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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