It seems to me that trying to live without friends is like milking a bear to get cream for your morning coffee. It is a whole lot of trouble, and then not worth much after you get it. - Zora Neal Hurston
It conjures up images of a gritty and vocal resistance. A fight of words, fists, bravery, cowardice. Against indignities, inhumanities, and malice.
I am not entitled to use this verb "struggle" in relationship to my life. Hyperbole, perhaps. Nothing more.
This struck me this morning. Clad in pajamas dribbled with creamy banana yogurt. Nora's warm clothes even more indulgently splashed with yogurt and a wide variety of other breakfast foods. NPR chirping the background, our beloved "Banana Boat Song" coming across the air waves. It was an interview with Henry Belafonte, speaking of his mother.
Their family's poverty, so severe, that they had to "struggle to survive." Struggle.To.Survive.
As I sit at this computer, an hour later, in those same pajamas, sipping cold coffee, monitor lighting up red with Nora's mild protest against her morning nap (we are separating nursing from sleep...a notion that strongly offends her). My world has become myopic. My fixation with child-rearing, child-feeding, parenting methodology...all pool into the cavern created by my abundance of time and energy, my fortune, my true "need" for nothing. Vexation and analysis spawned from the privilege of lacking nothing.
I have no struggles...and my eyes glisten just typing those words.
Boo hoo, I'm fat. Boo hoo, my daughter likes to nurse and wants to be held too often. Oh, it's so stressful to buy a nice home. And piss to have a husband who craves another degree to further increase our financial stability...so I can stay at home...and pack picnic lunches for our afternoon at the nature center...and write this blog post...and watch the monitor still jump red while our daughter groans. Not out of hunger or fear but of pure irritation...cause she likes me so much.
So, thank you, Mr. Belafonte. Your eloquent words slipped under my skin. They will stay with me today. Make me slap myself around a bit.
Your mother also said, "Never let any injustice go unnoticed" and you claim this as your "rosebud moment." As you forged ahead in your career as a close friend of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., fighting for civil rights and human rights, and as your songs of Jamaican folk became part of every child's musical memory.
Friday came and I thought fondly of the blocks. I was tempted to spell out 53 weeks and keep the tradition alive...but alas, photos will still be taken...just without the wooden fanfare. Monthly blocks will suffice for the next few years. At 24 months, I suppose even monthly shots will fade...then you start saying "two or two and a half or three."
Life is busy around here. In order to blog, I must let go of all or several items on the agenda: cleaning, showering, eating, coffee sipping whilst reading the paper or yoga. And often one or two of these things are just to precious to give up. I try to rarely be online on computer or phone when Noodle is awake. I would prefer her to not grow up thinking of my attention being glued to shiny screens - screens, by the way, that I don't let her enjoy. Hypocrisy starting early.
So, having a one-year old. What's so different? Nothing instanteneous but just the ever-present acknowledgement that she's our big girl. We stared at the monitor last night, as we often do right before bed, wanting to wake her up and play (which we NEVER do). And Daniel noticed just how huge her body is in the crib. It spans such length. She's so tall and grown up.
Her vocabulary is taking off. It's composed of signs and grunts that we convince ourselves we can accurately decipher. She can sign all of the following when prompted in German (and sometimes in English) "more, food, delicious, sleep" auf Deutsch "mehr, Essen, lecker, Schlafen" and has taken to calling Daniel "Dad" and me "Dada." Not sure where the "mama" dissapeared to in her noggin but we haven't heard it in a while. She loves to say "baby" and assundry grunts for "read, please, and help."
I am admittedly concerned sometimes as to how my German (with all of its grammatical weakness) is going to affect her vocabulary. Perhaps she will be delayed in her speech as she muddles through the landscape of the English and Deutsch at home. But it is my passion and I enjoy learning this language and sharing it with her. Not to mention my German friends and their babies who anxiously await our visit in Cologne. It will be so special to have Nora seated at the table and able to understand the conversations between us.
Well, while Lulu Bell sprouts in her independence, Daniel and I have also found more moments to relish our own. For Father's Day, Claire and I presented our favorite fathers with tickets to TV on the Radio at the Hollywood Bowl. It would be a night of friendship, picnic baskets, wine, and the sun setting to fantastic music. And it was.
By the end of the night, Claire had got us all up and dancing. Shaking our head, waving our hands, tapping our feet.
And while we danced, Noodle had her first sleepover at my mom's. Which was easy-peasy, I might add. She ate, drank a bottle, and slept from 7pm until 6am...in her little crib next to my mom's bed...not a peep all night. By the time I arrived at 7:30am, she was already finished with breakfast and listening to her new favorite musical obsession, Sam Cooke's "Chain Gang." Any song by Mr. Cooke gets her all excited with two swirling and shoulders jumping and head bobbing.
It was a glorious "first night away" and one that had me missing her far more than she missed me. Probably the way it always is with your kids.
Our dancing feet will have to find more reasons to tap into the night while Nora slumbers sweetly.
Video time. Here's our basket climber, walker, and reader. She is obsessed with Goodnight, Gorilla. She asks us to read it over and over and over...and over every day.
I often pinch myself that I won the in-law lottery. Tucked up against the barren desert landscape at the end of Vegas lights, where vibrant orange sunsets burst in the sky, is the house that my baby will one day know so well. A house that has portraits of Daniel with a high-top fade, Anna teetering down the road, and Eloisa and Virgil as a young, smiling couple holding a cherubim Daniel with electric smiles.
The room we stay in was where Daniel's Lola spent her final days. It has a karaoke machine, anniversary congratulations from Pope John Paul to Lola and Lolo hung on the wall, and the Filipino wooden rocking chair in which Daniel once snuggled into his mama's lap. It is a home that, albeit newly built, contains such warmth of memory, family, and harmony. And the next time we visit, we'll have our baby with us.
My mother-in-law hosted an incredibly cheery baby shower for us this past weekend. As the Lolo's sung "Danny Boy" with karaoke images of killer sea turtles in the back room, us ladies enjoyed the typical games and ate wonderful Filipino and American treats. Our cup (and trunk) runneth over with the generosity of family and friends.
Nuglett, now only 7 weeks from the due date, has quite the collection of fun items. Organic lions and giraffes frolic inside of a mini co-sleeper, snuggled inside of soft blankets, with newborn outfits just awaiting a tiny cloth-diapered bottom.
I'm still feeling good. Things take a daily turn in the evening when my only desire is to be on a couch with my feet up. But in the morning - I've still got the energy to tackle myriad domestic errands and crafts projects. Loving summer and the rolling kicks in my belly. This morning, Nuglett had incessant hiccups and as Daniel and I enjoyed their rhythm, rays of sunshine shone across our bedroom and we soaked in the silence and luxury of sleeping-at-will.
Here is a picture of Daniel, Baby Chelsea and cousin Daisy.
Below is cousin Tey-Tey with Baby Cloe...cousins that shall grow up with Nuglett and frolic together at all of the family celebrations. The family is so excited for this Thanksgiving to have THREE babies cooing at the table.
Enjoyed the toasts and merriment of the reception.
Savored cake (decorated with the same wooden house that had held my engagement rings six months before).
And at the end of the evening, I went home with my best friend, my most sincere supporter, my husband, and the man who is just two months away from becoming an amazing father.
Happy Anniversary, Daniel! Our first and ONLY before our caramel baby nestles between us.
One week of pure bliss. That was our honeymoon...probably everyone's honeymoon is captured by those words. A vacation designed purely to celebrate, relish, and frolic in the happiness of being newly married.
And we did frolic and relish...and relax. Our normal "pocket-knife and a backpack" travel style gave way to simply waiting for our next meal and rum cocktail by the beach (a white-sand beach in a small cove in St. Lucia that was surrounded by lush green mountains, by the way).
It was heaven. A giant creamy sunshine slipping behind the turquoise horizon...leaving swirls of creamsicle, salmon and lime in the sky. Hours spent basking in the sunshine by sand and our own private pool (and yes, I wore my sunblock). Finding cover under a thatched roof when the rain drops began to fall. Being massaged atop a mountain cabana as a light storm pattered the roof above us and magic hands rubbed warm coconut oil into our backs. Yellow and translucent crabs scampering sideways to their holes...sting rays dusting up the ocean floor at our feet. Dancing to Soca music on the streets of Castries as smiles painted the faces of all the Lucians around us.
I've often wondered what all the fuss is about "luxury travel," I mean how could I have known that having a villa with plush robes and a private pool, sweet rum cocktails and glasses of wine, plates of fancy fish and tiny desserts that mesmerized my senses could be so fabulous? Once in a lifetime for us.
The next trip will merrily be once again a "camping, hosteling, sandwiches in the car" kind of trip...and that's exactly why we took this honeymoon.
And now we're home. And home is lovely....but it ain't no tropical island. So, enjoy a montage of paradise, if you'd like. I'm going to go chop onions for dinner.
Yesterday, there was lots of hand holding. It was our third anniversary since we met at the Library coffee shop (shown here). This is lovingly called our "coffee date anniversary" and is celebrated by me. Daniel believes it is actually not the "first meeting of each other and discovering our mutual attraction" that constitutes our anniversary, but rather when he asked me out to dinner and we saw each other for the second time.
(You see how craftily I can spin logic on MY blog? )
So, in a few days, we'll celebrate our "dinner anniversary" or as he calls it the "real one."
What happens after the wedding, I wonder? Do these dates which have always created such a stir with candles, love notes, and kisses suddenly disappear? Or can we be crazy and celebrate three anniversaries? I admit, I'm partial to this idea.
Can I just say, I REALLY love this man! I am so lucky.
And what did my favorite grad. student, hunched over his thesis for over ten hours, receive on this big day? A meal fit for a king (albeit a dieting king because his queen is trying to shrink into a wedding dress).
The menu:
1. Red lentil soup (using the immersion blender and recipe from Claire)
2. Leek, turkey bacon, and shitake mushroom quiche (yup...dough from scratch using Emmanuelle's recipe)
3. Brown rice & raisin stuffed cornish game hens (didn't have cranberries...but raisins worked fine)
The verdict...delicious! I believe he said, "You can really cook!"
The aftermath...we looked at each other over flickering candlelight, went for a walk to get him a Sobe energy drink for more thesis-writing, and I watched online videos of how to make a souffle before falling asleep in an egg-white peak coma.
By the way, I knew that I was really not a vegetarian any more as I was trying to gain access to the hens' hinterlands. I had to get in there, rinse the cavity (removing foreign matter), then pat the skin dry, season and stuff. I entered a level of intimacy with the fowl couple that I had never known. Flashbacks of walking with PETA signs across Sproul Plaza at Berkeley flashed before my eyes. Fellow animal rights club members suspended from the Campanile on sleeping boards and being handed food and supplies through a labyrinth of rope pulleys from us below.
What a long way I've come! My 16 years of vegetarianism broken after Daniel sat on the couch with a bowl full of Lolo's steaming pancit. The smell of chicken, shrimp, and noodles wafting towards me.
"Can I have a bite?" I asked with confidence.
"Are you sure?" His voice like a timid teenager after prom in a dark room.
"Yes." And it was done.
Fast-forward several years --- and I'm making cornish game hens hold hands for our anniversary.
Daniel came home with a lot more than just stocking stuffers this afternoon. With a sip of spiked eggnog still lingering on my tongue, Daniel proposed in front of our crackling fire. The question and response were short and sweet. And soon, three shiny rings from atop a tiny wooden pagoda were upon my finger.
I cried. We danced. I cried some more. We're engaged. Yahoooooooooooooooo!
I look at my finger and just smile. I stumbled calling him my fiance tonight. It's still too new. We had a quick toast at Mara's and then celebrated with my mom's whole family. It's quite a kick to be betrothed.
So, what a Christmas Eve....I just can't sleep yet. A special night has passed in which I spoke with all of my closest people (auser liebe Fadime...ich werde dich bald anruffen)... heard their wishes of love and congratulations ... and relished the wonder of the day.
I managed to convince the clever elf to pose for several cheesy pictures. I had the darnedest time figuring out how to creatively get my hand into the frame. The results aren't breathtaking....and you can't quite see the cool triple rings...but you get the point.
Merry Christmas! I have got to try and fall asleep. Tomorrow we toast with Daniel's family...the rain is pouring here in Long Beach...the fridge is humming...and oh, what's this??? My finger feels heavy.
**Before reading.....open THIS to play in the background.
I'm still in my pajamas. Velvet blue jogging pants and my favorite striped shirt that's over ten years old. I'm blogging my little heart out and just wanted to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Years.
Louis' trumpet blares in the background and the mailman is stuffing our box with surprises. I am warm, happy, fully-caffeinated and the sneaky-sneak face you see here just left to "pick up egg nog." He firmly refused my help, planted a kiss, told me not to "fry my brain" on the computer and left.
I have my own sneakity-sneaks, too. I'm going out to the trunk to pull it out and wrap it. Good thing he won't read this blog in time.
We're going to light the fire (for the last time), drink light egg nog, and exchange our snuck gifts.
The past few months have brought several late night phone calls. And it isn't just the heart palpitations and sweaty palms that the ring encourages; it's also the hours leading up to the ring that are infused with variations of anticipation, dread, and excitement. A light sleep hovers atop heavy eyelids and vibrant dreams.
When Steve died a few months ago, the image of a hospital with its colored tubes, salty aromas, sterile halls and sticky sadness, was singed into my mind. Even the briefest moment on tv of heart rate monitors, doctors scratching upon metal clipboards, and family members considering the simultaneous brutality and kindness of pulling the plug, caused tears to puddle and my throat to ache and swell around the memory.
Knowing that Mara's monitors and tubes were the tools by which we would welcome Rafaela (her most recent photo is here), helped me peek out from behind my dark hospital shroud. I watched in awe as nurses issued comfort and encouragement, as her doctor allowed nine people to fill the chairs and sofas, as monitors spiked with contractions and fervently sounded with the baby's quick 160 beats. I drew sweet solace from the scene. I bathed in nurses jumping as they announced the gender.
Last night, I made gift bags for the two nurses who helped Mara the most. Bags stuffed with organic tea, fruit bars, vitamin powder, French soaps, and cards expressing our gratitude. The L & D nurses, Vanessa and Judith, who albeit vastly different in their approach, offered us all a peaceful and inviting place in the birthing room. Vanessa who brought us all water and gave Emiliana her clicky pens. Judith, with her spiked pig tails, who handed Emilana her stethoscope and made a contest of guessing the gender and weight. I made these bags for them but also for my mother, a Labor and Delivery nurse for almost 25 years. There are several times that she's spoken of people who return giving cards, chocolate, or tokens of their gratitude. It's an intense moment in L & D and one that ends with mom and baby whisked off quickly to post-partum. I wanted them to know that the hands they held, the nerves they soothed, the baby they helped to welcome, all appreciated their gift of nursing.
Late night calls continued this weekend with Mara rushing into the emergency room. She's fine now...but my heart is still in recovery. Lionel's voice on the other line, laden with panic and sadness, woke me more quickly then a bucket of ice-water thrown underneath my flannel sheets. My mind is instantly acute and pants pull themselves on, keys steadily find the ignition, and I simply get there.
It was in the midst of another weekend of worry, hospitals, and little sleep, that I fell more deeply in love. It was Sunday morning, fog misted the palm trees in Mara's yard, Diega was kicking in her sleep, and beside her slept Daniel. I looked at him and remembered how he'd helped pack a moving truck, picked up various kids from school, twice woken up in the middle of the night, played with toddlers, scrambled eggs, murdered mice, and made play dough pancakes. All of this for my friends, now also his, who needed his help. He does these things with ease and a smile. He shows his love and his humanity in actions. I often wish to satiate my soul with his words. His words and verbalized sentiment become my focus. Yet, time and time again, his gestures, his generosity of heart, and his patience saturate my reality. This week, I give thanks for the blessing to know and to love him.
Okay, it's jumping the gun. I know it is. But knowing this doesn't stop me from feeling it. I'm blue, not a deep shade, just a light robin's egg. I find myself stuffing my pockets with precious evenings of wine, cheese, laughter, yogurts, secrets, hopes, and desires. I'm sharing myself, pealing back layers of doubt, picking at scabs of insecurity, and dishing frivolous wishes. I'm bursting with stories and joy amidst new friends and old. And all the while, I hear the groan of the moving truck's engine in the distance. Sometimes the rattle of the heavy door clinking up into the roof is audible while I'm driving towards a fun evening.
Moving was a constant for many years of my childhood. There was a bright decade of stability alongside a river Methow, albeit now slightly shadowed by knowing my parents were both unhappy. Then the move to Chelan, divorce, move to California and flip-flopping between the two. I had boxes which stayed packed for years, clearly labeled with contents, just awaiting the next move. My heart and mind felt perpetually in limbo between parents, loyalties, friendships and homes. Romances came and went from my parents' lives; I jockeyed for a position in the midst of their post-divorce awakening.
Now, at a time when my profession, friendships, and family float along in a mellow stream, I confront and attempt to embrace the idea of moving once again. Not moving down the street, or up the road...but perhaps across country. Setting up our new home in New Haven, Ann Arbor, Austin, or Berkeley. All of our options glimmer with the potential of new friends, new jobs, and new hobbies.
Our relationship will be the one constant as the boxes are unpacked and my tension unwinds. I am that girl that moves across country with her boyfriend so he can go to graduate school. I never saw myself as "that girl." What does "that girl" have at the end of this journey? What does she feel when his friendships develop fast and easy in a grad. school cadre while she asserts her voice amidst teenagers at a new high school? Catching mere glimpses of other adults at nutrition and lunch.
I touched Daniel's arm today during a back twist in yoga class. Our flesh met for only an instant but I knew that it was those arms, those inhalations and exhalations, that move the man I love. Those arms will carry most of our boxes, intermingled contents that have fuzzy ownership, and our mutual sacrifice will take us down this path...a path that currently holds so much uncertainty and anticipation. On a day like today, it is easy for me to see only my sacrifice. Loving friends and family fish for my true feelings on these impending changes.
Which grad. school? Which financial aid package? Which city? Which non-profit? Which job? Which friendships will endure the distance? And with all of these questions that swirl in my mind, I seek a gentle route towards the future but more importantly, a calm glow in the present.
I faintly hear the engine groan but louder still is the pull of my mind. It tells me that down the street, in a quiet Italian cafe, lurks a frothy cappuccino. I'm going to walk to Aroma di Roma, sprinkle cinnamon atop the foam, stir in three packets of sugar, and settle into a nook with my book. My cell phone is off. This laptop is closing...
