on being idle

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“No, Katie, no! Fight it with all you’ve got!!!” was my reaction to your last post. I’ve never told you this before, and now I fear it’s too late, but here goes: one of the (many) things I loved about being in your company when we were together was that you’ve always seemed so surprisingly, refreshingly…lazy?

No, of course I don’t mean lazy. I mean…Calm? Relaxed? At Peace? It was a novelty to me. The mishaps you describe that signal your frantic state are typical, everyday occurrences for me and have been since I can remember. As much as I try to fight it, I slip into your “franticosity” as default. To make matters worse, I seem to attract and be attracted to women who are the same way. (I haven’t noticed it in the men in my life so much. Maybe a topic for future contemplation?) We do what I think of as behavioral tap-dancing. Most of my nearest, dearest friends throughout the years cannot seem to sit still in one spot and have a simple, connective conversation unless they are on drugs that 1) have been prescribed by a mental-health physician or 2) are currently legal in a only a few, select states.

I’ve never been with them when they’re alone (duh) but in the company of others, I see them (and myself) hippity-hopping around, trying to make tea, hold the baby, clean up, look presentable, all while smiling and chatting and telling jokes to make the people present feel comfortable. I always wonder if those people I’m hoping are “at ease” can see right through it and are dying to run the other way or, at least, inject me with valium.

When we first met, I was so caught off-guard by your tempo that I had to consciously ruminate over what was different about you. She just wants to sit around and chat about fall boot options? I thought, back when we shared an office and were ALWAYS supposed to be grading papers or, at least, contemplating pedagogical theory. Remember how I moaned about those single, hipster grad students with their suede flats up on the desk, wasting so much time debating the merits of post-modernism: “No one knows how precious time is until they have kids,” I said. I calculated how much I was getting paid vs. how much I paid in childcare and was concious of every minute in those terms. I only felt OK about stopping for lunch if I could plan tomorrow’s lesson while I was eating.

But then, Katie, you helped me shut the office door to counter-judgment and together we googled things like “George Clooney’s girlfriend,” talked about The Great Gatsby, and listened to new songs on Pandora. We “wasted” so much lovely, lovely time together and those moments still make my heart soften even though our students’ papers were put through the shredder a long time ago.

I work hard now to be more like you in that way. (Or, the old you. I haven’t been acquainted with this new “frantic” Katie of which you speak.) To find fulfillment in “being” and not “doing”; to stop my kids from having to say, “Mom, were you even listening?”; to know when Kate Middleton has stepped out in her fantastic, beige L.K.Bennett heels and not be embarrassed of that knowledge.

I work on my environment: no loud television, soft light, little clutter. I work on my relationships: nurturing, accepting, no-drama friendships, less time with people who stress me out. I work on myself: “down time” daily, yoga weekly, trips to the hermitage quarterly (that is a whole other blog post), and meditation.

I refer to my meditation practice often on here, but have never gone into much detail because I assume people either know what I’m talking about or think they know what I’m talking about and assume meditation would conflict with their own beliefs. (Remember Elizabeth Gilbert’s attempt to thwart Christian skeptics by saying prayer was “talking to God” and meditation was “listening”?)

But I want to say, now, that for me meditation has nothing to do with religion, faith, or spirituality. It’s more of a psychological thing. I often think of it as, for frantics like me, a practice in impulse-control. Like the article you referred to last time and her reference as well, I’m after mindfulness. Paying attention to what’s in front of me and not letting my mind, with it’s constant cry for attention and distraction, stop me in mid-task and turn me to another. Anytime I hear someone say, “Meditation isn’t for me. I can’t sit still like that,” I think, That’s precisely why meditation is for you. 

Here’s what I do: I sit down (before the kids wake, obviously), in a comfortable position so I don’t have to move, focus my eyes on one spot,  and try to see, hear, smell, feel, and experience only what’s around me. Since it’s quiet and still—what some people might describe as “boring”–my mind goes wild. It comes up with to-do lists, regrets from yesterday, conversations on which to ruminate, food to make, people to call. But I don’t give in. I don’t jump up and get started on any of it. And I tell myself, that’s all very well, but let’s remember you’re just sitting and breathing right now. I spend the majority of my time talking my mind down from it’s mental ledge, but when it’s over, I can at least begin the day less frantic.

Of course, I’m not always so great about this. That’s why I call it “practice.” It’s easier when the set-up is there and the schedule, routine. But, for example, during the holiday season, when we have 17 people staying at our house for three days? That’s game-time, and this year, I lost. And the mental play-offs are those time when I’m really suffering: because of grief or depression or jealousy or rage.

So, Katie. I’m not necessarily telling you to try it. I don’t want to push anyone to try it, because it’s one of those things people won’t do until they want to.  But I am hoping you find your own way to settle your franticosity, because I want to call you soon, hear your voice, and remember that I can just sink down with the phone to my ear and listen to my good friend, and do nothing else at the same time.

time alone

A working mom who stays at home or a stay-at-home mom who works?

My ability to prioritize. Hmmm. Somewhere, right now, there is a man married to me who is smirking and shaking his head. My (lack of) ability to prioritize has been a consistent source of stress for both of us over the years. However, I will say that moving across the country last summer, where we have no established social group or family nearby, has helped me evolve tremendously in the areas of priority and “down-time.”

But first. A few disclaimers that I want to get out of the way, because, as you acknowledged in a comment following your post, this is a topic that comes loaded with baggage:

1. I’m pretty sure I can speak for both of us when I say we know that, in the grand scheme of life, this stage is short-lived and fleeting. However, as a reminder to everyone who is thinking this to yourself, when you’re in it, IT FEELS LIKE FOREVER.
2. We both know that the dilemmas we’re confronted with when “staying home” with young children are problems of privilege, relative to the dilemmas some people face.
3. The above being said, these are also legitimate concerns and an honest, compassionate discussion about them is helpful and healthy.  There is room in the world for all of it.
4. The common terms “stay-at-home mom” (or dad), “house-wife,” “hands-on-father,”  and “working mom” are bullshit and I try to avoid them or at least put them in quotes. Women and men who care for their children and homes full-time don’t “stay-at-home” and are also, in fact, “working.” It’s also not like “working moms” stay away from home; they may spend less time with their children, but usually the way it’s spent is different. Quality over quantity, no? A “house-wife” is not actually married to her house and probably has lots of other abilities, ideas, and interests than her label implies. As for “hands-on dad”…well….it’s great that fathers of our generation are more involved in their families’ lives than in the past, but it also seems pretty obvious to me that an involved husband/father should be the rule, not the exception. We’ve all heard “Cat’s in the  Cradle” and seen enough footage of Girls Gone Wild to know that absentee fathers screw things up.  (Of course I have been, at different times, a “working mom” and a “stay-at-home mom” so can speak from those experiences. However, I’ve never been a father or husband, so guys, feel free to leave rebuttals in the comments.)
5. I usually assume #4 can go without saying these days, but just yesterday I was reading a review of a particular school lunchbox we use and a reviewer wrote something about “us busy working moms don’t have time for such-and-such….” I wanted to punch my Mac. I wasn’t happy with the implication that moms who don’t “work” outside the home aren’t also busy. We’re busy; it’s just in different ways. Neither way is more valid or important than the other.  I remember (vaguely) the days before I had kids and probably would have said “stay-at-home moms” must have all kinds of time on their hands, like I still hear friends say today. But indulge me for a moment: right now I feel just as stretched, stressed, and busy as I did when I was in grad school, working, teaching, and writing a book-length manuscript with two toddlers who were in full-time childcare. I remember the drive to and from campus everyday: how, for 10 minutes, twice a day, I got to be alone in my car and listen to the radio and drink coffee and no one was sitting on my head or kicking me in the ribs. It was nice.

If you remember, Katie, one of the last books I included in my bibliography for my manuscript was Maternal Desire by Daphne de Marneffe. It moved me so much I bought, like, 7 copies and sent them to my new-mama friends. If you don’t make it through the book (one friend described it as too academic for her..) the last chapter alone makes it worth having. In “Time with Children,” de Marneffe (a “working mom” turned “stay-at-home mom” turned “working part-time mom”) examines two types of existence: the orientation of “having” vs. the orientation of “being.”

Culturally, we are oriented towards “having,” which refers not only to material possessions, but also egos, relationships, feelings, experiences, problems, education, and information. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your perspective) our relationships with our children resist the paradigm of “having.” (I’m liberally paraphrasing de Marneffe here…) Instead, if we can shift towards an orientation of “being” and revel in the process, we may find more peace in our intertwined lives with young children and feel less desperate for that time of solitude and personal “progress.” (This is not to say that the time for solitude is unnecessary: more about that in a minute…)

Here is the last quote I’ll offer:

We may pride ourselves in our ability to multitask, but at a certain point multitasking and caregiving collide. Without a certain level of attentiveness to loved ones, people risk multitasking their way right out of relationships.

Okay. So, this is the one of the last books I read before moving to Palo Alto, which is good, because I soon found myself going from living in the same town as my generous, experienced, always-available mother (who may or may not read this blog or even know I have a blog or even know what a blog is…) and other family and friends-who-are-like-family to a place where we knew exactly NO ONE. I also began my second attempt at being a “stay-at-home mom.” I had to put on my big-girl-panties. (Shout-out to CB!) But it also forced me to evolve as a mother and wife and figure some things out.

• Once I got over the irritability of having Sola ALWAYS next to me, like an extra appendage, I became awed by the fact that, for probably the only time in my life, I am living two simultaneous existences. Not may people get to experience this and it’s an incredible way to be. And it won’t last much longer.

• I realized how much Chris and I used to socialize, when childcare was free and easy. Now, not only are we just building a social circle,  but it’s also not so much a possibility or, I’m realizing, a necessity. There will be time in the future.

• You know this, Katie, but I don’t watch TV. We have a TV and the kids watch it and occasionally I watch movies (less than once-a-month) but it just takes too much time. I’m not trying to be an elitist snob, like anti-TV-people often get labeled; it just takes too much time. And the ROI (return of investment) isn’t worth it.

• This may appall some people, but I’m not into scheduling many activities oriented only for kids. I hate playgrounds. You know that. We also don’t do much library puppet-time, not many “play-dates” (unless I’m friends with the other parent and it’s a play-date for us, too), not many amusement parks or windowless buildings created for the sole purpose of letting kids run around screaming with laser guns/plastic balls/neon-colored food. Instead, we do stuff we all like to do. This includes: unstructured time at home, bike rides, beach trips, hikes, and memberships to the Academy of Sciences and Monterrey Bay Aquarium. I think this style teaches our children that not everything has to be about them all the time. I think this is a good lesson.

Fun is more fun when everybody’s having fun.

• I’m learning to let it be OK that I just feel like staying home a lot. This is huge for me. I love the outdoors, I love being outdoors, I still run and hike and camp. But I used to wake up every day in sort of a panic thinking “when are we going to get out” without coming close to acknowledging that, sometimes, I don’t want to get out.  I like my home. I have put a lot of time, love, and spirit (and not necessarily money) into decorating it. I want to be in it and use it, which means letting it be a complete mess sometimes and then cleaning it up with care and a generous spirit. Both the nesting and the clean-up require motivation and energy, so when I have the motivation and energy, I do it. When I don’t, I don’t. The editors of Domino magazine wrote in their awesome book on decorating, “Bear in mind that a room that looks like a showroom also feels like one, and nobody will want to set foot in it (and there’s nothing sadder than an unused room).”  (I love the last parenthetical phrase.)

Not one for the decorating books, but shows signs of life…

• Finally, the biggest help for me was a shift in thinking about my “hours.” Chris works typical 9-5 hours and the boys go to school most of that time. So, I used to wake up “on,” stay “on” during the day, because this is when everyone else is working, and then think, I’ll be “off” when Chris comes home and we’ll relax and enjoy the evening. But then Chris came home and we’d bicker over dinner, clean-up, and bed-time. We’d both been “on” all day, after all.  Then, at some point this past school-year, it dawned on me that I could have a break in my “work day,” if I just use it. Now, I try to take time “off” in the late morning or early afternoon, depending on Sola’s nap, the YMCA childcare hours, my to-do list, etc… No day looks the same, exactly, but I am mindful that I need time and take it without guilt or self-consciousness that everyone else thinks, “Well, doesn’t she have an easy life.”  Examples of how I spend my “off” time: going to the sauna or SHAVING MY LEGS (!) after yoga at the Y, when Sola is in the free childcare; reading a magazine, book, or surfing online when she is napping; having a beer or glass of wine at lunch instead of when most people do: when they get off work in the evening.  When I type these things out, they seem so tiny and unimportant. (Or, in the case of the last one, the beginning of a drinking problem.) But these are the silly little things I need to feel like I can return to “work” in the evenings and not resent my entire family, which is what was starting to happen.

Blah, blah, blah. That was a lot. I hope this helps you or our parent-readers or our non-parent readers have a glimpse into a different life. And, of course, I’m curious too, dear reader: how do you embrace an orientation of “being,” no matter what your stage in life?

post-pregnancy nesting and the need to be still

I never really “nested” in the last months of pregnancy like many women do. I preferred the “sit around and wait for the baby to come” method, although I was a little jealous of the women who had urges to clean and organize. I felt like my home was going to pot around me, but I had no energy, a very wide turning radius, and a hard time reaching a lot of things. So I put it off. It just didn’t seem logistically realistic. Then Evie was born, and I had even less energy. My body was recovering. My mind was trying not to spin off its axis. My hands were occupied with the care of two tiny people.

I think I’m nesting now. “Post-pregnancy nesting,” let’s call it. I’m not pregnant—I don’t think. (This would only be good news for the grandparents, so let’s hope not.) I think it’s the fact that I’m finally getting my body back, and a little bit of freedom. One of my very wise mama-friends told me that it would take six months of having two kids before I would feel like this is the “new normal.” It took seven, which is pretty good for me if I’m only a month behind the norm.

PPN means that I run around my house on hyper drive, like a teenage girl at a Justin Beiber concert. On some sort of energy drink. On the last day of school. After a radio DJ just announced that the first person to the front of the stage will win a lifetime supply of said energy drink and a meet-and-greet with the cast of the Hunger Games. Well, maybe not quite like that. But I’m busy.

Yesterday, I painted Evie’s crib. It’s going from a very pretty oak wood to a gunmetal gray. When I googled “spray paint a crib” (cuz I want to be all safe and such with the wellbeing of my child, so I trust a bunch of crazy Internet junkies to count as my “specialists in the field”), I found a tutorial in which the lady was spray painting her crib because it was gunmetal gray. She put lots of stenciled flowers on it. Some people—people who stencil bouquets of flowers, especially—might find my choice odd. But I love gunmetal gray, as long as it’s not on guns. I prefer hot-pink handguns. The crib in question is the one you gave me—and it was looking a little worse-for-the-wear since both Luke (I think it was Luke—he was the biter, right?) and Miles spent some time teething on the wood. Plus, Evie hasn’t really gotten anything (especially décor-wise, as she hasn’t even had a room yet—has just been bunking in mine and Scott’s) that is hers. She gets all of the stuff we used for Miles, which is awesome and wonderful and special—and she won’t notice at all, ever, that we neglected to make a fabulous space for her when she was a few months old. Well, maybe only when she’s 16 and has an attitude and she’s looking through old photos and she’ll say “Why didn’t you ever buy me anything, Mom? Don’t you love me?”

I’m also pretty determined to make a dust ruffle and possibly curtains. All without sewing, as Sewing and me have a pretty dicey history. Sewing is all, “You need to spend more time with me in order to really get me.” He’s so needy. I just can’t deal with that sort of a hobby right now. So I told him, “I can’t commit to really learning how to thread you. Threading you is so involved and gives me absolutely no instant gratification. No-Sew Hem Tape, on the other hand, WHAM, BAM, THANK-YOU, MA’AM.”

Today I mulched some flowerbeds in the backyard, filled a sandbox, cleaned off all the outdoor toys. I bought a smelly candle. I made a mobile for over the crib. I generally avoided working on writing-related things (hence my long hiatus from posting stuff). The hiatus was not because I don’t enjoy the writing or because I don’t have things to say this time—it’s because it takes too long. Writing and Sewing are equally needy, I’m afraid. If there was a No-Sew Hem Tape approach to Writing, you can bet I’d be test-driving it.

Then at church on Sunday (I know, I know—I’m sorry, but it just always seems to happen!), the sermon was about finding solitude. The whole time, I was internally arguing with the pastor. Here are some of my impressive rebuttals:

–       “Yeah, but you’re not a mother of two young children. If you were a mother of two young children, you’d have to rethink this whole solitude business.”

–       “Some of us aren’t paid to spend time alone with our thoughts and our theology books.”

–       “Nuh-uh.”

–       “But I don’t waaaaaannnntt to put effort into finding solitude. I put effort into so many, many other things.”

–       “Yoga might make me queef. I knew it might make me fart, but this is an entirely different fear.”

–       And then, back to the whole “mother of two young children” thing.

I actually leaned over to Scott during the sermon and said, verbally, “I would listen if a stay-at-home mother of two young children were talking about solitude.”

And then I realized that I am a stay-at-home mother to young children, and that it might benefit me and other people in my situation to think about how I can find solitude even when days are hectic and crazy.

Honestly, it was an excellent sermon. Tim said many brilliant things that I should have been able to give him credit for, even if he didn’t have a vagina. He even quoted people with vaginas, like the incomparable Annie Dillard from Teaching a Stone to Talk:

“God needs nothing, asks nothing, and demands nothing, like the stars. It is a life with God that demands these things. Experience has taught the race that if knowledge of God is the end, then these habits of life are not the means but the condition in which the means operates. You do not have to do these things; not at all. God does not, I regret to report, give a hoot. You do not have to do these things—unless you want to know God. They work on you, not on him. You do not have to sit outside in the dark. If, however, you want to look at the stars, you will find that darkness is necessary. But the stars neither require nor demand it.”

Maria, you’ve shared some ways in which you find solitude. In fact, your ability to prioritize that is one of the reasons I’ve had this topic on my mind for so long. But I find I’m terrible at it. Even during those few moments when I’m relieved of caring for my kids, I still find my mind crowded with mother-y things and it’s difficult to be still.

I think that this stage of life is a unique one—but my old plan of ignoring things like solitude and self-care until the kids are able to put their own socks on or drink from a device that is not attached to me is not really a faithful option.

So, moms (or stay-at-home dads), I’m asking you, specifically: How do you find solitude?

it’s harder to cry when you’re running

*WARNING: Heavy, touchy-feely stuff ahead. If you’re just hoping for a laugh, click here or here.

Well, I couldn’t start your week with a post about DEPRESSION, so I decided to wait until Tuesday. It’s a good thing, too, because I’m feeling better anyway. Several people have asked me about this depression-thing since I’ve mentioned it a few times lately, so I will try to clarify.

For those of you who might think depression is just a bunch of hoo-ha or is an example of “White People Problems,” well…the thing is…I get it. When I’m not depressed, I think those things, too. Then, when I am depressed, or even come close, I think, Oh, shit. I forgot this is REAL.

Interesting observation: The people who have either been through depression themselves or been around me when I’m depressed have asked: “Is it coming?” The people who don’t have personal experience with it ask, “Are you sure you’re not just a little down?”

The answer to both of these is: “I don’t know.” First of all, past experience shows me that I don’t really know I’m in a depression until I’m out of it. Second of all, past experience shows me that “a little down” sometimes leads to “can’t get out of bed” and this is what makes me more terrified than other people of feeling “a little down.”

There are all sorts of suspected causes and treatments and preventative measures for depression. I’m interested in learning about them when I’m well. When I’m depressed, I’m only interested in getting better. Either that, or dying. I’m not being sarcastic or lighthearted. While I’ve never considered or attempted suicide, I have thought, many times, “I might be the first person who has died from despair and that would be OK.”

This post would be way too long if I wrote everything I have to say about depression, so I’ll just say this: I have both genetic and environmental factors that contribute to depression. I experienced depression a good ten years before I understood what it was. Being pregnant and having the twins made it significantly worse, yet, ironically, gave me a tangible reason to get better. I firmly believe in a mind-body connection and understand the resistance many people have to medication. I also believe that sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Right now I’m taking a small dose of an anti-anxiety/anti-depressant drug (a serotonin and norepinephrine re-uptake inhibitor for those of you who understand this) and working with a therapist on “self-care,” which means sleeping, exercising, meditating, eating, etc…. The sorts of things that seem to come automatically and easily to some people that become debilitating for me when I’m all fucked up. (Pardon me, Mr. and Mrs. W, for the lack of a better description.)

Here is a post I began last week, that I couldn’t finish. For whatever reason, I have woken up the last two days with peace, clarity, and energy and can finish it now.

4-11-12

Katie,

I was hoping I’d feel better by now, but I don’t. Not really. I’m hesitant to say I have sunk, but I do feel like I’m sinking. It makes blogging scarier than usual because I feel like my old companion, Depression, has been rough on our friendship in the past. Depression is rough on all my relationships in such cruel, paradoxical ways. It makes me irritable and then the people I love, who normally don’t irritate me, do. It makes me negative and tells me no one wants to listen to my negativity. I get angry or, more passively, feel anger, which isn’t so normal for me. All of this—the irritability, negativity, and anger—cause me to isolate myself and then I feel dropped (to use a cycling term) and alone. It’s a vicious cycle that gets hard to break.

So far, blogging has been part of my “practice,” in the same way running, meditation, and yoga have. I love the idea that meditation is just practice; it takes the pressure off from feeling like you fail if you aren’t getting it right. I practice mediation on a regular basis when things are going well so that the routine feels familiar and safe when things aren’t going so well. I think this is probably why runners are often so methodical and sometimes called “obsessive” about their sport. It’s the same for most people, I think, about whatever their rituals of choice are. It’s so comforting to slip into a state of mind that feels like home. When I went through training to be a flight attendant, one of my instructors told us, if we begin to melt down in times of stress, to stop and brush our teeth. It’s a ritual that has become so automatic, we sometimes do it without even thinking. When the mind is stressed, it needs this sort of automatic, soothing, repetitive motion to bring it a sense of calm. (One time, back when I was single, I got super-stoned at a friend’s house and grabbed the nearest toothbrush. I went to town on my teeth, which helped, but my friend’s roommate, the owner of the toothbrush, was pissed.)

Anyway. So far, blogging has been practice. But when we started this, I knew a time might come when it would be harder to share my thoughts with you and our readers. Most of the time, I feel like I could write all day. But sometimes, the words are slower to come or feel like they aren’t there at all. I promised myself, even during those times, I would try—keep practicing—as hard as I could to be honest and real.

I’ve been going to weekly sessions with my therapist. She mentioned recently that we may want to give the bi-polar diagnosis another look. I said that it’s possible I’m on the spectrum, but I want to be on as little medication as possible. I’ve cut way back on anti-anxiety meds, and am hoping to cut back on my anti-depressants altogether. We came to a mutual agreement that I should have time to re-establish my “self-care,” which has gone by the wayside with the move.

So I pretty much forced myself to the gym at the Y this morning, to get in a run. Outdoors is almost always better for me, but the treadmill lets me put Sola in childcare and work up a sweat. It seemed harder than usual to get there this morning. I didn’t like the way someone had parked their minivan in a “compact car” space. It felt like a slap in the face of humanity. The regular worker at the child center was gone and her sub seemed harsh to me. I didn’t like that she was focused on making a child who is new say “please.” By the time the Russian woman at the towel counter gave me a hard time for asking for two towels, I was ready to burst into tears. I saw my reflection rushing past the mirrored weight room. The woman I saw looked tired. Sad. Unattractive—no—ugly.

I have a routine on the treadmill at the Y. I walk a half-mile at 4.0 mph before settling into a 5k run. I’m not a fast runner: I start at a 6.0 mph pace (about a 10-minute mile) and vary the pace, going up or down when I feel like it. Today, when I got up to 6.0 mph, I still felt like I could cry at any moment. I decided that I would increase the speed by .2 mph (I’m an even-number person, unless I’m hanging pictures) until I didn’t feel like crying. I went to 6.2. I settled in for a bit. I felt like crying. I went to 6.4. I settled in for a bit. I still felt like crying. I kept going, pausing at each increase for a minute or so, until I reached 7.4 mph.

By then, my legs and lungs and arms and mind felt like they were wild and on fire and could tear down the Palo Alto YMCA board by board.

And I didn’t feel like crying.