Bookish.

Bookish.

I've been reading more lately. This is almost entirely based on the fact that Ollie usually needs to nurse for the entirety of his nap, or at least at the start, middle, and end and it's not like I could get up and leave the room because he's just lying there in the middle of our bed and would probably stand up all excited and run off the bed if he were to wake up alone. And no, he won't go in his crib for naps. So back to reading. Half the time, I nap with him. The other half, I read. I would probably play on the internet but the laptop is too tip tappy and he would probably reach his grabby little paw over in his sleep and hide firefox using only keystrokes, a skill he seems to do all.the.time but I have yet to master.

During today's nap, I finished In The Time of the Butterflies, by Julia Alvarez.



Yes, I'm going to be THAT blogger and link you to Powell's instead of Amazon. Amazon, however, had a cover image of the edition I read, so I had to steal the picture from them. I hate it when a book cover has a still from an adapted movie (like the edition at Powell's). Actually, my favorite book, The Virgin Suicides, has a movie still on the cover and I love it. Ahhhh, Lux.

Anyway, back to The Butterflies. Viva Las Miraposas! I highly recommend this one. Alvarez is a phenomenal writer, even though I just assumed that my college professors liked her because she was Multi-Cultural and Political Oppression-y and that's totally how our lit department rolled. But she's really, really remarkable. Note that I obviously didn't read this book when it was assigned. See also:The Faerie Queen by Edmund Spencer. Yes, that's right. 1,248 pages.

The Mirabal sisters were the hub of an underground revolutionary movement in the 50s/60s Dominican Republic. They were privileged, educated, courageous, and martyred (seriously, I'm not giving anything away there. It's on the back cover. And the first page. And in history.).

I only choked up once, at the end. It's a beautiful story, and completely inspiring. I think the best part about the idea of fictionalizing a historical story so powerful that it has achieved legend status, is that we see that the majority of their courage is just like the majority of normal people's courage: kind of faked. That's a nasty word for a (sometimes) noble thing. These women would not and could not let their sisters, husbands, families, and their country down by showing their fear. It makes it a little more believable, and you quietly understand that you even though you would still probably chicken out were you to be in their shoes, they just did what had to be done.

But did they have to have BABIES? Ay, mama.

Next up: The Faerie Queen? No. But rest assured I still own it.

Wu wei.

Wu wei.

Today I caught myself feeling a little left behind. Left behind myself, or my potential, or what I used to be, or my something else? I'm not really sure. I wave through moods like this periodically, and could probably compile dozens of partially-written blog posts where I give up after the first few paragraphs after I realize that I have no idea what I'm writing or even what I'm feeling. But it's almost like I felt (feel?) simultaneously trapped and freed, inhibited and empowered by being a mother, and that, my friends, is crazy crazy head space.

I don't know yet how to ascribe the effect motherhood has had on my brain or my soul. I am in no major way the person I was 2 years or so ago. But little remainders here and there of a former girl insist to me one of two conflicting things. The first is that I am the same old, same old, just now arguably improved with lactation and a little person following me around and a little squishier in the middle. The second? I will never be the same again. I pretty much always lean towards the second.

When Ollie was a newborn, some (then-childless) friends of ours asked us "so what else is new," and I was amazed. Not because I might have felt inferior, or bogged down, or out of touch, but because it had not once occurred to me to devote an ounce of my energy elsewhere than on my sweet child and family. Why would I want anything else to be "new" or "up"?

However, I do struggle with frequent yearnings for authenticity, but at the same time catch myself because I can't imagine anything more authentic, more meaningful, more powerful than being a mother. When Ollie was a day old, Sasha described nursing a child as "doing not-doing" and I think of that often. Obviously it's easier to relate to those hour long nursing sessions in the early weeks, but I can definitely apply it to myself now. I don't get to have brilliant conversations with brilliant (well, grown-up) minds all day long anymore. I don't get to shut out the world so that I can focus on some creative pursuit - writing, music, doodling, daydreaming. I can't believe that I don't doodle anymore, for the love of pete! But my time spent with Ollie seems to undulate between really active and conscious parenting, and then those times where you just are there. Whether it's holding him, sitting with him while he insists on trying to get the square peg in the round hole (actually, these days it's the hexagon shaped block into the hexagon shaped hole but just not lined up right), nursing him, or lying next to him while he naps- it's just kind of sitting around and waiting. Doing nothing, so to speak. But the great thing is that it's work. The work of the mother. This taoist sort of not-doing, the wu-wei, is the kind of important work that moves mountains, or at the very least, rears children.

It all kinds of leads me back to my darkest moments this week, my biggest struggles, my weakest parenting, my crappy performance review. Patience. I found myself raising my voice several times this week, all for stupid things, and to no end. You can't yell at a 1 year old! You can't reason with him! It's so much easier to get behind the wu wei doing-not-doing when you can cuddle up with a wrinkly little newborn for hours on end. It's a totally different but just as important deal when they're actually little people doing things and saying things and throwing fits. Not-doing right now calls on the vast depths of patience, and I'm not very good at it. What's amusing is that the two people I'm closest to these days not counting Erik (oh, and Ollie) - Sarah and Nelwyn - both have recently commented that they think I'm really patient. I'm not sure if I'm off-gassing some sort of faux-patience or that maybe by the time they get to me, it's just some incarnation of exhaustion and defeat. But that said, patience is definitely the one thing I keep coming back to time and time again with parenting.

And back to my point. My recent philosophical or nostalgic or whatever stirrings and the week's struggles with patience have crashed into each other full speed and I felt it just now driving home from book club in the 80 degree night with the windows down and Air playing loudly on the radio. And the strange part? I'm just kind of at peace.

I recently saw a grandmother at the park, who is presumably the caregiver for her grandkids while the parents work. I remembered planning on having my parents watch Ollie (for free!) while I went back to work, and realized that holy hell would that not have worked out. To say this is the hardest job I've ever had would be a gross understatement. My days are emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and (most of all) physically draining. And you know what? To kiss my sad, wakened-up baby's head and eyes and cheeks and neck as I carry him to bed in the middle of the night, and then to curl up next to him, wide awake and all not-doing-y, and watch him sleep? Magic. I'm recharged.

History.

History.

Tonight, I slipped away and went up to the Bluefoot Bar in North Park, where my friend Mike Angell was having his going-away party. He's off to exotic places such as Utah, San Antonio, and SOUTH AFRICA. Then, to seminary.

Before I go on, I want you to know that Mike is one of the most phenomenal and amazing people I have ever met, and you would think that too. One day, ten years from now, someone will ask me who my Top Ten All Time Amazing People are, and Mike will be one of them, even if I never see him again (I will).

But the big news of the night is that I shook hands and awkwardly small-talked with a man who was just ordained into the Episcopal church last week. I know, a bar full of episcopal priests and seminarians: wild. And also, I want you to know that (to quote this dude), being ordained a priest (or a deacon) is always "significant." This man, though, just happened to be the very first homosexual ordained in the Episcopal Diocese of San Diego, ever*. And this happened last week. I don't want to be awestruck, because this really shouldn't just be starting to happen here in 2008, but I was nonetheless. I mean, I was just standing there with a piece of history while poking the leftover ice in my glass with the three little straws.

I also met someone who is permanent staff at Camp Stevens in Julian (our episcopal camp), and I wanted to be him. He coordinates the outdoor adventure stuff and lives at the camp. HE LIVES AT CAMP STEVENS. And eats their organic grown-on-site vegan food every single day. And I have officially renewed my dream of one day being permanent resident staff at Camp Stevens. Le sigh.

It was a pretty renewing night after all. And, cheap drinks!

_____
* = according to Mike, apparently, years ago, our Not Confrontational At All former Bishop once stepped aside and left the building so that the Definitely Confrontational At All Bishop Spong could fly in from Liberal!Newark! to ordain a gay man from another diocese in our cathedral. I don't think that really counts as being the diocese of San Diego's first; it was just kind of like renting out the building for an out of town wedding or something. But I still love that that happened here. Bishop Spong is a FORCE, man.

Name change.

Name is to be changed.

I want you all to know that I really want to change my blog name, and have wanted to change it for years now. But I left the raw photoshop file for the banner you see there on my old, old work computer (not that I was redesigning my blog from work, nope, not at all!) AND I no longer have PS on here since the great powerbook death of '08.

But the name is so annoying to me that I really feel the need to disclose my annoyance, just in case you think I relate to it much. But I DO still and always will relate to DADGAD guitar tuning. But I picked the blog title when I was in this wispy dreamy tense-y phase of my life just before getting married, blah blah blah, and now it's just kind of annoying to me to feel pinpointed to a single line in a single Sixpence None The Richer song. But DADGAD, I love you! DADGAD is to be loved!

Anyway, I don't want to just go about changing the title or picture to something lame, so we're just going to have to deal with it for now. I tried just getting rid of the picture/banner altogether and using minimalist plain text as the title but my blog looked so naked and text-y. So until then, just pretend.

Selective Stereotyping.

All Firemen Have Mustaches And Other Selective Stereotyping.

Two parents:
"Here, Ollie, here's the fireman!"
"Firefighter."
"[stare]. Okay, Ollie, here's the FIREFIGHTER."
"No need to reinforce unnecessary stereotypes, you know."
"[pause]. Anyway, it doesn't have a mustache, so it *must* be a girl-firefighter."

How To Be A Rude Barista.

How to be a Rude Barista.

1. Line forms behind us. Barista doesn't make eye contact. Barista talks to her friend.

2. While we (finally) order, a baby in a small family starts whining. Flustered barista says to me, "Sorry, I don't have kids yet, I'm like, what is that HORRIBLE noise?!" And yes, I'm holding Oliver, horrible thing that he is.

3. We sit around and stand there and notice that people previously behind us in line are getting their drinks made before us. Granted, we have an order of 4 drinks so I could understand dispensing someone a quick drip coffee, but no, we're talking full on espresso drinks.

4. She pauses a half dozen times during the making of those drinks ordered after ours to talk to friends.

5. I go and stand near the counter, and see she's looking at our cups. But wait! Someone just walked in the door! "You want nonfat, right?" she asks the person who came in. She makes that person's latte. Nonfat. Then she rings them up, and asks them what's new.

6. Finally, other employees get there (who actually remember and like us). One employee takes over making our drinks and is having trouble reading the rude, stressed out person's handwriting on the scratch paper. I lean in and ask if I can help and ask her which one is decaf (for shawna)? And the rude barista butts in. And says, in all caps but not yelling: "I WROTE DOWN EVERYTHING YOU SAID. SHE IS MAKING THEM TO YOUR SPECIFICATIONS." like, totally deadpanned. And she doesn't even look at me as she chastises and condescends a paying customer. Oh, the swear words circling my brain right now. Sorry I gave you money and asked for something. Sorry for putting you out.

But, OMG. "Specifications"? I know I personally have a slightly demanding drink (that complicated soy!), but the rest of what we ordered was, like, "mocha."

I should also add that half of the doors were still locked (at 9:30 am), the sign wasn't even out on the sidewalk, and all of the patio chairs were stacked inside the cafe. Hello, disaster! Well, certainly not for her friends or the people in line behind us. They were happy. I normally love love love this place so I won't bastardize it's name on the internet unless you really want to know. I'll just hope that they fire this girl.