Tag: motherhood

About Me

Slow movement

Autumn

I was first exposed to the “Slow movement” through sewing, when I skimmed through a book that was all about stitching by hand because of aforementioned movement. Hilariously, the author also advised using knit fabrics instead of woven, and I was all like, “NOOO WAAAY,” and put the book back down.

Now that I’ve lost you . . . Lol.

Basically, I don’t align myself with any movements, because I strongly feel that it’s putting my identity second to whatever ideals the “leaders” of the movement promote, irregardless of whether or not they actually fit with my individual lifestyle/circumstances. In other words, “labels label me not.”

Now that you REALLY don’t have a clue what’s going on . . . LAWL.

ANYwho, the Slow movement is the counter swing to the break-neck pace of modern society. It’s savoring the process of cooking instead of going to the microwave. It’s having a timeless wardrobe of well-made garments, instead of getting an entirely new set of clothes every season. It’s giving yourself time to do whatever suits your whim in the moment, instead of scheduling every second of every day. It’s “stopping to smell the roses,” so to speak.

It’s also how I have naturally lived my life.

And it’s a major reason why I don’t fit in with my peers.

I’ve learned that there is exactly as much (or as little) time as you make for yourself. It’s one of those “secrets of the Universe” sorts of things. The result is that I get A LOT done, and all my peers think that I’m privileged/lazy. My secret? I enjoy the journey.

I have no clue what exactly it is that everyone else spends all day doing, but I have observed two major differences between myself and others:

1) I don’t use social media. When I first quit Facebook, I would crochet every time I felt the urge to check the site. It was eye-opening, because while I was a “lite” user compared to everyone else I know, I was completing crochet projects at a surprising pace. And I only used one site.

Even with blogging, I don’t put any effort into networking or promoting myself. My “traffic” is “growing” at a snail’s pace, but who cares? I barely check the stats anyway, because it’s not like I hinged my self-worth on it or anything.

2) I’m at home most of the time. This one is a pretty big difference, since NONE of my neighborhood peers spend time at home. I have often sat outside and watched them come and go as fast as possible, with all of their group meetings, lessons, memberships, and free lance jobs to keep up with. The kicker is that they don’t realize that it’s a choice that they are making every single day. Trust me, Jimmy doesn’t need ballet and tuba lessons at three-years-old, and you don’t need to buy memberships for every children’s activity in a 20-mile radius. Chill out and let them play in the mud in the backyard — kids like doing stuff like that.

And no, I don’t neglect my own kids so I can run off and sew or whatever. My one-year-old might as well be glued to me, because I am very much not allowed to sneeze without her accompaniment. I actually keep a drawer with markers and paper in my atelier, and the kids help themselves to it whenever I’m at the sewing machine. We’ve learned how to coexist peacefully.

So, anyway, I guess my ultimate point is this: What the heck is up with that Instant Pot thing, and why is it so popular? I can’t imagine it producing the same complexity and depth of flavors as a slow-cooker, but it’s not like it takes any less prep time.

About Me

Food

Autumn

I love food.

When I say that, I mean that putting an hour or more into making dinner is typical for me, and words like “quick,” “convenient,” or “frozen,” don’t have a place in my kitchen. I strongly believe that food should be a celebration, not a punishment. Eating should make your heart sing with joy, not feel like a chore.

So it’s killing me that I’ve had morning sickness for over a month now. I don’t want toast and peanut butter, I want real food. Preferably without vomiting afterwards.

I’m starting to have the irrational fear that this will drag on forever and I’ll never be able to eat properly again. Are those blissful afternoons spent cruising around a kitchen filled with scrumptious smells over with forever?

Logically, no. But pregnancy isn’t meant to be experienced logically, and I really just want to eat something delicious for once. I’ve been living on bland for far too many weeks now. It’s wearing me down, and I’m more than ready for this phase to be over.

I could really go for a hearty Irish stew, with lots of potato and onion. Or chicken paprikash with spaetzle. Heck, I would even love some simple homemade bread with enough gluten to make the neighbors cry. I just want to be back in the kitchen.

Barefoot, of course. I wouldn’t want to suffocate my feet and interrupt my connection with the elements. I’m far too free spirited for shoes.

I just wish I could eat fo’ realz, instead of tiptoeing around random nausea triggers.

About Writing

Nauseous vs Nauseated

Autumn

The other day out of desperation, I ate Real Food for lunch, then promptly had to make a run for the toilet. Lawlz.

Fortunately that seems to have been the worst of my morning sickness (knock on wood). Yesterday I managed to eat an ENTIRE baked potato. Oh sure, it was a small one, but I still ate the WHOLE THING. Victory!

My official opinion at this point is that it is way harder to be pregnant in my 30s than it was in my 20s.

So

Something that has irritated me for years and years now is that everyone misuses the word ‘nauseous.’ I mean EVERYONE.

When something is nauseous, it makes people want to throw up. For example, “The nauseous smell of rotten fish permeated the air and caused everyone to turn green.”

If you are nauseous, that means that you make everyone around you want to vomit. Maybe you haven’t practiced any sort of hygiene for a year. Maybe your personality is just that bad.

Nauseated is when you want to throw up yourself, probably because you’re trapped in a small room with the nauseous person and have no escape.

Understand?

Because every single last one of you is misusing ‘nauseous’ when you’re supposed to be saying ‘nauseated.’ It’s not your fault, because the misuse is so ubiquitous that you have no clue that it’s technically wrong.

NAUSEATED.

Not nauseous.

NAUSEATED.

Consider yourselves schooled.

About Me

Art

Autumn

I like to trash my art skills, but the truth is, I used to do an enormous amount of drawing.

I got a Wacom tablet as a teenager, and spent hours and hours in Corel Photo-Paint, learning the ins and outs of how creating art on the computer — I even won an award for it during my Senior year of high school. All told, I wasn’t really that bad. I had that Wacom tablet for years, until my cat tried to get into my desktop fish tank and killed it with a good soaking of water.

One of my relatives gave me her old set of Prismacolor pencils for Christmas, and I started exploring different techniques of coloring, growing to favor heavy blending. Naturally from there, I stepped into watercolor painting.

But, as it is often put so eloquently, shit happens.

Resuming “being yourself” after trauma is a process, and it takes a lot time. I started with sewing and crochet, learned how to knit and cook-with-passion, and made several ventures into writing before I was ready to commit myself to the craft once again, but art never grew to be anything more than the occasional silly doodle. Every time I thought about it, I felt strained at the time it would take to practice, practice, practice. I just didn’t want to draw the same thing over and over and over, when I had so many other things to do.

Besides, there are lots of amazing artists out there that I enjoy, who do things that I never would have thought of. I had always been frustrated with how limited my imagination was when it came to drawing, even as a teenager. So, I let that part of me go, at peace with the idea that it would never return.

Every now and then, I see something that makes me ache to start drawing again, and it’s been happening a lot lately. Things like watching Bernadette Banner create fashion portraits, or marveling at how beautiful Hollow Knight is. I’ve started thinking that I could start drawing again.

I’m at that part of pregnancy where I’m dead tired of watching movies and endlessly playing video games, but my low blood pressure won’t permit the up-and-down of sewing, my morning sickness protests at the back-and-forth of cooking  (I wouldn’t be able to eat much anyway), and I’m far too forgetful to hold a story in my head. How long does the first trimester last? Eternity.

Anyway, drawing would be something for my hyperactive brain to play with. I could get my husband to dig out my old reference books from the basement, dust off my mad skillz, and fight the kids for the computer. I can always start with character portraits for my latest novel, to keep it active in my mind as I slog my way through the latter half of the first trimester.

Now that I’ve written all this, watch something come up that prevents me from following through, lol. Life is far too often like that for me.

About Writing

Fatigue

Autumn

Ages ago, we had a neighbor who was expecting her second at the same time I was pregnant with #3. She and I used to visit a fair bit back then, and she spent months talking about how great she felt, while I was more candid about how I spent all day lying on the couch watching my older children smash Cheetos on the floor, because meh. Her baby was born about three weeks before mine.

A year later, shortly before our conversations stopped completely, she confessed that she had experienced crushing fatigue during her pregnancy.

Well, duh. There’s a giant parasite burrowing into your bloodstream and stealing all your nutrients. Fatigue is going to be part of the process, especially during the first trimester when that whole placenta thingy is growing and establishing itself — you’re not just making a baby, you know. It doesn’t make you a weak and pathetic person to feel tired. It means you’re human, like everyone else.

I still wonder why she felt compelled to pretend otherwise.

So, here I am, pregnant with #5, and I’m tired. No, it doesn’t get easier the more times you go through it, and yes, it does freak me out a little to say “I’m expecting my fifth” — that’s starting to feel like a lot of kids. I get dizzy if I stand up too quickly, and I feel just awful in the evenings. I also love my new baby very much, and everyone is super excited.

Thankfully, my first two are now old enough that they vacuum the floor, instead of smashing snacks all over it.

About Me

Surprise

Autumn

Early signs of pregnancy:

  • You go somewhere public and think, “Wow! There are a lot of newborns here.”
  • The kids start talking about wanting a new sibling.
  • Someone you know announces their pregnancy.

And thus, it was fate.

I have a harder time with thinking during pregnancy, and at the moment I’m drawing a complete blank on anything to blog about. Other than the obvious, anyway. I have decided that I might as well start keeping a journal for the next year, rather than vanish completely off the internet and leave everyone wondering, “Whatever happened to that crazy writer person? Wasn’t she supposed to be working on a novel?”

So

My first three pregnancies went smoothly enough, but baby #4 hit me with such awful morning sickness (more like all-day-and-occasionally-in-the-middle-of-the-night sickness)  that it caused me to lose weight and struggle enormously with dehydration during the first trimester. I’m absolutely terrified of repeating that experience, especially with my favorite holiday right around the corner.

So far, so good — knock on wood — but it’s still early enough that I could be in for anything during the upcoming weeks. Dinner is starting to consist of things like “buttered rice with corn,” and “stuffing, with cheesecake.” I’m sure my family already misses my usual cooking, but I’m not feeling it with most foods. Or flavors.

As for my novel: I’m 2/3rds of the way through with the rewrite. I had made it my personal goal to finish this step by the end of September (premonition? lol), but instead I got distracted with The Scion Suit and a number of real life activities. I still plan on finishing it completely within the next six months.

With any luck, “pregnancy brain” won’t kill my ability to write, lol.

About Me

Mom Life

Autumn

Didn’t get enough sleep last night.

We’re still co-sleeping with the one-year-old, but she’s getting so wriggly that I’m starting to wake up in the middle of the night with her sprawled over my head. I know it’s time to move her out so I can catch up on my sanity, but that also means acknowledging that she’s not a tiny baby anymore. It’s emotional, so I haven’t brought myself to actually doing it yet.

Had an energy drink first thing in the morning. Too tired to make coffee. I know I shouldn’t make a habit out of it.

Wore all black, including an ankle-length circle skirt. Lots of eyeliner and mascara. I wondered why no one ever calls me goth.

Decided to take the kids out Halloween shopping. I call them my ducklings, because I love the way they naturally spread out when they follow me. This year we bought costumes. Normally I sew them myself, but… I’m tired.

Laughed at how much the kids loved to be scared of the decorations, and we found glow-in-the-dark spider web for the house. Two of them made up their minds quickly about what they wanted to be for Halloween. I felt a little vexed at my seven-year-old’s indecisiveness, as she switched between wanting to be a witch, a mermaid, and a unicorn. Thought about how, if I was sewing her a costume, she could be a witch-mermaid-unicorn. Felt guilty.

Walked to a nearby restaurant and shared a plate of teriyaki chicken and macaroni salad with the kids. I was amazed at how much they eat now. Seemed like it was just yesterday when I had to beg them to sit still and eat something, but today they were ravenous. Had a really pleasant time, and felt mostly awake. The children were astonishingly well-behaved and didn’t make much of a mess.

At home, I let the kids try on their new costumes and dance on the freshly painted floor. The previous owners of our house had painted the wood a hideous shade of taupe, and after a lot of deliberation and research, we decided to cover it up with enamel paint. Golden yellow. While we can walk on it, the paint still needs time to cure before we can put the furniture back, which leaves a nice big empty space for playing. The rest of the house is chaos.

Put the costumes away soon after, before they could get ripped or stained. I know my children well.

Screen time for the kids. Bathed the baby, and took care of the laundry. Apple slices and chocolate milk all around. Fatigue headache started setting in. Still not caught up on chores. Still need to go to the grocery store. Still haven’t done any “me” activities. Went for the Tylenol, but forgot to actually take it. I finally re-dressed the baby as the kids helped themselves to graham crackers. Crumbs were everywhere.

Finally took the Tylenol.

Kids get hyperactive as I lose attentiveness, and they start fighting with each other. That, in turn, makes my headache worse.

Hold out for my husband to get off work. Thank god for reinforcements.

He took the kids out to the grocery store so I could have a break. Afterwards I made a late dinner, and completely forgot to add any sort of spicing to the meat, including salt. My husband noticed, and corrected the mistake just in the nick of time. Made enchiladas.

My husband got a work-related phone call just as we sat down to eat, and I was back on my own. The kids ate everything except the tortilla, including the baby. I laughed because that’s exactly what my husband does, and they all take so much after their father. Realized I should have put in corn.

I had the kids brush their teeth and get ready for bed. Read a few pages of the Hobbit for their bedtime story. Got tongue-tied quite a lot because I was so tired. Kids didn’t seem to notice. Hugs, kisses, and I-love-yous all around. Bedtime is always the sweetest moment of the day.

Made it.

About Me

Anonymity

Autumn

I like anonymity.

At this point, I’ve received so many disparaging comments about wasting my life as a stay-at-home-mom, I don’t want people to think that there’s any hope for me.

As a woman, I don’t believe that I’m obligated to prove my value as a person through masculine evaluations of quantities and numbers. I am not defined by a paycheck. My worth is found in the joy and beauty I offer to the world, and that includes raising happy, well-adjusted children. God knows the world needs more happy, well-adjusted people in it.

So don’t chain me down with your money. *spits*

I get a perverse delight over how upset random strangers get when they learn that I don’t lift a finger to earn a dime. I love flaunting that I’m wasting my life and smratness right in their ugly little faces. Ooo! You can’t do a thing about it! Ha ha!

…

You’re all like, “What a second, don’t you self publish on Kindle?”

Yes, yes I do.

I’ve discovered that I struggle a huge amount with posting chapters weekly, even when the novel is completely finished and all I have to do is copy-n-paste. While I was contemplating what to do about this problem of mine, Kindle was the word that kept repeating over and over in my mind, so that was that.

ANYway, the problem is anonymity is that, while it protects me from people getting all pushy about monetizing and whatnot in real life, it also prevents me from doing other things. Like posting an author photo and utilizing YouTube.

I do want to find readers, and I like quirky methods.

I might shed the invisibility cloak soon. Tell my mom what I’m up to and all that.

But only because I love you and I want to find you. We’re kindred spirits, you and I.

About Me

Conformity

Autumn

In the past, I used to try to socialize more. My oldest is very outgoing, and when she was 4-years-old, I felt guilty about being such a retiring introvert. Unfortunately, at that age, her social circle was my social circle, so I decided to put myself out there and see about those mom groups. The neighbor who was heavily involved in them seemed to be an okay person (I found out later that she was duplicitous AF), so I thought it would be a safe bet with at least one other “friend” already there.

At 22, I had danced naked in a forest during a thunderstorm (there was no chance of anyone else being around to see me), and I had felt magnificently connected to all of the elements of the Earth. I can still vividly remember the dark clouds overhead, the pink flash of lightning, the prickle of goosebumps in the cold rain, and the elation of nature and magic. I felt that I could never be struck down.

At 28, I was shrinking into myself, feeling hopelessly like an outsider around my peers, small and insignificant in their eyes. In turn, I found them to be boring, controlling, and generally unpleasant, and I was miserable around them. I hated being there. Hated being the only mom who carried my baby in my arms instead of hauling around a car seat, and the defensive reactions I got when I simply commented that it was because I thought car seats were cumbersome. Seemingly, everything about me was not only wrong, but actively offensive.

As much as I admire the stereotype of the self-sacrificing mother, there’s a huge difference between sharing my last bite of brownie and selling my soul to fit in. I have my limits.

Shortly after I quit, it filtered back to me that they had all been calling me a “doormat” behind my back. Um, what? I’m supposed to prove that I’m not a doormat by . . . abandoning my natural personality to become what someone else thinks I should be instead? No thank you, I’d much rather be a doormat; there’s more dignity in it.

No matter how others try to cajole or criticize me, I stubbornly stick to what I am. Why? Because I remember how it felt to dance with the wind and rain as the thunder kept the beat. Because I actually look at my peers, dressed in unflattering leggings with their hair tied on the very top of their heads like Teletubbies, and I know that I could never in a million years take myself seriously if I looked like that. Because my Jupiter is in Aries, so I need to be an uncompromising individualist in everything I do. Because I know what makes me happy, and what doesn’t.

As for my oldest, I adore the way she naturally is, and I don’t want her to learn to sacrifice her personality to have fake friends. It would break my heart if I lost her like that.

As a writer, experiences like that always get filed away in the back of my mind, along with all of the emotion and aftermath, to reappear as overarching themes in my stories.

About Me

Stargirl

Autumn

In real life, I’m a 30-something stay-at-home mom with small children. I always laugh whenever the neighbors call me a hippie, because I’ve been to Earth Haven and I can’t say that I had an ounce in common with anyone there, but that’s the identity I’ve been given: the neighborhood hippie. I guess that the fact that I’ve been to a place called Earth Haven puts me closer to hippy-ism than anyone else around here.

While I get along great with the ex-bikers, sometimes I wish that I had a friend who was another 30-something mom with small children. There are a few of them around here too, but they are, you know, normal.

Sometimes I think that I ought to try being normal too, so they’ll like me and talk to me.

But that would mean leggings, memberships, and shoes.

You haven’t truly lived until you’ve stepped on a dead mouse barefoot. Now that’s a sensation that doesn’t wash away.

And I really like my bright yellow gaucho pants.

Stargirl was required reading in middle school. We all scoffed at it, dismissing it as another one of those human interest novels that our teachers always seemed to think would ease the trials of being a teenager. But now I think back on it and remind myself, being normal doesn’t make you happy. Stargirl tried it, and she was miserable. So there you have it, I had to grow up before I appreciated the message.

Gaucho pants and bare feet forever, even if that leaves me with only ex-bikers and fictional characters to chat with.

The sequel, Love, Stargirl came out after I graduated, so on a lark I decided to read it now as an adult. When the book mentioned someone giving out donuts to trick-or-treaters, it hit me why we didn’t like the original as teens, and it had nothing to do with individualism or peer-pressure: the author just didn’t know crap about Millennials. The Stargirl books are every bit as much of deluded fantasies as the tripe I write, minus the gratuitous Mary Sue-ing.

Because what’s the point in fantasizing if you don’t go all out?

Also, apparently peer-pressure fiction is a recognized genre. I feel bad for teens.

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