tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88025527532432204232024-03-12T17:05:08.040-07:00Naomi Was HereNaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-76545131018927695992020-03-21T17:40:00.003-07:002020-03-21T17:44:42.877-07:00Just ... Weird<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Is there another way to describe what we are all feeling right now? I imagine the people during any historic event have had this odd, hard-to-name feeling, but perhaps ours is heightened by the fact that everything is <i>truly</i> simultaneously okay and not okay. The combination of true threats to our global health and wellbeing, the capabilities of modern technology (for better and for worse), and a society of ease and disposability have set us up for this.<br />
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We are living in a pandemic. We log in and chat with our friends around the world. Entire nations are closed. Here, drive-throughs are open and we can pick up curbside. Hospitals in developed nations are short of resources and must choose who lives and dies. My pantry is full. The president is orange and dumb. Still president, though. We can buy ranch dressing but not TP.<br />
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Weird, right? We are aware of the crisis and the global health emergency while also chomping on our In-N-Out burger and posting memes on social media. Is this how every global emergency feels, or is it just 2020? I’m not sure, as this is my first. Well, I mean, other than the environmental one ...<br />
<br />
Yeah. Weird.<br />
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NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-88697753225552567982019-09-10T22:08:00.000-07:002019-09-10T22:08:01.864-07:00Pain Management and the Human Experience<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sophie asked me the other day, “Do you think it hurts when you die?” She’s at that age where these questions begin to bubble up. Thankfully, a few moments later she wanted to play a silly game with me (Go Nuts for Donuts), so such thoughts really do seem to be more of the effervescent variety than the slowly simmering. That age will also come, I’m sure, and I won’t be ready for it then, either.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My father only wanted pain management. He had a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate, to those unfamiliar) and I was given a copy. He spoke nearly incessantly about how truly terrible it was to age. How insulting. How patently awful in all the ways. He bought a book titled The Final Exit, hoping to take control when <span style="font-size: 11pt; display: inline !important;">this aging shit </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; display: inline !important;">became simply unbearable. As his youngest offspring (</span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">quite </i><span style="font-size: 11pt; display: inline !important;">youngest - by nearly two decades) I balked at this, and I won that battle. He kept the book, but left it on the shelf. He didn’t buy the ingredients. Plan B, maybe. But he still constantly remarked about the shit show that was being an aging human. I believe he truly wished he were an animal who could simply wander off and die. So much more respectable.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(After his death, I ran into a woman in town who owned a bookstore which used to sell my father’s books. Rather than saying, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” or something of that manner, she said, “Well, he got his wish. I never met anyone who wanted to die as much as he did.” I remember being incredibly hurt by this, as I still recalled the fervently alive and loving and full-of-good-humor father I knew for most of my life, but I suppose she wasn’t entirely wrong. The thing is, he didn’t want to <span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; display: inline !important;">die ... </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; display: inline !important;">Not really. He just didn’t want to be </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; display: inline !important;">old ... </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; display: inline !important;">That is such an important distinction.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few days before his death, the owner of his senior living home called and asked me to come take him to the emergency room. She said, almost apologetically, “He has had a fever for days that won’t go down.” When I picked him up, I knew. At the ER, I told the receptionist if they didn’t want someone dying in the waiting room, they needed to take him back immediately. They did, and it was clearly not an idle threat. It was pneumonia. Saving him would have meant a feeding tube and other invasive measures. But he was clear: He only wanted pain management. So my brother, who was also there and who was his medical power of attorney, declined. We knew what he wanted. He died two days later of pneumonia. Even knowing this was exactly what he would have wished (he had called pneumonia “the old man’s friend,” so in some ways, it was even the very manner he would have wanted), that was a decision I never stopped questioning. “What if,” can torture a soul worse than any other inquisition.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But did it hurt to die? I don’t know. I was there when he took his final breath, when his breathing changed to that which is known as the “death rattle” (aptly named, I might add). I am not 100 percent convinced that he never felt pain, despite our attempts at pain management. In fact, I feel quite certain that dying is painful. In whatever form it takes, how can it not<span style="font-size: 11pt; display: inline !important;"> be painful to leave this living body? But I do believe his departure was probably kinder than most. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shortly after Sophie asked her question and right before requesting the donut game, she said, “I think it probably is painful.” Surprisingly, she did not seem terribly upset by this conclusion. I think, perhaps, because it is still not something even an anxious and thoughtful child such as herself can really, truly conceive of, just yet. I’m sure that day will come, and I most certainly won’t be ready for it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve never been ready for it, but there I am, each time. There we all are, no?</span></div>
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NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-87635780377873547982019-08-03T19:11:00.000-07:002019-08-03T19:11:15.788-07:00Anita<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Although I know it wasn't today that you left us, it was today that I found out, and I'm devastated. But rather than talk about my sadness at learning of your death, I'll share who I knew you to be.<br />
<br />
You were conscientious. If there was a cause for good, you were certainly backing it, and with all your might. You employed all your talents to its support: you wrote persuasively in favor of that good cause; you knitted for it; you showed up.<br />
<br />
You were intelligent and talented. You educated your only daughter at home, an amazing woman who clearly blossomed under that tender care and attention. Your knitting talent not only created beautiful garments, but gave you and others solace and joy. Your writing inspired, entertained, and educated all who read what you shared.<br />
<br />
You were thoughtful and kind. You shared with Sophie a meaningful gift that we will keep until she has a child (if she chooses to): a special set of toys that belonged to your only child. When I was in pain, you shared your open heart and comfort. When I achieved something new, you celebrated with me. You shared your experience raising your daughter when I most needed such stories, because you could tell it was time.<br />
<br />
We were birthday twins. This isn't a big thing, but it bonded us early on and I was always happy to share that day with you.<br />
<br />
Anita, I miss you. I hope your last days were spent in as much beauty and peace and calm as one could ever experience at such a time. I wish I could have had one more conversation. I hope your daughter and husband find peace in the memories of who you were. You were here, and we loved you.</div>
NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-19224268494883015982018-10-09T22:35:00.000-07:002019-08-03T19:17:29.308-07:00The Struggle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My greatest parenting challenge has been reminding myself that I am doing her no favors by protecting her from pain or embarrassment or struggle. When I see self doubt blossom like an unwanted weed in her being, I want to yank it out and in its place plant every unspoken affection. I want to turn her many small fears to great and unbridled freedom, her occassional sorrow to infinite joy. Yet I know this is not how you grow a healthy human. It is precisely these struggles, and how we overcome them, that allow our species to thrive, that keeps us human. That makes us better humans, humans who grow to keep and pass on the best of humanity. But oh, is it hard. And oh, what a fine balance.<br />
<br />
Although I know not that I am doing everything right as a mother or a role model, I know that I do some things well: I am clear in both my love and my like for her, and I read to her, and, now, <i>with</i> her. I read of people who struggle and persevere and find good humor in bad situations and love against all odds. I demonstrate empathy and a high self regard and perseverance. I forgive. But I do so struggle with allowing her to feel consequences, with allowing her to cry and work through a problem or sorrow. This, I know, needs work.<br />
<br />
Even so, there is a part of me, a strong part, that believes this world full of enough suffering and pain and embarrassment and hardship, and if one cannot offer a bit of a repreive from that at home, in one's safe space, then where can you? I don't want to rush the future, but I certainly wish there was some way to know if this gut instinct is correct.<br />
<br />
Anyway, that's enough of my own self doubt for tonight. Perhaps clarity will come with another day.<br />
<br /></div>
NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-60708693207667778342018-10-08T16:24:00.003-07:002019-08-03T19:17:43.436-07:00I Was Here<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When my father passed away, I found among his papers, books, and notes an index card with the words "Don was here" scribbled in his recognizable scrawl. A little joke, probably just testing his pen, but it made me think about the temporary nature of it all, of us. We are here-blink-we are gone. But while we are here, we reach out, we communicate, we touch, we feel, we love ... we are <i>here</i>.<br />
<br />
I was here, too. See me. Feel me. Hear me.<br />
<br />
I am here now.</div>
NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-66138410239694274992016-03-23T22:07:00.001-07:002016-03-23T22:07:15.425-07:00Pushing Past Perfect<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We are about to embark on our six-month-long road trip, and I'm freaking out over here. Nothing is perfect yet. I haven't started the new blog I wanted to document the journey. I can't think of the just-right words to start it, or the brilliant title to name it. I have 5 different possible routes mapped and they are always changing. I haven't confirmed reservations anywhere, since we haven't solidified the route. I haven't even figured out which mail forwarding system we will use, and the camper is nowhere near tidy and organized for departure. Ron is still figuring out the best way to notify his clients and is still training his apprentice to help him while he is gone. All of this is true, and we leave in a matter of weeks. <i>Weeks! </i><br />
<br />
As I mentioned, I'm freaking out over here. And this is how it goes. For us, anyway. Some families really have their shit together but the planning and organizing parts of my brain are currently broken, and since that's my role in the family ... well, there you have it.<br />
<br />
But then I open my roadtrippers map to the latest version, and I look at the destinations we aim to visit, and I imagine our little family sitting riverside, and spending time hiking, playing outdoors, and meeting new and different people, and I relax a little. We are not completely unprepared. In fact, we have been planning for months, and have been doing our best to make every little miracle happen so we can do this. And it is! It is. I may not have narrowed down the mail forwarding service, but I have done my research and we will decide tomorrow. We have downsized our life from a moderately large home to one camper and a storage unit. Every day I replace something in the camper that won't travel well with something that will. I continue to purge belongings. Ron continues to train his apprentice. We continue to talk about the journey and make changes and argue and then maybe cry a little, but we move forward. We have taken our senior cat Eliana to vacation with my mother, who will pet and feed her while we are away. I don't have a new blog to document everything, but I have this one, at least for now. So things aren't perfect, not at all, but we are ready. We are pushing past that niggling feeling that everything must be exactly right and we are doing it. Just like I did with this post, when I wrote those first words, imperfect and unsatisfying as they were. I did it.<br />
<br />
And here it is. And there we go.</div>
NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-83759524938775066552016-01-18T21:37:00.001-08:002016-01-18T21:37:30.571-08:00Time Marches? Waddles? Scurries? Flies ...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Wow. Has it really been so long since I have typed letters onto a blank screen to document some aspect of my life? I must have been busy with a toddler/preschooler/work/life [insert anything/everything here]. Seriously though, the time - it does all of these things: marches, runs, scurries, rushes, ambles, waddles, putters ... flies. It really does fly. That saying - "the days are long but the years are short," - it's so true.<br />
<br />
Sophie is four now. FOUR. We have had many an adventure in those four years, and I am proud to say I have truly emphasized experiences over things. Of course, I have probably bought one too many things as well. What can I say, she is my little miracle. It's hard not to indulge every now and then. Mostly though, we have enjoyed this adventure called life. She keeps it interesting.<br />
<br />
Speaking of interesting ... We are living in an RV now, with the goal of traveling the country for 3 - 6 months, then settling somewhere that pleases us. This may happen! This may not. We are still in a state of limbo. We have downsized considerably and are now accustomed to "tiny house living," but our future goals have many preconditions. I hope to be able to blog from the road, to document our experience there, and to truly get a taste of the wandering life.<br />
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If it doesn't happen this attempt, maybe in another soon.<br />
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If you want to visit our tumblr page, which is mostly just photos, it is here: <a href="http://simplefulllife.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Simple Full Life.</a> Because naomiwashere was taken.<br />
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Let's hope it's not another 3 years before my next post ...</div>
NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-18370569813907012332013-05-29T11:29:00.001-07:002013-05-29T11:29:12.882-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday evening, right around dusk, as I was readying
Sophie for bed, I received the call that my dear friend Anna had passed. She
was only 28. My mind swirled with memories of her. She had a fantastic sense of humor, and most
of my memories of her involve laughter. She was full of life. She had a strong,
contagious spirit and a smile for everyone. She was authentic: she meant every
bit of the positive words she preached. Unfortunately, she suffered in her
illness. She was honest and let us see those hard parts, but she also made it
easy for us, as she never stopped joking, laughing, sending out words of wisdom
about leading a healthy life. She was
made of better stuff than I.</div>
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The dog was barking. I thought the mail had come, so I
grabbed Sophie and walked outside. Fire trucks lined my street. Lights were flashing
and Sophie was repeating “no, no, no.” I went to the mailbox and grabbed the
mail and the truck in front of the box hit its horn loudly. This woke me from
my trance. Hello, Naomi! The neighbor’s house was on fire.</div>
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I looked around and all up and down the street there were
fire trucks and ambulances, and fire fighters were climbing the roof of the
neighbor’s house, doing what they had to do to put the fire out. There was a lot of smoke. All the neighbors on
the street were outside, staring at the fire, pointing and talking,
speculating about what had happened. The neighbor across the street was waving
me over and asking if I was okay. I looked back at our house, and at the
proximity to the fire. It was close, but we were fine.</div>
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So much loss. I remember when my friend Anna told me they
had found a tumor in her leg, and it never crossed my mind that she would ultimately
die from it. I thought it was a terrible, nasty thing to have to endure, but I
saw a long life ahead of her. I was wrong. Last month, my two step-daughters lost
their grandfather. He went in for a
surgery, and told us all he would be out in a few days. He never came back. He
was not done living yet either, and now the girls are missing their grandfather, who was
very involved in their life. We also lost my grandmother last month. She had
lived a long, full, amazing life, and, like Anna, she made it easy for us, even
though she suffered in the end as well. I am grateful she was able to meet
Sophie. The world won’t be the same without her.</div>
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I believe I must have been lost in all of this and so I was
unable to properly process this last unfortunate event – my neighbor’s house
burning. Too surreal. When we finally went back inside, our house smelled of
smoke – a smell that persists this morning and that I imagine will take some
time to fade completely. But this is life – this loss and destruction and all
the things that seem unjust and unfair. Our forefathers knew it better than we do today,
as we live in protective bubbles, safe from the weather, predators, and in many
ways, safe from truly feeling the loss of those we love. With countless
distractions, there are endless ways to remove ourselves from the pain. I don’t
think this is doing anything good for our species. I, for one, plan to let
myself feel the pain of the loss, even as I celebrate their lives and rejoice that
they lived. Our universe is missing them, I am missing them, but so long as I
remember, they will remain immortal. Even if it hurts for months, weeks, years, I will feel it. I am tired of all these distractions anyway. They wear on my soul.</div>
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<br />
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And this is life. Nothing is certain. Security is an illusion. Pain is real. Loss is
real. Suffering is real. None of these things can be avoided. The thing that keeps us going, the thing that saves us, is that happiness, growth, gain, love … all of these are also very real, and if
we are lucky, we will get an abundance of all of those things as well, which we will
appreciate all the more for knowing how to hurt and suffer. </div>
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This post may seem sad. I guess it is. But it's not all sad. These people that we lost were important and they led good lives and they will be missed and they will be remembered. And the neighbors are okay and no one was hurt. And honestly, it is okay to feel sad sometimes. It really is.</div>
NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-43974633537776759582013-02-19T02:27:00.001-08:002013-02-19T02:33:52.887-08:00MaterfamiliaThis is my grandparents on their honeymoon, over seventy years ago. Five kids, eleven grandchildren, and thirteen great-grand kids later, they are in the late twilight of their life together. The sun is setting. My grandmother is dying.<br />
<br />
This is the cycle of life, yes, but it it also marks the end of an era. My grandmother is the Materfamilia. My grandparents are the epicenter of our family, the sun of our family's universe, the heart of our family body. All family energy runs through them: the hurt, the love, the pain, the forgiveness, the growth, the gain, the loss -- everything. They have brought our large, extended family together for decades. They bear witness to every family event, no matter the magnitude. They welcome our friends and those adopted by love as members of the family. They are irreplaceable. A torch of this sort cannot be passed. <br />
<br />
My grandmother is glorious and Godly and her sunset, like her life, is awe-inspiring. When the last light twinkles from her spirited eyes, it will not be gone forever. It will live on inside each of her kin, and in all those she has welcomed and loved with her warm embrace into the family. I know this, yet tonight I find myself unable to sleep as I wander my memories with my cherished grandparents -- all the roads we have traveled, all the ways both small and large that they have impacted my life. I send a warm blanket of love across the miles in which to wrap them both as they cross this new landscape the same way they have crossed all others -- together. As I try to find a path to sleep, I pray that I may see them one last time, so I may put my head on my grandmother's chest, listen to the heartbeat of the family, and be thankful.<br />
<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qNw3_onVYEg/USNToTp5nHI/AAAAAAAAAPM/zgvkGGpTxvs/s640/blogger-image--1621933119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qNw3_onVYEg/USNToTp5nHI/AAAAAAAAAPM/zgvkGGpTxvs/s640/blogger-image--1621933119.jpg" /></a></div>NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-73391391911826941532012-05-15T07:02:00.000-07:002012-06-24T07:06:04.863-07:00Sophie is herselfI can't believe how she grows. She now pulls herself up on anything and everything, clearly proud of herself. She crawls quickly and stands confidently and her laugh has been known to melt an entire household in mere seconds. She is becoming aware that she can *do* things and watching her do these things can keep me mesmerized for hours. Sometimes I look at her and just can't believe my eyes. She is my daughter. Holy crap.<br />
<br />
When she was a newborn (or, as I like to say, when she was little) people would say she looked like me, or like Ron. I would sometimes gaze down at her and be amazed to see my tiny self, the one from pictures, gazing back. Every now and then she would give me a certain expression and I would startle at how it resembled my dad. All of this was fun, amazing, insanely beautiful, but it is changing now. These days, although it is clear she is my daughter, I must say that when I see her I do not see a mini-me or a half-Jamie or a small Ron. I see a Sophie. She is definitely herself, and I definitely love her with every molecule of my being.<br />
<br />
She is also a miracle.<br />
<br />
I can't say that I dreamed of having a baby since I was very little because that would be a lie. I wasn't that sort of child. I could not have cared less about future weddings or future families. I had something like universal vision and thought mostly of big picture stuff. I devoured books. I wanted to make poor people less poor and sick people well. I raged against military recruiters in rural schools. I hated Disney.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I had important relationships and was far from a hermit, but I was not exactly mainstream either. My point is, I hadn't given much thought to marriage or children, except to say that I was pretty sure if I decided to enter the antiquated ritual of marriage I would keep my own name.<br />
<br />
Ah, young ideals.<br />
<br />
Anyway, then I settled down, fell in love, got married, all that wonderful stuff. My husband came with two beautiful daughters who I adopted as my own without hesitation. And we decided to have a child of our own. So we tried. And tried. And tried. Almost a decade later, I gave up. A hundred negative pregnancy tests later, I gave up. Tests, tears, hope and then much despair later, I gave up. And after I gave up, began to close that chapter and look to the next, I became pregnant.<br />
<br />
Which proves that even when one loses hope, miracles can still happen. It's true. I watch one every morning as I sit sipping my coffee with a satisfied, grateful grin on my face and absolute wonderment that it could all be real.<br />
<br />
<br />NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-72962032260842987702012-04-27T07:56:00.003-07:002012-04-27T07:56:55.324-07:00April 27, 2012Sophie is just over seven months now. If it's possible for the time
to have gone simultaneously slow and fast, then it did. Seems like only
yesterday or maybe years ago that she was a little larval human,
basically immobile, jerky, wailing. Now she pulls herself up on anything
and everything while roaring in one of her favorite baby dialects. Her
two bottom front teeth are beginning to come in, but so far this doesn't
seem to bother her much. She seems much more troubled by the fact that
she can't yet return to a sitting or crawling position from standing.
This *really* pisses her off.<br />
<br />
I am still overwhelmed by the
amount of information concerning child-rearing that exists out there for
anyone even halfway interested in learning. I'm sure parents even a
generation ago where not as swamped with contradictory evidence about
what is best for babies and children in general. I'm not sure what is
worse, following the advice of Dr. Spock, or hearing the advice of
thirty such doctors, all who claim to have the answer. I still mostly
follow my gut, and pick and choose out of the wealth of information that
which makes the most sense to me.<br />
<br />
Although there is a school of
thought that preaches against it, we still co-sleep, and so far it is
working well for us. Most days we are all as well rested as one with an
infant can be. I have been exclusively breastfeeding, although now we
are beginning to introduce solids (mostly sweet potatoes, carrots and
other orange veggies). We sometimes use cloth diapers, sometimes
disposable, depending on what activities the week holds. Disposable has
been winning lately. We are doing vaccinations, even though I wonder
about the sheer number of them these days. Despite that concern, the
fact that she doesn't have to fear polio is pretty convincing to me
about their effectiveness. I find both Waldorf and Montessori education
techniques appealing, although there are some fairly big differences
when it comes to reading and mathematics. I'm also considering
homeschooling, but I don't know if we will be able to afford for me to
be out of work for eighteen years. I have not completely ruled out
public school, but it is low on the list right now. All I know is
whatever educational approach I choose, I need to stick with it for the
long haul in order for it to be effective and for Sophie to avoid the
stress of extreme culture shock.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I document this mostly
for Sophie's benefit, so she'll have some idea of what it was like for
her family in her early years -- the joys and struggles we faced. These
are the choices I struggle with now. I'm sure it was different for my
parents and I'm sure it will be different for her. But it's the
progression of things these days, in the US, in 2012. For me. (I suppose
there are many parents who don't struggle with these particular
concerns. Maybe it's just my questioning, need-to-know nature.)<br />
<br />
Whatever.
She grows healthy and strong and I'm the happiest I've ever been, I
believe. Our house overflows with love. Even with texting, eye-rolling
teenagers! I call that a good start.<br />
<br />
<br />NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-30874161554059181922012-04-03T09:16:00.003-07:002012-04-03T09:16:50.351-07:00April 3, 2012Sophie loves to make noises. From her mouth, testing her voice, and
in any other way she is able. She loves to scrape her fingernails on
different surfaces to see the sound it makes, and she shakes every
object she picks up to see if it makes noise. She loves banging things
together, and is quite pleased with herself when she gets a strong sound
going from something.<br />
<br />
She remains fascinated by Lucy, who is very
patient with her. Lucy is truly a remarkable dog. She allows Sophie to
explore her fur, ears, nose and paws and doesn't move except to lick
Sophie's forehead or sniff her face. Eliana is also patient but seems to
enjoy taunting Sophie with her flicking tail. Sophie is really peeved
by Eliana's tail, and most times if she sees Eliana's tail flicking
anywhere near her, she yells at it and puts up a rather noisy fuss until
I move her or the cat. It's adorable, really.<br />
<br />
Sophie woke up at
4am crying (I suspect she was a smidge gassy and uncomfortable) so we
are both going to be tired today. Hopefully we can squeeze in a longer
than usual nap. I'm still finishing up Festival stuff but, God willing, I
should be done, completely done, by the end of the week. After that,
Sophie and I are going to take a week's vacation down to Bisbee to visit
my mom and some friends. Bobbi and Maggie will be there, and I'm
extremely excited for Sophie and Maggie to meet. Plus, I can't wait to
snuggle that Maggie! I've seen so many photos of her, I feel I know her.
(Bobbi is one of my best friends from High School, and she had her baby
exactly two months before I had Sophie. We have really re-bonded over
babies and birthing, and I am very grateful to have them both in my
life.<br />
<br />
Here's hoping a long nap is in my not-distant future!<br />
<br />NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-53055015085776190312012-03-31T08:04:00.000-07:002012-03-31T08:04:03.678-07:00IntensitySophie definitely has a bit of my temperament. She is a happy,
curious child, but she is also intense. I'm not even sure intense is the
right word, but she could never be mistaken for laid back or
easy-going. I find it amazing that this is so obvious even from this
age. So much seems to just be hard-wired in there.<br />
<br />
I just hope
she doesn't worry the way I did. It's taken me 38 years to get to where I
am now, a much tempered down, relaxed version of a completely neurotic,
worried woman. Maybe I can pass on some of the coping skills I have
learned (finally) to deal with my overly active imagination and
hyper-empathy. Maybe she has just enough of Ron's temperament to stay in
the present -- something at which he is exceedingly good and at which
I, until recently, have failed miserably.<br />
<br />
<br />
I also hope I can help her find some level of peace with her
place in the Universe. That's what has helped me. Feeling some sense of,
I don't know, spirituality. To let go and let God, as my grandmother
says. I really didn't get how to do that until the last year or so. That
whether or not this life is all we have, it's all we know right now,
and it is to be enjoyed. To be kind, but that you can be kind without
feeling you have to save everyone.<br />
<br />
I just finished reading this
book, Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year, by Anne
Lamott. Excellent book. In one entry she tells about this story of a
home or school for autistic children who were so far on the severe end
of the spectrum that they couldn't walk. She says they tied a rope
across the room and found that the children could walk by holding on to
the rope. Then they made it just a string, then just a piece of fishing
wire, and the children could still walk. If they took it away, they
couldn't. So finally she says they cut up the fishing wire and gave each
child a small piece and with it, they were able to walk. An amazing
story, and one she uses to illustrate her faith a bit. I love that
image. It's taken me my entire life to find my little piece of fishing
wire. I hope I can help Sophie find hers early on.<br />
<br />
<br />NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-28302800336586263722012-03-28T07:30:00.003-07:002012-06-24T07:07:23.522-07:00The Point of ThisI have been taking Sophie out and about more lately, which seems to
be very good for both of us. She loves seeing new things and I love
getting out of the house for a bit. I take her in the Ergo carrier, and
she never, ever fusses. Seems being strapped next to her mama keeps her
feeling pretty safe and content.<br />
<br />
Wait. Before I mention any more
about my daily life with Sophie, I should take a minute to clear
something up. I've decided to start blogging again, at least for a
while, in order to document these early years with Sophie, for Sophie to
have when she gets older. Also, to perhaps connect with the experiences
of other parents of infants out there (or memories of this time). So
unlike most of my blogging history, I have a pretty clear purpose for
writing.<br />
<br />
If you have followed me for any amount of time on my old blog, you will
remember I also have two wonderful, beautiful, kind daughters who are
teenagers now. I did not have the privilege of giving birth to them, as
they came with my husband from his previous marriage, but they are my
kids regardless and I have never bothered to add a 'step' before
'daughter' because I don't feel anything other than a mother's love for
them. I have written about them and my experiences with them many times
over the years, but now that they are teenagers, I feel I need to
respect their right to privacy concerning the details of our lives
together. For this reason and because of this blog's specific purpose, I
will mostly leave them out. However, they are an active and joyful part
of my life and I love them dearly.They are also very good big sisters
to Sophie, whom they adore. We call Carina 'Big' and Jamie 'BigBig.'
They are delighted to have a wee little sister (even though Jamie asked
over and over for a big brother. I told her time and again that was
impossible, but she persists to this day.)<br />
<br />
So, there you have it.
This blog is going to be about Sophie's early years, mostly. If that
bores you, you can skip my feed. I have so many thoughts in my head
these days, thanks to this new perspective of seeing the world through a
baby human's eyes, that I feel compelled to put it all down. If I
don't, it's possible my brain could explode, and I just don't have the
time to clean up any more messes these days.<br />
<br />
<br />NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-19450041138255403122012-03-24T21:30:00.001-07:002012-03-24T21:30:32.790-07:00March 24, 2012She is just so damned beautiful. That's the problem. I had planned to
go to sleep early tonight because I'm so exhausted these days I can't
form simple sentences, but instead I had to lie here and stare at her
until my eyes watered. She has that effect on people, I think. I get the
feeling she always will, too. This one, she is positively mesmerizing.<br />
<br />
<br />
Overall, we had a nice, relaxing Saturday, but it was definitely
on the gross side of warm which made everything feel more frustrating
than it needed to be. Spring is supposed to be beautiful -- crisp and
fresh, you know -- but Arizona decided it was gonna ratchet up the heat a
notch or two, and probably as a result of this combined with my general
fatigue, I ended up walking around half the day wondering what smelled
so funky weird before I realized it was me. Yeah, I know, gross, but
that's the kind of day it was.<br />
<br />
Anyway, despite having to break
down and turn on the AC, we enjoyed a pleasant day of family banter,
playing with Sophie and napping as much as we wanted. Jamie, Carina and I
even took Sophie to the grocery store for the first time. Maybe because
she was so enthralled by all the novelty or maybe because I had her in
the Ergo baby carrier, she seemed to really enjoy the trip and didn't
fuss once, although she seemed a bit put out that we couldn't stop to
examine things for longer periods of time. I had held off taking her
anywhere in public until now because I had such fear of illness entering
her little, unprepared body, but she seems to have weathered a house
full of sick people very well, so I decided it was most likely safe. (Of
course that didn't stop me from silently steering clear of actual
people as we walked through the aisles. I'm neurotic like that and it can't be helped.)<br />
<br />
<br />
Which brings me to one of the frightening things about
parenthood: the fear for their safety never really goes away. Ever. You
just learn to manage it, I guess. When Jamie came down with the flu, I
remember I had such dark, worried thoughts as I listened to her cough
and imagined the spittle flying from one room right into Sophie's mouth.
I mean, I hardly slept a wink out of fear that this nasty flu would
come steal my baby away during the night. And it was right in the middle
of one of these dark nights and darker thoughts that I realized I had
to make peace with this fear, because it was a life partner now. I told
myself that this is the Universe telling you there is something precious
and worthwhile in your life and to pay attention to it and love it and
be grateful for it and in the meantime push the worry to the back of
your mind as far as you can, because it's going to be a long road, lady.<br />
<br />
So
I love her and enjoy her and am grateful every day for her mesmerizing
spirit, and I try to keep my worry in the far recesses of my mind as much as possible. From what I can tell so far, she seems to be a curious, happy, somewhat intense child who is eager to explore the world around her.<br />
<br />
And
now it's time for her mom to get some sleep, so maybe, just maybe, she
can give her a nice tour somewhere tomorrow without smelling funky and
having remembered to brush her teeth and wear proper clothes. One can
hope, anyway.<br />
<br />
<br />NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-65316253956533616112012-03-23T20:27:00.001-07:002012-03-23T20:27:25.386-07:00March 23, 2012It is just before bed and I am drowsy and content, with my wee one sleeping quietly beside me. She appears to be feeling much better today and I was tired of being cooped up, so we got out of the house. We started with a nice journey to the park with my aunt and then stopped for a visit with an old friend who was home with her newborn baby. These excursions did much for both our spirits. I don't think she fussed once all day, probably because she was so busy taking in all the novelty.<br />
<br />
I continue to be amazed at how quickly she grows. She is very close to crawling and these days moves quickly across the floor like a soldier on the battlefield. She stops briefly, strikes a pose as she decides where to turn next, then continues on her way. Makes me wish we lived somewhere that would allow her to explore farther without me having to pick her up and point her in a less dangerous or painful direction. <br />
<br />
She has also taken to examining her hands with a renewed zeal. Once her favorite playthings (second only to her toes -- when she gets one of those bad boys in her mouth, she's in heaven), she is now even more enamored with them because she seems suddenly aware she can make them move. She turns a hand toward her and moves each finger one at a time, as though she is giving the "come hither" wave to whomever is watching. It's the damned cutest thing. Even better, whenever she focuses intently on something, her face transforms into all-cheek mode. It's almost too much to bear, the cuteness.<br />
<br />
It's funny, I can't wait for the next stage of her growth, yet I know I'll miss each one as it passes. I wouldn't want it any other way though.It's a little of what being human is all about.NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-74432743843072714212012-03-22T14:28:00.000-07:002012-03-31T09:22:10.313-07:00A Spring CelebrationSophie Dawn is 6 months old today. To celebrate, I strapped her on my back and we walked Lucy around the neighborhood. The air was all warm honeysuckle and orange blossom. The three of us lapped up this small drink of Spring like thirsty sailors. Although I was a little sad that her first forays out into nature weren't more beautiful than our run down neighborhood, I remain grateful that she has eyes with which to see the world -- both good and bad -- and that we are free to take this walk together during what for so many other modern mothers is a work day. Every now and then during our walk, she hummed, a sweet little voice in my ear, and I swear, I almost died right there from the sheer joy of it.<br />
<br />
I don't know what I did to deserve such a blessing, but I'm forever grateful.NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-76299732648704609672012-03-21T17:48:00.001-07:002012-03-21T17:48:28.452-07:00Memo From A Fugue StateMarch came in like a lion, quickly tackled us, and has spent all month gnawing on our innards. Or at least that's how it feels to this tired mother. Everyone in the household has been ill with some variation of the flu except me. The house sounds like a sanitorium and everyone is cranky and tired, even the baby. Or maybe I should say, especially the baby. I am back to the level of tired I felt when she was a newborn and I swear I'm one lost nap away from my eyes simply rolling, red and glassy, out of my skull as I collapse on the floor.<br />
<br />
Despite this fatigue -- or maybe because of it -- I have taken to reading every book pertaining to babies that I can get my hands on. I've always had an obsessive need to know everything about anything I turn my attention to, and now that I am raising this tiny human (while simultaneously raising two teenagers -- talk about perspective!), this need to know <em>everything </em>is stronger than ever. Unfortunately, there does not appear to be a consensus on how to grow a healthy, happy, thriving human being. After all those hours of reading, I feel no wiser or more sure of the path I am taking. I am left with my visceral inclinations: to show her unconditional love, take everything else on a case-by-case basis, and try not to forget that I can't be much use to anyone if I neglect myself. I hope that's enough. Even as the tears of fatigue roll down my face, I can honestly say I have never felt such great joy. There is no way to describe this love.<br />NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-33995011724643669632012-01-11T06:19:00.001-08:002012-01-11T06:19:13.032-08:00Perspective: I Have ItLately, I have been feeling overwhelmed by all that is on my plate. I spend each day in a multitasking whirlwind of insanity, yet I can never keep up. This will not change until sometime in March, and even then, I might be freed of some work responsibilities, but I will gain some worries, as I venture into the frightening world of freelancing. In short, it is all I can do to keep my head above water each day, and the future holds no promise of security.<br />
<br />
And then I read a short update from my friend Anna. The cancer has spread to her lungs. <br />
<br />
Suddenly, my worries seemed so small, so manufactured. All my concerns drifted into one: hope for my friend.<br />
<br />
I may have more to do than I can manage, but at any point I can choose to simplify my life. I can choose to make changes that will make my life easier. It might not be simple or easy to do, but I could if it came to that. Right now, Anna does not have that same liberty. She cannot just choose to not have cancer. She has to fight for her life. <br />
<br />
And so, at least for today while I am still blessed with this perspective, I will do Anna the service of not fretting so much about all the things I think I have to do. I will be grateful for my health and my options. And I will put all that extra energy I was using to worry into doing what I can to help my friend in her fight.<br />
<br />
Many thanks to the power of perspective.<br />
<br />
NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-41086890843514651502012-01-04T07:57:00.001-08:002012-03-22T20:46:56.658-07:00TWENTY TWELVE<div style="font-family: Tahoma, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;">Wow. It's been a year since I last updated my blog. Been spending too much time working, being pregnant, having a baby . . . stuff like that, I guess. Also, perhaps a smidge too much time on Facebook. But<em>what'reyagonnado</em>?</span></div><div style="font-family: Tahoma, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Tahoma, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;">Anyway, Last year I made a whole slew of resolutions which, looking back, seem funny to me. I don't think I did one of them. Good intentions, path to hell, you know. So this year I'm not resolving anything. I'm going to fly by the seat of my pants and see where that takes me. I might set some goals, probably should, but I'm definitely not making them public this time. Besides, if I've learned one, no wait - three things - from 2011, it's 1) you really can't know what the universe has in store for you from one moment to the next, 2) actions count for more than thoughts most times and 3) every day can be a new year if you want it to be. </span></div><div style="font-family: Tahoma, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Tahoma, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;">Today I think I'll finish my coffee, watch my baby (who is currently trying to roll over on her floor mat, which would be a first), and try to get some work done. That's enough for now.</span></div><div style="font-family: Tahoma, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Tahoma, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;">Happy New year, everyone. </span></div>NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8802552753243220423.post-88189862408701161072011-01-01T09:53:00.000-08:002011-01-01T10:26:23.280-08:00New Day, New Blog<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: black; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 8px; margin-right: 8px; margin-top: 8px;">And so, we have a brand spankin', shiny new calendar year before us. Now what to do with it?<br />
<br />
I almost never make resolutions, but this year I decided to make a few. I think they're reasonable enough, and I've decided to list them publicly, to provide a little pressure so maybe, just maybe, I'll follow through. Here's my list:<br />
<ol><li>Update my father's biography and book information on Goodreads.com. I have been meaning to do this since I started using Goodreads in 2008, and have not followed through. It's time.</li>
<li>Take a photo every day. Do something with it on a blog (use it as a writing prompt or play with it using photoediting software, that sort of thing). </li>
<li>Learn to knit something other than a scarf.</li>
<li>Find joy in my new job and be the best damned Director of Communication and Fund Development that I can be.</li>
<li>Run more than I did in 2010. Run another half mary (which race still to be determined).</li>
<li>Write something that I plan to submit to a publisher somewhere. Could be just a small article or short story to an e-zine, but SOMETHING must be submitted. I can't call myself a writer if people aren't rejecting me, right?</li>
<li>Start a new blog on Blogger. (check)</li>
</ol>I think that's enough to provide some good goals for the year. Happy New Year, everyone! </div>NaomiWasHerehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16480788462125163000noreply@blogger.com1