Still plodding along, and I do mean plodding, athough I just recently feel as if we’re picking up the pace around here.  Change is in the air.  I can taste the shifting sea winds.  For one thing, I am pretty determined not to work at my current job as of the new year.  I really want to find a job that is truly part time, like 3 days a week, tops, with no extra after-work hours.  And I don’t mind if I take off some time before I do that.  It is one of those things where my gut knows that everything will be allright and I feel like I need to rip the rug up from under me, knowing that I will land on my feet.  It may not make sense financially, but it makes sense emotionally.

We went on a vacation recently to Colorado to stay with parents, and, stripped down to my rawest fibers, which always seems to happen with my first family, I realized my nerves were pretty fried from trying to hold it all together the past year.  I kind of had a melt down served sunny side up with a panic attack on the side.  There were two, nonconsecutive days there where I pretty much cried all day.  The smallest thing set me off and it was out of nowhere, or so it seemed.  I realize I had been bottling up a lot of stress accumulated from trying to juggle the elusive work/life balance.  And I am worn thin.

Also, I’ve been doing this life coaching program, via telephone, where I participate in a weekly call with 5 other "students" and one coach.  We focus on goals and promises and maintaining integrity by keeping promises to yourself, positive intentions, the law of attraction and cultivating positive change.  In any event, this got me thinking about a lot of things and mainly helped me to realize that the status quo is simply not acceptable for long.  More on this later, as I am tired.

One of my goals is to provide at least weekly updates here, so I"m not going to belabor the content, just get something down.

Adios.

Boyfriend.  You are growing up faaassst.  and you are SUCH a bad ass.  I just want to take a minute to write a few words about your words.  I want to memorialize this moment.  This moment where you are constructing your reality with names.  As if this were a self contained universe and all that exists is what you can verbalize.  And then exist it does.  Once you identify something, you make it your own.  It’s too adorable for "words" to see you sauntering around the house calling out your familiars.  And here, for the record, is the sixteen month Emilio list.

Mommy (my personal fave), Daddy (how you love your daddy), Up, Agua, Off, On, Door, Anu (our dog, Luna), Gigi (my mom), Tatis (JP’s mom), Luz (light), Mano (hand), Open, close, heavy, bottle, baby, pala (shovel in your spanish gardening book), auto (car), bus (bu bu bus), bye bye, hello (every time the phone rings), purse (as in where is mommy’s purse?), pool, pee pee (your penis which you know and love but can’t really see too well b/c of your tummy, and also pee), knee, please ("up please"-who can refuse?), Babo (your beloved panda), despacio (you say this as you walk around, b/c daddy told you when you first started walking  running, "despacio" (slowly), and now you can often be found, walking around, maybe with your baby broom in one hand, your other hand kind of in your butt, leading with your stomach, saying ‘espacio, ‘espacio, ‘espacio . . ."), Elmo (from your toothbrush with Elmo on it), Jack ("ack" your friend), keys, helado (ice cream on your flash card, you still haven’t tasted ice cream yet), uno, doz (we have seen you on a couple of occasions counting, uno, doz, once with your cheerios and once with coasters which you count among your favorite toys,A and super nanny says she’s seen you go to tres), quack quack (for the duck), coo coo (for the bird), uff, uff (for the dog), zapatos (how could I forget, one of your tops), nano (banano), baila, Daisy (Daisley), Fifi (Frannie, you’ve only said this 3 times and i think you’re scared off b/c we laugh, but we love "Fifi" for Frannie), more, mas, este (this, you say this constantly, pointing at things, and I think this was your first word), this (when you’re in an english mood), Go see, (You got this from me, "let’s go see daddy," "let’s go see Jack," "let’s go see where mommy’s purse is."  Now every time you leave the room, it’s "go see" "go see"), Heather (mommy’s friend), Coco (heather’s chiuahau), arbol (tree–sometimes it’s "treearbol"), aqui (here), cookie, pasto (grass), parque (park), Oh and funnily, you say "za zas" for both house and flowers, and you do this really consistently.  Every time we pull up in the car, you say, za zas.  Or if there is a picture of a house in a book , it’s "za zas."  But flowers are definitely "za zas" too.  You love your flowers.  And your house, for that matter.  (and it is yours at this point, it’s all about you!)

 This is not conclusive, but I think it gets your most used.  I’ve been meaning to do this for a while.  I think your first words were "agua" "luz" "este" "off" "arbol" "up"–I guess these started around your first birthday.  I remember your gradmother Tatis was here when you busted out with "treearbol" and you were saying "luz" and "este" and "aqua" around that time.  That was march.

 Now for your likes and dislikes:

Likes: Anu (our 90+ pounds German Shepherd who you are constantly loving up on),  pretending to blow out candles or blow on hot things like oatmeal, fake sneezing is also really funny, stacking your blocks, your drums, music-mostly spanish for now, you’re super into sorting at the moment, you like gravel a lot, EATING is just the best thing ever (bananas are probably your favorite food that you have regularly (well and those silly cheerios), but you love ALL FRUIT, quinoa, carrots, veggie burgers, sweet potatos, pancakes, oatmeal and of course, anything sweet, which we limit, but you love your mona vie acai packets), baths (thank god you’re over your 5 week fear of water when you hated the bathtub), the pool, BOOKS, flashcards (what a great gift those were), walking around, often with your hand in your pants, grass, sand, swings, cuddles, climbing up on anything from the bed to your leapfrog toy table, some of your leapfrong sound toys, being naked, your feet, twirling your hair, your pee pee, your bottle, opening and closing doors, drawers, cabinets (could be your favorite activity for some time now), mommy’s singing, the car (as long as we’re not in there too long), the lemon tree in our yard, your precious panda stuffed animal, the big red beanbag in our room, busses, firetrucks, shoes, shirts with images of dinosaurs, firetrucks, anything super fun like that, the park, you seem to like the hardware store-you’re pretty into the lineup of lawnmowers, wow!, my boobs ("bee bee’s"), brushing your teeth (must be that toddler training toothpaste or the elmo toothbrush but you are happy brushing for an hour), pillows, soft and cuddly things, the beach, BIRDS (big time), flowers, small pictorial details, mommy’s necklaces, telephones, remote controls, turning everything on and off from toys to lights to the tv and radio.

Dislikes.  Too many people coming over (found that out after a couple of meltdowns at parties), being picked up by a stranger, falling down, not being able to do something like open or close a door, coming inside when you want to be outside, getting your face wiped off after you eat, water poured on your head to wash your hair (you HATE that), being in the car too long, when Luna is too close to you while you are eating, you don’t love your bib, getting your diaper changed, cheese (you did not get that from your mom), you don’t love the ball, you don’t hate it but it really doesn’t hold your interest like I’ve seen with some of your friends, clothing stores (found that out the hard way), kids monopolizing your toys, or okay, maybe even just playing with them, having poo in your diaper (but, yes, you also hate being changed, can’t win with that one), when I leave the microwave open (is that really that big of a deal, I’ve hot a lot going on), waiting for your food to be ready when you are in your high chair, and you’re not enamored with sleep.  Mainly, as far as dislikes go, you are really pretty sensitive and emotional.  When you are happy you are CrACking Up, when you are upset, you are screaming.  I hope you get a little more sociable, sonny boy, but all in due time.  For now, I think you don’t want to be thrown into too many new situations, oh and you do not like when I walk away if you are with my friends (I can’t even run inside for a second to get something without you losing it), you don’t like when I leave in the morning, but you mostly don’t notice and you adore Aminta, so you’re usually preoccupied, but sometimes, I hear you crying after I shut the door and that really makes me terribly sad.  I know though from seeing it from the other end when your dad leaves that you are upset for about a minute and then onto the next thing, so i try to remind myself of that.

I love you love you love you love you love you.  

 It’s amazing what a personality you have already.  I feel like we are already such close friends.  You make me laugh all the time, real laughs.  And I am learning so much from you.  please don’t let us have too much rockiness ahead.  Just let me keep rocking your world. I really hope you’ll just see me for the best person i’m trying to be and know how much I love you and that we will always respect one another deeply.  I know we will weave in and out of closeness as all children and parents do.  You will have to find your own footing, but I am just praying that you don’t stray too far, little man, because I am HOOKED.

XOXO,

Fifteen months, lyon love, and you are rocking this mama’s world. I wonder now what this relationship would be like with a girl, which I had thought I wanted because it was all I’d really considered. But now I can’t imagine it any other way. It’s funny, people told me when I was pregnant that I would feel this way about you, about having a boy—that I wouldn’t want a daughter at all, but I didn’t believe them. And now I am amazed that you, my son, are exactly what I want and need most. And because I’d never thought about having a son—I’d always envisioned that being a mother meant being a mother to a daughter, I’m now fascinated by this mother/son relationship and I don’t think it goes too far to say that I see the entire world differently now.

 I can’t exactly explain it, but I’ll try. I think in a reaction to being discriminated against (in a subtle, collective but not insignificant manner) by the dominant, male species, I’d reacted by otherizing them. I viewed myself as separate from men, and even perhaps looked down on the lumbering, bullish, caricature of the simple man who is so often, less thoughtful, less intuitive, less empathetic, less aware than woman. (Mind you, this is a latent and subtle bias I’d carried with me despite being fortunate enough to have strong, supportive healthy relationships with sincere and conscious men in my life.) But now that I see life through your eyes, now that I witness your raw and utter magnificent beauty unfolding before me, I am struck as if by lightening by the realization of what I have long believed to be true (but often forget), that we are truly all one. That this division of the sexes is meaningless, that this division of ourselves from each other is an illusion, that we are all a part of the whole that fits together in a perfect, if harsh, world of opposites. And you, baby, are the yin to my yang, the sun to my moon, the light to my dark, the salt to my sweet. You make me whole.

And I must admit, I so cherish the complementary nature of our dynamic as it is manifested in the physical world–as mother and child, mother and son, boy and girl, male and female. I never thought about how physical it would be to be in a relationship with a child. But it soothes the soul in the most tender and tactile way to be intertwined with a child that has come forth to this earth through you. Flesh that is of you as much as it is other than you. Flesh that is as comforting and pure to me as the idea of God. Flesh I adore more than anything I have coveted on this earth. Little chubby knees and squishy thighs and oh my god those fat square feet. Your dimpled cheek and curly hair and hazel eyes, your thin lined lips and your big mouthful of teeth. I would be happy kissing your chunky little chunk o’ change body for the rest of my life.

Yet, I know it won’t be long before you are way too cool for kisses from mommy, so I am getting them in while I can. Although, believe it or not, I am also holding back, I really am trying to be respectful of your space. So all those kisses—those only represent, say, one out of every 10 urges to eat you up. I am trying NOT to put the “mother” back in “smother. “ Really, I am. The physicality of the relationship is something I hadn’t anticipated. This new, non-sexual but entirely uninhibited physical closeness with another human being is certainly novel (or long, forgotten since I was a child with my own mommy). And I see that humans are tactile before we are verbal. I was struck early on in our relationship, say four months into it, that you were so communicative with your hands. You would sit in my lap and we would play hand-sies—your fist around my pinky, your palm pressed between my finger and my thumb, my fist around your pointer finger, later, recently—all five fingers between each others—and each transition made with surprisingly seamless fluidity. Thoughtless intuitiveness. It has long reminded me of the early physical communications of first loves, the knowing, intuitive and caring intertwining of the hands of lovers in a movie.

 And truthfully, this is not the only boyfriend association my mind has made. It’s just what I know. I have never known such physical closeness with a woman, only with a man, so this tactile tenderness is comfortable to me in this form. Of COURSE, it is not sexual. But it IS physical. And that physical closeness that every parent should come to experience with her child is so unique and awe inspiring and precious, regardless of the sex of the parent or the child. But I have to say, there is something unique that I wouldn’t have been able to predict about this being another form of a male/female relationship. It sort of rounds out and perfects that male/ female dynamic as it has manifested in my life and as it exists (the masculine and feminine) inside of me. So, on that note, and in honor of the upcoming day of the fathers: a little photo shout out to the amazing men in my life in chronological order: Dad, Brother, Husband, Son.

Dad:

Brother:

Husband:

Son:

I can’t believe it has taken me so long to update this blog.  And even now, I really don’t have the time I need at 10:45 p.m. on a work night.  Still, I wanted to post a few words and photos.  To sum up the past two months.  I am SO very much in love with my lyon.  Work has been busy and a bit overwhelming.  JP has still not found another job and is considering business school more seriously, which would mean a move to NYC (assuming he gets in to Columbia’s 18 month program), next January.  My parents have just packed up to move away from NYC back to Houston, so that would be bad timing and moving away from LA to NYC in the winter, well that doesn’t sound like very much fun. And I just can’t imagine not having my canyon/beach access.  But I know NY would be an adventure, and maybe we can just live on loans and I won’t have to work very much, though that seems like a pipe dream. OK OK, away from the stresses of JP’s job/school and back to my emilio.

He is talking, just a few words, but it makes a world of difference. He says, "luz" (light), "agua," "up," "off," and of course, "mama" and "dada."  It’s just amazing to see him using words and answering difficult questions such as "where is  your shirt" or "donde esta su camisa?" and he pulls out his shirt.  Or  "what do the birdies do?" and he says, coo, coo, coo.  As opposed to what do the cars do?  Va va va (vooomm).  Oh the little genius.  And he is so super cuddly, I just can’t get enough.  Here are some photos from the past few days and I vow to get back to this site with more time.

Look at all those teeth! 

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And he has just started really smiling for the camera.  Such a ham! 

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And this is us at Mother’s Day brunch in Santa Barbara!

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 Finally, this is just one that I love of us.

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My baby turned one last week.  And I still have not been able to write about it.  I’m planning to do a photo tribute to the first year of his life, but I’m sort of stuck for a couple of reasons. 

 The first reason is simple: I’ve been having problems with my computer and unable to browse for images in photo library.

The second reason is not so simple.  You see the first few months of Lyon’s life were not easy for me.  I know they’re not easy for anyone, but I just didn’t rise to the occasion in the way that I would have liked.  I was depressed.  I don’t know if it was full-on postpartum depression or “baby blues” or what, but the predominant feeling during those early months was incredible, terrific fear.   I was overcome with the overwhelming sense that I had made a grave mistake bringing this innocent life into this cruel and senseless world.  And now this one year mark has hurdled that fear right back at me like a lightning bolt. 

Maybe it’s a seasonal phenomenon, so that my sensory perceptions of Spring in Los Angeles– cool, overcast days abruptly changing places with bright sunshiny days, the blooming Bougainvillea and the return of the callow lilies in our front yard,  the smells of jasmine and lemons ; maybe these sensory impressions have transported be back to this time last year.  Or maybe it’s just me.  My perusal of the photos  of the past year on iPhoto, my mental preparation of writing about his (our) completion of one year.  But whatever the reason, I tell you, I am jolted back to all of my fears when little lyon was just a wee cub. 

What was I so afraid of?  Gulp.  Where do I begin?  At first I was pierced to the core by the overwhelming conviction that this was a sad, wise person who knew where this planet was headed and who was not terribly thankful that I brought him along for the ride.  I had visions of mass disaster, terrorist attacks, nuclear fallout, fleeing the country, armed in the woods.  Seriously.

 I remember also a feeling of pronounced shamefulness, disgust with myself for being a part of the race that exploited and threatened to destroy this divine planet.  How would I explain myself to him?  Would he be an extreme environmentalist who would be disgusted with my half-assed efforts to be green, would he be unwilling to forgive my wasteful, consumerist habits?

 I remember a period where I felt like I was kicked in the stomach every time I looked at the moon, because rather than seeing some mystical, magical force gently looking down upon us, inhaling and exhaling the ocean’s waves, as I always had before, I just saw a big dead rock, nothing more impressive than an empty parking lot.  In fact, worse, the moon began to feel intimidating, hovering above as if mocking my former naiveity.  Sometimes, I had flashes of a life where we fled to the moon because we destroyed mother earth and it was this horrible place, devoid of life.  It felt like a grey cement cell where we were forced to live out our days.  And the realization that I was depressed by the moon, well this alone depressed me.

And much of this anxiety, in addition to being hormone-driven, was likely triggered by  Lyon’s initial diagnosis of a heart murmur, or a ventricular septal defect (“vsd”), which is a hole in the heart and although it can be no big deal, we were told his was a more rare kind that more frequently requires surgery.  For a period, whenever I looked at him I had visions of them cracking open his little breast plate to operate on his tiny, beating heart.  Would he survive?  Would I? 

He then had a breathing problem (you could see his little chest pulling in, meaning that it was working too hard just to breathe), and they worried this was related to hole in his heart , so they told us to put him on this nebulizer that looked like a choo choo train (fun for the kids!) and emitted this visible mist of sour smelling medicine that he breathed through a gas mask put over his nose and mouth, several times a day.  That is until we found out that the medicine actually sped up the heart up and should not have been prescribed with someone with a heart condition.  Also, it has a side effect of sleeplessness and irritability, so that was fun.

During the course of all of this, we saw multiple doctors at Children’s Hospital in the first months of his life.  He had echocardiograms and chest xrays.  (His new body was so tiny on those big metal tables.)  We had come so far from the home birth I wanted—first a c-section and then immediately to doctors at hospitals: a cardiologist, a pulminologist, an ENT who stuck tubes deep into his nasal cavity.  And I was always alone with him, me and my raging hormones, that is. (I wonder now why my husband, my mother, my brother-were not with me.  I’m sure I never asked.  I took it on as my burden as mother to bear, but given the state I was in, it’s a wonder no one intervened).   We waited for hours at children’s hospital, watching other parents with children who clearly did have serious problems-were undergoing chemotherapy, were hooked up to oxygen tanks and wheeled down the hallways.  The love and pain and suffering of a life with a sick child began to close in on me.   What can you do but accept the terrible reality that these lovely, innocent babies were very, very sick.  I began to imagine the worst with all of its force, because I felt I had no right to expect anything more.  It’s a fact—terrible things happen in life , there are no guarantees.   Why should I just assume I will be different.  Especially when there were signs that something WAS wrong with my baby.

And then, of course,  tragic stories of children with health problems began hurling themselves at me from the mouths of cavalier folks, just passing along information, almost excited in that newscaster way when there is a tragedy to be told.  And each story pierced me to the core.  I became convinced that I was not just depressed, but that I was prescient.  That I was feeling these feelings because a mother just knows when something is very wrong.  And also, even when I could convince myself that my son was okay, it almost didn’t matter, my sense of empathy was so all encompassing—these terrible things were happening, they were out there in the world, and I could not out from under this crushing reality. I felt I could barely breathe.  And yet the clock was ticking.  These were my precious days with my newborn.  The days I’d looked so forward to.  The days I would never be able to get back.

At about four months into it, I started to rebel.  It was summer and he was sleeping a bit more and I embraced  a spring break lifestyle, waiting for 5:00 to crack the first cold beer, waiting (usually) until he went to sleep to start smoking pot and American spirits.  This lasted for about a month.  July.  It was, as they say, fun while it lasted.  But then it became clear the party girl persona was only a temporary fix and I became haunted again.

This time it was autism.  It was as if I had received the diagnosis from the foremost specialist in the world.  I was THAT convinced that I was the mother of an autistic child.  One who would never be able to love me, nonetheless.  That was definitely a part of this whole “fantasy.”  There were times I was terrified just to spend time alone with him.  It did not feel precious and sweet.  It felt scary as hell.  I was terrified of how I would handle being the mother of a special needs child.  I was FREAKING OUT.  I remember breaking down at some point to my mother and to a couple of friends.  I mean, I really unbottled the emotion, uncorked it like it was champagne to share with everyone.

At some point the fog began to clear.  I think this was sometime in August-during month 5.  I remember the stark contrast of the elation I began to feel once I became convinced that he did not have autism, that in fact, nothing was wrong with my precious baby.  I felt like I’d been given a second chance, a new life, or at least a new lease on life.  I had been saved. Spared.  This was a manic-like elation.  I literally felt dizzy for days on end, dizzily happy.  I so appreciated the normalcy of the “problems” as they arose in August-sleep issues, early teething.  Whoop de doo.

Now, reflecting back, I realize that I was actually a lot more depressed than I had let on.  I’ve never really suffered from depression, or this kind of manic anxiety, but now that I am on the other side of it, I see how severe it actually was (at least for me).

In any event, I wanted to write about it to get this off my chest; to memorialize it in the hopes that I can learn from it, not repeat it, and that maybe others may be able to relate.

Also, I realized that these dark memories of early motherhood were preventing me from writing the unencumbered account of Lyon’s first year here on earth.  I kept thinking from my perspective, not his. (how sad)  And then I rationalized that it’s like putting your oxygen mask on in a plane before putting on your child’s.  It is a bit counter intuitive, but you take care of yourself first in order that you can take care of child. 

Anyway, now that this is out of the way.  Stay tuned.  I really am on the verge of the full Lyon update.

(Note-I’ve been particularly distracted by family life of late.  Everything has been great with my little man, but not so much with the other men in my life.  My husband has been down due to rejections from a couple of jobs, including the SF one I was so hoping for, and a business school rejection (and this from a total ivy league over-achiever who has hardly had the experience of being rejected by anyone ever).  And my brother, my only sibling and practically a twin on the tuned-into-each-other-emotionally level, was just dumped by his girlfriend of three years.  She was as if a member of our family.  They have been living together for two years, talking very openly about marriage, kids etc.  It’s devastating to our whole family, not to mention him.  He’s absolutely heart broken.  And my over-involved mom and I are both on-the-case, analyzing it all to death, how he should handle each minute detail from each text message to the bigger details such as moving out of his apartment in 30 days and finding a place on his own to what went wrong in the big picture.  Plus, in the meantime, he’s staying at our home, so the big black cloud has descended and it is a full time job on my part to machete it to tiny insignificant pieces that can escape through the cracks.  And my husband’s family (his mother, his brother, and his mom’s boyfriend) just left today after almost a week here (coinciding with the unexpected move-in of my brother).  It’s been hectic.  And I’m in constant life coach mode, juggling everyone’s worries but my own (not necessarily a bad thing, but draining nonetheless).  Anyway, that’s the reason for the big gap in entries.  I’m going to try to be more consistent.)

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I’m enjoying a few days off with my bf and her 4 month bug in town.  The weather is beautiful.  We’re off to the beach this afternoon.  In the meantime, how cute is this lyon love?

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Today just needs to end. Tomorrow I can begin again with the arduous task of trying to be a better person than I otherwise am. But today I am rotten.

And it’s too bad, because the day started with such potential. Instead of going into downtown LA to the office today, I was signed up for a copyright conference in Santa Monica. I woke up at 6 with the lyon and hung out until super nanny arrived at 7. But, instead of jumping in the shower and getting a move on it, I realized that no one I worked with was going to the conference and no one would know if I was on time or not. So I went back to sleep until NINE. Whoo hoo!

Now, as great as this sounds (and it was), I think it was my guilt about it that threw the whole day off track. I remember thinking that I should be concerned about being there, that the scores of play-by-the-rules people I work with would undoubtedly make grand efforts to be there on time, just because.  But, that’s never been me. So, once I knew I was missing the beginning, I lingered at home, put the lyon down for his nap at 9:30, chatted with super nanny, ate cereal in front of the TV. Even worse, in front of The View. Ew.

When I finally left at around 10:45, it was GORGEOUS outside. And as I drove to the coast, well rested for the first time in a long time, I felt euphoric. The sun felt like ambrosia poured on my skin, this delicious, sensual, golden honey elixir, that brought me back to every warm-weathered vacation I’ve ever taken, every summer drive to the beach, carefree, leg thrown out of the window, sing along tunes on the radio, wind in the hair. Quintessential happy mood weather. Vacation weather. I began to feel that this moment was a highlight in my life, this simple moment, this drive with this invisible cord stretched from my husband to my baby to me, this crisp air drenched in sunlight, this place where we are in our lives, in between, waiting for a new job for JP, maybe about to leave LA after more than ten years, everything new, on the horizon.  And to think I had the day to myself, well sort of, other than this pesky conference.

By the time I found the hotel and parked, it was lunchtime. The lunch was horrible, at least for anyone mildly concerned about being fat. I’m not really good about dieting, but I simply cannot afford to eat pasta with thick heavy cream sauce—especially when it’s not even good. (Though I did eat most of the chocolate fudge cake for dessert, even thought it wasn’t that good either, go figure.) The speaker was much better than the food. It was Judge Leval from the 2nd Circuit (New York). Apparently, he’s very well known, which is why the conference was sold out.

After that, although the speech was interesting and although I have lately been trying to be the type of person who sticks to plans and does what she’s supposed to do—I couldn’t get myself to stay for even one of the 2 afternoon sessions. I had had enough. I intended to go the beach (which I haven’t seen since probably late last summer), spend some quality Me-Time by the waves, spiritually cleanse, maybe write in the legal pad I had with me, memorialize my earlier-reached epiphanies, talk to God, figure things out and go home a better person.

That is what I intended to do. But first I wanted to make a quick stop at the Third Street Promenade (a pedestrian street filled with shops right by the beach), just for a quick peak, into one store, just to see what’s out there, and to see the people mainly, people walking around on this beautiful day.

CUT TO: my big butt shoved in a tiny Forever Fucking 21 dressing room, rotating my 6 items for, oh, maybe 2 hours. CUT TO: me standing in a long line in my matronly copyright conference clothes with a bunch of teenagers on their cells, and then throwing down $300 dollars on cheaply made $20 top after $20 top, which by the way, basically all look the same (though, I will say this total included $70 on 2 pants for the hubs, so that so does not count.).

I staggered away with my bags, dazed and confused, as if I had just been drugged and raped and was only barely cognizant that something very bad had just happened.

The money is bad enough, but truthfully, I could get over that if I really liked what I bought. But– this is the sick part—I really don’t. I mean, I can’t even wear this shit to work. All I thought about was this trip I’m going to in Mexico in April and how I will need beach wear. We’re going for 4 days. I think I have enough fucking beach ware now. I’m acting like it’s funny, but I really feel sick about it. So bad that, of course, I would reassess and return a lot of what I bought, but they do NOT GIVE REFUNDS. Only store credit.

After that, I only had time to rush to my car and drive all the way back to the east side. The closest I got to the beach was just a quick glance at the sparkling sea from the car. And I was home 15 minutes later than I usually am, so not only did I spend way to much money on cheap clothes that were probably made by kids under horrible conditions in environmentally unfriendly factories in third world countries, and not only did I miss my only foreseeable opportunity to get some much-needed spiritually cleansing time by the beach on a beautiful day—I did so at the cost of spending extra time with my son.

Oh, and the closest I got to God was noticing that on the bottom of the plastic yellow Forever 21 bag, it says “John 3:16.” I had to wonder what John 3:16 could be about—how to dress like a slut in poorly made irresponsible clothes. How to spend money recklessly. I hoped that it would be a passage about tithing or something indicating some type of social responsibility, like feeding the poor of loving thy neighbor as thyself. But no. It’s “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” I’m not saying this is so bad in and of itself, but it does suggest its corollary, "those who don’t believe in Jesus will go to hell," which does imply that the owners of Forever 21 could be right wing, anti-choice, anti-Other theocrats. 

I truly feel sick about this. I am disgusted with myself. I knew the only thing to do to end the day on a positive note would be to go to yoga. Since JP came home to work, I could put lyon to bed at about 7:25, make sure he was asleep by about 7:40 and make the 7:45 yoga class in the neighborhood.

But that didn’t go as planned either. I was late (in part b/c I was making sure lyon was definitely asleep, in part because I was hanging up the Forever Fucking 21 clothes to hide them from JP (except for his pants, which are laid out for him, as if by an angel) and from myself). And although it has not mattered before if you walk in late, today there was this new girl working the front, probably Truly 21 years old, who told me I could not go in to the class, because I was 15 minutes late. 

I know the teacher fairly well, and I know she would not have minded. Besides, I counted only 11 pairs of shoes outside and there are 16 spaces in the class. Still, this girl I’ve never seen in the 4 years I’ve been going to yoga at this space had the nerve to prohibit me from going into the class. I even kind of pushed back with –“ Really? Tanya usually doesn’t mind, it’s just that I have a 1 year old and it’s such an ordeal for me to get out of the house and I never get to go to yoga because I have to wait for my husband to come home from work and how many people are in there? Is it full? Is it Tanya? Is she here? It’s just been 15 minutes. Are you new?” Seriously, I was shameless, and Miss Truly 21 just stood her ground. I felt like crying as I walked to the car.

Serves me right, though, truthfully. I need to just be on time to places and not always think I can get a free pass. I should have just been on time this morning, just because. Then even if I would have left early, I probably wouldn’t have been off on such a tangent.

Oh and another lesson learned. I am never, ever stepping into Forever 21. I am not 21. I do not want to be 21. And I do not like Forever 21. I am 34. I am a mother. And I love where I am in life. There is no place I’d rather be. And I want to always love where I am in life. I want to age gracefully and I adamantly refuse to succumb to this bullshit want-to-be-trendy materialism. It’s not funny. It’s not cool. And it’s not harmless.

Like I said. I start over tomorrow.

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Yay!  Thanks to Heather, I finally figure it out.  Unfortunately, I only have old photos already uploaded to Flickr, so I need to upload photos of the lyon over the weekend.  In the meantime, isn’t he a hottie??  He would so kill me if he knew. I, of course, made him pose so I could set up the shot with coconuts.  Actually, here’s one of the photos of me at the time, about 3 months pregnant. 

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Why does this seem so simple on everyone else’s blog?  Argh.  I’m going to keep trying, stay tuned.  It seems I will need to solicit HELP.

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