my car up the elevator to my apartment.  It's much easier.
Today, I got it into my head to walk to the store with the granny cart and granny cart the groceries all the way home.  Trader Joe's is about a 20 minute walk from my house, and I thought, "well, since I want to exercise, and I need a few things from the store, I'll kill two birds with one granny cart."  No big deal, right?
Wrong.
It took me twice the time I thought it would.  Apparently, I should have factored in having to wheel the cart  into my calculations.  Part of the trip is over gravel and dirt, so you can imagine the rickety, rackety shaking of the poor wire basket on wheels.  Some lady wanted to touch my pineapple.  A shirtless man in his sixties on a bike with the butt of a cigarette stuck between his lips veered way too close to the cart and me.  And the traffic lights change much too quickly for me and my cart to get across the street.
Needless to say, it was an adventure.
In the end, I did get my groceries, and I got my exercise.
I'm not giving up on this idea.  But next time I will plan better.

Time to think

I remember a few years back I read The Blithesdale Romance by Nathaniel Hawthorne.  Essentially, all of these writers in the nineteenth century thought of this great idea:  they would move to a plot of land with a spacious cabin on site, where they would work the land all day for their food and keep, each performing important tasks for the good of the communal life, and at the end of the day, they would be so inspired by their work that they would spend the evening writing.
The plan did not work out so well, you see, because they quickly realized that after a long day of hard work, their brains were far too exhausted to even make an attempt at creativity.
I learned this lesson first hand over the last few months.
Right before I began work teaching full time for the summer, I had been actively reading and writing every day, excited to get up and get into it, completely uninterested in the television and other mundane distractions.
Alas, after my first week of grueling teaching for 40 plus hours a week, I had lost all interest in creativity.  I didn't want to read anything of import.  I wanted cheap and easy, lust filled, give-it-up-on-the-first-page paperback novels that required little thinking and less effort.  Television once again became a much needed escape from my pounding head.  I didn't even want to bake!
Perhaps worse, I was too tired to stay actively interested in what was going on in the world, in society at large.
So, a week back into my freedom, I have come to the realization that if at all possible, I will never drown myself in work again.  I will never chase my creativity away.
A long, long, long time ago, I lost myself completely, forgetting my dreams, my goals, what had really mattered to me, making a difference.  And I lost that girl for a long period of time, years.
This summer, losing just a tiny part of myself shook me to the core.
It was certainly an experience.  One that I hope never to repeat.
I think when we lose ourselves, we cease moving forward.
And I love moving forward.

From Sturdy Stock

Today is my grandmother's birthday.

She's getting up there in age, but you wouldn't know it to talk to her, to see her, to shop with her.
She got married at 16.  She was, like the infamous DJ Quik, born and raised in Compton, CA.  She was actually Compton's beauty queen.  She got bored and left her husband for the milkman after having her first two children, the oldest of which is my dad.  She had two more children with that mean bastard.  That's what we call him even 20 years after his alcoholism-induced death:  that mean bastard.  The oldest of those two children is my aunt.

These two women are two of the best friends I have ever had in my entire life.    They are also two of the strongest women I have ever met in my life.  My grandmother went on to marry again, and, wouldn't you know it, actually found love that time around, but then had to bury him a few years ago.

She has survived, and thrived, through two different kinds of cancer, a horribly painful bad hip that finally got replaced long after it should have, falling through all-glass shelving face first, and a broken wrist, and that's just in the last decade.  I called her up today and spoke to both her and my aunt and instantly felt a rush of pride.

These women, after all the pain, both physical and emotional, still have their sense of humor, are quick to laugh, even at their own expense, and continue to reach out and find reasons to be interested in me, a granddaughter and niece who does not call or write as often as I should, much less visit.

These are the women who have taught me to keep fighting even when it feels hopeless.  These are the women who have patched me up when I have fallen and then pushed me back into the fray stronger than before.

During my senior year of college I was struggling to graduate with a part-time job and a 24 unit quarter that included 5 final essays for classes in three different languages.  I was frustrated.  I wanted so bad to graduate suma cum laude and I needed all A's to do it.
Randomly, my grandmother called me, for no reason, just to check on me, in the middle of my desperation about which she knew nothing.
I spilled my guts to her, unloading the full weight of my frustration, and she said to me something that I remember distinctly today.
Calmly, in her sweet, sing-song voice:
"Honey, you can only do one thing at a time.  So no matter how overwhelmed you might feel, just line up all your tasks and complete them one at a time.  You'll get them all done, and you'll do them well.  I know you will."
It has been two years since that phone call.  I did graduate suma cum laude.  I got my A's.  And I did do the incredible amount of tasks I had, one at a time.

I think about what she's been through, the life that she must reflect on, and wonder how it is she always knows the right thing to say.  And how it is that those words, those moments, that strength, those memories, stick with me, and come to mind when I need to recall them.
I am now facing a similar situation to my senior year in college, here in my last year of an M.A. program (how do I keep getting myself into this?) and today, on her birthday, I remembered those words as I began letting the overwhelmed feeling rise up in me.  One thing at a time, Shanna.  One thing at a time.
And then I remembered it was her birthday, and, for the millionth time, I silently prayed that I have inherited her survivor's spirit, her wisdom, her sense of humor, her strength, and yes, her wild, rebellious, restless soul.
This is what I come from.  Sturdy stock.

Happy Birthday, Granny.

Confessions of an Ex-Fat Girl

Yep.  I am prepared to officially call myself a jogger, and I will tell you why.

About 7 years ago, I was fat.  And for the first time, I am also prepared to own that title.  I peaked at about 200 pounds of fluffiness.  On a 5'2" frame, that's fat.  My mother, God love her, used to respond to my question "Do you think I'm fat?" with, "Well..... I mean, you're overweight for sure, but I wouldn't call you fat."
Thanks mom.

My ex-husband used to tell me, frequently, "I love your body.  You're perfect the way you are."
Thanks honey.  Hence the divorce.

I was oblivious.  I ate what I wanted, when I wanted, as much as I wanted, often.  And I called myself:  chunky.  "I'm a little teapot," I would say, and if you look at pictures of me back then, I really, really resembled one.

Finally, at the age of 25, in more ways than one, the world open up to me, which led to my eyes opening up to the world, and I realized that I, the girl who used to be able to outrun even the boys in school, who used to play softball, and play it hard, could not even climb the four flights of stairs in my apartment building without my back hurting and my lungs aching.
Thanks ice cream, and Doritos, and seconds of dinner, and thirds of dinner.

I wanted my body to work for me again.  It was much more about that than about some body image I had.  Heck, I thought I was a cute chunky butt.  I was!  But my body didn't work for me anymore.

My journey began with being more active again, but not really watching what I ate, and I dropped 20 pounds right away, and kept it off for good.
A couple of years later, I was hovering around 170, and I joined Weight Watchers, which was a revolutionary approach to weight loss to me, a girl who had never dieted:  Be active and practice portion control.  Essentially, that was it.
It also helped that by this time I had met and married Carlos, the most supportive and inspirational person I have ever met who, instead of telling me that I was perfect, would say, "If you're unhappy with being overweight, do something about it."  Hmmmm.... what a concept.
Thanks honey.  No, really.  Thank you.
Now, here I am, 3 years from that point, having lost, in total, over 60 pounds, and officially prepared to call myself a jogger.
This was a long, hard road, filled with setbacks and obstacles.  But in the end, I was and am driven by the need to make this amazing machine that I have been given to work with, my body, do its best, perform to the best of its ability, and give me the hundred years of life that my great-grandmother is reaching toward now.
This morning, I sat watching Rachel Maddow after breakfast, finishing off my coffee and thinking of all the reasons why I didn't really need to get out and jog today.  Then, my body took over and reminded me that I don't jog because I need to.
I jog an hour a day, most days of the week, because finally, after all this hard work, after months of forcing myself to get out, after years of intermittently dragging myself through walks, hikes, bike rides and yoga poses, years after this all began, jogging just feels great.

Yep.  I'm a jogger.

Roughing It

I camped.  I saw.  I conquered.

We go somewhere different every year.  This year we headed to Clear Lake State Park and stayed at the Kelsey Creek Campground, right on the lake.  We like to try to swim.  Although after six years of this now I'm realizing that there are very few spots within driving distance of the Bay Area that are conducive to swimming in late May.  But I haven't given up on finding that perfect spot.

This year was a bit different.  We temporarily (I hope) lost 2 of our usual camping cohort, and we picked up 3 new companions.  The dynamic was very different, and I must say, overall even more enjoyable than usual.  This is not to say that our 2 missing friends were not terribly missed, because they definitely were, or that I have any intention of inviting every single person back next year, because I definitely do not.  But each year teaches me something new about what it means to camp and something new about myself.

These are the lessons I learned this year:
Don't forget the pillows!
Luckily one of our friends had extras and we were able to borrow them, but not having a pillow when you're already sleeping on the ground is a nightmare.  I will not make this mistake again.  I swear it.
Don't drink beer.
Beer is just too damn filling, I drink it too damn fast, and I get a horrible hangover accompanied by a headache, which is not good for wanting to actually do anything but drink more the next day.  For some reason, I don't have this problem with liquor.
Do find a jogging trail.
This was the first time I ventured out on my own to do some jogging while camping and the trail was fabulous.  I found myself all alone in the middle of the state park jogging along at a brisk pace in the cool air surrounded by trees and awesome views.  I felt like I was in a tennis shoe commercial.  Very nice.
Bite your tongue.
This is actually a life-long trial of mine.  Anyone who knows me can testify to the fact that I have no verbal filter.  I have a very dependable tendency to just say whatever I'm thinking (drives Carlos crazy, the poor dear).  Combine this flaw-in-progress with some beer (see above lesson about beer) and a very young "macho" brat and camping trips, not to mention friendships, can quickly, easily, and efficiently be ruined.
Stick with what works.
There are some things that we have consistently done every year that work and continue to work and just  make for an all around great time:
We always set our tent up facing the fire pit, not too far away.  This way, if I'm not feeling well, or I am hiding from the rain, or I'm just too damn cold to stay outside, I can sit at the entrance of my tent, drink in hand, bundled up in blankets, and still visit with all the brave souls standing in the rain around the campfire.
We also always find a hiking trail that gives us an excuse to get off our butts and work up an appetite for all the great food that we bring.  This year's was fun and beautiful, but not too hard, so everyone enjoyed it.
We bring music!  This can lead to fun games, silly discussions, bizarre serenading, or just, you know, listening to good music.  Always a good thing.
Finally, we always stop on the way home for breakfast.  We have found some fabulous spots (this year was no exception) and we have found some horrible spots, but it's always nice to have one last moment together with the people that you have spent a weekend in nature with.  We have the chance to reminisce, to reflect, to laugh, and to lament as a group one final time before the breakup of a group that may never get together in this current incarnation again.

In the end, it was a good weekend overall, and the lesson I have learned that is most important, and that I will continue to try to learn, is to be flexible and keep learning lessons.

Integrity

Once a year, on Memorial Day weekend I go off into the woods, usually near a large body of water, sometimes the ocean, with my husband and a few of our friends and escape.  I spend weeks planning, preparing, shopping, cooking, baking, so that when we arrive, I can do as little as possible and let the boys be boys, grilling, drinking beer, hiking, and all that fun stuff.  I sit and watch and laugh and relax.  Needless to say, I am looking forward to this weekend.

But before I go, I want to say something about integrity.

As I sit here waiting for fresh peanut butter cup cookies to come out of the oven, for my load of whites to finish drying in the dryer downstairs and for the frijoles a la olla to finish simmering, I am kind of watching this movie "Nothing But the Truth".  A female reporter is held in contempt and placed into jail for refusing to reveal her source on a very political, very "national security" story.
As this woman sits in jail, her lawyer has expensive lunches, the judge drinks tea imported from Greece, her son turns 8, her husband has an affair, and the world has forgotten to even care that she is in jail.
I haven't finished the movie yet because the oven timer went off, the dryer buzzed, and my olla needs stirring, but I hit pause right after a quote that I have to share:

"A man leaves his family to go to jail to protect a principal, and they name a holiday after him.  A man leaves his children to go fight in a war, and they erect a monument to him.  A woman does the same thing, and she's a monster.  If we back down what are we saying.... Trust reporters as long as they're not mothers because they'll crack?"

Now, this movie of course comes with the note that it is inspired by true events, but I don't think that point is as important as the one being made above.

It makes me think about all of the things in the world that are so obvious, that everyone knows and acknowledges, yet does nothing about.

Teachers are underpaid and under-appreciated.

Women must live according to a double standard.

Racism still exists.  And thrives.

Corporations control the United States of America.

Integrity is a dying character trait.

When I began watching this movie I understood clearly the message about integrity, about standing up for what you believe in, no matter the consequences.  But until now I hadn't been thinking about the implications of those consequences for women.

Integrity is something that defines a person from moment to moment.  Interestingly enough, it can be lost in an instant and is often not so swiftly recovered.  Every decision we make strengthens or weakens our integrity, and I believe that at some point, one's integrity can become so weak as to break, and when this rupture occurs is when words like "practicality" and "realistic" come into play.  As if to hold on to one's integrity is to be unrealistic, to be idealistic.  I have often heard people say that idealism is for the young, so maybe I am still too young to be realistic.

But I don't think so.

I have been tested, and I have failed.  Miserably.

I have also succeeded, won, prevailed.  It seems to me that the more you practice defending your integrity, at standing up for what you believe in, at doing the right thing, the better you get at it.  Which is not to say that you will never falter, or fail, again, only that you will then know what it takes, what it feels like, to get back.

But all of these things I knew already.

Now I sit in awe at women who do the right thing even when their children's well-being has come into question, when the world has turned on them, when their husbands no longer support them, when other women cannot empathize with them, yet they know with every fiber of their being that they are doing the right thing.

And I vow to have empathy, to listen when their stories are told, to speak up for them, to shout if necessary, when others would close their ears and to tell their stories in turn.  For who are we without empathy?  I am convinced that without empathy we become a world without integrity.

So, on this Memorial Day weekend, here's to believing that one can both be realistic and have ideals.  Here's to fighting for what you believe in and having empathy for others who do the same. 

Here's to integrity.

The Evolution of a Thesis

Constructing a thesis is a grueling job.  Anyone that says different is trying to fool you, or him/herself.

I have been "working" on my thesis for 5 months now and I have not written one complete page.

What I do have is an approved prospectus that I am no longer happy with and an outline that has undergone "construction" several times and is currently undergoing "expansion."

I have entertained the idea that I just simply suck at this.  That I should have gone for the optional "reading list" instead of attempting to tackle an 80-90 page thesis.

But as I sit here with my novels in front of me, with the research piled up in another room, with my desktop crowded with articles on the 3 topics I will (eventually) write about, I realize that this is part of the process. That I am where I should be.

I realize that I chose these novels to talk about because they mean something to me.  That I chose to write a thesis because I have something to say about what they mean to me.  And finally, that I am having so much difficulty committing words to paper because of how important it is to me that I say it right.

This will be the first body of work written by me, left for virtually anyone to read, and it will represent me, who I am and how I think at this point of my life, for the rest of my life.  (That's scary!)

I think I'll take my time

Hello?

This is my first time blogging and I'm suffering from a bit of stage fright.  I suppose I have prepared myself sufficiently by being a facebooker for the last year, which also took some getting used to, but I still find I sit here blankly for a moment or two before being able to punch these little keys.  Carlos, that's my husband for those of you who don't know, thinks I'm bizarre for wanting to post my thoughts, anxieties, and mini-dramas on the internet for any and all to see.  I, on the other hand, have followed a couple of female friends' blogs, and I find their descriptions of their seemingly commonplace situations fresh, funny, and smart.  I only hope mine come across in the same way.  


My current predicament is this:  family reunion.  


'Nuff said?


Well here's the deal:


I have a family reunion coming up that involves my very large extended family of cousins, aunts, aunts' husbands, parents, grandparents, and even a great grandmother who is in her nineties!  The problem is I have just finished up a semester of a very low-paying (practically volunteer) part-time teaching assistantship and will not be working again until, you guessed it, the week of the family reunion.  So, I am out of money, can't afford to take time off (if my summer working schedule would even allow such a thing), the California Franchise Tax Board has conveniently seen fit to "misplace" my tax returns (there goes my refund for who knows how long) and to add insult to injury, the trip happens to land on both my great grandmother's and my little brother's birthdays.  Oh!  And it will be my niece's first trip to Disneyland.  My only niece.  The adorable little 1 year-old toddler seen in my profile pic.  And my brother and sisters are not sweet and understanding about my possible inability to make the trip.


Bottom line, if my money tree doesn't grow in quickly and my teaching job doesn't happen to leave me with that weekend off, I'm totally screwed.