And now for this thoughtful reminder that life is deeply, truly, incredibly sweet...brought to you by our growing boy, Andrew Bodhi! Hibachi!
Saturday, December 27, 2008
First Ice Cream, Cousin's Basketball
And now for this thoughtful reminder that life is deeply, truly, incredibly sweet...brought to you by our growing boy, Andrew Bodhi! Hibachi!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Last Xmas
As I reflect on the events of this past year, I can't help but feel a little melancholy. Of course, Christmas is always a trial in some ways, though I deep down and not so secretly love it. Today, Xmas Eve, I'm finally fully in the spirit. It took awhile, but here I am.
Last year was Bodhi's first Christmas, and his grandfather's last.
I knew something was wrong when he, my father, asked me for a Bandaid. And then we stood in the bathroom somewhat fumbling with the tiny strips as he placed them on his arms, where a couple of little sores were bleeding some. I was on heightened mama sense, concerned for days about his visit and his attempts to hold the baby, who was just over 8 weeks old. Those first 6 weeks were terrifying, with constant anxiety about the baby catching something horrible, having no immune system supposedly until at least 6 weeks old. I'd heard from some new parents that they didn't even leave the house during that time. I was fully prepared to stay in, to not even go outside. (But of course I did, and thanks to my new mamas and their encouragment and love we made it outside and we thrived, all of us. Whew!)
So there I was, worried about my baby's immune system, when I really should have been worrying about my dad's. He had been HIV positive for nearly 20 years. He was a survivor; where many of his friends and lovers and colleagues had fallen, he had kept himself alive and healthy. He avoided the pitfalls of AZT and early hardcore intervention drugs that destroyed livers and kidneys and temporarily held full-blown AIDS at bay. He committed himself to alternative therapies, becoming a guru and practically a chemist with all his knowledge of herbs and nutrients and supplements and the immune system. He slowly but surely emerged out of a darkness that had consumed him in the first couple of years after he'd learned of his death sentence. That was a dark, dark time for us all. He nearly drank himself to death, but bounced back, time and time again. He even took The Cocktails for a brief while, but was overwhelmed by the side effects. So he boosted his supplements, focused on his diet, and regularly saw a chiropractor. We talked for hours about Life Extension, hormones, meditation, alpha and theta brainwaves, sleep, food, God, talent, feminism, homophobia, politics, love. He was Mr. Pharmacetical Nutrition. It drove us all a little crazy at times, and he had everyone in his immediate family taking one thing or another, but I respected his wisdom. Sadly, it wasn't enough.
So last Xmas, there we were, standing in our bathroom with the Bandaids, and I had a prickly, hair-standing-up-on-the-back-of-the-neck feeling that something was Wrong. He seemed fuzzy, befuddled in a way. He looked thinner and his hair, even his eyebrows, had turned white. He didn't even make an attempt to hold the baby, which I'm ashamed to say was a big relief for me at the time. He had a couple of diseases in his body that I was afraid of. And he had open sores. But he was mesmerized just the same by his grandson. "He is AMAZING," my Dad observed. "And I'm not just saying that as a proud Grandpa." He had told me he was looking forward to taking Bodhi fishing. He had begun looking into buying a house in Austin. I was thrilled, and so happy for my Dad, who could finally enjoy the fruits of his labor, his nonstop working all those years. I was puzzled by the fishing, though. He wasn't exactly the outdoorsy type, but whatever.
So we all had a what I'm sure was an unfulfilling vegetarian dinner I'd prepared, my Dad and my Mom and my brother and his wife. It was cozy. As usual, Dad gave us all extravagant and thoughtful gifts that I cherish beyond reason now, an atomic clock and an air purifier. (It gets even more ironic from here, considering that one of the things that killed him was tuberculosis.) Later my brother told me he'd also thought something was Wrong, especially since Dad had been coughing up blood in their kitchen. He was always so stoic. He really did not want us to be troubled or concerned or even know the extent of his illness. But I could see he was fighting something. Only the grandson, I think, could have brought him to Austin on Christmas Eve.
Last Spring Andrew became adamant that we take Bodhi to meet his great-grandmothers, both still alive to this day, but declining in health. So we made our first long trek to Louisiana. It was great. On our way back to Austin, we had a chance to stop in and see my Dad in Houston. We opted to keep going instead. I so regret that now, and I even had a feeling it was going to count as a loss. But at least we'd had Christmas.
My brother and his wife left our house to join their friends, and Andrew and Bodhi and I took my parents to go look at Christmas lights.
If there is a ritual or tradition I most associate with the holidays that began in childhood it is this one. I absolutely LOVE driving around neighborhoods looking at Christmas lights. There were rich families in smalltown Louisiana that always outdid themselves, and it was such a luxury and a thrill to leave midnight mass and go drive through their lavish displays. I always avoided the Austin Trail of Lights, thinking it too massive and crowded. (Luckily we changed our tune on that this year, went, and had a fabulous time!) So we took Mom and Dad and Bodhi to see the 37th Street light display in Hyde Park, a favorite. It was freezing cold, and foggy, and there was long line of cars, which we happily joined. As long as the baby was entertained and content, we were golden. Andrew and I had gone a few days before and we'd been able to park the car and get out and walk it, bundled up baby and all. That wasn't exactly an option on this night. But we drove through it nonetheless, and my parents kindly enjoyed themselves. As we all did. I probably even had some gentle Christmas music on the Prius stereo.
I like that my Dad got to see the lights with us.
Last year was Bodhi's first Christmas, and his grandfather's last.
I knew something was wrong when he, my father, asked me for a Bandaid. And then we stood in the bathroom somewhat fumbling with the tiny strips as he placed them on his arms, where a couple of little sores were bleeding some. I was on heightened mama sense, concerned for days about his visit and his attempts to hold the baby, who was just over 8 weeks old. Those first 6 weeks were terrifying, with constant anxiety about the baby catching something horrible, having no immune system supposedly until at least 6 weeks old. I'd heard from some new parents that they didn't even leave the house during that time. I was fully prepared to stay in, to not even go outside. (But of course I did, and thanks to my new mamas and their encouragment and love we made it outside and we thrived, all of us. Whew!)
So there I was, worried about my baby's immune system, when I really should have been worrying about my dad's. He had been HIV positive for nearly 20 years. He was a survivor; where many of his friends and lovers and colleagues had fallen, he had kept himself alive and healthy. He avoided the pitfalls of AZT and early hardcore intervention drugs that destroyed livers and kidneys and temporarily held full-blown AIDS at bay. He committed himself to alternative therapies, becoming a guru and practically a chemist with all his knowledge of herbs and nutrients and supplements and the immune system. He slowly but surely emerged out of a darkness that had consumed him in the first couple of years after he'd learned of his death sentence. That was a dark, dark time for us all. He nearly drank himself to death, but bounced back, time and time again. He even took The Cocktails for a brief while, but was overwhelmed by the side effects. So he boosted his supplements, focused on his diet, and regularly saw a chiropractor. We talked for hours about Life Extension, hormones, meditation, alpha and theta brainwaves, sleep, food, God, talent, feminism, homophobia, politics, love. He was Mr. Pharmacetical Nutrition. It drove us all a little crazy at times, and he had everyone in his immediate family taking one thing or another, but I respected his wisdom. Sadly, it wasn't enough.
So last Xmas, there we were, standing in our bathroom with the Bandaids, and I had a prickly, hair-standing-up-on-the-back-of-the-neck feeling that something was Wrong. He seemed fuzzy, befuddled in a way. He looked thinner and his hair, even his eyebrows, had turned white. He didn't even make an attempt to hold the baby, which I'm ashamed to say was a big relief for me at the time. He had a couple of diseases in his body that I was afraid of. And he had open sores. But he was mesmerized just the same by his grandson. "He is AMAZING," my Dad observed. "And I'm not just saying that as a proud Grandpa." He had told me he was looking forward to taking Bodhi fishing. He had begun looking into buying a house in Austin. I was thrilled, and so happy for my Dad, who could finally enjoy the fruits of his labor, his nonstop working all those years. I was puzzled by the fishing, though. He wasn't exactly the outdoorsy type, but whatever.
So we all had a what I'm sure was an unfulfilling vegetarian dinner I'd prepared, my Dad and my Mom and my brother and his wife. It was cozy. As usual, Dad gave us all extravagant and thoughtful gifts that I cherish beyond reason now, an atomic clock and an air purifier. (It gets even more ironic from here, considering that one of the things that killed him was tuberculosis.) Later my brother told me he'd also thought something was Wrong, especially since Dad had been coughing up blood in their kitchen. He was always so stoic. He really did not want us to be troubled or concerned or even know the extent of his illness. But I could see he was fighting something. Only the grandson, I think, could have brought him to Austin on Christmas Eve.
Last Spring Andrew became adamant that we take Bodhi to meet his great-grandmothers, both still alive to this day, but declining in health. So we made our first long trek to Louisiana. It was great. On our way back to Austin, we had a chance to stop in and see my Dad in Houston. We opted to keep going instead. I so regret that now, and I even had a feeling it was going to count as a loss. But at least we'd had Christmas.
My brother and his wife left our house to join their friends, and Andrew and Bodhi and I took my parents to go look at Christmas lights.
If there is a ritual or tradition I most associate with the holidays that began in childhood it is this one. I absolutely LOVE driving around neighborhoods looking at Christmas lights. There were rich families in smalltown Louisiana that always outdid themselves, and it was such a luxury and a thrill to leave midnight mass and go drive through their lavish displays. I always avoided the Austin Trail of Lights, thinking it too massive and crowded. (Luckily we changed our tune on that this year, went, and had a fabulous time!) So we took Mom and Dad and Bodhi to see the 37th Street light display in Hyde Park, a favorite. It was freezing cold, and foggy, and there was long line of cars, which we happily joined. As long as the baby was entertained and content, we were golden. Andrew and I had gone a few days before and we'd been able to park the car and get out and walk it, bundled up baby and all. That wasn't exactly an option on this night. But we drove through it nonetheless, and my parents kindly enjoyed themselves. As we all did. I probably even had some gentle Christmas music on the Prius stereo.
I like that my Dad got to see the lights with us.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
First Bump
With all the excitement of walking and becoming more and more mobile in general, it was inevitable that we would get our first "boo-boo."
Daddy has taken B to the doctor to have a look at it; Mama was in charge when it happened and quickly applied Arnica cream. B was happily chirping at Tito, even got a few gentle pets in, when he turned and slipped and bumped his forehead on the edge of our coffee table, which has padded corners but not padded edges.
Crying, a slight cut, and much swelling ensued. I think he's going to be okay.
But can I tell you how much it sucks to watch your baby injure themselves? Ugh. My heart goes out to my own Mother, who has had to watch me injure myself in every way possible over the years. Mom, I love you.
Daddy has taken B to the doctor to have a look at it; Mama was in charge when it happened and quickly applied Arnica cream. B was happily chirping at Tito, even got a few gentle pets in, when he turned and slipped and bumped his forehead on the edge of our coffee table, which has padded corners but not padded edges.
Crying, a slight cut, and much swelling ensued. I think he's going to be okay.
But can I tell you how much it sucks to watch your baby injure themselves? Ugh. My heart goes out to my own Mother, who has had to watch me injure myself in every way possible over the years. Mom, I love you.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Yes, Indeed, He's Walking
Bodhi started walking three days ago.
It was a gradual process, starting with cruising and pulling himself up on tables and chairs and adult legs. Then he'd take a few steps toward us and fall flat on his (puffy diapered) booty. He still preferred crawling to walking -- it got him everywhere he wanted to go, and so much faster!
So three days ago he just stood up, all by himself, and started toddling. He stands with his hands in tiny fists, elbows lifted, chin a little bit forward, kind of shuffling back and forth between left and right. He also sort of talks to himself, toddling around and making hilarious little babblings; Andrew calls him "E.T." when he does this. It's cute.
I'm contemplating how to write about "The Yoga of Parenting." I found this great article on the Kripalu website; enjoy!
It was a gradual process, starting with cruising and pulling himself up on tables and chairs and adult legs. Then he'd take a few steps toward us and fall flat on his (puffy diapered) booty. He still preferred crawling to walking -- it got him everywhere he wanted to go, and so much faster!
So three days ago he just stood up, all by himself, and started toddling. He stands with his hands in tiny fists, elbows lifted, chin a little bit forward, kind of shuffling back and forth between left and right. He also sort of talks to himself, toddling around and making hilarious little babblings; Andrew calls him "E.T." when he does this. It's cute.
I'm contemplating how to write about "The Yoga of Parenting." I found this great article on the Kripalu website; enjoy!
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Sickly
Oh yeah, by the way, we have been sick since about Thanksgiving.
The worst part is the coughing, the incessant infernal coughing.
And the mucous.
The worst part is the coughing, the incessant infernal coughing.
And the mucous.
Eyes in the Back of My Head aka New Mama Physics
I'm starting to understand the concept of "Mama's got eyes in the back of her head."
It's not so much that I am spying on the little man, it's more like my proprioception is getting finer and finer.
They say that a yogi can be in more than one place at once, can see through matter and move through matter. I believe this to be true. For example, when I'm in the kitchen, washing the dishes or wiping hardened cottage cheese off the baseboards, I know exactly where in space Bodhi is in the next room, even though I can't see him. It's a little like remote viewing. And I can tune my ears to pick up the sounds of his flesh hitting the tile, so that I know where he is, what dangerous uncovered outlet or sharp corner or loose knicknack he may be closing in on. I can even time it so that I place one more knife in the dishwasher before I run into the next room and scoop him up, just in time, as his fat little hand is reaching for the dog's tail or his Dad's power strip.
Now if he's crawling, I'm aware that he has better access to things than if he's in his Dr. Strangelove walker. So I have to move a little faster. When he's Dr. Strangelove I know he can't open things as easily, and he can't drink from the dog's water bowl or squish dog food through his fingers. He can't reach them. He also can't rifle through the trash can or pull the plastic bag out of the trash. Not in the walker. On hands and knees he can. So I have to adjust and move more quickly.
It's like I have a Philip K Dick/Google Earth like imprint of the house and every item in it in my mind. I observe, and intercept, from above.
I can also watch him from across the room as he toddles around, finding his way, challenging himself by carrying objects while walking, pushing wagons and walkers across the floor, catching himself as he falls flat on his bottom, no matter what the floor surface may be. I can know, thanks to my mad mom physics skills, where in space he is and how far he is from the ground and how hard the impact will be and if he's in a position that will cause him injury or if his head will hit the ground, or if his butt will.
We can be at the playground and I can test the limits of how far I can push him in the swing, can know if he's going to bonk his head when he pushes himself forward and down the slide, can even determine if an older child's heavy footwear is going to within striking range of Bodhi's tender skull while he crawls around in the rocks at the bottom of the steps.
I'm not bragging, and I'm not 100 percent accurate either. And I really hardly ever take my eyes off of him. It sucks in a way. I told Andrew that being a parent meant having to de-laz-ify. There is no being too tired to change a wet or poopy diaper. There is no being too tired to carry him into the store with me, even if I'm only going in for a minute. There is no too tired to pick him up and console him when he's afraid or angry or exhausted. There is no too tired to bathe him when he's dirty, feed him when he's hungry, or take him to music class even when I don't feel like it; there is no too tired to play with him when we wake up, to hug and kiss him every time I leave or come home and have to be apart from him. There is no too tired to rinse the nipples of his sippy cups that seem to have mold growing in them; after all, he'd never notice or care if I didn't do it every time we used them, but I would. I have been known to eat food past its expiration date, but I would never allow him to do so. You know, de-laz-ify.
It's like my rule in asana: if I give up now, the only one who loses or misses out is me.
It's not so much that I am spying on the little man, it's more like my proprioception is getting finer and finer.
They say that a yogi can be in more than one place at once, can see through matter and move through matter. I believe this to be true. For example, when I'm in the kitchen, washing the dishes or wiping hardened cottage cheese off the baseboards, I know exactly where in space Bodhi is in the next room, even though I can't see him. It's a little like remote viewing. And I can tune my ears to pick up the sounds of his flesh hitting the tile, so that I know where he is, what dangerous uncovered outlet or sharp corner or loose knicknack he may be closing in on. I can even time it so that I place one more knife in the dishwasher before I run into the next room and scoop him up, just in time, as his fat little hand is reaching for the dog's tail or his Dad's power strip.
Now if he's crawling, I'm aware that he has better access to things than if he's in his Dr. Strangelove walker. So I have to move a little faster. When he's Dr. Strangelove I know he can't open things as easily, and he can't drink from the dog's water bowl or squish dog food through his fingers. He can't reach them. He also can't rifle through the trash can or pull the plastic bag out of the trash. Not in the walker. On hands and knees he can. So I have to adjust and move more quickly.
It's like I have a Philip K Dick/Google Earth like imprint of the house and every item in it in my mind. I observe, and intercept, from above.
I can also watch him from across the room as he toddles around, finding his way, challenging himself by carrying objects while walking, pushing wagons and walkers across the floor, catching himself as he falls flat on his bottom, no matter what the floor surface may be. I can know, thanks to my mad mom physics skills, where in space he is and how far he is from the ground and how hard the impact will be and if he's in a position that will cause him injury or if his head will hit the ground, or if his butt will.
We can be at the playground and I can test the limits of how far I can push him in the swing, can know if he's going to bonk his head when he pushes himself forward and down the slide, can even determine if an older child's heavy footwear is going to within striking range of Bodhi's tender skull while he crawls around in the rocks at the bottom of the steps.
I'm not bragging, and I'm not 100 percent accurate either. And I really hardly ever take my eyes off of him. It sucks in a way. I told Andrew that being a parent meant having to de-laz-ify. There is no being too tired to change a wet or poopy diaper. There is no being too tired to carry him into the store with me, even if I'm only going in for a minute. There is no too tired to pick him up and console him when he's afraid or angry or exhausted. There is no too tired to bathe him when he's dirty, feed him when he's hungry, or take him to music class even when I don't feel like it; there is no too tired to play with him when we wake up, to hug and kiss him every time I leave or come home and have to be apart from him. There is no too tired to rinse the nipples of his sippy cups that seem to have mold growing in them; after all, he'd never notice or care if I didn't do it every time we used them, but I would. I have been known to eat food past its expiration date, but I would never allow him to do so. You know, de-laz-ify.
It's like my rule in asana: if I give up now, the only one who loses or misses out is me.
Cottage Cheese and Pears
Thank God for Cottage Cheese and Pears, the only two foods B is interested in eating right now. On one hand, the cheese is binding. But on the other hand, the pears are loosening. So they balance each other out, right?
What great comfort foods. The cheese, although dairy, is protein. The pears are fiber, fresh food.
What great comfort foods. The cheese, although dairy, is protein. The pears are fiber, fresh food.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Thanksgiving 2007....Bodhi was brand new!
Thanks to Pamela, for reminding me of this beautiful poem, perfect for Thanksgiving...which is a favorite holiday of mine, if you can't tell.
Because the one I love lives inside of you
I lean as close to you as I can
And I think of you all the time, dear pilgrim,
Because the one I love lives inside of you.
I will always be near.
If I were to sit before you, dear traveler,
With your aura bright from your many charms
My lips could resist rushing to kiss your blushed
cheek
but my eyes can no longer hide the truth of
Who you really are.
The beloved, whom I adore, has pitched
His royal tent inside of you.
So I will always lean my words
As close to your heart as I can.
--Hafiz
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
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Friday, November 14, 2008
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And So It All Changes
We have liftoff.
Just when you think your child has reached their cuteness peak, they do something like this:
Bodhi has been cruising and pulling himself up for quite a while now, but in the last 72 hours he has been standing and balancing on his own, then taking half a dozen steps! It's very, very exciting.
Pictures and perhaps even film to come.
Just when you think your child has reached their cuteness peak, they do something like this:
Bodhi has been cruising and pulling himself up for quite a while now, but in the last 72 hours he has been standing and balancing on his own, then taking half a dozen steps! It's very, very exciting.
Pictures and perhaps even film to come.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
A Perfect Moment
I was grouchy this morning, having had a stupid misunderstanding and argument with my husband. (Note to self: do NOT leave the house with baby when grouchy and/or after arguing.) So I packed Bodhi up in the stroller and headed for the park.
My coffee spilled onto my cellphone.
Traffic was bad. I stood on the corner and waited, fuming. Crossing the street seemed completely dangerous. I was pissed at the garbage truck. I was pissed at the oncoming cars.
We made it halfway through the crosswalk, when I noticed that one of the oncoming cars was hurtling right toward us, and that he wasn't about to slow down. I sped up the stroller and ran the last few feet off the road and onto the sidewalk, muttering, "Don't start going faster on me, motherfucker!" Just then my cellphone rang. It was Jenn calling. But because I'd spilled coffee on the touchscreen, I couldn't get it to answer. I pushed and scratched at the screen and it wouldn't pick up her call. Then it started dialing my dad's cell number, a number I haven't had the heart to delete since June. It was, as they say, a "wake up call" for me. I had dreamed vividly of him the night before. Noticing that my phone wanted to dial his number, I had to hang up, and just then a bright yellow butterfly flew right in front of us. I smiled. "Hi, Dad."
It was the beginning of my mood changing and my heart opening to the rest of the day.
My coffee spilled onto my cellphone.
Traffic was bad. I stood on the corner and waited, fuming. Crossing the street seemed completely dangerous. I was pissed at the garbage truck. I was pissed at the oncoming cars.
We made it halfway through the crosswalk, when I noticed that one of the oncoming cars was hurtling right toward us, and that he wasn't about to slow down. I sped up the stroller and ran the last few feet off the road and onto the sidewalk, muttering, "Don't start going faster on me, motherfucker!" Just then my cellphone rang. It was Jenn calling. But because I'd spilled coffee on the touchscreen, I couldn't get it to answer. I pushed and scratched at the screen and it wouldn't pick up her call. Then it started dialing my dad's cell number, a number I haven't had the heart to delete since June. It was, as they say, a "wake up call" for me. I had dreamed vividly of him the night before. Noticing that my phone wanted to dial his number, I had to hang up, and just then a bright yellow butterfly flew right in front of us. I smiled. "Hi, Dad."
It was the beginning of my mood changing and my heart opening to the rest of the day.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Hope Springs Eternal
On Election Day we took Bodhi to eat lunch at Zen, "Japanese Food Fast."
For dinner, he watched CNN and Comedy Central and ate pizza with Daddy and neighbors Adam and Zoe while Mommy taught yoga.
When Mommy came home around 9 pm they announced Barack Obama had been elected our next president.
The entire universe and all of human consciousness seemed to move out a tight place of constriction into vast expansiveness and freedom.
I know this pulsation will continue, but I also know that within the darkness, the constriction, the fear, there is always light. There is always opening. There is always hope.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thanksgiving on Halloween
I just want to thank those of you who commented on my/Bodhi's Birth Story privately (and publicly). It means a lot. I am an intense person and sometimes 
worry that I blowtorch people with my fierceness, especially in my writing. And yet...I can't not.
Here he is, in full puppy regalia!
Enjoy the weekend; the veil is thin. The nights are long. The clocks they turn back.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Some After Birth (Story) Commentary
I can't believe I finally wrote my birth story. (see entry below)
I left so much out, of course.
I think part of me was waiting until every single yoga mama I knew who was pregnant had given birth, just in case they came across my blog and read my horror story. I do have one yoga friend who is wonderful and expecting her first, but I haven't told her about my blog and I probably won't until after her baby is born.
I was very defensive about having a hospital birth. I think some small part of me knew it was going to go the way it did. If I could do it all over, and of course I can't, but if I could I would have a home birth with a midwife. I really believe a good midwife would have zeroed in on the scar tissue issue right away, would not have let me labor for so long without nourishment. For starters.
On the other hand, I know that the birth we had was the perfect birth. It really was. For me to have gone through all of that was important. It definitely broke me apart, annihilated my ego, showed me my arrogance. Birth and Death are no small thing. They are both messy, brutal, paradigm-shifting, transcendent experiences.
I thought I knew. And I didn't. I didn't know SHIT. Now I know something. I know that I don't know.
There were some very, very luminous moments. I knew I would one day write about it all. Even what is here is only scratching the surface.
My blessings have been numerous. As Bernadette said to me, "Babies bring abundance." And it never stops! For one thing, I met Bernadette. And I was ministered to by Carrie Contey in those first few dark days. She was amazing. And then I continued to study with her, joined her new mamas group after Lanell's new mamas group wrapped up, and was swaddled and bathed in love for 12 weeks straight in wise woman communal sharing. Lanell, one of our childbirthing instructors, gave birth the same month we did. So she was going through IT all after her babe was born, hosting us new mamas, and in the process creating a bond I hope will continue for the rest of all our lives. It was in those new mama groups that I learned:
I could start drinking coffee again!!! Hallelujah! A mama's best friend!
Breastfeeding is hard for most of us.
Fuzzi Buns and Bum Genius diapers rock.
If you use disposable diapers you are not going to hell.
If you think YOU'RE the graceless, insecure, pathetic-looking one with the fussiest baby...think again. As you struggle to stand up with your overflowing diaper bag in one arm and your crying newborn in the other, all the while staring longingly at the to go cup of coffee you're gonna have to leave sitting there on the floor since you're all out of hands, there's another new mama looking at you thinking "Oh my God, compared to her I am so graceless, insecure, pathetic-looking. And my baby is so fussy...I AM THE WORST MOM TO EVER LIVE COMPARED TO HER! "
Bac Out rocks.
Nobody is having sex.
Nobody is sleeping. That one mom whose baby slept 12 hours last night? Just wait.
Pacifiers are okay.
You're not the only one who hasn't left the house, changed her clothes, brushed her hair, cleaned her teeth, done any dishes, checked her email, returned any calls, had a complete thought...for a week.
Breastfeeding hurts. And that does NOT mean you're doing it wrong.
The baby will probably lose weight after they are born. America, it's not that big a deal. Keep your eyes on your baby and know that if they seem to be thriving, are peeing and pooping at all, they are most likely just fine. We actually kept a notebook where we wrote down every feeding, every wet and poopy diaper, every pumping -- including the amounts pumped and by which breast, ugh -- around the clock. We rented a super sensitive scale so we could weigh him after every feeding, determine how many ounces of milk he'd taken. We wrote that down every week. The notebook became our tyrant, and a great source of anxiety and bickering. Like we needed another one.
I don't advise doing that, by the way.
At Lanell's one day, we were all saying we wished we had the time to write about IT, that first few weeks of breastfeeding and new motherhood. But the fog is so dense, and the momnesia starts to set in, and memories of that early time take on a rosy glow. You forgot how RIDICULOUS it can be. How much help you need. How angry you get at the government for not giving everyone maternity leave for a year with free nanny service. What a victory it is to take the baby over to a friend's house in the car, nurse in public, order a coffee or a malt at a drive through, return a call, to blog.
I will never forget the tenderness and tears, the kindness of all my new mama friends and my family, who fed us, who extended their hearts to me and to Bodhi and Andrew a year ago. Jenn, again, for bringing me moxa to stop my lochia. (Google those terms.) B-vitamins and fish oil. A Moby wrap. Showing us how to use it. Andrew's friends who gave us their loved and worn Ergo. Andrea, who straightened my bedroom, did my dishes, and put lotion on my feet. YOU, my blog readers and friends, who privately wrote to me as you wept, reading the hints I wrote about how tough everything was, sharing with me your own struggles. Kris, who was hilarious, who held the baby while I peed, assuaged all of my fears about SIDS, breastfeeding, and forceps delivery. My relatives who came and held Bodhi, as though he were a precious liquid jewel, believing him to be a prince among men.
And my husband, whom I saw transform before my very eyes from being the man I loved into the father of my child, saw him expand as though the entire universe had breathed into him and opened him up to a kind of love we never knew existed. Permanent shift. I recall a moment when watching him with Bodhi made my own heart hurt, thinking I had brought someone into the world who would have ability to break his father's heart. Our sleep deprivation and love for the baby created some absolutely hilarious, spontaneous moments I will always treasure. Uncontrollable laughter, being deeply tickled. Deeply moved. I like that tears seem to come easy to my sensitive, conscious, loving husband.
I know that our suffering brought me and Bodhi closer. I can't imagine I would ever take him for granted, even though I know that mostly, I will.
The mystical elements that come with birth were there, and always will be. The miracle that he is even here will always humble me.
As I rebuild my body, I can take great pride in what it can do. I have new respect for the healing process, and am a firm believer in the Slow Family Revolution.
Mostly nowadays I have long, spacious moments of tremendous bliss.
Things I love:
Co-sleeping.
Cooking for my family.
Going outside with the baby.
Long walks with the baby.
Toy shopping.
Thrift store shopping...for baby!
Bitching about how tired I am.
Staying up late to blog while the baby sleeps.
Ignoring all the parenting books.
Taking sweaty yoga classes.
Reading by the hall light.
Making out with my husband in front of the baby.
Singing, letting my inner musician bloom.
Listening to the radio with baby in the car.
I left so much out, of course.
I think part of me was waiting until every single yoga mama I knew who was pregnant had given birth, just in case they came across my blog and read my horror story. I do have one yoga friend who is wonderful and expecting her first, but I haven't told her about my blog and I probably won't until after her baby is born.
I was very defensive about having a hospital birth. I think some small part of me knew it was going to go the way it did. If I could do it all over, and of course I can't, but if I could I would have a home birth with a midwife. I really believe a good midwife would have zeroed in on the scar tissue issue right away, would not have let me labor for so long without nourishment. For starters.
On the other hand, I know that the birth we had was the perfect birth. It really was. For me to have gone through all of that was important. It definitely broke me apart, annihilated my ego, showed me my arrogance. Birth and Death are no small thing. They are both messy, brutal, paradigm-shifting, transcendent experiences.
I thought I knew. And I didn't. I didn't know SHIT. Now I know something. I know that I don't know.
There were some very, very luminous moments. I knew I would one day write about it all. Even what is here is only scratching the surface.
My blessings have been numerous. As Bernadette said to me, "Babies bring abundance." And it never stops! For one thing, I met Bernadette. And I was ministered to by Carrie Contey in those first few dark days. She was amazing. And then I continued to study with her, joined her new mamas group after Lanell's new mamas group wrapped up, and was swaddled and bathed in love for 12 weeks straight in wise woman communal sharing. Lanell, one of our childbirthing instructors, gave birth the same month we did. So she was going through IT all after her babe was born, hosting us new mamas, and in the process creating a bond I hope will continue for the rest of all our lives. It was in those new mama groups that I learned:
I could start drinking coffee again!!! Hallelujah! A mama's best friend!
Breastfeeding is hard for most of us.
Fuzzi Buns and Bum Genius diapers rock.
If you use disposable diapers you are not going to hell.
If you think YOU'RE the graceless, insecure, pathetic-looking one with the fussiest baby...think again. As you struggle to stand up with your overflowing diaper bag in one arm and your crying newborn in the other, all the while staring longingly at the to go cup of coffee you're gonna have to leave sitting there on the floor since you're all out of hands, there's another new mama looking at you thinking "Oh my God, compared to her I am so graceless, insecure, pathetic-looking. And my baby is so fussy...I AM THE WORST MOM TO EVER LIVE COMPARED TO HER! "
Bac Out rocks.
Nobody is having sex.
Nobody is sleeping. That one mom whose baby slept 12 hours last night? Just wait.
Pacifiers are okay.
You're not the only one who hasn't left the house, changed her clothes, brushed her hair, cleaned her teeth, done any dishes, checked her email, returned any calls, had a complete thought...for a week.
Breastfeeding hurts. And that does NOT mean you're doing it wrong.
The baby will probably lose weight after they are born. America, it's not that big a deal. Keep your eyes on your baby and know that if they seem to be thriving, are peeing and pooping at all, they are most likely just fine. We actually kept a notebook where we wrote down every feeding, every wet and poopy diaper, every pumping -- including the amounts pumped and by which breast, ugh -- around the clock. We rented a super sensitive scale so we could weigh him after every feeding, determine how many ounces of milk he'd taken. We wrote that down every week. The notebook became our tyrant, and a great source of anxiety and bickering. Like we needed another one.
I don't advise doing that, by the way.
At Lanell's one day, we were all saying we wished we had the time to write about IT, that first few weeks of breastfeeding and new motherhood. But the fog is so dense, and the momnesia starts to set in, and memories of that early time take on a rosy glow. You forgot how RIDICULOUS it can be. How much help you need. How angry you get at the government for not giving everyone maternity leave for a year with free nanny service. What a victory it is to take the baby over to a friend's house in the car, nurse in public, order a coffee or a malt at a drive through, return a call, to blog.
I will never forget the tenderness and tears, the kindness of all my new mama friends and my family, who fed us, who extended their hearts to me and to Bodhi and Andrew a year ago. Jenn, again, for bringing me moxa to stop my lochia. (Google those terms.) B-vitamins and fish oil. A Moby wrap. Showing us how to use it. Andrew's friends who gave us their loved and worn Ergo. Andrea, who straightened my bedroom, did my dishes, and put lotion on my feet. YOU, my blog readers and friends, who privately wrote to me as you wept, reading the hints I wrote about how tough everything was, sharing with me your own struggles. Kris, who was hilarious, who held the baby while I peed, assuaged all of my fears about SIDS, breastfeeding, and forceps delivery. My relatives who came and held Bodhi, as though he were a precious liquid jewel, believing him to be a prince among men.
And my husband, whom I saw transform before my very eyes from being the man I loved into the father of my child, saw him expand as though the entire universe had breathed into him and opened him up to a kind of love we never knew existed. Permanent shift. I recall a moment when watching him with Bodhi made my own heart hurt, thinking I had brought someone into the world who would have ability to break his father's heart. Our sleep deprivation and love for the baby created some absolutely hilarious, spontaneous moments I will always treasure. Uncontrollable laughter, being deeply tickled. Deeply moved. I like that tears seem to come easy to my sensitive, conscious, loving husband.
I know that our suffering brought me and Bodhi closer. I can't imagine I would ever take him for granted, even though I know that mostly, I will.
The mystical elements that come with birth were there, and always will be. The miracle that he is even here will always humble me.
As I rebuild my body, I can take great pride in what it can do. I have new respect for the healing process, and am a firm believer in the Slow Family Revolution.
Mostly nowadays I have long, spacious moments of tremendous bliss.
Things I love:
Co-sleeping.
Cooking for my family.
Going outside with the baby.
Long walks with the baby.
Toy shopping.
Thrift store shopping...for baby!
Bitching about how tired I am.
Staying up late to blog while the baby sleeps.
Ignoring all the parenting books.
Taking sweaty yoga classes.
Reading by the hall light.
Making out with my husband in front of the baby.
Singing, letting my inner musician bloom.
Listening to the radio with baby in the car.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
One Is the Loneliest Number
Well, our darling baby Bodhi boy turned ONE YEAR OLD today.
Here's a web portfolio of some pics from his party. Is he a happy boy or what?
So this year we had a little party for him, a gathering of some favorite adults and friends. I have to say that he seemed to love being the center of attention...does that sound a little like anyone else we know?
He was a hug monster in his music class today! He likes to climb on people, and was hanging off of his little buddies, much to their and their mamas' chagrin, I think. He loves to give open mouth kisses. I think he sees me and his daddy kiss on the lips, and is kind of fascinated by that and how it's different from the cheek kisses he gets from us. I have nothing against kisses on the lips between parent and child, it's just not something we're accustomed to doing. But it was a little overwhelming this morning to be awakened by wet, slobbery, fingers in my nose and exploring my gums, with baby mouth trying to cover mine.
His breath is so sweet. I could breathe it in all day.
And so, the cold air blew in. It was, it is, so beautiful. This time last year I was in shellshock, bleeding, sore, sleepless and vigilant and exhausted in the hospital. We decided against letting the nurses take him, keeping him in the room with us, wrapped in his flannel in the bassinet between us. We were so terrified of crib death that we monitored his breathing all night and panicked at every little change. They'll tell you to let the hospital staff take your baby so you can rest, but Andrew said when he was up in the newborn care area, all the babies who were up there "camping out" were left to cry for long periods of time, not something we would have wanted for Bodhi. So there, in the hospital room, I became close friends with my peri bottle (as Jen Plemons Severn said I would!) and slept with icepacks on my crotch and mattress-sized maxi pads. It seemed like we had a lactation consultant come visit us every 30 minutes or so, only to offer contradictory advice to the previous LC. Beverly Morgan stayed late on her shift at the NICU, hearing a rumor that a 10-pounder who had swallowed meconium was being delivered. Everyone in intensive care fully expected him to be taken there, and Beverly knew they usually put such babies on formula. So she raced down to my room as soon as he was born to teach me how to use the breast pump and start saving up colostrom for the baby. "Liquid gold," she told me. She was incredible, and we hired her later that month when we were having trouble breastfeeding. But Bodhi didn't end up having to go to the NICU after all; his blood sugar and pressure and everything else miraculously measured just fine.
So the story of his birth. Well.
I labored for almost 70 hours. The contractions started out slow, and felt more like menstrual cramps than anything else. I could feel my uterus contracting and expanding, spiraling. It was a very intense tightening across my low belly and low back. I knew it was true labor because it wrapped all the way around. And that started at 430 in the morning. The contractions were consistent, but not regularly spaced apart. We decided that I would try to sleep, drink water, and eat so I could labor as long as possible at home. So I did that. I don't remember the exact sequence of events, but I ended up calling my doula in the early evening of the next day, and I called my acupuncturist. The contractions were still coming, but were not yet five minutes apart. So Sarai, my acupuncturist, got out her little stun gun tool and started working some intense points on my ears. After about 30 minutes of this, lo and behold, my contractions went to five minutes apart. And stayed there for over an hour. So we decided to go to the hospital. It was close to midnight, I think, and we got all prepared in the room. Then the nurse came in and checked me. Nothing. I wasn't dilated at all. Dr. S came in. Same thing. It was confusing. If anyone knows their body, it's me. Granted I had never been pregnant before, but these women were telling me that I wasn't in true labor because I wasn't in severe pain, doubling over, yelling, rolling on the floor. They literally told me that. And sent me home.
Well, fast forward to me in severe pain, almost 12 hours later, doubling over...because my paraspinalis muscle was in spasm. Andrew said the knot in my back was like a fist. So we went back to the hospital and they checked me again. Nothing. So they suggested I take a hot shower to relieve the pain. And they said if it was still there after an hour they'd give me morphine. I was concerned about the baby getting these drugs in his system, but I was also desperate to rest, since I wasn't in "true labor." So they gave me the morphine. It didn't help. And they sent me home again, told me to take an Ambien so I could sleep. It didn't work. So I was at home, in labor, doped up on morphine, and feeling out of my body weird with the Ambien psyching me out. Plus the pain in my back had quadrupled. I got in the hot shower and just stood in it, moaning.
I chanted "OM" deep and guttural, like an animal, the whole time.
At that point, Andrew was seriously worried. He called Sarai to come over and give me some more acupuncture. I was naked and wet and dehyrated, exhausted and hallucinating. Andrew asked me what I wanted, wondering if there were someone I could call to come over and do some bodywork on me. "Rasa," I told him. And the doorbell rang at that moment, and it was Rasa.
She did work on me, and it did alleviate the pain. We even did some yoga together. It was such a relief. What we didn't know was that my aunt Marie was on the phone calling people in Austin, frantic, trying to get someone to talk Andrew into taking me back to the hospital. They were all afraid for me at that point. "Something was not right," our friend Gail told us later. She called Andrew and talked him into talking me into going back to the hospital.
I think it was at this point that our doula, Dawn, turned to me and asked if I'd ever had cryosurgery. And I looked at her, surprised. "Yes," I said. "Over 20 years ago." Well, it turns out that cryosurgery, in which they freeze your cervix if you get an abnormal pap smear, often leaves scar tissue. So when all those doctors and nurses kept checking my cervix and not feeling it open, it was because it was sewn shut with scar tissue. So we mentioned it to Dr. S , who checked me, and who could ALL OF A SUDDEN FEEL THAT THERE WAS SCAR TISSUE.
By that time, it was too late. I was exhausted, completely dehydrated, and starved. But all we wanted was for me to get a little sleep. So they catherized me, and they gave me an epidural. I was so depleted I had nothing in my bladder. They had to fill me up with fluids. I think it took 3 iv bags of fluid before I produced any urine. And I was STARVING.
Then Dr. S had to manually tear apart the scar tissue, and then she broke my water.
So thus far, it was every single intervention we had specified NOT wanting in our birth plan.
I was also tethered to the monitors. Bodhi was doing fine this whole time. I kept chanting OM to him, letting him know I was ON it. I felt so strongly connected to him. I know that everyone around us was sick with worry, but I was never afraid. I never thought either one of us was going to die. I was very relaxed, albeit totally depleted.
So finally, I was able to sleep with the epidural. My cervix was slowly opening. My doula's stand-in, Heather, showed up so my doula could tend to her kids. At this point I believe it had been about 3 days. Labor started Friday night, and we were moving from Sunday early morning into Monday. I continued to labor all day Monday, slowly opening, still starving, watching the nurses leave and come on shift, said goodbye to Dr. S, and hello to Dr. R -- neither of whom I had ever seen in all my visits to the OBGYN's practice; my doctor was not on call that weekend -- who ended up delivering my baby.
I finally started to push around 4 pm. They told me we had 3 hours to push. Now "pushing" seems really really stupid to me. I was on my back, my hips and legs numb from the epidural, unable to really control my pelvic floor, which is what I needed to push the baby out. And he was big. And "sunny side up." So I let Andrew, Dawn, Sarai and nurse Nancy all help me and coach me in pushing, knowing that it was physically impossible. And then toward the end, Dr. R came in and said she was preparing the cesarean room for us. We all knew we didn't want that, and I have to say, at this vantage point of one year later, that I will credit them with trying to give me the birth I wanted. So she gave us the pros and cons of using a forceps, if it seemed like that would work after just 30 more minutes of extra-hard pushing. So from somewhere deep inside me, after nearly 70 hours of bullshit, I pushed. And we were so close, she cut me open and took Bodhi out with the forceps. At that point, about 20 people had come into the room. He had swallowed meconium, which is a sign of fetal distress. What happened at the moment of his birth, in spite of not really sleeping or resting for 3 days, in spite of being thoroughly dehydrated and completely pumped up full of all kinds of drugs -- remember, I am a totally clean and sober person when I'm not pregnant -- in spite of all that, the moment of his birth was crystal clear. Dr. R, who was poised between the stirrups, reached for a scalpel and said "I'm going to give him a little way out of there." at which time my doula leaned over me and said, "She's giving you an episiotomy." She sliced through my perinium. There was LOT of blood. And then when she inserted the forceps, I felt the cold steel shock my right hip. My leg shot out, involuntarily. Kriya. Dr. R said "That happens sometime." To the nurse next to her she said, "I think I must have nicked a vein or something." They were soaked in blood. My thighs were slick with it. My doula whispered, "Aren't you glad you had the epidural now?" I was just glad the baby was out. She asked if I could at least see him. They held him up for me, 5 seconds. They had to hurry up and suction the poop out of his mouth. I was fine with not having skin to skin time right away; I just wanted him to be allright, and I knew they had to do a few things to stabilize him immediately. Andrew saw that Bodhi was about to turn his face toward the nurse who was holding him, so he immediately spoke and captured Bodhi's attention. "I'm your daddy!" he told him. And was then by his side for the next few hours while they gave him oxygen, bathed him, monitored him in the nursery. I was so grateful that Andrew could be with him, and that I could rest in my room, recovering, and motherfucking EAT SOMETHING. DRINK SOMETHING. In the heat of the moment, Sarai made sure that a nurse showed me my placenta. It was so beautiful, a deep rich purple and red. We'd had long conversations about how wonderful and amazing the placenta is, and how I still grieved even the loss of my placenta from when I was born. So I thank her to this day for remembering how I wanted to see it, savor it, and in truth I should have kept it. I even sobbed over not keeping it later, during one of Bodhi's may craniosacral sessions. (That's all another story.)
So like the placenta is a tree of life, a sustaining lifegiving organ, my friends and family circled around me and began the long, slow, deeply loving process of restoring me back to life.
They gave me vicodin in the hospital. I had a choice between that and ibuprofen. I thought I should go with the hard stuff. Little did I know, I have an allergy to vicodin. So all the while, as I soaked in my sitz baths, iced my bottom, and sprayed numbing solution on my episiotomy, I was getting more disassociated, feeling the pain more intensely, and suffering just a little bit more than I needed to. Along with my butt kit, they gave me a stool softener, as well as some iron tablets, because I'd lost so much blood I was of course anemic. I left the hospital a shocked, swollen, waddling, bloated, majorly stitched up, delirious mess. And I accidentally took too much stool softener, which gave me horrendous runs. Just to add insult to injury. My mom was staying with us, thank God. Andrew had a nice long paternity leave lined up, also thank God. I basically curled up in a ball, moaned, shat black water and blood, and waited for my milk to come in. Which took almost a week. And in that week, we were panicking over Bodhi's weight loss, which I know now is totally normal and probably just him shedding the water weight from the fluid i.v. and epidural. I lost almost 30 pounds just about immediately. Friends came over and tried to bring in some light, clean up a little bit, and reassure me that I was going to make it. I was so lost. I wanted to bond with my baby, but it was very difficult. He needed to eat every 2-3 hours, and he would nurse for about an hour at a time, so that meant I had an hour to sleep. Or brush my teeth, try not to poop (it hurt) or shower. We did everything we could to help him nurse. He came out of the womb a pugilist, totally bruised and swollen and so beautiful. We got his frenulum clipped. We got him craniosacral therapy. I worked with Bev Morgan again to find ways to let him nurse and get more and more efficient at it. It got better. Much, much better. The breastfeeding was like a primal drive, like nothing I'd ever felt before. As sick and crazy as I was, my desire to breastfeed my baby cut through any fog I was in. It was, and still is, extremely powerful. I would not give up on that no matter what, no matter how exhausted I was. I had to force food down my throat. As Jenn said to me at some point, I would have to stand over the kitchen sink shoving cake into my mouth just to get enough calories in me to keep feeding my baby. And the thirst was also quite intense. I was on an emotional rollercoaster. I felt so hollowed out, so dessicated, so completely destroyed. I wanted so badly to be blissed out, to be happy and healthy and just so delighted to be a new mommy...instead it was as if I had descended into hell and not yet clawed my way back out. I was spooked sleeping in my own bed, the site of my suffering. I still can't go in the shower, where I spent so many hours under the hot water trying to pound out the knot in my back. Friends came with pasta every day. Many were completely sympathetic, others were totally freaked out by my obvious depression and devastation, I could tell. It was palpable, as my brother said.
I went back to see my doctor two weeks later, and I cried my eyes out in her office. I let her know how angry I was with her and with her partners. I felt that they should have known about the scar tissue, could have at least looked at my chart. Could have believed me when I told them I was in labor. She said they had all worked very hard to give me the birth I wanted. I can see that now, but still. She prescribed me zoloft. I have never taken an anti depressant before in my life. I was beyond desperate. So I started taking it. It turns out that zoloft might be one of the dirtiest little secrets of new motherhood; a lot of us have needed it, and been saved by it. I don't know exactly how long it took me to start to see glimmers of hope again. I remember praying, crying out in the darkest night of my soul, asking the Divine why I had suffered so much, why the birth had been so damn difficult. (Not to mention the total obsession/terror I had with whether or not Bodhi had suffered, and if he had neurological damage from the experience.) And in the quiet, the answer "came" to me: It would all be revealed over time. Even in the darkest moments, I knew that there were others out there who would either read my story, or hear it, and get some comfort in knowing that a strong, powerful, healthy, longtime yoga practitioner mama had been broken. And lived, survived to tell the tale. Made stronger by it.
My initiation into warriorhood began with Bodhi's birth, which happened during Mercury retrograde by the way, and was completed this June when my father died, also during Mercury retrograde.
And that is another story.
Here's a web portfolio of some pics from his party. Is he a happy boy or what?
So this year we had a little party for him, a gathering of some favorite adults and friends. I have to say that he seemed to love being the center of attention...does that sound a little like anyone else we know?
He was a hug monster in his music class today! He likes to climb on people, and was hanging off of his little buddies, much to their and their mamas' chagrin, I think. He loves to give open mouth kisses. I think he sees me and his daddy kiss on the lips, and is kind of fascinated by that and how it's different from the cheek kisses he gets from us. I have nothing against kisses on the lips between parent and child, it's just not something we're accustomed to doing. But it was a little overwhelming this morning to be awakened by wet, slobbery, fingers in my nose and exploring my gums, with baby mouth trying to cover mine.
His breath is so sweet. I could breathe it in all day.
And so, the cold air blew in. It was, it is, so beautiful. This time last year I was in shellshock, bleeding, sore, sleepless and vigilant and exhausted in the hospital. We decided against letting the nurses take him, keeping him in the room with us, wrapped in his flannel in the bassinet between us. We were so terrified of crib death that we monitored his breathing all night and panicked at every little change. They'll tell you to let the hospital staff take your baby so you can rest, but Andrew said when he was up in the newborn care area, all the babies who were up there "camping out" were left to cry for long periods of time, not something we would have wanted for Bodhi. So there, in the hospital room, I became close friends with my peri bottle (as Jen Plemons Severn said I would!) and slept with icepacks on my crotch and mattress-sized maxi pads. It seemed like we had a lactation consultant come visit us every 30 minutes or so, only to offer contradictory advice to the previous LC. Beverly Morgan stayed late on her shift at the NICU, hearing a rumor that a 10-pounder who had swallowed meconium was being delivered. Everyone in intensive care fully expected him to be taken there, and Beverly knew they usually put such babies on formula. So she raced down to my room as soon as he was born to teach me how to use the breast pump and start saving up colostrom for the baby. "Liquid gold," she told me. She was incredible, and we hired her later that month when we were having trouble breastfeeding. But Bodhi didn't end up having to go to the NICU after all; his blood sugar and pressure and everything else miraculously measured just fine.
So the story of his birth. Well.
I labored for almost 70 hours. The contractions started out slow, and felt more like menstrual cramps than anything else. I could feel my uterus contracting and expanding, spiraling. It was a very intense tightening across my low belly and low back. I knew it was true labor because it wrapped all the way around. And that started at 430 in the morning. The contractions were consistent, but not regularly spaced apart. We decided that I would try to sleep, drink water, and eat so I could labor as long as possible at home. So I did that. I don't remember the exact sequence of events, but I ended up calling my doula in the early evening of the next day, and I called my acupuncturist. The contractions were still coming, but were not yet five minutes apart. So Sarai, my acupuncturist, got out her little stun gun tool and started working some intense points on my ears. After about 30 minutes of this, lo and behold, my contractions went to five minutes apart. And stayed there for over an hour. So we decided to go to the hospital. It was close to midnight, I think, and we got all prepared in the room. Then the nurse came in and checked me. Nothing. I wasn't dilated at all. Dr. S came in. Same thing. It was confusing. If anyone knows their body, it's me. Granted I had never been pregnant before, but these women were telling me that I wasn't in true labor because I wasn't in severe pain, doubling over, yelling, rolling on the floor. They literally told me that. And sent me home.
Well, fast forward to me in severe pain, almost 12 hours later, doubling over...because my paraspinalis muscle was in spasm. Andrew said the knot in my back was like a fist. So we went back to the hospital and they checked me again. Nothing. So they suggested I take a hot shower to relieve the pain. And they said if it was still there after an hour they'd give me morphine. I was concerned about the baby getting these drugs in his system, but I was also desperate to rest, since I wasn't in "true labor." So they gave me the morphine. It didn't help. And they sent me home again, told me to take an Ambien so I could sleep. It didn't work. So I was at home, in labor, doped up on morphine, and feeling out of my body weird with the Ambien psyching me out. Plus the pain in my back had quadrupled. I got in the hot shower and just stood in it, moaning.
I chanted "OM" deep and guttural, like an animal, the whole time.
At that point, Andrew was seriously worried. He called Sarai to come over and give me some more acupuncture. I was naked and wet and dehyrated, exhausted and hallucinating. Andrew asked me what I wanted, wondering if there were someone I could call to come over and do some bodywork on me. "Rasa," I told him. And the doorbell rang at that moment, and it was Rasa.
She did work on me, and it did alleviate the pain. We even did some yoga together. It was such a relief. What we didn't know was that my aunt Marie was on the phone calling people in Austin, frantic, trying to get someone to talk Andrew into taking me back to the hospital. They were all afraid for me at that point. "Something was not right," our friend Gail told us later. She called Andrew and talked him into talking me into going back to the hospital.
I think it was at this point that our doula, Dawn, turned to me and asked if I'd ever had cryosurgery. And I looked at her, surprised. "Yes," I said. "Over 20 years ago." Well, it turns out that cryosurgery, in which they freeze your cervix if you get an abnormal pap smear, often leaves scar tissue. So when all those doctors and nurses kept checking my cervix and not feeling it open, it was because it was sewn shut with scar tissue. So we mentioned it to Dr. S , who checked me, and who could ALL OF A SUDDEN FEEL THAT THERE WAS SCAR TISSUE.
By that time, it was too late. I was exhausted, completely dehydrated, and starved. But all we wanted was for me to get a little sleep. So they catherized me, and they gave me an epidural. I was so depleted I had nothing in my bladder. They had to fill me up with fluids. I think it took 3 iv bags of fluid before I produced any urine. And I was STARVING.
Then Dr. S had to manually tear apart the scar tissue, and then she broke my water.
So thus far, it was every single intervention we had specified NOT wanting in our birth plan.
I was also tethered to the monitors. Bodhi was doing fine this whole time. I kept chanting OM to him, letting him know I was ON it. I felt so strongly connected to him. I know that everyone around us was sick with worry, but I was never afraid. I never thought either one of us was going to die. I was very relaxed, albeit totally depleted.
So finally, I was able to sleep with the epidural. My cervix was slowly opening. My doula's stand-in, Heather, showed up so my doula could tend to her kids. At this point I believe it had been about 3 days. Labor started Friday night, and we were moving from Sunday early morning into Monday. I continued to labor all day Monday, slowly opening, still starving, watching the nurses leave and come on shift, said goodbye to Dr. S, and hello to Dr. R -- neither of whom I had ever seen in all my visits to the OBGYN's practice; my doctor was not on call that weekend -- who ended up delivering my baby.
I finally started to push around 4 pm. They told me we had 3 hours to push. Now "pushing" seems really really stupid to me. I was on my back, my hips and legs numb from the epidural, unable to really control my pelvic floor, which is what I needed to push the baby out. And he was big. And "sunny side up." So I let Andrew, Dawn, Sarai and nurse Nancy all help me and coach me in pushing, knowing that it was physically impossible. And then toward the end, Dr. R came in and said she was preparing the cesarean room for us. We all knew we didn't want that, and I have to say, at this vantage point of one year later, that I will credit them with trying to give me the birth I wanted. So she gave us the pros and cons of using a forceps, if it seemed like that would work after just 30 more minutes of extra-hard pushing. So from somewhere deep inside me, after nearly 70 hours of bullshit, I pushed. And we were so close, she cut me open and took Bodhi out with the forceps. At that point, about 20 people had come into the room. He had swallowed meconium, which is a sign of fetal distress. What happened at the moment of his birth, in spite of not really sleeping or resting for 3 days, in spite of being thoroughly dehydrated and completely pumped up full of all kinds of drugs -- remember, I am a totally clean and sober person when I'm not pregnant -- in spite of all that, the moment of his birth was crystal clear. Dr. R, who was poised between the stirrups, reached for a scalpel and said "I'm going to give him a little way out of there." at which time my doula leaned over me and said, "She's giving you an episiotomy." She sliced through my perinium. There was LOT of blood. And then when she inserted the forceps, I felt the cold steel shock my right hip. My leg shot out, involuntarily. Kriya. Dr. R said "That happens sometime." To the nurse next to her she said, "I think I must have nicked a vein or something." They were soaked in blood. My thighs were slick with it. My doula whispered, "Aren't you glad you had the epidural now?" I was just glad the baby was out. She asked if I could at least see him. They held him up for me, 5 seconds. They had to hurry up and suction the poop out of his mouth. I was fine with not having skin to skin time right away; I just wanted him to be allright, and I knew they had to do a few things to stabilize him immediately. Andrew saw that Bodhi was about to turn his face toward the nurse who was holding him, so he immediately spoke and captured Bodhi's attention. "I'm your daddy!" he told him. And was then by his side for the next few hours while they gave him oxygen, bathed him, monitored him in the nursery. I was so grateful that Andrew could be with him, and that I could rest in my room, recovering, and motherfucking EAT SOMETHING. DRINK SOMETHING. In the heat of the moment, Sarai made sure that a nurse showed me my placenta. It was so beautiful, a deep rich purple and red. We'd had long conversations about how wonderful and amazing the placenta is, and how I still grieved even the loss of my placenta from when I was born. So I thank her to this day for remembering how I wanted to see it, savor it, and in truth I should have kept it. I even sobbed over not keeping it later, during one of Bodhi's may craniosacral sessions. (That's all another story.)
So like the placenta is a tree of life, a sustaining lifegiving organ, my friends and family circled around me and began the long, slow, deeply loving process of restoring me back to life.
They gave me vicodin in the hospital. I had a choice between that and ibuprofen. I thought I should go with the hard stuff. Little did I know, I have an allergy to vicodin. So all the while, as I soaked in my sitz baths, iced my bottom, and sprayed numbing solution on my episiotomy, I was getting more disassociated, feeling the pain more intensely, and suffering just a little bit more than I needed to. Along with my butt kit, they gave me a stool softener, as well as some iron tablets, because I'd lost so much blood I was of course anemic. I left the hospital a shocked, swollen, waddling, bloated, majorly stitched up, delirious mess. And I accidentally took too much stool softener, which gave me horrendous runs. Just to add insult to injury. My mom was staying with us, thank God. Andrew had a nice long paternity leave lined up, also thank God. I basically curled up in a ball, moaned, shat black water and blood, and waited for my milk to come in. Which took almost a week. And in that week, we were panicking over Bodhi's weight loss, which I know now is totally normal and probably just him shedding the water weight from the fluid i.v. and epidural. I lost almost 30 pounds just about immediately. Friends came over and tried to bring in some light, clean up a little bit, and reassure me that I was going to make it. I was so lost. I wanted to bond with my baby, but it was very difficult. He needed to eat every 2-3 hours, and he would nurse for about an hour at a time, so that meant I had an hour to sleep. Or brush my teeth, try not to poop (it hurt) or shower. We did everything we could to help him nurse. He came out of the womb a pugilist, totally bruised and swollen and so beautiful. We got his frenulum clipped. We got him craniosacral therapy. I worked with Bev Morgan again to find ways to let him nurse and get more and more efficient at it. It got better. Much, much better. The breastfeeding was like a primal drive, like nothing I'd ever felt before. As sick and crazy as I was, my desire to breastfeed my baby cut through any fog I was in. It was, and still is, extremely powerful. I would not give up on that no matter what, no matter how exhausted I was. I had to force food down my throat. As Jenn said to me at some point, I would have to stand over the kitchen sink shoving cake into my mouth just to get enough calories in me to keep feeding my baby. And the thirst was also quite intense. I was on an emotional rollercoaster. I felt so hollowed out, so dessicated, so completely destroyed. I wanted so badly to be blissed out, to be happy and healthy and just so delighted to be a new mommy...instead it was as if I had descended into hell and not yet clawed my way back out. I was spooked sleeping in my own bed, the site of my suffering. I still can't go in the shower, where I spent so many hours under the hot water trying to pound out the knot in my back. Friends came with pasta every day. Many were completely sympathetic, others were totally freaked out by my obvious depression and devastation, I could tell. It was palpable, as my brother said.
I went back to see my doctor two weeks later, and I cried my eyes out in her office. I let her know how angry I was with her and with her partners. I felt that they should have known about the scar tissue, could have at least looked at my chart. Could have believed me when I told them I was in labor. She said they had all worked very hard to give me the birth I wanted. I can see that now, but still. She prescribed me zoloft. I have never taken an anti depressant before in my life. I was beyond desperate. So I started taking it. It turns out that zoloft might be one of the dirtiest little secrets of new motherhood; a lot of us have needed it, and been saved by it. I don't know exactly how long it took me to start to see glimmers of hope again. I remember praying, crying out in the darkest night of my soul, asking the Divine why I had suffered so much, why the birth had been so damn difficult. (Not to mention the total obsession/terror I had with whether or not Bodhi had suffered, and if he had neurological damage from the experience.) And in the quiet, the answer "came" to me: It would all be revealed over time. Even in the darkest moments, I knew that there were others out there who would either read my story, or hear it, and get some comfort in knowing that a strong, powerful, healthy, longtime yoga practitioner mama had been broken. And lived, survived to tell the tale. Made stronger by it.
My initiation into warriorhood began with Bodhi's birth, which happened during Mercury retrograde by the way, and was completed this June when my father died, also during Mercury retrograde.
And that is another story.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Puppy!
I
actually peed my pants watching .JPG)
Bodhi scramble .JPG)
around while trying on h
is H.JPG)
alloween costume.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
At (Almost) One Year
The weather is changing, and so am I.
It's already such a wistful time of year for me; add to that contemplating where I was this time last year, anxiously awaiting the birth of my son, feeling myself shut down and go inward for the last few weeks of pregnancy, wondering if it was real, not even being able to imagine what it would be like to give birth...much less to become a mother. There is nothing on the planet that can prepare you for giving birth. Nothing.
Fortunately my childbirth instructor (who was pregnant for the first time herself while she taught the class) had some inkling, since she'd been a doula for many years. She took us through the Inanna myth, taking us underground and into hell, where we would be left naked and alone to die. And then be reborn, completely and utterly transformed.
So that was close.
And now, with my Bodhi growing more independent and evolving every single minute of every single day, I'm blown away by the tenuousness, fragility, and swiftness of it all. I don't want him going to school. I can totally understand homeschooling. But I know I'm going to need time to myself again, need to earn more money again, need to have hours of practice at a time instead of minutes again. And I can have all that when and if he is in school. Plus he is proving to be quite the social butterly; his grandmother went with us to music class a few weeks ago, and told me afterward that she was concerned that he "seemed more interested in socializing than in properly playing the instruments!" Which is funny, of course. Nailed! Although, he is a really fantastic drummer, and strums the guitar strings very well for someone who still can't walk by himself or speak yet.
Though he does say "Mom" and "Mama" quite a bit, and now points to the light when I ask him to show me the light, or "la lumiere." (Lest ye think me pretentious for teaching my child French, it is actually the second language that was spoken somewhat often in our home growing up.)
Anyway.
Wistful.
October.
Orange.
Libra.
Leaves. Rustling. Wind. Cooler air. Shorter days.
PRE-PREGNANCY JEANS, BABY!!!!
Last year was so hard. We sold our house, bought a new house, and moved in September of last year. We had blankets and sheets covering our windows for months and months after Bodhi was born, contributing I'm sure to the gloominess of our house, to the gloominess of my mood. Everything about my hospital birth set me up for PPD. I still haven't written that story yet, even though I've been challenged to do so by friends. I think I can still conjure up the details. There was a time, after the birth, that I had a spiritual crisis. I could not understand why God had allowed me to suffer...so much. Why my birth hadn't gone smoothly, really, and why I was so hollowed-out and destroyed by it.
I realized then, in prayer and contemplation, that it wasn't for ME to understand why just yet. That it would all unfold, that it would reveal itself to me over time. And so it has, and so it continues to do so.
Not a moment of my life goes by now without me realizing how precious it is. I mean it. I don't think I go for 24 hours without appreciating what I have in Bodhi, and in Andrew. Not to mention that I'm still here. That.
I am.
I've also realized that the times Bodhi spent apart from me, those first few weeks, the times Andrew had to bond with him and take over his care because I was so sick and unavailable, created a connection between the two of them that nothing can every destroy. It also allowed me to be able to let go, to let someone else take him, let someone else nurture and put him down to sleep,let someone else love him at least as much as I did. And that dynamic serves us to this day, as I predict it always will. I'm definitely not the expert on Bodhi. I share that with his daddy. (Of course, if it comes down to it, I'm Right and he's Wrong, but that's another story.)
I also know that, even though there are many times when I feel like a leper in the new mama community -- I'm just not that cheerful or perfect all the time, sorry! -- my willingness to go into the darkness, to plumb the depths, cry out in the loneliness, verbalize and articulate the fears, condemn the sleeplessness, laugh (and cry) at the ridiculousness of new mamahood, serves me and will one day serve others.
I cried my eyes out watching that movie "Once" the other day. Bodhi heard some of the music in it and was rocking out. He is truly my son.
I worry that he's not developing fast enough; he has lots of friends who are already walking, getting haircuts, imitating animal sounds, etc. And yet I don't want him to grow up too fast. Go figure.
He crawls because it's more efficient than walking for him. He has very little hair, still. It's really cute. I love the back of his head in particular. His occiput is amazingly adorable. He crawls around on all fours, making hilarious panting sounds and barking sounds, I think, perhaps in imitation of our yippy chihuahua, I don't know. He eats a lot of different foods now, watermelon is a favorite, Ezekiel bread, pita, avocado, bell pepper, quinoa, sweet potato fries, yogurt, hummus, wild berry smoothies, pears, and always the peas. He kicks his legs in excitement when we go for our adventures in the car. He is loving riding the swings at the playground; he likes going higher and higher now!
And so it goes, my life. With me in it. A rocket. A fast car.
A time machine and the eternal free fall that is play, and unconditional love.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Quick Dirty
This Week's Word for New Mama Poetics:
[dirty]
get down and quick and dirty, mama. seems i am constantly purging in one way or another, purging or wiping or flicking or scrubbing or shepherding dirt into my hands, into the dust catcher, off the cabinet, off tiny baby feet, out of my car, onto the grass, and on and on. my thoughts, never pure, have cleaned themselves up since having a baby. yet i am kept awake at night by remembering my father's ragged breath in those last days, the filth of his environment, animals and insects all gathering in one place to share. this planet is full of disease and despair, it's all a lab experiment to lay the foundation of an immune system. every piece of dirt, every new virus, every breakout, every open sore, every missed opportunity to brush the teeth all make us stronger. dirty is a lady in a bataille novel, a story in susie bright's book, a state of skin a state of my art. our whole purpose in being here is to cleanse the mirror. to sample the buffet.
[dirty]
get down and quick and dirty, mama. seems i am constantly purging in one way or another, purging or wiping or flicking or scrubbing or shepherding dirt into my hands, into the dust catcher, off the cabinet, off tiny baby feet, out of my car, onto the grass, and on and on. my thoughts, never pure, have cleaned themselves up since having a baby. yet i am kept awake at night by remembering my father's ragged breath in those last days, the filth of his environment, animals and insects all gathering in one place to share. this planet is full of disease and despair, it's all a lab experiment to lay the foundation of an immune system. every piece of dirt, every new virus, every breakout, every open sore, every missed opportunity to brush the teeth all make us stronger. dirty is a lady in a bataille novel, a story in susie bright's book, a state of skin a state of my art. our whole purpose in being here is to cleanse the mirror. to sample the buffet.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
New Mama Moment
Tuesday afternoon I got to take Christina's 4:30 Hatha class, which was wonderful fun. At one point during the practice I looked down and saw that I had some dried sweet potato crust on my hairy ankle, just above my chipped toenails.
So today, my sister-in-law waxed my legs and my armpits. She also cut and colored my hair!
Pictures coming soon.
My mom is here, evacuated from Houston.
Every time they mention Hurricane Ike on the news, I can't help but picture Ike Turner.
So today, my sister-in-law waxed my legs and my armpits. She also cut and colored my hair!
Pictures coming soon.
My mom is here, evacuated from Houston.
Every time they mention Hurricane Ike on the news, I can't help but picture Ike Turner.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
More Mystical
This weekend Andrew and Bodhi and I went to Houston to pick up some of my Dad's things. It was hard. It was rewarding too, but still. Very, very painful.
My Dad was a very private person, and it felt strange to be wading through his closets and drawers and attic. But I had this weird almost unconscious compulsion to do it, sort of how I felt in getting his recording studio packed up. I really felt his presence with me in both places. Meanwhile, I found several items that are precious to me.
I had a very short list of Things I Wanted.
1. His plants.
2. His wind chimes.
3. His airchecks, or recordings he'd made of his radio shows.
I have often heard people say that one of the worst things about losing someone they love is that they suddenly realize they will never hear that person's voice again.
I'm lucky, in that I have hours and hours of my Dad's voice on tape. Burned. Digitized. Etc. There are also old colleagues and friends of his who have been asking me about getting copies of his airchecks as well. Very cool, I think. Somehow there's been a lot of buzz around his accomplishments in Southern California in the late sixties. Anyway.
Of course I had questions for him today as I looked at letters, photographs, books and such. I suppose I always will. There wasn't all that much there, unfortunately. And what was there was covered in dust and filth. The house, which was once my Dad's dream home, has fallen into terrible disrepair. It's a little eccentric beach shack surrounded by giant Tuscan-style condos and McMansions. I used to love to visit him there. The yard was lush, full of banana trees and succulents and exotic, big-leaf plants, with a few places to sit outside and shoot the shit or drink iced tea and wine. One of the great pleasures of my life will always be long, luxurious, intense conversations outdoors. And my Dad was King of that. I miss having that with him, already.
And his house was an art work-in-progress for so many years. Everywhere you looked was either a super funky architectural detail, or a half-finished project that had potential.
But it's been absolutely brutal trying to coordinate life, schedules, legalities and personal shenanigans in order for us to finally have access to my Dad's house. I feel so much for my brother, in particular, who has been made executor of the estate. My mother seems lost and overwhelmed by it all, as she should be. We will make it through this somehow.
While I was looking through piles of brittle paper and stacks of polaroids of people I don't know and whom I suspect are mostly dead and gone, I had the thought that I needed to organize my own life's archives for Bodhi, so he isn't stuck sitting on a filthy dirty floor trying to find my journals and wondering who all the people in the pictures are. Or why I clipped a certain news article, or had a million copies of a press release or a poem. I've even thought of just trashing it all. But you know, Margaret Mitchell left strict orders that, in the event of her untimely death, her family was to burn everything. Sure enough, she died young, was hit by a car, and all her journals and mementoes went up in smoke, as directed, leaving Gone With the Wind-o-philes bereft. And pissed.
I'm not saying I'm Margaret Mitchell or anything. Not at all. Just that I think it's great when someone leaves behind personal insights and opinions and inspiration.
Anyhow, in the morning before we left my aunt's house today, I had Bob Seger on the brain. Yep. Random audio poison. One of his tunes had entered my consciousness and I was humming it incessantly. I think the song was "Someday Lady You'll Accompany Me." Or whatever. So there we were, in the car, driving over to my Dad's house, Andrew and I having a conversation about Bob Seger, whom we both happen to think seems like an okay dude, even though we're not wild about his music. We even admitted to one another that we'd owned some Seger at one time or another. Got it? File it away: Odd Conversation About Bob Seger.
Fast forward to six hours later, and the very last box of stuff I look through at my Dad's is a random collection of tapes, press releases, clippings. Lo and Behold, a Bob Seger Eight-track. Thanks, Dad, for letting us know you were still around, and once again tuning in to our conversations about music!
Also, every time I went outside, I saw that a red dragonfly was perched on my car antenna. He was very unusual, and large, and completely still. He must have stayed there from the time we arrived till the moment we left. Again, as I was rounding up the last items from Dad's house, I picked up the small windchimes from the porch and Lo and Behold, a dragonfly design.
Final Lo and Behold, I found a manila envelope full of 8x10s my Dad had made in Detroit, when he was groovy program director and national DJ of the year a couple times. The picture was one I'd had copied and framed for his funeral service, then placed on top of my shelves in the living room. In it, he has a total seventies goatee, iron cross necklace, and turtleneck. He looks very Beat. I love that picture. So it was wild that I found the entire stack of 8x10s.
Just sayin'.
Oh, and I also found his leather jacket, his motorcycle helmet, and uh, some other interesting stuff.
So I think it's only right that I would now have permission from him to write the story of his life, which is, after all, partly the story of my own life, and my son's.
My Dad was a very private person, and it felt strange to be wading through his closets and drawers and attic. But I had this weird almost unconscious compulsion to do it, sort of how I felt in getting his recording studio packed up. I really felt his presence with me in both places. Meanwhile, I found several items that are precious to me.
I had a very short list of Things I Wanted.
1. His plants.
2. His wind chimes.
3. His airchecks, or recordings he'd made of his radio shows.
I have often heard people say that one of the worst things about losing someone they love is that they suddenly realize they will never hear that person's voice again.
I'm lucky, in that I have hours and hours of my Dad's voice on tape. Burned. Digitized. Etc. There are also old colleagues and friends of his who have been asking me about getting copies of his airchecks as well. Very cool, I think. Somehow there's been a lot of buzz around his accomplishments in Southern California in the late sixties. Anyway.
Of course I had questions for him today as I looked at letters, photographs, books and such. I suppose I always will. There wasn't all that much there, unfortunately. And what was there was covered in dust and filth. The house, which was once my Dad's dream home, has fallen into terrible disrepair. It's a little eccentric beach shack surrounded by giant Tuscan-style condos and McMansions. I used to love to visit him there. The yard was lush, full of banana trees and succulents and exotic, big-leaf plants, with a few places to sit outside and shoot the shit or drink iced tea and wine. One of the great pleasures of my life will always be long, luxurious, intense conversations outdoors. And my Dad was King of that. I miss having that with him, already.
And his house was an art work-in-progress for so many years. Everywhere you looked was either a super funky architectural detail, or a half-finished project that had potential.
But it's been absolutely brutal trying to coordinate life, schedules, legalities and personal shenanigans in order for us to finally have access to my Dad's house. I feel so much for my brother, in particular, who has been made executor of the estate. My mother seems lost and overwhelmed by it all, as she should be. We will make it through this somehow.
While I was looking through piles of brittle paper and stacks of polaroids of people I don't know and whom I suspect are mostly dead and gone, I had the thought that I needed to organize my own life's archives for Bodhi, so he isn't stuck sitting on a filthy dirty floor trying to find my journals and wondering who all the people in the pictures are. Or why I clipped a certain news article, or had a million copies of a press release or a poem. I've even thought of just trashing it all. But you know, Margaret Mitchell left strict orders that, in the event of her untimely death, her family was to burn everything. Sure enough, she died young, was hit by a car, and all her journals and mementoes went up in smoke, as directed, leaving Gone With the Wind-o-philes bereft. And pissed.
I'm not saying I'm Margaret Mitchell or anything. Not at all. Just that I think it's great when someone leaves behind personal insights and opinions and inspiration.
Anyhow, in the morning before we left my aunt's house today, I had Bob Seger on the brain. Yep. Random audio poison. One of his tunes had entered my consciousness and I was humming it incessantly. I think the song was "Someday Lady You'll Accompany Me." Or whatever. So there we were, in the car, driving over to my Dad's house, Andrew and I having a conversation about Bob Seger, whom we both happen to think seems like an okay dude, even though we're not wild about his music. We even admitted to one another that we'd owned some Seger at one time or another. Got it? File it away: Odd Conversation About Bob Seger.
Fast forward to six hours later, and the very last box of stuff I look through at my Dad's is a random collection of tapes, press releases, clippings. Lo and Behold, a Bob Seger Eight-track. Thanks, Dad, for letting us know you were still around, and once again tuning in to our conversations about music!
Also, every time I went outside, I saw that a red dragonfly was perched on my car antenna. He was very unusual, and large, and completely still. He must have stayed there from the time we arrived till the moment we left. Again, as I was rounding up the last items from Dad's house, I picked up the small windchimes from the porch and Lo and Behold, a dragonfly design.
Final Lo and Behold, I found a manila envelope full of 8x10s my Dad had made in Detroit, when he was groovy program director and national DJ of the year a couple times. The picture was one I'd had copied and framed for his funeral service, then placed on top of my shelves in the living room. In it, he has a total seventies goatee, iron cross necklace, and turtleneck. He looks very Beat. I love that picture. So it was wild that I found the entire stack of 8x10s.
Just sayin'.
Oh, and I also found his leather jacket, his motorcycle helmet, and uh, some other interesting stuff.
So I think it's only right that I would now have permission from him to write the story of his life, which is, after all, partly the story of my own life, and my son's.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Labor Day
We went to Zilker park, ate snowcones, and rode the train! It was ungodly hot, though, so by the end of the train ride we were afraid that Bodhi had heat exhaustion...he didn't.
I was trying to show him how to properly eat a snowcone. Would you believe this one is coconut-flavored?
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
I Love The Guns
Rather than write a little essay about how I'm feeling watching Sarah Palin speak, I will instead reclaim my arms.
They are STRONG, baby!
They carry a 22-pound muscley boy bambino around all day. And they keep him from hitting the ground, which is not easy, considering how he likes to thrash around, wiggle, and throw himself backwards while in my arms.
They hold up my post-baby-weighted mass IN CHATURANGA. They do the same thing in forearm balance. Handstand.
They carry the weight of this whole world lately, and then some.
They can carry above-mentioned baby, his Ergo carrier, a full diaper bag, a small purse, a stroller and a steaming hot cup of coffee all at once, too.
Andrew said when we first met he fell in love with my triceps.
They are pretty cool, I have to admit. And now my biceps, the primary babycarrying muscles, are getting pretty cool too. My forearms have never been so big, or so sore.
And yes, I used to be an expert shot. Seriously. It was a skill I discovered at camp one summer. I am an animal-loving, anti-hunting and fishing vegetarian. But I can shoot out the bullseye of a target with a .22 rifle quite easily.
They are STRONG, baby!
They carry a 22-pound muscley boy bambino around all day. And they keep him from hitting the ground, which is not easy, considering how he likes to thrash around, wiggle, and throw himself backwards while in my arms.
They hold up my post-baby-weighted mass IN CHATURANGA. They do the same thing in forearm balance. Handstand.
They carry the weight of this whole world lately, and then some.
They can carry above-mentioned baby, his Ergo carrier, a full diaper bag, a small purse, a stroller and a steaming hot cup of coffee all at once, too.
Andrew said when we first met he fell in love with my triceps.
They are pretty cool, I have to admit. And now my biceps, the primary babycarrying muscles, are getting pretty cool too. My forearms have never been so big, or so sore.
And yes, I used to be an expert shot. Seriously. It was a skill I discovered at camp one summer. I am an animal-loving, anti-hunting and fishing vegetarian. But I can shoot out the bullseye of a target with a .22 rifle quite easily.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Breast Wishes
So, earlier today I found out that my mom was going into surgery to have her implant removed. It got badly infected. Maybe that explains why she's been feeling so sick for so long and couldn't find out what was causing it...until now.
The event for Jenn and Ann was well-attended by lots of beautiful yoga friends. I left before it was over, anxious to feed my baby and anxious about...you name it. Hurricanes, surgery, feeling off center. I love hearing Sanieh sing.
So mom apparently did well after the surgery, but now I'm concerned that Gustav seems headed right for her and for the rest of my family in SW Louisiana. Again.
The event for Jenn and Ann was well-attended by lots of beautiful yoga friends. I left before it was over, anxious to feed my baby and anxious about...you name it. Hurricanes, surgery, feeling off center. I love hearing Sanieh sing.
So mom apparently did well after the surgery, but now I'm concerned that Gustav seems headed right for her and for the rest of my family in SW Louisiana. Again.
I Am Like a Hurricane
I've stolen a few minutes at a coffee shop to blog, while my friend Jennifer sits Bodhi for a few hours. I'll go teach my 4:30 class, then Sanieh and I will lead a practice that is a fundraiser/benefit for our beloved Jenn Wooten and her mother Ann, who has just been diagnosed with breast cancer. And has no insurance. So 7:30 pm at YYNW. We're asking 20 bucks.
If you are unable to attend but would like to donate, you can set up a secure account and donate directly through paypal by going to www.paypal.com – clicking "send money" and enter to: jennwooten@hotmail.com.
My own mother had breast cancer in 1997. I moved from Los Angeles back to Houston to take care of her, to nurse her through surgery and chemo. She conquered it, but it really came at great cost. Edema sucks. She has an infected implant, and is actually in surgery as I write this, having it removed.
I'm having a little PTSD with Hurricane Gustav coming in. Katrina was devastating. And then Rita walloped my entire family. And of course this weekend is the "anniversary" of Katrina. I drove with my aunt and uncle through Lousiana backroads to rescue my mother after Rita; she and my grandmother fled to north Louisiana to stay with cousins up there. I have not been to New Orleans since Katrina struck; it is a place that I hold dear in my soul. I know, I can feel, the sadness and the resilience of that part of the state. East Texas and SW Louisiana have still not recovered from Rita.
I've been off my center all day long. I have this belief that we human beings are very sensitive, and that if there is strange weather or mishap in our immediate family of loved ones and friends, we can feel it.
So while Gustav churns out there in the ocean, I churn here at my keyboard.
Meanwhile, BARACK OBAMA 08.
If you are unable to attend but would like to donate, you can set up a secure account and donate directly through paypal by going to www.paypal.com – clicking "send money" and enter to: jennwooten@hotmail.com.
My own mother had breast cancer in 1997. I moved from Los Angeles back to Houston to take care of her, to nurse her through surgery and chemo. She conquered it, but it really came at great cost. Edema sucks. She has an infected implant, and is actually in surgery as I write this, having it removed.
I'm having a little PTSD with Hurricane Gustav coming in. Katrina was devastating. And then Rita walloped my entire family. And of course this weekend is the "anniversary" of Katrina. I drove with my aunt and uncle through Lousiana backroads to rescue my mother after Rita; she and my grandmother fled to north Louisiana to stay with cousins up there. I have not been to New Orleans since Katrina struck; it is a place that I hold dear in my soul. I know, I can feel, the sadness and the resilience of that part of the state. East Texas and SW Louisiana have still not recovered from Rita.
I've been off my center all day long. I have this belief that we human beings are very sensitive, and that if there is strange weather or mishap in our immediate family of loved ones and friends, we can feel it.
So while Gustav churns out there in the ocean, I churn here at my keyboard.
Meanwhile, BARACK OBAMA 08.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
New Mama Poetics: FEED
[FEED]
Please me. Feed me. Fill me. Empty me. Empty my cup. *Sippy. Nipple nose. A hunger I cannot name. Standing over the kitchen sink shoving cake into my face just to feed. Gotta get enough calories in. What a concept. Those first dark days, after the birth, starving and yet so full. My boy (for he is now clearly becoming, being a boy instead of a total baby) rockets off the walls, throws his head back in his high chair and throws his cup on the floor. Patiently I dole out steamed spinach, smashed carrot, cutup pear, sliced mango, nutty quinoa, sticky, sweet, bitter, slimy, chewy, spicy, bland, natural, organic, baby, non-baby, whole, happy food. The miracle that is my son, the exuberant buddhist priest scientist standup comedian, chews with his 8 teeth. Makes a face at every single taste he encounters except yes, spinach. I am a little lost that one day soon I will no longer be his sole source, the only one who can truly feed him. And yet still we relish the nursing time, the night time, the time we are so close we are breathing as one, we are staring into each other's eyes again, offering up that soul food that these moments bring, this darshan, my warm body and his bare feet curled up and cracking up as he suckles, as he feeds, as I fill up while I yet empty out, all hope and wonder and caught up in the swirl of hair on his forehead again, in the tiny bit of tongue that peeks out, in the small speck of his littlest toenail, in the vein on his neck or the small blood vessels near his spine, all nourish me again and again. A flag with no wind. A dry canteen. Then. Lambskin. Potato. Fists full of mango.
*note: Bodhi's sippy cup, an orange Born Free brand, is an object of derision and perhaps even anger for him. The first time I saw that he had strong feelings along the lines of anger (um, well, he had a tantrum) were when I handed him said sippy cup in an effort to appease some unknown need and he powerfully batted it out of my hands, OUT OF HIS FACE, and onto the floor. Wow. Cool.
Please me. Feed me. Fill me. Empty me. Empty my cup. *Sippy. Nipple nose. A hunger I cannot name. Standing over the kitchen sink shoving cake into my face just to feed. Gotta get enough calories in. What a concept. Those first dark days, after the birth, starving and yet so full. My boy (for he is now clearly becoming, being a boy instead of a total baby) rockets off the walls, throws his head back in his high chair and throws his cup on the floor. Patiently I dole out steamed spinach, smashed carrot, cutup pear, sliced mango, nutty quinoa, sticky, sweet, bitter, slimy, chewy, spicy, bland, natural, organic, baby, non-baby, whole, happy food. The miracle that is my son, the exuberant buddhist priest scientist standup comedian, chews with his 8 teeth. Makes a face at every single taste he encounters except yes, spinach. I am a little lost that one day soon I will no longer be his sole source, the only one who can truly feed him. And yet still we relish the nursing time, the night time, the time we are so close we are breathing as one, we are staring into each other's eyes again, offering up that soul food that these moments bring, this darshan, my warm body and his bare feet curled up and cracking up as he suckles, as he feeds, as I fill up while I yet empty out, all hope and wonder and caught up in the swirl of hair on his forehead again, in the tiny bit of tongue that peeks out, in the small speck of his littlest toenail, in the vein on his neck or the small blood vessels near his spine, all nourish me again and again. A flag with no wind. A dry canteen. Then. Lambskin. Potato. Fists full of mango.
*note: Bodhi's sippy cup, an orange Born Free brand, is an object of derision and perhaps even anger for him. The first time I saw that he had strong feelings along the lines of anger (um, well, he had a tantrum) were when I handed him said sippy cup in an effort to appease some unknown need and he powerfully batted it out of my hands, OUT OF HIS FACE, and onto the floor. Wow. Cool.
Monday, August 25, 2008
A Tisket, A Tasket
So Bodhi's Grandma Doris is in town visiting. We all went to the Sunday night performance of the Austin Symphony's "lawn" series in front of the Long Center. We packed some snacks and a blanket and enjoyed the sunset while rocking out to Big Band music. It was Bodhi's first time hearing an orchestra live; he loved it! Here he is, listening to "A Tisket, A Tasket," while his Dad reminisced about seeing Ella Fitzgerald at the Hollywood Bowl. Sigh.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Word Nerds
Maybe Bodhi will become a word nerd like his mama and papa. He is certainly surrounded by letters, books, and talking. Lots and lots of talking.
Monday, August 18, 2008
New Mama Poetics: BELLY
[BELLY]
Here I am, deep in the belly of the beast. A dark heart in which there is no light, only feeling, falling, succumbing to velvet blackness, an embrace. Womblike, here in the mother. I've been swallowed. Was broken here. Dissolved. Who I once was, the belly I once had, are gone. Traces of me left in blog entries, short stories, old poems, pictures, salt on the desert floor. The uterus, that tornado of a muscle, billows and moans, emptied. My waist is thickened, lined with layers that protected me from the outside world for a time. Then I went in, and when I came back out, the world had changed. I was soft on the outside, power incarnate on the inside. I vibrate with the intensity of 10,000 suns. I roar when I talk. I shatter stone when I walk. My belly, the former igloo cocoon for my son, who burst forth in full wingspan flight, made all of us transformed.
Liz
No badha parvrtta parsvakonasana.
Here I am, deep in the belly of the beast. A dark heart in which there is no light, only feeling, falling, succumbing to velvet blackness, an embrace. Womblike, here in the mother. I've been swallowed. Was broken here. Dissolved. Who I once was, the belly I once had, are gone. Traces of me left in blog entries, short stories, old poems, pictures, salt on the desert floor. The uterus, that tornado of a muscle, billows and moans, emptied. My waist is thickened, lined with layers that protected me from the outside world for a time. Then I went in, and when I came back out, the world had changed. I was soft on the outside, power incarnate on the inside. I vibrate with the intensity of 10,000 suns. I roar when I talk. I shatter stone when I walk. My belly, the former igloo cocoon for my son, who burst forth in full wingspan flight, made all of us transformed.
Liz
No badha parvrtta parsvakonasana.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Mother's Little Helper: Spaghetti
Oooh, this is a good one.
Bodhi's 9.5 months old and getting into solid food.
I just gave him spaghetti for the first time and it is interesting and tasty enough to keep him occupied at least long enough for me to dash off a quick blog entry.
Oops, gotta run!
Monday, August 11, 2008
New Mama Poetics
So I think I mentioned this in a previous post, but anyway, I have started circulating a New Word every week for the New Mamas to consider. They (We) have 5 minutes to write without stopping, then we share what we wrote with the group.
Last week it was "Rash." This week it was "Fold." So here is my Fold.
[ FOLD ]
At last, I am welcomed into the sacred sisterhood of motherhood. A club I was always standing on the outside of. The fold. Jane Fonda said a woman was a virgin until she had a child. I made a fertile egg and I lost my cherry. There is a place inside me that opens and closes, that longs to fold. Inward. A row of flannel cloths, diaper inserts, prayer flags in the wind, folded into a drawer, or unfurled. Consumed by flame, sweets eaten, extra folds of skin that will one day turn to ash. My baby's extra folds warm him, thicken him like batter or rain clouds, give him heft and health. A fortune is hidden inside the folds, pick one. That place inside, the anemone drifting lazily in the current, the sharp corners or the soft folds, shot through with veins and blood or adipose tissue. I take a forward fold to the floor, spiral inside, widen apart, push, melt, surrender. I am one with it. I am born inside out over and over again, folding like a party chair or a paper doll every time he takes a breath or cries out. I open. I close. I unfold.
Last week it was "Rash." This week it was "Fold." So here is my Fold.
[ FOLD ]
At last, I am welcomed into the sacred sisterhood of motherhood. A club I was always standing on the outside of. The fold. Jane Fonda said a woman was a virgin until she had a child. I made a fertile egg and I lost my cherry. There is a place inside me that opens and closes, that longs to fold. Inward. A row of flannel cloths, diaper inserts, prayer flags in the wind, folded into a drawer, or unfurled. Consumed by flame, sweets eaten, extra folds of skin that will one day turn to ash. My baby's extra folds warm him, thicken him like batter or rain clouds, give him heft and health. A fortune is hidden inside the folds, pick one. That place inside, the anemone drifting lazily in the current, the sharp corners or the soft folds, shot through with veins and blood or adipose tissue. I take a forward fold to the floor, spiral inside, widen apart, push, melt, surrender. I am one with it. I am born inside out over and over again, folding like a party chair or a paper doll every time he takes a breath or cries out. I open. I close. I unfold.
Mundane, as in The World
Whew, I just wrote a bunch of profound shit that wiped me out.
Instead of publishing that tonight, I'm going to publish a few mundane moments of what has been happening with Mr. Bodhi Boy lately.
I get so tired, and Andrew gets so tired, that we have vertigo. Or we (I) throw up.
Anyway.
The Bodhi Boy's New Milestones:
1) Started crawling. Yes. All that worry for naught. Sorta. He really would just rather stand up and walk. He crawls with his butt up in the air. Mobile downward facing dog. It's cute, of course. And just last night he pulled himself up to standing for the first time...on his safety gate! Yep; it's gonna hold him in for about another week.
2) Begun loving solid foods. I have been steaming and currying vegetables for him. He still likes carrots, and butternut squash, but has also begun to appreciate lentils with rice and various fruits. He especially likes to squish them between his fingers. He has also tasted yogurt, egg, spinach, and money. I found him sucking on a penny this morning.
3) Also begun loving organic vanilla teething biscuits. (Tito likes them, too. He hovers under the high chair at all times.)
4) Begun playing "roll the ball to Mommy" with me! Amazing to communicate with him in this way. I told him I would also teach him to dribble a basketball, write a poem, do yoga, check his email, and play the guitar.
5) Discovered his privates. Sort of.
6) Cultivated an exhilarating, high-pitched, bloodcurling scream that he can call upon to get our attention.
Life does not get any more exciting than this, people. I mean it.
Instead of publishing that tonight, I'm going to publish a few mundane moments of what has been happening with Mr. Bodhi Boy lately.
I get so tired, and Andrew gets so tired, that we have vertigo. Or we (I) throw up.
Anyway.
The Bodhi Boy's New Milestones:
1) Started crawling. Yes. All that worry for naught. Sorta. He really would just rather stand up and walk. He crawls with his butt up in the air. Mobile downward facing dog. It's cute, of course. And just last night he pulled himself up to standing for the first time...on his safety gate! Yep; it's gonna hold him in for about another week.
2) Begun loving solid foods. I have been steaming and currying vegetables for him. He still likes carrots, and butternut squash, but has also begun to appreciate lentils with rice and various fruits. He especially likes to squish them between his fingers. He has also tasted yogurt, egg, spinach, and money. I found him sucking on a penny this morning.
3) Also begun loving organic vanilla teething biscuits. (Tito likes them, too. He hovers under the high chair at all times.)
4) Begun playing "roll the ball to Mommy" with me! Amazing to communicate with him in this way. I told him I would also teach him to dribble a basketball, write a poem, do yoga, check his email, and play the guitar.
5) Discovered his privates. Sort of.
6) Cultivated an exhilarating, high-pitched, bloodcurling scream that he can call upon to get our attention.
Life does not get any more exciting than this, people. I mean it.
Buncha Milestones!
Okay, so I'm incredibly sore from this weekend's yoga workshop with Darren Rhodes. But I'm sore in ALL the right places! Namely, my upper back and my hamstrings. My psoas. It was, overall, an amazing experience with a gifted teacher, and I loved seeing and being with everyone.
Many years ago, a yoga teacher friend told me that "we are only as limited as our teachers." So in other words, find the teacher who has unlimited capacity! In some sense, ,for me, this means simply to humble oneself before a teacher who has already been there.
So all during the workshop, as Darren spoke of inspiration and effort and the thrill of intense practice, I could remember the excitement I used to feel every time I was about to endeavor to perform or take my asana practice deeper, feeling the strength and limitlessness of my own body and achievements and courage...I'd remember it, but I wasn't exactly in it. But what I was "in" was deep contentment and total trust. It was okay with me if I couldn't nail eka pada koundinyasana I or II, or whatever, this weekend. I knew, I know, that I had nailed some of those poses at some point in my life, and that one day I will again. For me what resonated about what Darren was saying, in his dharma talk on tapas and dedication and desire, was his articulation of holding the VISION. Of the ability or practice of seeing the etheric double in the pose, even if the actual food body was not in it. That really struck a chord with me. That, and that he opened the workshop with a description of and sort of dedication to his Dad, who was a professional championship diver turned daily meditator upon retirement.
Vision.
What Krishna gives Arjuna, what Arjuna longs for and is yet unprepared for.
Practice. Effort. The Crucible. I have often thought of the events of this past year as The Crucible. The transition, the transformation.
To give birth to my son then 7 months later to give death to my father.
I was massaging my friend Mary Saturday evening, and she shared with me the concept of samvega. Apparently this yogic concept refers to being in a transitional period between "My Old Life" and "My New Life."
All the time Darren was talking about endurance and focus, I kept thinking of how it went when I gave birth to Bodhi, and how it went again when I was with my father as he took us on the rollercoaster of high hopes of possible recovery, then into the utter hopelessness of his imminent death, all in just a few days.
In both experiences, I was crushed into dust. The intense heat, the fire of life itself, seared me to the bone and took me out. I was wholly transformed. I felt the hot breath of death on my neck as I was laboring, as they were sewing me up after Bodhi left my body. I felt the exhilaration of release and life, relief as I gazed so deeply and lovingly at my father's body, cold and empty of all prana. I felt betrayed by God after Bodhi came. I couldn't understand why I had suffered so much. Then, as I prayed for clarity, the answers came in quiet. The revelations. The knowledge that my suffering, the benefits of it, would be revealed to me over time. That I had to let go and know that Bodhi's birth was absolutely perfect in every way. That my father's suffering and death was absolutely perfect in everything that led up to it, and all the fallout that has resulted from it.
You don't get this kind of insight from everyday life. Well, at least I don't.
So I am intensely grateful that I've been paying attention. That, as the truth of my life continues to reveal itself, as the Divine spins her creative dance with me, I will come to know everything. Just as Arjuna learns from Krishna, that in the end, it all begins and ends with him. And that the Divine self, our authentic self, engages us in the great hide and seek game of Lila. Self-discovery. Endless possibilities.
Back to that thought, that we are only as limited as our teachers. It occurs to me that Shiva is the Ultimate Teacher. It occurs to me that if I humbly bow to the limitless True Self, the teacher within, I will experience myself as unlimited. My practices and the depths of Love and Truth in my living will be unlimited. Hmm.
So, okay. I choose that.
And meanwhile, Bodhi is pulling himself up, crawling, eating spaghetti, rolling around in his walker like a baby Dr. Strangelove all over our house, rolling a ball back and forth with his mama, crawling to his mama, enjoying books and music and singing and dancing...and yes, the possibilities do seem endless.
Many years ago, a yoga teacher friend told me that "we are only as limited as our teachers." So in other words, find the teacher who has unlimited capacity! In some sense, ,for me, this means simply to humble oneself before a teacher who has already been there.
So all during the workshop, as Darren spoke of inspiration and effort and the thrill of intense practice, I could remember the excitement I used to feel every time I was about to endeavor to perform or take my asana practice deeper, feeling the strength and limitlessness of my own body and achievements and courage...I'd remember it, but I wasn't exactly in it. But what I was "in" was deep contentment and total trust. It was okay with me if I couldn't nail eka pada koundinyasana I or II, or whatever, this weekend. I knew, I know, that I had nailed some of those poses at some point in my life, and that one day I will again. For me what resonated about what Darren was saying, in his dharma talk on tapas and dedication and desire, was his articulation of holding the VISION. Of the ability or practice of seeing the etheric double in the pose, even if the actual food body was not in it. That really struck a chord with me. That, and that he opened the workshop with a description of and sort of dedication to his Dad, who was a professional championship diver turned daily meditator upon retirement.
Vision.
What Krishna gives Arjuna, what Arjuna longs for and is yet unprepared for.
Practice. Effort. The Crucible. I have often thought of the events of this past year as The Crucible. The transition, the transformation.
To give birth to my son then 7 months later to give death to my father.
I was massaging my friend Mary Saturday evening, and she shared with me the concept of samvega. Apparently this yogic concept refers to being in a transitional period between "My Old Life" and "My New Life."
All the time Darren was talking about endurance and focus, I kept thinking of how it went when I gave birth to Bodhi, and how it went again when I was with my father as he took us on the rollercoaster of high hopes of possible recovery, then into the utter hopelessness of his imminent death, all in just a few days.
In both experiences, I was crushed into dust. The intense heat, the fire of life itself, seared me to the bone and took me out. I was wholly transformed. I felt the hot breath of death on my neck as I was laboring, as they were sewing me up after Bodhi left my body. I felt the exhilaration of release and life, relief as I gazed so deeply and lovingly at my father's body, cold and empty of all prana. I felt betrayed by God after Bodhi came. I couldn't understand why I had suffered so much. Then, as I prayed for clarity, the answers came in quiet. The revelations. The knowledge that my suffering, the benefits of it, would be revealed to me over time. That I had to let go and know that Bodhi's birth was absolutely perfect in every way. That my father's suffering and death was absolutely perfect in everything that led up to it, and all the fallout that has resulted from it.
You don't get this kind of insight from everyday life. Well, at least I don't.
So I am intensely grateful that I've been paying attention. That, as the truth of my life continues to reveal itself, as the Divine spins her creative dance with me, I will come to know everything. Just as Arjuna learns from Krishna, that in the end, it all begins and ends with him. And that the Divine self, our authentic self, engages us in the great hide and seek game of Lila. Self-discovery. Endless possibilities.
Back to that thought, that we are only as limited as our teachers. It occurs to me that Shiva is the Ultimate Teacher. It occurs to me that if I humbly bow to the limitless True Self, the teacher within, I will experience myself as unlimited. My practices and the depths of Love and Truth in my living will be unlimited. Hmm.
So, okay. I choose that.
And meanwhile, Bodhi is pulling himself up, crawling, eating spaghetti, rolling around in his walker like a baby Dr. Strangelove all over our house, rolling a ball back and forth with his mama, crawling to his mama, enjoying books and music and singing and dancing...and yes, the possibilities do seem endless.
Obligatory Ultrasound Photo: Shoulderstand at 16 weeks!