Monday is the Fourth of July, and well, the holiday is hitting a little differently than it did in the summer of ‘89 when my brother and I wore matching outfits and my bangs were cemented in place with Aquanet. Over the last few years I’ve looked on as a number of my black friends had complicated emotions surrounding the holiday. While I respected their feelings and understood to the best of my ability, the holiday still rang true for me.
The more I read through the responses to last week’s blog the deeper I dove into the concept of forced gratitude - a topic I’ve touched on before but I don’t think I’ve every truly grasped. I just knew that I hated being told that I had so much to be grateful for when all I could see was everything that I’d lost. And that’s certainly part of it, but it’s also so much more.
Strawbaby has been been testing boundaries like a velociraptor at Jurassic Park with zero concern for consequences. It’s been hard, really freaking hard but I’ve been having difficulty communicating that because shouldn’t my past perspectives leave me grateful for this healthy child? How dare I be stressed when this is what I’ve wanted. It’s just not that simple though, is it?
The last week and a half I’ve felt like one of those toy cars that you pull backwards until it makes that clicking sound and then races forward. It’s not that I haven’t been active or involved in the last two and half years, its just that during that time I developed an incredibly strong aversion to stress. I’ve become terrified of feeling the way I did when I was at my worst after Adelaide passed. The lack of control, the unpredictable emotions, the debilitating anxiety and depression - I’ve come so far and I don’t want to go back.
Jackson came home from school on Wednesday and let me know that they had spoken in his class about the school shooting in Texas. Along with the conversation in class, his teacher emailed a list of 100 coping skills which I appreciated receiving - but also, my child shouldn’t need coping strategies to feel safe at school. We are collectively grieving: all the lives lost to gun violence and also that this nation has failed to protect its citizens from themselves. I may not have a lot of factual knowledge or direct experience when it comes to firearms but I do know a thing or two about grief.
I lost a dear friend this week due to complications from a very fierce fight with breast cancer. Recently we had spoken about the pressure of acknowledging that we had limited time with the people we love. We came to the conversation from different places but our takeaway was the same: there is an unimaginable weight that settles over you when time becomes finite. A desperation to make every moment count.
I overheard Miguel on a call giving someone an update on our lives and he concluded by saying that the world may be in chaos but, in our little bubble, life was pretty good. I had to take a moment to register that he wasn’t wrong. The depressing current events have been filtering my perception of my actual daily life into thinking that it is a shit show as well. How do I still feel present as a citizen of the world and also experience personal joy? I found the answer in the most fantastical of places…
The leaked supreme court opinion has been consuming all of my waking thoughts. However, having spoken at length about my stance, I thought it might be nice to hear Miguel’s view on it all. He may not be at risk of having his body regulated by the government, but I believe that it is time that men stand with us, shout with us and fight alongside us.
With Mother’s Day just nine days away I’ve been trying to wrap my head around how I view this holiday in light of our recent familial changes. I’ve decided that its all a little too fresh for me to process and is going to take many more meditation showers. Through it all though, regardless of any of my children’s individual circumstances, motherhood has consistently gifted me one of the things I’ve needed most to survive: community.
Two girls, one dress, eating lunch in their own way a lifetime apart. Our life has certainly been made a little more wild and a lot more exciting by Strawbaby’s addition. But that’s what three year olds are supposed to do. They are not supposed to spend a quarter of their life in the hospital. Since Strawbaby turned three I have had to make a concerted effort to not focus on all that she is capable of - or rather - all that Adelaide missed out on.
Well, the little girl celebrating her 10th birthday in this photo - in all her puffy paint decorated t-shirt glory - is turning 40 on Monday. And you know what? I’m feeling pretty good about it - today anyway. And by today I mean at this very moment that I’m writing this.
Identity is a concept I have struggled with for most of my adult life. Who am I? How do I describe myself? Is it what you put in bio? A list of accomplishments followed by “lives in Maplewood, NJ”? The mom aspect has, in particular stumped me. I love being a mom but have resented my identity being so closely tied to my relationships. Then along came fate and slapped me in the face with a Strawbaby.
