Baby News (you can skip it if it's not your thing)

Sleep, shmeep. Sometimes you get to a point where you are so tired, you can't manage to get yourself up and ready for bed, instead, you just sit and let an old Cheers episode play on and on in the background. Sigh.

The baby is sleeping, though. That's a good thing. His naps are tapering off, but he's sleeping better through the night. I know, I know fascinating.

I keep thinking that I should be keeping track of all the things he does as he grows... I mean, he is almost seven months now (how did that happen?) but then I'm not really into documenting every last little moment.

So maybe just an occassional entry where we catch up on the Gabriel developments.

He's getting awful wiggly. No crawling or anything, but his favoritest is climbing all over mommy. He likes to attack-kiss Mama, mouth wide open, slobber, slobber. He also particularly likes it if his girlfriend Tazer kitty is hanging out near by, and he can reach over and pet, pet, pet GRAB! a handful of fur. Delicious fun. Also delicious fun is Pears! and Bananas! and Applesauce! and Sweetpotatoes! Weee heee. He'd like some of Papa's sushi, or Mama's brownie, too, but that's a no go.

He's moved into his very own room, and his very own crib, and has even managed to stay there 'til sometimes 5am, or 6am or 7am, at which point he cries, and Papa goes to get him and bring him back to bed with us. Then he gets booby and falls asleep ontop of Mama until he can wake up and start kicking whichever parent is nearer. Fun times.

On a side note, I wonder when Sean and I will get our names back... we've become Mama and Papa. Hmm. Gabriel, however has a thousand names. Monkey Man, Fudd Head, Cuckoo Head, Cuckoo Luckoo, Boo Boo, Flying Boy, Zombie Baby, Lord Stinkypants, Master of the Manor...

And I'm rambling. It's that sleep thing, again. I'm wondering also when I won't be exhausted, always and constantly. And worn down with no break. Sigh again.

Gettin' Back to the Soul

Here I am, mumbling and tumbling around in my life. Doesn't quite fit yet. Think about all the things I should do, but can manage very few of them, most of those surrounding a certain little bald man with no teeth.

Il Baldino actually is letting me sleep longer. Through the night, and today, he actually let me sleep until 12 noon! That entails Papa taking him for about an hour in the morning, and giving him back to me while I am still lounging (read, comatose) in bed, me playing with him for a little, and then Il Baldino requesting booby-- which then puts him to sleep, so I sleep too. He will periodically wake up, ask for more booby, and then pass out again. So we finally woke at noon, although I was ready to get up at 7. Phew. Sleep.

It's amazing what a full night of sleep plus some will enable me to do. Like wash dishes, for one. Or write in my blog. Or make it through the mommy's group without tuning out.

We went to the mommy's group today. It's actually starting to be a baby's group, since the kids are beginning to interact. Gabriel kissed one of his friends today. This is, of course, after he tried to poke out the poor kid's eye. My son likes to grab and gouge. I have scabs all over my face. For him, it's a sign of love. The cats get it too. Of course, they have a great deal less patience for it.

The mommy's group is good for me, too. About 80% of the women there are artists, mostly painters. It's nice to be around people who are creative. They're not only artists, they are almost all WORKING artists. Not hobbyists. Not wannabe's. They have studios and gallery shows and museum shows. It's a different dynamic that being the only self-identified artist in a group full of non- artists.

Today is also supposed to be my night off. Excuse me, "my night off." The night of the week when Sean comes home early to relieve me and let me do whatever I want, go out, whatever. The problem with that is that I am always so tired by the time Sean gets home that I don't want to go anywhere, and rarely want to do anything. Sigh. Last week I told him I wasn't allowed to watch tv, and I needed to write or paint, or something. Guess what I did all night... watch tv.

I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Difficulties of being a new mom:
Learning to type one handed.
Finding time to shower.
Carrying a stroller up and down stairs.
Trying to make new mom friends, because all your old friends are in different states/schedules/mindframes.
Not getting enough sleep.
Dealing with a baby who won't stop crying.
Being responsible for keeping a seven room apartment clean when I'm infamous for being a slob.
Trying to figure out how to give Christmas presents when I have no money 'cause I have no job 'cause I'm a stay at home mom.

Lot's of stuff to do.

I'm making holiday cookies, and coquito, a Puerto Rican coconut eggnog. I'm thinking about giving all the extended family tiny paintings on old playing cards-- they're called ATC's, artist tradin cards, I think. I used to give everyone framed paintings, but I don't have the time or focus, anymore. Sigh.

For the baby, I'm crocheting a red, woolen ball. So old-school, I'm hoping it will be meaningful. His first ball. I'm half done. I'd also like to make him some stuffed creatures out of old sweaters.
I've also bought him a few little things.

For Sean, I drew him a charcoal picture of Gabriel sleeping. I'll try to frame it. I'm giving him a photo album that I printed with Gabriel's foot. I found it at a thrift store. I'm thrifty like that. I also took some portraits of Gabriel with a real camera, not those crappy disposable ones, and I'm hoping they come out. What else? My one big expense-- a Band of Brother's DVD. I got the money for it from an old refund from my retirement fund. I haven't told him I got that, because then the DVD wouldn't be a surprise. (I hope he doesn't read this. I don't think he has the address. Gosh. I would suck if he did. Maybe I'll keep this entry as a draft until after Xmas.)

I like Christmas, but it's a lot of stuff that needs to be done. I'm glad I'm not going all commercialized. I never really liked that, although shopping can be fun. Well, I have shopping to do, but it's more like grocery shopping. Well, I also want to stop at Union Pool and make use of their photo booth. How wierd would it be to stop in a bar with a baby carriage?

Of course, I've been to bars with Gabriel, but not alone, and not that one.

I've gotta go and get some stuff done. Bye

This and That

Just learned a new mini factoid-- if you add soap to the water of your watercolors, the paper of a moleskin diary, and i assume others, the paper will not resist the paint. That was why I didn't use those journals. Huh.

Eh, I'll probably keep using my old black bound sketch books. I've been getting back into painting, drawing and collaging. Somehow, it seems more accessible than writing a huge project.

I'm trying a new thing-- typing with one hand while nursing. Not as efficient and Gabriel is distracted.

It would be nice if I could do an illustrated blog-- or an actual website with pictures and stuff. I like doing everything by hand, but sometimes it would be great if I were a little bit more technologically savvy.

Can you tell I am again trying to get back to the creativity thing? Maybe it's not an again sort of proposition, but a still, always, continuous sort of thing. I do know that I often look back at periods where I thought I was struggling creatively, and find I was pretty productive.

I guess being creative takes an effort... no that's not quite right... it takes attention, time, and action.

It also helps to be in the conversation. It's nice that the women in my mommy's group are creative types. And I've been looking at artist's websites... there's so much out there. I guess you just have to be open to it.

Looking for Abundance

Living in New York City is difficult, even living in Brooklyn, outside of the madness of Manhattan, is tough.

I've been a stay at home mom for 4 months now. More if you count the months when I was pregnant and unable to work. It's a really strange phenomenon for me. I haven't been this dependent upon another person since I was 17-- and even then I was bringing in a few bucks with babysitting or ushering or selling marshmallow treats to the highschool kids at lunch time. Now, if I want to get a coffee, I have to ask Sean.

It's so wierd. And money is tight, too. It's not like Sean is a doctor or lawyer or works on wall street with all those people, who, I'm sorry to say, don't really contribute much to the furthering of society. We make it week to week, and some weeks are tighter than others.

I just came back from the grocery store, and something about it made me cringe. Something made me feel poor. Not just broke, but poor. There's a difference. Sean gave me 30 bucks to go grocery shopping, which is not enough, wasn't even enough when I was shopping for just little old me. Not only that, but I spent about ten on lunch today at my Mommy's group. I needed to eat, you know? So here I am, trying to get basics to hold the house over until the next time I go shopping. I'm going for the cheapest rice, and just one head of garlic, skipped the fruit all together, because I can get Sean to bring some on his way home from work.

I put my groceries on the conveyer, and everything was white. White fish, white baby cereal, white rice, white garlic, white onions, white cheese, white pasta. It seemed empty to me, it seemed poor, it seemed like the way you eat when you have nothing but change for a bagel. Yikes. It gave me the willies. Of course, when I got the bill, it was ten dollars less than I thought it was going to be. (Probably because I left behind the cereal and ground beef, without subtracting the cost from my mental ring-up)

So, I'm walking home with my bag of groceries and my sleeping child, my boots soaking from the brief rainshower, and in my head, I'm thinking, I feel poor.

I feel poor. I grew up poor, and with that came the shame of poverty, of not being able to afford simple things, of not having what others had or doing what others did. The shame of feeling like you somehow did not belong, and instead lived on the outskirts of the world, looking in. Walking down the street, I felt that shrinking feeling, that "poor" feeling, but I had to stop and really examine it.

I don't have a lot of money, but I have the opportunity to stay at home with Gabriel, to care for him and spend time with him, without having to scramble for daycare. I have a large comfortable home in a neighborhood that is alot safer than the one I grew up in. Sean and I go out often enough, for brunch or a beer at the neighborhood pub. I have the time, although I don't use it, to make art and write. And if I wanted too, I could get the money from Sean to buy my favorite fruits and veggies and fresh mozzarella and steaks, at least some of the time.

See the thing about poverty is that it is a state of mind. It's about seeing the lack, not the abundance. It's about feeling trapped, and not having hope. I could be selling my soul on Wall Street for 150 thou a year, and feel utterly poor. I could be making 15 thousand working on a farm and feel truly blessed. I know that there is actually more to poverty than just this, but it's a big component.

I really want to start looking at my abundance. I want to simplify and enjoy the life I have, instead of wanting more and more stuff that really isn't all that important.

I think it would be nice to feel that satisfaction.

What is the best way to get inspired again? It's not like I can do like I used to and sequester myself with my journals and my paints and my books to write and paint and read the inspiration up. Nope, I've got the Monkey Man sleeping on the couch next to me, and I wince everytime he whimpers in his sleep.

(no, kiddo, no, kiddo, no kiddo, do not wake up.)

When I was a teacher, half of my job consisted of getting kids inspired to work. It didn't always work, but sometimes it did. That was in a New York City public school, and a lot of the kids had major issues. Well, that's kind of amusing. Am I assuming that I am issue free? Obviously I have issues, if I didn't I would be done with my current novel, seeing it published, and working on a new one. What a lovely picture I paint. Me, issue free. Maybe I should treat me like I treated my students, my fragile, struggling, alternately brilliant and doltish students. They were lazy, just like I am. They had dreams and dreams, just like I do, ones neither of us are completely convinced we can achieve, and which we might be terrified of actually achieving.

But considering a person (me) had the desire to write, what are the tricks that I used to help get up the inspiration. And beyond the inspiration, the habit of working.

Daily journal entries. That's right. Whether you wanted to write or not. I had a quote or a question or a prompt, and the assignment was to write for ten minutes non stop-- without worrying about what you actually had to write.

Brainstorming. That was always fun, and it pulled on the knowledge you already had. Put the main idea on the board or on a piece of paper, and then just spider web all the associations that went with it. Then you look at what you've written and you can actually see the thinking, you can catch the flow, the story, the meaning. Great way to write poetry-- just choose one cluster of the web.

Art Projects. A collage or a drawing might help you get a different perspective on whatever it was you were trying to understand or create. That works particularly well to help you understand the bigger/deeper ideas behind a complicated story. Also helped to build a personal connection to the material.

Choice. Honestly, giving the kids a choice of material helped them want to do things. It gives you a sense of control over what you are doing. And yet, the choice is limited-- you don't get to choose any old thing in the universe, but one of a selection. This is important, because the world gets so big when there are no limitations. How can you make any choices? So limiting choices, but giving free will among those really helps to create a focus.

Personal accountability. Checking up on them. Giving deadlines. Having high expectations, leading to a performance or presentation.

What are the ways I can adapt these techniques to my own practice?

Eh, looking for magic pills to solve all my problems. What I really need to do is just write.

It Is

This has been the hardest entry to write.

I keep wanting to talk about how I've decided to pay attention to all the good things I have in my life, instead of the things I am lacking, but every time I start, my brain can do nothing but whir around all the absences and failures.

Why is it so hard to live your life in blessings?

We've all got them, right? Maybe they're not huge things, but everyone can at least have a good cup of coffee in the morning, right? Or a butterfly fluttering about? Or a dramatic sunset?

How often do we ignore the things that make us happy, or could make us happy if we paid attention to them and gave them the value they deserve?

How often do we pay attention to our lives as they are, right now, this instant?

I know I don't. I pay attention only to what is missing, and it's killing me. I'm so freaking worried that I won't ever be able to be a writer, that I don't have the stuff, that I don't have the will. I'm terrified that I'm losing my identity in being a mother. I'm afraid that the task of being who I want to be is going to get eaten up by the niggling worries of washing the dishes and feeding the cats and sweeping the floor-- or more precisely, how bad I am at doing all those things.

My life has turned into this negative. My life has turned into this aching jaw full of tension.

And I'm missing out on this life that I've kind of wanted since I was fifteen-- being a mother.

I'm there for my baby, and I give him attention and love and all those things I need and want to give him, but I'm not there in the moment. I'm always thinking about what is next to do.

This isn't happiness.

But it could be. The elements of happiness are all in place. All it will take is for me to pay attention to this that is my life. THIS is my life. Not all the things I want but don't have. And certainly not the television playing non stop, a drug that allows time to pass without any effort on my part. No. This right here.

Pay attention, Rowena, to the baby sleeping next to me on the couch, allowing me to sort through all this in writing. Pay attention to the sunset lighting the tree outside my window. Pay attention to Sean, and his joy in his son and his family. Pay attention to how creating, whether in words or in pictures, makes you happy.

Pay attention to your life, and pay attention to all that it is.

I Feed, Therefore I am

I've come to the conclusion that my purpose in life right now is to feed.

I feed the baby. I am the milk bar. Every couple of hours, he cries, and I wip out the booby.

I feed my boyfriend-- whenever he is home in time for dinner.

I feed the cats. Not as much as they'd like, but they'd like to be as round as piggies.

I feed myself. If I didn't I would have nothing to feed the baby. Plus I'd be mighty grumpy and no one would want to be around me.

I also-- and this is the most annoying one-- feed the mosquitos of Brooklyn. Good lord. Head to toe, and lots of places in between. Big pink welts that take turns itching me to distraction.

This has been quite a summer.

Return to the World of the Living?

Welcome me back to the world of the living. After however many months of allowing myself to be non-productive while I was busy reproducing, I know have a little baby boy, and the beginning urges to be creative again.

Now it's all sorts of other difficulties presenting themselves. Exhaustion. Screaming baby. Need to eat or feed someone or something.

I've decided to play a game with myself. Break up life into fifteen minute increments-- see what I can get done in those fifteen minutes-- whether that's a shower, or a meal, a painting or a poem, or maybe a blog entry... hmmm....

That's quite a distinctive wailing I hear.

This is going to be a challenge.

I'll get back to you.

Reproductive/Non-productive

I never feel like writing. I never feel like drawing or painting. I barely even feel like reading.

This is a strange time in my life.

I am the person who writes/draws/reads constantly. Any blank moment is filled with one of those activities. The urge is almost unbelievable.

Except for now. Except for this pregnancy. I don't even want to write in the journals I've been keeping for, oh, twenty one years. All I want to do is lay around, watch tv, web surf, and fllip through magazines.

I suppose I have to chalk it up to being pregnant. All that creative energy is going somewhere else-- making a baby.

I have to say, that in this rational age of science and technology, that just doesn't make any sense. Why should the physical act of gestation-- with all it's attendant growth patterns and umbilical cords and oxygen transfers-- why should it pull on whatever it is that makes me an artist? And it isn't just a basic level of energy thing. There are times within my pregnancy where I have energy, but I end up decorating or cleaning--- nesting. And there are times before I got pregnant where I've had no energy, and I would curl up with my journal and paint a picture or write about how I felt. None of that now.

There's got to be something else involved in being and artist-- and making a baby, something that is shared. What is it? What could it be?

I don't know, but the idea comforts me, somewhat. A lot of my frustration right now is born out of the fear that maybe I won't be able to write and paint anymore, or even want to. Maybe my artist days are over. But if my non-productivity can be understood due to my re-productivity, maybe I can let go of that fear and frustration.

I even did one of those on line tarot readings. I actually read tarot cards for other people, but have problems reading for myself. Too hard to keep my desires and fears out of the interpretation, but the on line thing had interpretations already set up, which I could then understand in my situation. And frankly what it told me was that it was time to reconcile those parts of myself-- the mother and the artist. It also pointed out that what was truly mine could never be lost. Oh and all sorts of things that gave me faith in my ability to retain "the artist."

Society is wierd. It says all sorts of things about what a mother is and isn't. It's really easy to buy into that.

I am going to create again. Art, writing, not just babies. I am. I'm going to work really hard on it, because it's important.
But all I know is that, yes I am going to be a mother, but I am also Rowena, and that is who has something really important to give to her son. Not someone who has drowned herself in motherhood and her child. Just like in any relationship, a romantic relationship as well as a maternal one, a person has to keep her identity, right? Sure, change and transform along with life, but retain her individuality, right?