Thanksgiving Re-Cap

My mini-meltdown ended after 45 minutes of sitting in the idling car listening to Macklemore’s The Heist cd on repeat. And angry blogging. Once I identified that I had felt disrespected, I was able to articulate it to my family, and things blew over. My problem is having a hard time identifying my emotions and switch right to raging bitch pissed, rather than calmly being able to articulate what’s really going on. Like I felt disrespected that I was the only one doing parenting duties and everyone else was acting 12, shouting at football games and barking orders.

The rest of our visit was relatively calm, though sleeping on a 167 year old double mattress with egg crate for ‘support’ was less than ideal. Especially with a squirrelly nursling who would pop up, even in the middle of the night, to assess his surroundings. On Friday night we took my dad out for his 60th birthday, and had some yummy Italian food that didn’t sit well with me, but at least we didn’t have any major arguments. And Potamus enjoyed feeding carrots to the horses was scared of the horses, but was obsessed with going out in the pasture with us anyway. Also, hearing him say “football” is adorable, though it sounds a hell of a lot more like ‘butt ball” which makes me laugh, every time.

We’re home now, and trying to recover from being out of my comfort zone for two days (and trying desperately not to think of the return trip in three weeks for ‘Christmas.’ Eek!).

60th birthday dinner for grandpa!

Me & Little Man

he’s really loving the horses (not)

stripes & grass

out for a brisk walk with grammy

feeding the horses some carrots

 

Internet Refugee

I feel like a refugee. I know that’s dramatic, but this feeling of being displaced, shuffled around, trying to assimilate in and ‘pass’ for one of the locals when grieving the loss of a family. I wrote about the OffbeatFamilies shutdown yesterday, and have managed to stay away from the shuttered doors, and have tried to nestle in to Offbeat Home & Life, a place I previously felt comfortable. But then I started reading the comments, which is advice they say NOT to do in most internet communities, because snark+ runs rampant. But the Offbeat Empire has felt so safe…and then…I come across comments like this:

Ooooh… I’m sure this makes me a terrible person, but as a childless-by-choice OBH&L reader I’m glad there’s not going to be birth stories and breastfeeding articles in here…. cuz it would totally ick me out, but I’m sure I’d end up reading it anyways cuz it’d be like a train-wreck, where you don’t want to look but you can’t tear your eyes off it. Then I’d probably just have to stop coming in here, and that would make me sad.

But hooray for Harry Potter!

Ugh. So birth and breastfeeding is icky to you. Awesome. And my parenting choices are like a ‘trainwreck,’ which is also awesome. And makes me feel super comfortable when I’m mourning the loss of a place I loved and content I loved. Imagine if I went there and said “I love reading about colored wedding dresses, but gay dudes kissing is sooooo ick, and a trainwreck and so I’ll probably not come back.” Hurtful, right? (and soooo not my views in reality, FYI).

But I was feeling kinda okay about squatting over there, but now I’m not so sure. So of course I’ve begun spiralling. Where do I fit in? I’ve bounced over to Mutha Magazine, and Mommyish, and Birth Without Fear, and think ‘oh cool, these might feel like home someday,’ but just like expatriating, that day isn’t today and so I feel displaced.

Which calls into question my own feeling at home here, on my own blog. A blog with a name I’ve questioned for awhile and with a handle that I’m not entirely comfortable with. Monk-Monk sometimes feels too…unhuman, if that makes any darn sense at all. So don’t be surprised, if like a post-breakup, I dye my hair to change my identity. The blog equivalent might be a look change/name change/handle change. Still me under the bloggy makeover, but I thought I’d give you a heads up that my mind is swirling about new taglines and titles and how to move forward in internet refugee empowerment.

The House that Built Me: A Musical Review

I’ve taken the literal trip down memory lane before, always alone, usually in my car. But after having some lovely jamba juice with an out-of-town friend, up north, I decided to swing through my old neighborhood, break out the stroller and visit my childhood home.

I strolled. I mused. I reminisced. Potamus slept. He also rubbed his eyes and sweated a bit, since Seattle is still reveling in 70 degree days and the long-sleeve shirt I dressed him in was much too warm. I found the quietness of the neighborhood comforting. There was something familiar about the way the sunshine streamed through the tree-branched of the fir I used to climb as a child, though much else had changed. Neighbors we had have moved on, and I’ve kept in touch via Facebook. The swing-set in the backyard is replaced with a garden and fountains and old-lady type decorations. The color is all wrong, blue instead of beige, but the address, the first numbers I memorized are still the same.

The physical act of standing where I once stood as a child was powerful. My body remembered things my mind hadn’t: the lemonade stand on the corner, the bus-stop mornings with rain dripping off the tree branches, the greenbelt we used to sled on the 1 day we’d be off from school for snow, the way the blackberry bushes overgrew the trails with signs that said “private property, no trespassing.” As I strolled past a house I was suddenly struck with the memory of a woman who hosted Christmas caroling parties, who died of a brain aneurysm, and the tedious hours spent babysitting a Power Ranger fanatic 4 year old.

I snapped pictures and realized just how innocuous a mom-with-stroller was in such a suburban cul-de-sac. Nobody batted an eye or flinched when I peeked over the fence into my old backyard, or questioned me when I snapped a few photos of myself with my house in the background. I looked like I belonged.

And I did belong.

I drove Potamus up the road a little ways to “the train park” as we called it, and pushed him on the swings. He smiled and laughed and so did I.

And all the while I kept thinking of Miranda Lambert’s The House that Built Me

I know they say you can’t go home again
I just had to come back one last time
Ma’am, I know you don’t know me from Adam
But these hand prints on the front steps are mine
Up those stairs in that little back bedroom
Is where I did my homework and I learned to play guitar And I bet you didn’t know under that live oak
My favorite dog is buried in the yard

I thought if I could touch this place or feel it
This brokenness inside me might start healing
Out here it’s like I’m someone else
I thought that maybe I could find myself
If I could just come in, I swear I’ll leave
Won’t take nothing but a memory
From the house that built me

Home

Where is Yours?

Tonight I went to writing group, and the topic was Home. We wrote about our childhood home, and the smells we associated with it. I was surprised to remember that there was a kitchen drawer that smelled like broken crayons and Flinstone’s vitamins. How random of a memory!

We then moved on to the concept of home, which brought up this deep sadness I had no idea existed within me. This idea of home feels like a time in my life, and like the garden of Eden, I can remember its loveliness but I am destined to wander about a desert yearning for the comfort of paradise. I can never truly go home, as home is innocence and pure love and a safe naivete.

Driving home I kept thinking about Potamus, and that this house will be his childhood home, but more importantly how his innocence will one day be gone. I can love and shelter, but the real world will show its realness and all the good and bad that comes with it. Today I am his home, but he is growing so fast already that I am mourning that beautiful sweetness.