Dayjamas

Airing out the dirty laundry

I haven't posted in this blog lately because we've been going through a challenging time and it just feels weird to expose everything.  I know that many, many people get all naked on the web but for some reason (i.e. fear) I just can't seem to put it out there.  I guess I just care too much about what other people think.  The funny thing is that no one, besides my husband and maybe a few friends, even know about this blog.  So what am I worried about?  If someone from across the world finds my blog by chance and reads about my problems, so what?  At best, they'll be able to relate and maybe feel a little better knowing that someone else out there is feeling the same way they are.  At worst, they'll think I'm annoying and whiny and click away.  Really, who cares? 

Perhaps this fear of exposing myself to the public has something to do with the fact that I always felt the need to hide my family situation away from people while I was growing up.  I didn't have the normal Mama-Papa-Kid situation at home like all of my friends did.  I was raised by my grandparents from the age of five months because my biological parents were young, emotionally immature, and financially unstable, and that's just how it all worked out.   No one in my family ever talked about why I lived with my grandparents, and the subject of my dad hardly ever came up seeing how he was completely out of the picture by the time I was born.  I just accepted it as normal because it's all I knew, but deep down I always felt that something was not quite right.  I just buried my feelings and went about being a kid.  Sometimes my friends would ask me about it, and I'd just tell them that I didn't know.  As I got older, I started to question things and eventually my mother told me the whole story about why I was raised by my grandparents, and the events that preceded my birth.  I was 25. 

Since then, I've been trying to come to terms with it all.  Feeling abandoned by my mother.  Losing my grandmother, the woman I identified as my mother, at the age of 22.  Trying to reconcile having a father figure who was abusive to my mother but not to me.  Attempting to have an adult relationship with a mother who resents me.  Building a relationship with my biological father who I finally met eight years ago.  Having a daughter of my own and raising her without any family support, while attempting to live a full and healthy life despite the rocky foundation that was laid for me as a child. It hasn't been easy and I still have some distance to cover.  There is a lot of sadness and pain. 

I'm still pretty cautious in general about who I share my family history with, mainly because I feel like most people in my social world wouldn't accept me if they knew the truth.  Deep down I know this is probably not true, and I wouldn't want to be friends with someone who did reject me because of it, but the fear keeps my story quiet with all but the closest of friends. 

It does feels good to air my dirty laundry in the public realm.  I only wish that I could do so in the presence of my family.  On some level I'm hoping that writing about my life in public will give me the strength and courage I need to tell my family members exactly how I feel.  

One year anniversary

When I started this blog a year ago, I had great expectations.  I thought I'd post every day, or at the very least once a week, unleashing my thoughts, opinions, and unique perspective out into the world.  Well, it didn't happen.  I posted semi-regularly for the first few months, but then I started massage school and suddenly it was hard to find time for the basics - like eating and showering - let alone blogging.  So blogging fell low on my list of priorities, and it just sat there in it's sad little place on the web, untouched, uninspired and forgotten. 

Honestly, I never really asked myself why I wanted to blog in the first place.  It just seemed like the natural thing to do - something I was drawn to.  But why?  Sure, I love to journal - I've been writing in a diary since the age of nine - but why would I want to journal publicly? I'm not particularly attention-seeking.  In fact, I hate being the center of attention, so why would I want to put it all out there for everyone to see if I'm not interested in getting attention?  Maybe it's about connecting to the world after being a SAHM for 2.5 years?  Maybe the creative part of my brain was feeling neglected and needed an outlet?  Or maybe I had hopes of generating some ad income to fulfill my need to "contribute" to the household in a monetary way?  I'd be the first to admit that making the shift from independent, self-sustaining woman to SAHM was rocky and unsettling, and even after 4+ years of being supported by my husband I'm still struggling with this. 

Well, last month I decided to take a break from school because the schedule wasn't working for me or my family, and now I have a little more free time on my hands.  So, among the myriad of spirit-enriching things I'd like to dive into, like sumi-e painting, knitting, cooking, baking, organizing my house, planning meals, exercising, and meditating, blogging seems to have risen high on the list.  So blog I will, even though the reasons aren't clear.  I will follow the way.

The overdue library book queen

Why do I have such a hard time returning library books on time?  I thought I'd reformed this year, but no.  There's an overdue book sitting on my desk right now.  This habit of mine goes all the way back to junior high, if not earlier.  I can remember holding on to books months past their due date, patiently waiting for the next fine free day at the library.  The last time we moved, I actually found an old library book at the bottom of a cardboard box.  Due date: 1985.  That's right, I never returned it.  I guess that means I stole it.  Now it's sitting in some land fill (it was a book on skiing technique from the 70's and very outdated).  I'm a bad library citizen.

When I moved to Seattle and applied for a library card, I decided that I was going to make a fresh start and return my books on time.  I did pretty well at first, until I went into labor and the pile of books I'd checked out a few weeks before sat in a corner of the dining room for at least a month if not more.  After paying a hefty fine, I vowed to stop.  Once and for all.  I was either going to return my books on time or stop using the library all together.  So, I decided on the latter.  I started spending more money on books and JJ would often ask me why I didn't just use the library. 

Well, after a few years I decided that I wanted to try again.  I enjoyed the library too much to stay away any longer (I love browsing through the non-fiction stacks and pulling anything that looks interesting), and it was a great place to find books for Kiku.  I knew the solution to my problem was to get organized.  The Seattle libraries give you a single print out with the due dates for your books, dvd's, etc. rather than stamp each one individually.  This means that in order to keep track of them, I need to mark the due dates on my calendar.  The system's been working well for the most part, but it does get a bit confusing when I renew books online and the due date is adjusted.  Even so, I've returned most if not all of my books on time for the past six months.

So why is there an overdue library book sitting on my desk?  Why can't I remember to return it?  I play by the rules in other areas of my life - I pay my taxes, parking tickets, and bills on time.  It could be forgetfulness, or laziness.  Or maybe, just maybe, it's the rebelliousness in me.  My need to shirk authority.  I guess some parts of us never quite grow up. 

Fickle not pickle

This morning Kiku couldn’t decide what to have for breakfast, changing her mind three times.  I told her she was being fickle.

    “Oh, yeah, I wanna pickle!”

    “No, not pickle, fickle.”

    “I want a pickle, mama!”

    “Fickle.  It means that you’re always changing your mind.  You can’t decide what you like or dislike.”

    “Pickle!”

Kiku wasn’t the only one feeling fickle today.  Last night the three of us returned from a five-day trip to the bay area, and I woke up this morning feeling somewhat unsure about whether I really wanted to move back.  This is after making the BIG DECISION to move a few months ago...in the dead of winter.  (My advice to anyone considering moving away from Seattle: never decide in the winter.) The trip itself went smoothly and it was great to spend time with good friends and family, but I was a little overwhelmed by the whole place. 

I’ve definitely crossed over. 

I’m not sure when it happened, but I know I didn’t feel this way when we visited last summer.  Sometime between then and now I became a Seattlelite and stopped being a bay area girl.  When I stepped off the plane last week, it didn't feel like home.  I felt like a visitor.  I didn't "get it" anymore.  People seemed to be racing everywhere, whether by car or foot.  It felt edgier, grimier, more stressed out, more me-first.  I even found myself disliking the intensity of the sun.  It seemed too bright, and I practically had to glue my sunglasses to my face.   A few mentally unstable types approached Kiku and I (this never happens in Seattle) while we were out and about.  There was the odd guy who offered Kiku a dot-shaped sticker, and then followed us into the grocery store to offer her more stickers.  Harmless enough (probably), but my mind couldn’t get around the possibility of the dots being laced with LSD. Then there was the time when we were walking down the street in a somewhat upscale neighborhood and a tattered woman covered in sores asked me if I knew where the Laundromat was.  I told her that I didn’t live there and she proceeded to violently scream, “no one does laundry around here!” to me and everyone else around.

These kinds of interactions never used to faze me.  It was just part of my everyday environment and it felt normal.  Seeing someone pace back and forth while talking to themselves used to be normal.  Having a homeless person bark at me or call me Yoko was normal.  Now it feels threatening.  I’m sure it’s partially due to my maternal instinct to protect my daughter.  But even so, I’ve gotten soft. 

Seattle is nice, calm, slow paced, easy, clean, and, well, normal.  People (including the bus drivers) smile and say hello, drivers aren’t aggressive, rushing isn’t de rigueur, and there are fewer people flying their freak flags (or at least they’re quieter about it.)

I feel calmer and safer in Seattle.  My mind is clearer.  It’s easier to live here and there are fewer things to worry about.  So why move?  If this is such paradise, why do we want to go back to the land of over stimulation?  Up until recently, there have been three main reasons. 

1.    The weather
2.    Missing loved ones
3.    The blandness factor

But now I'm getting more used to the weather, and the only months that really get to me are Dec-Feb.  It might be more bearable if we can get away to a sunny spot every winter.  I certainly miss my friends and family, and I don't want these people to be strangers to Kiku, but what if we committed to visiting three or four times a year?  Maybe that woud be ok.  Then there's the blandness factor.  Over the past four years I've found myself craving more interesting, stimulating interactions with people who were less reserved.  But now I'm wondering if it matters so much anymore.  Large urban areas are interesting but they come with a price. 

I can't believe I'm actually feeling this way.  I've bitched about Seattle for four years.  It's been hard to adjust to the culture and I haven't felt like I've wanted to stay for the long run.  And now this is happening.  I'm starting to, umm, like it (maybe even love it?) here.  Although it could be that I just need to get used to bay area living all over again.  You know, grow back a thicker skin and adjust my "normal" meter.  The question is, do I want to? 

I'm just too damn fickle.

April Fool's

I’ve never liked my name.  I mean, who wants to be named after a month?  Not me, that's for sure, and the fact that I was born in September just adds insult to injury.  Apparently my grandmother really liked the name and my mother caved into the pressure even though she preferred names that were more common in the late-60's, like “Diana” and “Christina.” 

Just think, I could be a Diana.  How easy it would be.  No explanations necessary.  I could've been spared the teasing on the playground every April 1st, and I wouldn’t have to look up in wonder every time someone uttered the word “April” (which is often). 

I’ve also never quite identified with the name itself.  I don’t feel like an April, and introducing myself has always felt a little awkward.  It doesn't roll off the tongue very easily and sometimes people mistake it for "Apple" or "Maple." 

Oddly, most of my friends seem to think my name and personality match up pretty well.  What do they know?

Feeding the mojo

I just took a long hot bath and was able to read an entire magazine from cover to cover without any interruptions.  It was paradise.  I don't give myself the permission to relax nearly as much as I should.  Even when Kiku is at school, I still don't fully relax.  I keep my guard up...just in case. 

I know that I'm a better parent (and wife) when I take care of myself first.  So why is it so hard to remember to do things for ME?  Why does everyone else come first so much of the time?  I let it happen and then complain about it later when I feel like a dried up old mop.  By then it's too late.  Do men have this problem?  Uh, not so much.  What do they know that I don't?

I could use a massage.  And a manicure.  Throw in a pedicure, too.  My dried, flaking cuticles are a testament to how long it's been since I've pampered myself.  The funny thing is that before becoming a mom, I never considered massage or getting my nails done as pampering.  They were just little extras that I added to my life every once in a while whenever I needed to feed the mojo.  Nowadays, I think I just forget to do it, and maybe even feel a little guilty.  I know that makes no sense, because a person shouldn't feel guilty for taking care of themselves, but it's true.  I'm afraid part of me believes that my ability to be a good mom is equal to the sacrifice I make.  That's all a bunch of balhooey, I know.  But why do I feel this way?  Who put these ideas in my head?  Maybe it was my self-sacrificing grandmother who put everyone else first.  Hmm. 

It's time to end the cycle.  I want to be a good role model for Kiku, and ignoring myself until my bucket runneth over is something I need to change.  For both our sakes. 

When I'm 64

JJ is giving Kiku a bath and I was just folding laundry and watching an old episode of Friends.  I don't normally watch the show but there's nothing on the Tivo and I wanted something to distract me while I folded.  The sub-plot was about Rachel not being allowed to drive Monica's Porsche, and it got me thinking about how much fun it would be to drive a sexy convertible sports car when my hair turns all grey and people start identifying me as a grandma.  I wouldn't want to own one right now, because it's completely impractical and I just wouldn't get that much enjoyment out of it.  But when I hit mid-life (which I figure will be about 60 since 40 is the new 20) I want to drive down Hwy 1 in a vintage Porsche with the top down, silver locks flowing in the wind. 

Time crunch

Ok, I just got back from...

- Nia class

- Buying dog food

- Monster trip to the grocery store

...and now I'm chugging a latte from the evil coffee empire and typing at the same time. 

I need to to eat lunch, do the laundry, take a shower, clean my house, and prepare food for a dinner party (we’re having our neighbors over tonight).

There isn't enough time.  Must start now.  Ok, go. 

The last ten

Let me start off by saying that I'm trying to lose the last ten lbs. I gained since having Kiku.  These lovely ten lbs are standing between me and my closet full of pre-pregnancy clothes.  I have managed to pack away some of my size 6 clothing into plastic bins and store them in the basement, but there are still many, many pieces of clothing hanging in the closet that are screaming, "wear me or throw me out!" 

I can't throw them out, because I'm convinced that I will lose these last ten lbs.

I've been exercising and trying to eat well.  I'll indulge once in a while, but for the most part I try to stay away from high-fat and high-sugar foods.  I feel healthier and look better.  So, could someone please tell me why my mind always has to focus on the things I can't have?  Just this morning I was driving home from the grocery store and what do I see?  Signs that say "Baked goods" and "Desserts for everyone."  Why?  I never noticed these signs before!  I turn the corner and see a huge billboard advertising ice cream, and then I get home and my eyes focus on the pan of half-eaten brownies sitting on my stove.  Ok, that part is my fault.  But still. 

I read an article recently that advised eating a small amount of a "forbidden" food every day so that you don't crave it or think about it all the time.  I think they might be on to something.

Vacations are good for the soul

A few weekends ago I flew down to the Reno/Tahoe area to visit a close friend who'd recently had a baby.  It was the first time I'd been away from Kiku for more than 24 hours, and it was the first trip I'd taken by myself in six years.  SIX YEARS!!! 

It was hard to leave my family at the airport curb, especially with Kiku bawling her eyes out (although partially due to the fact that she wanted to run around in the airport).  But as I walked through the automatic doors and wheeled my suitcase up to the ticket counter, I felt the strangest sensation.  It was like my arms had been held down by weights for the last few years and suddenly they were free.  I felt light.  After checking in, I strolled over to the security gate and leisurely removed my shoes and belt, popped my gallon-sized ziploc bag of liquid filled bottles into a bin, and walked through the metal detector without a care in the world.  It was so easy, and so unlike the usual mad dash through security with toddler, stroller, and car seat in tow.  Then it was time to check out the magazines in the gift shop, grab a bagel and some coffee, and wait for my flight to board. It was all very peaceful.

Once the plane left the ground, I pulled out my book and started reading.  Then I did some knitting.  All uninterupted.  At first I kept thinking about how odd it felt to have so much free time to myself, but eventually I just eased in and enjoyed it.  I appreciated every minute of that flight.

The entire weekend felt so...lush.  Spending real quality time with my friend, holding her newborn, taking walks by the lake, hanging out at Squaw (notice I didn't say "skiing" - we just dropped off her husband "lucky guy" and went and got coffee at the Starbucks in the village - but it was still awesome to be so close to the slopes, which brought back lots of memories from my former life).  I was able to let my guard down, relax, and feel like myself again.

It's been a week and a half since I got back and I feel rejeuvenated.  The trip helped me break out of the rut I'd been stuck in all winter.  I've been exercising a lot, getting plenty of sleep, eating better, feeling more patient with Kiku and enjoying my family more...and I've been a lot more positive. Now every day of my life feels lush.  There's nothing like a good vacation to get some perspective.