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.

Apathy

I have never thought of myself as apathetic.  On the contrary, I have always considered myself quite compassionate and empathetic.

Yesterday, after a short hike at Lake Chabot, my husband, my sister, my baby and I all stopped in to the local Starbucks in San Leandro before heading over to the farmer's market so that we could get some coffee, and I could feed my baby.

As I began to nurse, I watched through the window as a homeless man in a ratty suit approached each car in the drive-thru, seemingly to ask for money.  Then he entered through the front door and proceeded to ask each and every customer in the quite packed coffee house if we could "help him get a bite to eat."

Here I am, baby on the boob, irritated.

Not at the man for asking.  For I do believe that that is his right.  This is what we get for living in a free country.  The right not to work.  The right to slowly spiral downward in society.  Or perhaps the right to simply stay in the poverty-stricken situation into which one was born.  Of course we also have the right to be subjected to rules, laws, and regulations that are increasingly designed to ensure that each of us stays in our proper caste.  But that is a, much longer, blog for another day.  We also have the right to ask people for money.

It does not hurt me to be asked.  It does not make me ashamed that I can buy myself a grande decaf soy one pump vanilla latte and a couple of chocolate hazelnut tarts while this man begs for fifty cents.  In this moment I cannot fully comprehend his situation, and he cannot fully comprehend mine.

But I was highly irritated that the six Starbucks employees did nothing about protecting their customers from this encounter.

And I find myself wondering what this says about me.  Why do I feel the need to be protected?

"First of all, it doesn't bother me."  Says my husband.  "But let's just not go back to that Starbucks.  It's ghetto anyway.  That way you don't have to see that."

And I think that's what bothers me.  The implication that somehow because I expect to be left alone while drinking my coffee and breastfeeding, that I would "rather not see" the harsher realities of life in this country.

I know this is not the case.  I will go back.  And I will complain again, as I did the first time, if it happens again, to the Starbucks employees that they did nothing to keep this solicitor outside the building where he belongs as long as he is soliciting.

For this is what I think it boils down to: if he were selling Girl Scout cookies, or vacuum cleaners, or knock-off Rolex watches, he would have been quickly asked to stand outside on the free public streets where we can all respond to him as we will.  But because he was begging, he is somehow off limits to the unspoken rules of what is appropriate.  Or even the clearly written rule on the door that says "No Solicitors."

In the end, I am still left wondering if all of this makes me apathetic.  Despite the fact that I would not have minded at all to be approached outside, and that I may have given him money or food if I had either.  Because my husband, saint that he is, was not bothered at all, and in all seriousness was lamenting the fact that he did not have a dollar to give the man, I now question my empathy and re-evaluate my apathy.

Damn Carlos.

I'm a What?

"You're a chicken." My husband says this to me as we're snuggling into bed, my 11 week-old daughter between the wall and me and Carlos on the other side.
"I'm a what?"

The last 11 weeks have been challenging, trying, let's say, at the very least.  First the crazy, way off script, labor and birth, then a colicky baby, then adjusting to life as a stay-at-home mom.
Now, you might think, big deal, it can't really be hitting you yet, Shanna.  Most women, even the most ambitious, career-minded, are home with their babies for the first few months.
But let me tell you, it's hitting me.  At this time each year I would either be gearing up for massive amounts of summer school classes plus work or massive amounts of summer teaching.  Currently, I'm preparing to work Saturdays and Sundays for the summer while my husband stays home with our daughter, so I can be home with her throughout the week.

Like many, many other things that I planned before delivering this beautiful little cherub, the reality is quite different.  I planned to be a stay-at-home mom.  I did.  But my pre-baby definition of this was that I would teach one or two classes each semester somewhere, somehow.  I'd hope for nights and weekends but worst case scenario,  my daughter might be in on-campus daycare for, what, ten hours a week, max.  Right?
Wrong.

After graduating with my Master's degree and before having my baby I had applied to two community colleges as an adjunct, temporary, English instructor, thinking along the above lines.
A few days ago, I received a rejection letter from one of those establishments.
And as I ran through the gamut of mixed emotions on being rejected (REJECTED!), I realized that aside from the ego crush, and the irritation that this was my own alma mater rejecting me, I was relieved.
Why?
Because I just can't imagine leaving the tiny little human I recently ejected from my body with strangers.
Hell, I don't even want to leave her with her father for the 10 weekends this summer that I will be teaching.  And he's great with her!

"I'm telling you, Carlos, if anything ever happened to you, I would move right home with my mother, or down with my aunt and grandmother, so I could be home with Celaya as much as possible and have good, loving help with her.  She needs me with her as much as possible,"  I say to him as we're our for a walk one night.
"Right, I get it Shanna.  You've told me this a thousand times.  I just want to know, why does something have to happen to me!?"
"Haha," I laugh.  "I'm just sayin'."

So, I have come to the conclusion that writing, tutoring, and odd teaching jobs are what is best for me and my mini-family for the foreseeable future, and I have adjusted my (constant) planning and calculating accordingly.  Apparently, when I said I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, I really meant it.  If it isn't me or my husband watching Celaya, then it just doesn't work for me.

So, after going through all of this with my husband and him having watched me with our daughter for the last few months, this is what he comes up with at eleven o'clock at night.

"Dogs, they kinda just sit there and watch their puppies wander around, not hyper-focused, kinda lazy.  I mean, yea, they jump up if they have to, but they definitely sit back and let the puppies do their thing.
"Cats, hey, once those kittens can walk, they lose interest altogether.  They just seem really removed from their babies.
"Bears, same thing.  Those little cubs are always wandering around pretty far from their mamas.
"In fact, I grew up around a lot of animals and they all seem to have this very removed attitude toward their young.
"But not chickens, man.  Chickens are on constant guard with their chicks.  And if you even think of getting close to one of those chicks, here comes mama clucking, with her feathers up, chasing after you like a crazy animal!  Just to watch them walking anywhere, she's always got her chicks all in a row, she  always knows where they are, and she's always checking to make sure they are where they should be."

"Hm."  I say, falling asleep with my baby in the crook of my arm, getting the picture.

"That's you, babe.  You're a chicken."

So.  There you have it.  I'm a chicken.

A Labor of Love. A Nightmare of Epic Proportions.

My pregnancy was as perfect as can be.  I had no morning sickness, no nausea, no constant uncomfortability, even as my body swelled with water and my feet took on the appearance of giant opaque sausages squeezing into socks and shoes.

Even my labor was pretty perfect.  The contractions were not out of the world horrific, even after being given Pitocin, the pain was extreme, but manageable.

The delivery, on the other hand, was almost something out of a Lifetime movie.  Had anything been one second off, one action different, one procedure not taken, I could have ended up with an unhealthy, or dead, baby, sitting in a lawyer's office, seeking my day in court, aiming for legislation against the severe use of drugs in cesarean sections.

I am not a medical professional.  I don't even know any medical professionals.  But I know that the anesthesiologist charged with the care of me and my baby was in the wrong.  I feel it in my gut.  Thank God, the gods, heavens, the universe, and the prayers and beliefs of myself, my husband, and our families, that my daughter is also perfect, healthy, getting fatter every day (we're already moving up to the next diaper size!), and is a very happy baby.

As a writer though, how can I not write a letter to the hospital, especially considering they sent me a request for feedback survey?

So here it is:

April 11, 2012

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing this letter in response to your request for feedback on my experience at your hospital, although, to be honest, this letter would have been forthcoming regardless. 

Overall, I would have to say, as I indicated on the survey, that my experience at Eden was wonderful.  The nursing staff both in Labor and Delivery and Post Partum was friendly, warm, helpful, and knowledgeable.  The doctors from my group, Bay Valley Medical Group, all performed above and beyond my expectations.  My birth plan was followed as best as can be expected given my circumstances, and the hospital itself was a wonderful environment in which to bring my baby into the world.

Having said that, my experience was irrevocably and horribly tainted by the anesthesiologist and his part in my labor and birth. 

I arrived at Eden Medical Center with a broken water bag on Friday, March 16, around noon, and was checked in efficiently to prepare to have my baby.  I labored until well after midnight only to have my baby not descend, which led to our decision to try to help her along with Pitocin.  I continued to labor until around 10:00 AM Saturday, March 17, at which point my daughter still had not descended and my cervix had barely dilated past 3 cm.  Due to my hope to avoid a cesarean section, I opted for an epidural, planning to labor a bit longer and work toward full dilation and a descended baby.

The epidural took quite a while to place and it began to wear off within just a couple of hours, at which point I began to feel the intensity of my contractions once more.  I am sorry to say, I do not remember the name of the anesthesiologist; I was in so much pain.  My doctor finally declared that a cesarean section would be the best option at this point and explained to me that I would be taken to the operating room and given an increased dose of epidural, and that possibly the epidural would need to be replaced, but that it was highly unlikely that I would undergo general anesthesia as this was not an emergency procedure and we were in no rush.  My husband was given scrubs and told that he would be brought into the room in about 5 minutes. 

I was wheeled into the operating room and given an additional dose of epidural.  Unfortunately, upon testing my abdomen, I could still feel everything.  I was then given another dose, and again, I could still feel everything.  At that point the anesthesiologist told me I would be put to sleep, he placed a mask over my face and I was unconscious within seconds. 

From what I understand, I was given Ketamine, it took 6 minutes to get my daughter out of my womb and she was born unable to breathe on her own.  She was intubated and Children’s Hospital of Oakland was called to transport her there.  My husband sat in my labor room waiting for someone to come get him for 30 minutes, with no clue as to what was happening with his wife and daughter.  When he finally did hear something, the anesthesiologist led him to a window on the other side of which he saw his unconscious wife being worked on and the body of his lifeless daughter being attended to.  When I woke up I was told my daughter was being transferred, she was wheeled into my room in an incubator and sent off to Children’s.  Shortly after she arrived at Children’s, she was breathing fine on her own and had no other health problems of which to speak aside from slight jaundice. 

It is my belief that my daughter’s complications were the result of the drugs that were heavily administered to me without thought or concern for the well being of the infant inside me.  I had a completely uncomplicated pregnancy and labor and my daughter was, by all accounts, perfectly healthy until the cesarean procedure began.

I was unable to hold my daughter, or even touch her, until Monday, two days later, when I was checked out of Eden a day early.  I was so drugged still after my cesarean section I could barely keep my eyes open until the next day.  My daughter remained in Children’s Hospital for observation until Wednesday, for a full 4 days, despite being a perfectly healthy baby.  She was fed from a bottle, given a pacifier, and without the constant attention of her parents for 4 full days.  These are all circumstances which I had been adamantly against in planning for the birth of our child.      

The end result of this blissfully planned for event was that my husband and I lived a nightmare for days on end, all because, in my opinion, the anesthesiologist decided to administer Ketamine and put me under, instead of taking the time to replace my epidural.  I place the blame fully on him, and I hold the hospital responsible for having such an irresponsible, unprofessional employee on staff. 

I will be writing a letter to my local newspaper.  I have never posted anything on Yelp, but you can rest assured, I certainly will now.  I will include this in my online blog, and I will spread this story as far and wide as it will travel.  This never should have happened to me, and it was entirely preventable.  I hope to help ensure it does not happen to anyone else.

Shanna Mathews-Méndez

Let Me Get This Out Now While I Still Can

The wonders of pregnancy are many.

As a student of literature and someone highly inquisitive I have read and read and read about all of the many forms that pregnancy may take, from morning sickness and swollen feet to exhaustion and cesarean sections.  I have also researched motherhood and infancy, what is best for baby and what is best for the family dynamic.  Along with my gut feelings about all of these things and how to respond to them, I feel I have a good grasp on how to handle this new journey in my life.

And then there are things no one tells you about:  I can't wash my feet.  That's right.  I am so short, with such a short torso, and my belly has gotten so huge that I have to cursorily wave the sponge in the direction of my feet and hope I did a good job.  I can't stir pots on the back burner of my stove.  I can't scratch the back of my thigh.  Silly little things that no one ever mentions in the billions of blogs, articles, and books about pregnancy and motherhood.

Finally, there is the big one:

Obsession.

I think this is a form of the mood swings that are often lamented, but for some reason my mood swings, especially late in my pregnancy, have manifested into serious obsessions.  It has taken me until this week to realize that's what has been happening to me.  It is the reason I have gone months without blogging.  I was afraid I would rant and rave about whatever my current obsession was and then wish for weeks or months that I had never written in the first place.

It all began a few months back when I began looking into the impact of full time daycare on infants.  I always knew I wanted to be a stay at home mom, but I was interested in the phenomenon of more and more women racing back to work shortly after delivering babies.  What was the long term psychological effect on those newborns?  On the mom?  On the dad?  On the family as a whole?  I went crazy!
It was all I could talk about.  Now, don't mistake me; I still feel the same way I have all along, but I was out of control in my obsession to change the world, write a book, give public speeches.  From there I became obsessed with natural childbirth, with breast feeding, with the Republican party's idiot presidential candidates.

Day after day I would be hyper-focused on whatever my current topic of interest was and my poor husband would have to converse with me ad nauseam about it when he got home from work.

We have not had the often touted screaming, yelling, crying fights.  I haven't been extremely emotional and weepy or highly irrational about small non-issues (although I do cry much much easier now than I did before).  But I realize that this months long bout of obsessive behavior is in fact my form of mood swings.

Today, as I was out for my morning walk in my neighborhood, my head cleared for the first time and I realized that while I still feel super strongly about all of the issues I have obsessed over, read about, researched, discussed with Carlos and friends and family, I no longer feel overwhelmed with passionate emotion about the decisions that other people make that run counter to my own beliefs.

Basically, I am having a moment of normalcy.  Sanity.

But I just had to hurry up and blog about it because this moment may vanish as suddenly as it appeared.

Let Go and Let God

This has always been one of my favorite expressions.  Possibly because I am by nature a worrier.

I come from a long line of worriers, so I have to actively resist the urge to fret over every single thing.
Literally.
From my husband driving out on the rain-slicked streets to whether my baby is moving frequently enough in my belly and even whether or not the person in my building who chose the name "FBI Surveillance Network" for his/her WiFi service is actually the FBI, and if they are listening to me, the boring housewife who cooks, bakes and reads all day, and my husband, the beer salesman who watches inordinate amounts of soccer when he's not at work or school.

Okay, back to the real world.
In reality, there are things in life that are completely beyond my control, like the upcoming birth of my baby, my husband's precarious balance between excelling at work and progressing well through school, my ability to find a part time job that will require me to put my infant daughter in very little to (preferably) no daycare, and on and on the list goes.

Fortunately, I have been raised by a handful of women who have ingrained in me that in the end, things do all work out for the best, whether we realize it or not at the time.  The only thing we can do is our own best and trust to the universe, fate, destiny, God, Goddess, or whatever you want to call the grand design that somehow constantly proves that there really is no such thing as coincidence.

The key to this philosophy, for me, is the "do your best" part.  I do believe that we get out what we put in to something.  So for me, let go and let God means put whatever work you can into the things that matter to you, and then let the process work itself out.

I have been working on this way of living for a long time, and for some reason it all seems to be really coming together for me at this point in my life.
This takes a lot of faith, a lot of patience, and a lot of confidence.
Trusting in something you cannot see or touch is difficult.  Being patient, especially when you really want something, is almost always extremely trying.
Add to these factors that many people are all too happy to poke holes in my theory or to provide concrete examples of exactly how it doesn't work, especially because I don't found my belief in any specific religion or philosophy, and my practice seems impossible.
So I have religious people feeling sorry for me and non-religious people writing me off as some happy hippy.
But this philosophy works.  It just doesn't sell.
What?  Work hard and trust that everything will unfold well?  That's crazy!  Be the best person you can be and have patience that you will encounter blessings with your name all over them?  Absurd!  Simply let go of something so important to me and trust that I will get what I need in the end?  No way!

A lot of the problems in society today stem from (aside from an insufficient amount of basic human empathy) the fact that information is presented and received as either black or white, with no grey, and certainly no vibrant, bold color.  Everything inside me tells me that this is an impossible way to live a fulfilled life.  And if I want anything, I want a life of fulfillment.

The trust, the patience, the confidence that I will have the fulfillment I seek come in shades of grey, red, purple, green, and yes, sometimes even brown.  And the thirty three years I have lived so far have proven to me that this is the most effective way to live.

So you see?
I'm neither worthy of pity nor a modern version of the seventies love child.

I'm just a pagan with a passion.  

Little Discoveries

Some of the smartest people I know have said that even after being in a relationship for decades, they still discover new things about their partner.
Despite this, after having been with Carlos for six years I often think about how well I know him.  I let my ego assure me that I know everything there is to know about him, even though logic tells me that I'm crazy and still have much to learn.

Lately, we have been trying to get out and exercise more often (and by more often, I mean at all), and so we take short walks around our neighborhood, or wander over to one of our local parks.  Sometimes I walk with a book (like Ichibod Crane) while he runs ahead, and we meet up at our destination.  Sometimes we walk together in comfortable silence or in deep conversation, depending on the day and the mood.
Each time we go on one of our walks/runs, I think about how familiar the routine has become and how I can predict each of my husband's moves because I know him so well.

I know that it will take him forever to get ready to leave the house as I sit fully suited up with my keys in my hand.
I know that he will procrastinate the moment he transitions from walking to running.
I know that when he finds me again after having pounded the pavement vigorously he will reach for my water bottle (never thinking to bring his own).
I know that when we get home he will procrastinate jumping in the shower and I will nag him not to sit on our furniture all sweaty (!).
All of these things I know.

And yet, just the other day, as we were preparing to leave and I was struggling to bend forward around my protruding belly to tie my tennis shoes, he says to me, "here baby, let me do that."
So he kneels in front of me, taking my foot onto his knee and proceeds to tighten my laces and tie my right shoe.
And as I look down, I realize, shocked, that I never knew that my husband of more than six years, with whom I have spent countless days and nights and discussed every topic from Kim Kardashian to Quantum Physics,
uses the bunny ear method to tie shoes.

Hm.

What do you know?