And When He Arrives, He'd Better Bring Queso

I'm back, I'm pregnant, and I'm hungry.

It's been almost seven months since I clicked out a single word here, which has probably been either a tropical island of coconut-scented bliss for you or an ocean of nothingness, which is mostly what it's been for me.  It isn't that these many months have been empty, only that the feeling of floundry nothingness is how I've felt toward the Blog bookmark on my Safari toolbar.

Not floundering, but floundry, like the fish: clammy and undesirable.  Don't touch it. 

In fact, quite a bit has happened.

C and I tap danced through another fabulous summer of camp,

made an amazing escape to the desert of southwest America,

got ourselves pregnant,

Wait, wait, wait.  

(no source link folks, but this beaut' belongs to the interweb -  I only wish it were mine)

That's better.

took a dinner cruise,

and I rode a camel named Luke.

It was a full season.  And now, with snow and sub-zero temps alternating punches, we venture into the icy boxing ring of winter, bobbing and weaving, whilst I awkwardly balance a belly that is gradually causing me to not only look like the letter p, but to also, well, have to.

Some people have children because it makes them happy.  Ideally, all people have kids because it gives them joy, which despite my general snarkiness, I genuinely believe to be a significantly different thing.  What I mean by the first statement is that some people have childhood dreams and aspirations of parenthood, of someday bringing life into the world: a tiny swaddled person wafting of that sweet smell of babydom (not the liquid poop, the other one).  Having kids can satisfy these feelings, hence happiness.

Most of you already know this, but I wasn't that kid. We weren't that couple.  I didn't grow up dreaming of motherhood, and in fact, the idea kind of made me squeamish, and at least half-terrified (still does).  It's not that I dislike infants or children or families or am some kind of angry grinch, but I've just never felt that... maternal.  Along with that, C and I as a couple had become pretty set in the idea that we'd invest in the human race in other ways.  For example, I love getting to work with college students and post-grads.  It gives me joy.  It's my jam.  So I think it surprised us both a bit when we came to the decision that, despite the fact that our emotional makeup toward the idea felt quite like a dry, lifeless paper cup, we would set ourselves to embark on this one-way trip to the Other Side.

It's been a strange process, mentally switching gears from being genuinely really satisfied as a twosome, to being genuinely really satisfied as a twosome, only we're about to become three.  We are trying to create room for the emotions that we can't yet understand for this person that is making himself increasingly known with every roll and roundhouse.  It feels a shade like treason to my former self to admit it, but I've truly enjoyed being pregnant.  So far things haven't been bad:  not too much back pain, no excessive gas ( I think - you tell me), or insane cravings.  It helps that we're 90 miles from the nearest crab rangoon, which, if you felt like bringing me sometime, would be totally ok, and might earn you a middle name or fairy godmother status via our son.  It's been a fascinating process,  to mentally know, then physically feel that life is getting ready to burst (don't remind me) forth from life.  Crazy, really.

So as I adjust to our Olympic vaulter catapulting himself off of my bladder, I think I'm also adjusting to the idea that in a few short months, there will be something other than the cat flailing around on the living room floor.  All in all, I suppose I'm actually looking forward to it.

Kiwi the Cat is not, unless he will be accompanied by snacks.  Which really, would be ok with me, too.

Forgive Me, My Ugly Is Showing

It’s that special time of year for us during which all sorts of things decide to simultaneously coil up like a rattler in strike and free themselves upon us with the spit and vigor of a cat who’s tail is stuck in a sliding door. 

AKA, it’s about to get crazy up in here.

There have been moments in my past when I have felt like Luke Skywalker standing in the garbage compactor of the Death Star.  The walls are about to close in, I’m surrounded by foulness and trash, and two of my friends have the bright idea of holding off the impending squish with a giant metal toothpick (the other is screaming and banging on the walls), all of which have almost made me forget about that mammoth water snake that is working to suffocate me with its alligator death-roll.

My friend Christi, having her own Star Wars moment with the Hobart.

Sometimes life feels like this.  Can I get an Amen?

To be fair, though Crazy Town is just around the bend, we have not pulled into the station, so what really puts all of this on my mind is that I can name four or five friends or co-workers who, at this very moment, are in the middle of a trash-compactor life phase.  So, I’m feeling for them a little bit. 

Something I realized last September, in the wake of a one-month work bender, is that, well, some people work all the time,

all

the

time.

I can’t say whether it’s a choice (the latest UltraTinyBook is always calling) or a necessity, but there are some poor souls out their whom, either to make ends meet or to buy another cat (did I say that?), work 80+ hour work weeks, every week.  Others do it because they are pinned down by deadlines, or because their work defines their person.  I am not judging.  I understand some of these reasons first-hand. 

However, the last time I had a phase like this, to put it simply: I became an awful person.  It happened quicker than I’d thought, and far more easily than I had ever hoped.  The pressure built, sleep became a dream, and sitting down for a meal was a maniacal notion.  And was I ever miserable to be around.  If I wasn’t working, I was somehow trying to explain how hard I was working.  If I wasn’t running from place to place, I was showing you the worn tread on my shoes.  If I wasn’t plunging a toilet, I was giving you the minute-by-minute, poopy details of the one I just left. 

More than a quiet meal, more than a relaxing afternoon, more than sleep, I wanted one thing:

credit.

If I was going to work this hard and this tirelessly, I wanted someone everyone to notice.  And comment.  And give me the sad eyes and the kind words.  I wanted to be recognized for laying down over the tracks. 

This is not to say that the folks I referred to earlier, the ones who are struggling underwater in a sea of work, are exhibiting the same nasty traits I did last year.  They actually aren’t, which is what has made me think so much on this lately.  They are working, in their exhaustion, with grace and kindness, and even the sweet seasoning of humor.  But I was not so good.  In fact, I was very, very bad. 

Yes, during those busy days I needed a nap, and probably a snack, too.  But I also needed to remember to mentally back-the-heck-up and recall that my circumstances should not dictate my behavior; that when the going gets tough, the tough get counseling, or whatever the phrase is.  I needed to remember that I am still the master of my own mind and words and actions, and that just because I feel like taking a five-minute break to punch holes in a wall doesn’t mean that I won’t get cut.  And it surely means that someone else will, too. 

See, we live in community.  It’s unavoidable.  Even if you are single and live alone, what you do impacts others.  It impacts your parents.  It impacts the fellow at the checkout counter at the gas station.  And this is more so if you are married, have a family, or live in a dormitory or perhaps the stray commune village.  Other people are undeniably part of your and my life.  How I choose to walk through valleys will radiate to my co-workers and the people we serve here on The Compound.  If I think that my attitude is solely an internal organ, I have been taken for a ride, and sooner or later, someone is going to come along and correct me.  Or equally likely, some innocent small child is going to walk up, gaze at me with Bambi eyes, and ask me why I look like I want to hurt everyone in the room.

Work is hard.  Sometimes it’s just plain miserable.  But, if you are fortunate enough to have a job that you care about, or if you care about your job, there are high points in the mix: shimmery moments of glory and joy.  Remember those moments.  Remember who you are in those moments.

I want that.  Most importantly, I want to remember the person I am in those beautiful, energized interactions so that when I come crashing down and find myself standing in the terrible trash-compactors of life, I will know that just because my circumstances smell like garbage and look like a water dragon from the deep, it doesn’t mean that I need to go for a swim. 

Be honest about your feelings, but don’t drown in them.  Credit feels good, but living well feels so much better.