She’s Fer Real

It boggles me sometimes. I just don’t know how she did it, managed it all alone without a pinch-hitter to reliever her, a sidekick to take over when she needed to slam a door behind her and bury her face in a pillow. Four snotty noses to wipe, four dirt-caked bodies to wash, eight pieces of bread to slather with peanut butter, 40 fingernails to clip, four hands to hold when crossing a street, fourteen or so loads of laundry per week, immeasurable needs to meet simultaneously, four mumbled and whiny voices careening in and out of her ears at once, four little hearts to hold in her hands.

But then again, she got to keep all of the smiles and kisses and “I love you, mamas” all to herself. And when the day was done, no one was beside her with raised eyebrows tsk-tsking if she spooned ice cream directly from the carton while watching late night TV.

My childhood was privileged and carefree, due in large part to my mother’s love. Rules were fluid, chores were mostly optional, playfulness and silliness were abundant, encouragement was limitless, creativity was welcome, and road trips were an oft-anticipated adventure. Somehow my mama knew how to inject lighthearted humor and goofiness into most any situation. To this day, is the one person I can let it all hang out with. She is the only person with whom I carry on a years-long conversation about “101+ uses for a tampon”. She is my favorite person to “spy” on strangers with; we’ve perfected eavesdropping in a restaurant or acting “busy” looking at clothes on a clearance rack while really peering over at a cute guy or an interestingly coiffed woman. My mama is the epitome of fun.

I inherited my off-beat sense of humor from her as well. When my younger brother was an ornery teenager, one of my mom’s classic and bodacious tricks occasionally used to shut him up was to flash her boobs at him. She’ll probably kill me for saying that, but c’mon, that’s hilarious. He’d roll his eyes and turn away in embarrassment (no one wants to see “mom boobs”, unless you are Stiffler). To her credit, it worked.

And besides fun and love – and that inability to “ask your Father…” – that’s what ya get when you are raised by a single mom.

I love you, Mama. For all the ways you inspire me, for the way your heart overflows for my girls, for the memory of never having to go to bed without the acknowledgment of your love, I thank you. I can’t wait to see you soon!

“Silly is you in a natural state, and serious is something you have to do until you can get silly again.” Mike Myers

P.S. #89: dipped in essential oils, it becomes a car air-freshener

Darkness Becomes Me

The urgent padding of bare feet down a hallway, around a week-old basket of laundry and randomly scattered toys. The lifting of a quietly sobbing three year old – mostly still in dream world – from bed to crib in one swift move. Staring at the LED lights of my alarm clock on my bedside table, like a ship to a lighthouses’ beam, as a means to maneuver safely around the sharp corners of our bed frame (I know if I walk towards those numbers that I am at least at the side of my bed). The heaving of body out of bed, scooping of hungry infant out of nearby playpen (whose head could be at either end), and placement of baby at breast between two warm bodies. A midnight piss, complete with mouth sipping water from the bathroom faucet.

This is all very ordinary. And all done in complete charcoal-black darkness most every single night.

Last night, as I walked the path from Kaia’s room to our room in the pitch dark, the thought occurred to me:

“I am so damn good at this. Save for a few instances (like the time I careened face-first into our closed bedroom door with Indi in my arms), I’ve never tripped or run into anything. I find my way around in the darkness like a pro.”

And let me remind you that we are not tidy and orderly folks. Our bedroom is often a maze of strewn-about objects: piles of clothes, diapers, crumpled towels, plastic toy animals (of which hurt like hell when you step on them), half-broken pieces of jewelry, books, glass cups, dirty sheets and pillowcases in a wad, laundry baskets, hangers, one cat, and one dog. My point? It’s like hurdle jumping. Only more like hurdle stepping. And at night. Naked.

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I have learned – often reluctantly and over time – to navigate through darkness rather fluidly. Or perhaps it’s better to explain that I embrace the journey wrapped in the witchy, mysterious hue of black like I would a sister. I struggle mostly with the seeming stagnancy of the darkness, my impatience like the nervously grinding hand of a kid on a jack-in-the-box crank. I hate waiting. No, let me rephrase that. I.Hate.Waiting.

For answers, for grocery lines, in traffic, for a slow internet connection to load, for microwaveable meals, for the greasy guys at the lube shop who don’t know how to type properly and take 10 minutes to chicken peck my info on their keyboards. But mostly, for answers – both ones that I anticipate coming and esoteric ones that may never arrive.

Yet I have found that the darkness shrouds answers – leaves space for the deepness needed for asking and questioning and waffling - and for that very reason I’ve come to understand darkness as my guide and friend. It is in the space void of light that I can walk a beaten path without thought or simply lose myself in a maze, letting my tired mind wander. There is stillness in the dark, a welcome blindfold to quell my need to constantly “take it all in”.

One may say that we are more vulnerable in the dark. In a sense, that is true. The protection it offers allows me to break open my layers like the fragile shell of an egg; all emotions of humankind dripping from my core. Yet darkness is my shroud, my cape of mystic abilities, where the glowing orb eyes of the owl meet mine. It is where wisdom and suffering convene to bring about simple awareness. Night is my protection, allowing the most fragile parts of my heart to be bare and wide open: the song of grief and healing and expectation as loud as the beat of congas calling me to dance within their fire. It is the darkness that heals, the darkness that gives me the knowledge to recognize the abundance in the light.

The darkness is where I can shed my Motherhood skin, remove my mask of Wife, release the Beast of 31, uncurl the tail of Birther and Doula, step out of the robe of Woman, and retract the claws Living Everyday Life. The darkness is where I can be Destroyer Goddess: Erishkigal, Kali, Lilith, Hecate, or just Leigh the Dark Goddess. Darkness is where the veil between birth and death is lifted; where gravity is defied; where limits are tossed to the wind. Darkness is a womb I crawl into in repose: a silent world of echoes and heartbeats.

And while the Light is my inhale, the Darkness is my exhale. And it feels oh so good to breathe it all out.

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At 18, I wrote:

“Night is my innocence

Night is my sorrow

Night come and swallow me like the pills of the addict”

At 31, I gladly step into Night’s belly, awash in surrender.

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How do you find your way through the Darkness?

Embers

A year ago I lived in a gleaming shell. It was warm and cozy and protective there. I functioned in the realm which women planned, chanted, hypno’d, visualized, read up on, and lived and breathed their through peaceful, empowering, non-interventive birth experiences with good outcomes.

Occasionally, Birth would rear her mysterious and mythological head and the birth that had been planned would unfold much differently: perhaps in a hospital instead of at home. Perhaps with an epidural asked for during the spirit-compressing moments of transition. Or perhaps with a baby removed from a cut in the belly instead of slipping through the yielding folds of a yoni. In those such instances, I understood the mamas who mourned a different rite of passage, one they had not anticipated or maybe had not been emotionally prepared for. Grateful to hold my healthy baby, I was one of those mamas.

I walked my healing journey knowing all along that the light at the end of the tunnel was actually the baby in front of my face. Indigo functioned as a safety net for my grief, a tangible being I could kiss and embrace even in the shivering depths of any mourning. I didn’t need to walk far on this healing path, nor alone, for I had her at my side. But the shell kept me safe, expanding even to make room for this new life in my arms.

But the world I lived in was rocked on May 5, 2007 when a radiant friend of mine experienced the too-early birth of her twins.

On June 15^th, just six weeks later, it was shaken again to its core when her Liam’s heart stopped beating and he joined the light that filters through the trees. Ripe with my own child, my Indigo was to greet me - covered in blood and my grateful breathe and joyous tears - only 8 days later. Some of the tears I wept would fall just for Liam and for his baby-lost mama.

But then on July 29^th, as I lay in bed nursing Indigo, I could barely hold the shell of my home up as I learned of another mama-friend who welcomed her sleeping baby into the world with a river of grief. Ferdinand had already begun his star travels, as his mama wailed for her only son, the one she’d never nurse.

I still live in a remnant of that shell, only it’s been cracked and broken and battered with the raw words and mourning of these mamas. I cling to the pieces still intact. Sometimes, Liam’s light pours through those holes, snaking its way into my heart like heat from the sun. Other times, the glowing dust from Ferdinand’s star sprinkles down onto the top and covers my home with magic and projected longing.

Holding a living baby in one arm, and the weary heart of a childless mama in another, is like being the fulcrum of a balance scale. Constant attempts to meet equilibrium are fought by the forces upon each end of the scale: do I grab on tighter to my baby or surrender some of that attachment in order to be fully present for my friends? And yet I realize that the childless mama must feel the same; having to carry the weight of a never-known baby on one side and a desire to function in a world without solid answers on the other. And I think, is equilibrium even a reality or a possibility?

I feel twinges of guilt and confused conviction over my now-quieter – but still deeply impressed - belief in the power of our birth experiences. The riveting births I bear witness to keep my conviction from falling to pieces, but how long until another devastating loss sends me questioning my inherent belief for good? I hold the space at this precise moment for a mama walking her own labyrinth of healing, fresh from the twisted fate of a birth experience that left her with a healthy baby yet a tangled heart. Guilt washes over me when I breathe a sigh of relief over the long straw I drew to birth a healthy baby. And yet I will choose this guilt every day – every moment – over the indescribable heaviness of baby loss that I can only glimpse between the words my friends have written. The point is, I recognize that I even have a choice.

For those mamas who don’t have this choice, I honor them tonight with the flame of a single candle on the eve of the launch of this tender web-space: Glow in the Woods.

For Liam, Ferdinand, Finn, little A., Maddy, Niobe’s twin spirit-babies. For all mamas who wander this earth hoping to sneak a peek of their lost babies around a corner, or in the sky, or in the eyes of their subsequent – or surviving – children.

For all of humanity, that their words link us together in the monochromatic canopy of grief and the technicolor glimmer of hope.

We are moths to the flames of their Glow.

“It was still quite light out of doors, but inside with the curtains drawn and the smouldering fire sending out a dim, uncertain glow, the room was full of deep shadows.” - Kate Chopin

Getting My Fix

Apologies in advance for such “bullet-list” updates in the past months. These lists are indicative of my brain space and recent fragmented train of thought. So many fluid and provocative posts are brewing in my mind, but I don’t have the mad skills to put the words to screen as of late. Someone “pimp my blog posts” please!

• A break from doula-dom until May, in which two homebirths are on my humble plate. Then two “Bradley method” births in June, which are always rockin’.
• Sandwiched between my two May clients is a much-anticipated visit back home. I am already envisioning lazy days on the deck of my dad’s home, surrounded by the trees encrusted with emerald leaves and the sweet breeze of Sister Spring. I’ll also spend a few days with my Mama and the rest of my siblings, in which Poker, gabbing, and loads of comfort food will most likely be on the agenda. Oh, and extra laps for my girls to relax on. And, hopefully I’ll squeeze in a girl’s night out with my best buds.
• What I’m not looking forward to? Traveling alone with both girls now that Indi is mobile and rarely wants to sit still. Yikes. The fact that she is biting me during every single nursing session doesn’t make me feel any better about a 3 hour plane ride.
• Speaking of nursing, the tiny girl has barely nursed during the day for the past week because of the biting. And damn, I’m liberal…allowing her about 4 chances to test her Vampire ways before I absolutely give up due to the pain. Ya know the good ol’ “bite and pull and smirk”? Yeah, that’s her. I remember this phase with Kaia and it thankfully only lasted a few weeks. Because I really don’t want Indigo to wean this early. But I must have intact nipples in order to continue this relationship…
• The April dusks have been succulent. A perfect evening a few days ago included a meandering Jeep ride with the girls. Jason wraps Indi in a Mexican blanket and Kaia in his leather jacket to keep their bodies warm as they experience the humming, bumping ride with wide-eyes (and eventually sleeping eyes – the Jeep puts everyone to sleep). With the windows and doors completely removed, our hair blew wildly in the brisk wind as we absorbed the waning desert light and sorbet skies swirled with watermelon pink and cantaloupe orange. The open-air ride of the Jeep gave us a brilliant view of the low, full, golden moon; as ripe as fruit waiting to fall into our waiting hands. On a family walk earlier this week, I slowed my steps to take in the outline of the looming mountains ahead framed by the canopies of Palo Verdes lining our streets. Overcome with gratitude for this ancient desert, this dwelling once inhabited by coyotes and native peoples, I inhaled in the landscape with purposeful breath. In a matter of a moment, I noticed everything around me: the way the homes seemed content and quiet in the last rays of amber light, the aroma of orange blossoms in my nostrils, the swaying of the purple sage blossoms, the scampering of wild bunnies ready to nestle within their bed of leaves, the vision of Indigo poking her head above the backpack she rides in on Jason’s back, Kaia’s hushed voice as she points out Saguaro cactus and asks me if I remember the pumpkins during Halloween. In that moment, I realized that 15 years ago I never would have imagined myself in such a mysterious, gorgeous land with my heartbeat being shared among two tiny girls and my best friend of a husband. I never could have known that it would be the little joys that would sustain me.

• Jason has accepted an offer at a local architecture firm and begins Monday. Aperture Design will continue on the side, but this family was needing some consistent funds STAT! He’s amped about the new opportunity, which provides wonderful health benefits for the family as well. We’ll miss him around here, but I’m sure he’s ready to take a break from the Estrogen Zone for a bit.
• Met up with my radiant friend Janis today and we were sporting the same shoes! And these aren’t a popular pair of shoes you may find on anyone. Mine are about 6 years old, well loved and well worn. I originally slipped on a red, beaded pair of “thongs” (no worries, not a hubba-hubba g-string. It’s what us Midwesterners call “Flip Flops”), but at the last minute changed my mind and donned the black slip-on sandals. I love serendipitous moments such as these. And I wish I could make carbon copies of Janis so that everyone could have one of her around. She is a gem of a woman, somehow managing through the roughness of life with gentle grace, quick wit, and raw humanity.
• You know you are a Mama when a late-night run into a dimly lit grocery store leaves you giddy because it’s QUIET and you are ALONE and not being BIT or NEEDED and you actually almost melt at the beautiful, barely-there padding sound your mama’s moccasins (that she left and you are wearing now) make on the stained concrete of the grocery floor. It sounds as if you are floating, and so you move without haste and revel in the unhurried pace of it all and the way that everything is spotless and carefully placed and lined on shelves. I tell myself this will be a momentous occasion, because I will be leaving here with ONLY the item I came to purchase: soy milk. I am happy to hand over my debit card and give away my money for this cathartic, simple experience. I leave with Soymilk. And a bag of chocolate chips.
  
• Don’t worry: my life isn’t dripping with the humble gasps of amazing sunsets and wide-open gratitude. More often it’s an afternoon like today, where 8 piles of clean laundry wait in baskets to be hung, and the living room floor is littered with toys, and I had to promptly take a 10 minute walk around the block because I was going out of my MIND with two exhausted girls who wouldn’t give in to the call of napping and as I left I hear Jason saying “You aren’t REALLY going to leave the baby crying like that in the room are you?”. And I really hated to do it, but when you get to that point – and we all have “that point” and we all know when we have arrived there – you have no other choice but to walk away and know that all will resolve itself without you. And on the walk there were no squealing babies and no 2.10 (2 years, 10 mos) year olds pooping on the floor, and no temper tantrums and no mamas slumped in a chair, staring with mouth agape at blurry images on a TV and a loopy, tired mind that can’t lift one more finger. No, on the walk there was fresh air, peace and quiet, a lone airplane scraping the blue sky, three cactus wrens gossiping, and two painters that I passed and – in a moment of pride – decided I most certainly would NOT be sucking in the baby belly of mine to try and impress them; that I would let it jiggle and for the first time accept that this is a body of a Mama who carried two healthy babies and this belly is what a real woman looks like. When I stepped back onto the dirty tile of the foyer, I heard no squealing babies (daddy had helped her fall asleep) and noticed the 2.10 year old squatting in front of a sweet kids’ movie with perfectly messy pigtails sprouting from her head. And I could be the mama who sat on the chair and just let myself be present…without judgment. And I then decided to be the mama who crawled into the chocolate-brown cozy sheets of her beloved bed and indulged in a nap, with her finally resting babe in the pack-n-play beside her, fuzzy head against the mesh.