Pacing the Cage

I recently heard a song that spoke to my heart. It broke my heart, and whispered it back into repair. Every now and then, you feel as if an artist is speaking directly to your soul when their voice comes to you over the airwaves. This was one of those times.

I was on my way from somewhere, or maybe to somewhere, and it stopped me in my tracks. Not literally, since I was in the car, but the toddler knew right away something had just dawned on me. He probably sensed I didn't quite know yet myself what exactly I had stumbled upon, but the look in my eye, catching his, told him something. And, me too.

It's an artist called Bruce Cockburn, and the song was "Pacing the Cage." This is me, a lifetime leading up to this point, in three words. Pacing the cage.

I've been pretty emotional lately, which is why I've been holding off blogging about life while under the influence of pregnancy hormones. But this morning, after hitting what we'll call "really hard bottom", a trip to the gym to 1) take advantage of dirt-cheap childcare, 2) run the body ragged and 3) cleanse the mind, I had a bit of a turnaround. I believe it's an opportunity to write while I'm under this influence, because I'm at such an interesting crossroads in my life. How could I not?

So, I'll write about my days. My sleepless nights. My emotional misery and my ecstatic highs. Thing is, I do feel like I'm caged in this current "stage".. "occupation".. "job". What is this? Staying home to raise a child? Of course it's a job. It's something to occupy one's time, so, an occupation. It's brutal for an extrovert. It's heaven on the good days. It's a form of inhumane torture for an addict of human companionship on the bad.

But why can't I just .. enjoy it? Because I'm human. And I had an exciting, blurry, stress-ridden quick ride up my career ladder, a pleasant plateau, a sudden wish to dabble into the artistic side of my brain, and.. had a child. Here I am. And here you are, reading me.

My emotions are there for the taking, you can turn and smile and bring them out of me. You could take my parking spot, glare at me across the aisle, miss the potty and pee on the floor, walk out of the room before I'm ready, make an offhand comment about how perfect your life is, or become my family and break my heart into a million pieces with nary a backward glance.

It's with this emotional context that I fill my head, my heart, my days. It's why I wrestle with the "what am I doing?" question.

I want to start another blog, a local resource for stay-at-home-moms in Northern Virginia. I want to go back to working on a trading floor. I want to write a book. I want to be paid for my photography. I want to learn another language. I want to quiet these emotions. I want to destroy all emoticons. I want to be a better wife and mom. I want to put it all out there, and I want to hide it all away.

So, here I am.. pacing the cage.

Read more...

The Paradox of Parenting

As my Mother-in-Law said, "this was the longest and the shortest week ever."

I agree. From our four-day break last weekend, I gleaned peace.. I gleaned some calm.. I gleaned some precious time with best friends that I rarely get to see in the hurried waters of life.

And a funny thing happened, on the way back to the Forum. Traveling back from the wedding festivities, we were heading down a gorgeous, scenic North Carolina byway on our way back to Chapel Hill to pick up the kiddo from the loving exhausted grandparents.

As we emerged into the final stretch of the open road, surrounded, summoned, by Piedmont rolling hills, green fields, and cows with a Southern drawl, I felt the strangest emotional tug I'd ever felt.

I wanted that road to stretch out further and further in front of us, each bend rounding a little longer and keeping us away from our goal. I wanted each hill to climb a little bit higher, allowing us a generous view at the peak, dropping us gently down towards our sleeping child. I wanted to never get there.

Yet I wanted to get there so badly. I wanted to open the door to his room, peek inside the Pack 'n Play at my adorable, cherubic napping son, and be there in front of his adoring eyes when he awoke. I wanted him to jump up to his toddler feet, open his arms wide, and say, "Mama came back."

And in the tug, the emotional roller coaster that is pregnancy got the best of me. I had had a myriad emotions over the course of the wedding weekend.. oft to be expected when good friends get married. Expected when you're surrounded by good friends that are already married, with whom you've spent years.. decades getting to know individually as humans. Then, as one unit in marriage.

All of this. The generosity of time, allowing us this many memories and mental snapshots to live by. The reminder of good friends.. old friends.. friends that have known you through incredibly rich years of life. The shred of peace I obtained while being simply by myself (if not just for a few hours.) My husband and I, as one unit, no hangers-on, alone with just the open road ahead of us to share.

I wanted to hold onto these untenable things, yet I wanted to whisk them away with one wave to reunite with my one-and-only, turning-two toddler. To look into his blue eyes, watch his grin grow, then listen to him as he told me all the ways he loved, learned, played, missed, and grew. Without us there.

I think this is the paradox of parenting.

Read more...

Lost and Found on U Street

I've talked a little bit about my volunteer work on here. I've spoken a fair amount about my latest habits of pregnancy (getting sick) and having a new house to close on soon and another to list (getting committed.) Well, I've failed to talk about the most important theme going on of all: pregnancy confusion.

I had an end-of-year party last night in downtown D.C. for my outgoing committee in my major service organization that I often reference. It was a fun way to close out a great year, I've made good friends on this Committee that I won't get to see as often next year, so I made the effort to get my butt down to the U Street corridor and make myself seen. Via the scene.

And what a scene! Going out in D.C. is much fun; it's a shame bars aren't more kid-friendly.

So, I caught up and I munched on the leftover mushroom ragout/toast points while everyone else ignored them. I drank cranberry and club soda so nobody would guess I was non-alcoholic, but then they just pointed at my belly and called me out on it anyway.

But then it was time to leave. I had to go, as difficult as it was to check back into motherhood, out of the D.C. singles', doubles' and really cool rooftop bar scene. So, I went.

I walked down U Street for a pleasant 10 minutes. Wandering through the cool early-summer air, I was struck by how good it felt to walk. And after my initial stroll pace, I decided I was ready to be feet-up again and upgraded to a full-fledged charge. When it seemed like I had walked for an hour and many blocks, I looked up and the bars and clubs were thinning out.. I was nearly to 10th street. Where the hell was my car? I did have a car, right?

I hadn't parked this far.. had I?!

I must have. I did the only thing I could think of to do without seeming totally lost to the lines of folks waiting to get into Hot Club A and Hot Club B: I called my husband.

"So.... you can't find the car. And you're calling.. me?"
This is actually what he said.
We re-traced my steps. I literally. He listened empathetically, from the couch and PTI. I turned around and walked back from whence I'd come. I think I walked exactly halfway back to my starting point, every block frustrating me more. What in the world was wrong with my brain?

Oh, right. I'm thinking for two here.

I did find it. I did get in. And it started. And I drove home, giving myself a little tour of the Nation's Capital by night as I drove.

Tell me this doesn't get worse.

Read more...

Come Out, Come Out

I know, it's high time.

Some of my friends in real life know. Some of my bloggy-friends know. Some of my relatives know because I told them, some know because I didn't tell them.

But when I dropped my nearly-2 year old son off at his Mom's morning out preschool program this morning, it was all I could do to stoop over and put sunscreen on his little baby face. I nearly passed out. Then, as the often jovial, always cordial Moms chatted away, I had to make a break for it. I raced to the car through the brilliant luster of sun-filled morning, felt the cool morning breeze on my face as I admired the no-rain status of the day. Made it to the car. Whew, now everything would be okay, right?

Wrong. Unwrapped the Chewy Granola Bar. Took a bite. Turn up that NPR report, get your mind on other things. The world was spinning a bit, I rolled down the windows. Then it happened. I thought I had the urge to sneeze but... alas.

Let's review.

I'm parked in the preschool parking lot. Happy, lark-like Moms and Dads are all around me, dropping off Joe and Suzy and (let's be more trendy) Madison and Allister.

I race around to the front of the car, bend down next to the front bumper and... YIKES. You guessed it. Got rid of every single item in my stomach including the acid, and my body wasn't quite done. I heaved until I was begging for mercy; it's not like I was in the comfort of my own bathroom here.

A parking lot puking. And you all know what I was thinking, as I clutched onto that front bumper for support.

"Gonna have to blog about this."

There ya have it. Pregnant with a capital P. Heaving with a capital H. And eating like there's no tomorrow.

I'm sorry for my absence as late, but I think this explains a bit more fully where I've "been".

Read more...