Going Back
My sister and I spent at least a couple of weeks every summer at Grindstone Lake in Minnesota. We gorged ourselves on sugared cereals, cherries and grapes, Saltine crackers and shiny American cheese. We fished from the dock, catching the little “sunnies” and walleye. Hooking them and letting them go. We took the canoe out, usually sticking close to “our” side of the lake. We took snacks with us, and argued perhaps less than we usually did. Sometimes we paddled across the lake to catalog the other cabins, or to crash someone else’s float: a wooden deck atop four creaking and rusting oil barrels. We’d tie the canoe up to it and jump in, then sun ourselves on the rough wooden planks, wary “they” might come home and look out to see someone’s kids–not their own–playing on their family’s float.
We’d return to the cabin with wet bathing suit butts. (“Close the screen door! No sitting on the couch in a wet suit!” Our grandpa Al, who moved from his chair in the living room only for fishing or golf, frequently had to re-remind us of The Rules.) We'd go out in the mosquito- and taxidermy-infested garage to the big white freezer. Dig out another big Ziplock bag of ginger cookies our grandma Ruth had made, and bring them into the small kitchen with its avocado-green appliances and the wooden table around which we’d drink milk, eat more and more cookies, and play cards. Maybe later we’d watch the Price is Right, guessing how much a can of tomato soup or a washer-dryer set cost, and willing the poor fools to pick the door with the car or RV behind it.
The lake: in the early morning, a quiet and gray light upon it, the water was glassy and cool, waiting for the heat. By late morning the sun would be shining brightly, the orange day lilies by its side were moist and open, and the water sparkling and inviting us to wade. We’d find clams the size of our hands, and organize them into families, only occasionally killing them by leaving them on the dock too long. We’d swim out past the drop-off, where the sandy ground under our feet suddenly leapt into darkness, and the water turned ice cold and black. Turn around quick! Get back to the warmer water! We didn’t want the big fish our grandpa and uncles caught in the middle of the lake to catch one of us.
Twilight: the pink and purple hues of sunset, the cooling-back-down again, the buzz of insects coming out to get us. The spraying and re-spraying of Outdoor scented, DEET-laden Off over our already bitten arms, legs, and feet. The rinsing-out of murky-smelling bathing suits. Perhaps a little walk to check for newly ripened raspberries by the mailbox? An early dinner inside prepared by our grandmom and aunts. White rolls with butter, some frozen corn or mashed potatoes, also with plenty of butter. (Though more likely it was margarine.) Ham or freshly-caught fish dipped in egg, flour, salt and pepper, then fried. More cookies for dessert.
It was crazy to arrive back at the lake now, at age 37, with my own two-and-a-half year old son, and a baby in my belly. Though my grandparents have passed away, the cabin is still well-used on weekends and maintained by my aunt Sue and uncle Freddie. It's frequently visited by my cousins Abbey, Kyle, Matt, and Tia. It was as open to me as it’s always been. And while there was a new TV and couch in the living room, the swirly green-and-blue wall-to-wall carpet, which has hid decades of cookie crumbs and lake drips, remained intact. Alejandro and I slept in my grandparents' room, which I’d never done before, since one or both of them was always there. But everything else looked, felt, and smelled the same as it had when I was little. There were even ginger cookies in the freezer, thanks to Sue.
I felt loved.
I’d forgotten what family feels like, my family, my mom’s family. Ali and I were accepted, whoever we were. I didn’t have to try to be anyone. In my modern life, in my pursuit of independence and identity, I’d forgotten what that was like! My uncle Loren and my aunts–Sinde, Sue, and Sondra–all loved Ali and engaged with him, drew him out, laughed with me at his funny little phrases. My cousin Abran took him fishing, gave him his very own bucket of night crawlers. (Which as we all know in Minnesota, is truly a sign of love.)
And all I had to do for a week was to care for Alejandro–which wasn’t half as hard as it is here, when I’m working and constantly running around–and to show him the small things I remembered: the dock, the clams, the constant need for life jackets and bug spray.
He was completely happy, himself, and like me, surrounded by love and the gorgeous quiet green beauty of the lake. At night the baby moved in my belly as I lay in my grandparents’ bed next to my sleeping boy, and I knew I was blessed.
I saw my cousin Abbey get married on Saturday. She looked radiant and gorgeous. I watched her new husband put his arms around her as they danced. Everyone said they are right for one another. Having held Abbey as a baby, I felt even more blessed to have witnessed one more circle completed, as it should be, in Minnesota. Our grandparents would have been so proud.
Going back was exactly what I needed. I’ll never forget this week, this suspended moment in time.
Knocked Up and Feeling Down
You're not supposed to be depressed when you're pregnant. You're supposed to feel lucky and blessed to have the Power of Breeding. You should feel smug, as this song, recently shared by a FB friend, reminded me: “Pregnant women are smug. Everyone knows it. But nobody says it. Because they’re pregnant.” It’s kind of catchy. If I wasn’t so depressed, or pregnant, I’d laugh.
I apologize to anyone who's reading this oddly public format, thinking: "Margot's pregnant again? Why didn't I know?" Well, it's because I suck. I probably haven't talked to you in months. I've been holed up trying to figure this out while I work full time, feeling a continual pillow of sleepiness pressing down, trying to be chipper for boundless-energy Alejandro. Rafael's also had two out-of-town jobs in the last month, which means I've been a single working mom while he brings home some bacon. Frankly, I'm a mess.
And let's face it, I don't look cute. I look bulbous and exhausted. The $500+ I spent on rushed maternity clothes had horrendous results. I have three pairs of pants with the appeal of paper sacks. One needs to be hemmed. The shirts are either schlumpy, oddly tight, or ruffled and pleated. All also bag-like. I have one decent dress, and have already explained to my co-workers that we can have only one important client meeting every week, wherein they can expect to see me wearing wrap-around teal.
Of course the clothes don't matter, and how I look is a matter of opinion. I'm schlumpy on the inside. I'm full of guilt about my depression, and anxiety about my impending second-motherhood. If I can't manage my current life, I reason, how the hell am I supposed to be a good mom to another small human? And to the one we already have? I've told Alejandro we don't whine, but here I am. I have so many conflicting emotions.
Of course, I am happy, too. Absolutely blessed. Hopeful. I hold my belly and speak to him/her, willing them to be okay. I promise him/her that mommy will figure stuff out before they're born, that I want want them, and will do my very best. And we did always plan on having a second child. I want Ali to have someone to commiserate with about how nuts we are. Isn't that what siblings are for?
I just wasn't ready. On the contrary, we had just planned to wait for a year. Back in March, as I realized I could evolve my job into something that would make me happy, I decided to concentrate on that, and set myself up for a future when yes, we would have a second child, and I wouldn't be returning to the same old grind. "We've decided to wait." I told about 20 people in about three weeks. I admit it: I was smug about the decision to wait. And I was pregnant the whole time.
At the heart of the issue: having too much to manage. Guilt over having too much, period. Why couldn't sperm-meet-egg for one of my friends trying so hard to have a baby? It's been such a hard road for many: scientific timing for sex, hormone injections, rushed trips to the sperm bank. Waiting. Hope and disappointment. The stress of it! These people too are in pain, and quietly suffering, waiting every month for the opportunity to love a little one, and to experience the back-breaking and mind-bending act of parenthood. To them especially: I'm sorry that I'm depressed about our good fortune. I'm doing my work to approach this with the joy and celebration it deserves.
I know on the other side of all of this–on the other side of depression–there's healing, and great positive changes to be made. A future with more balance. As I mentioned in my last post, it's the swimming in the muck that motivates one to seek higher ground. But God, it's mucky. For now, I can only keep dog paddling, and float on my back when I'm really tired. I can make an appointment with a therapist specializing in these issues, hoping she's a life vest that will fit. And I can write this post, even though it's humiliating and I wish I was being more uplifting.
But it always feels better to write, and to be honest about what's going on. I'll get to the other side. Have patience, Margot. Have patience, friends. And please don't be mad at me for where I'm at now, nor where I'll be when I've seemingly figured it out and it all looks so easy from the outside!
The passage of time, the passage of Minos
He isn't dead yet. My cat. My friend and constant, meow-y companion of seventeen years. But It is upon us. His kidneys don't work. He don't work. I am, amid all else we're doing, injecting him with H20 once a day. And pushing down meds for his thyroid, meds to increase appetite, meds to help "bind phosphorous" or something like that. It's pretty awful.
He's old. 84 in people years. A once-giantly fat cat, he's now 7 pounds. He's deaf. Senile and prone to demented meowing for hours at night. You'd think we'd just let him go, huh? I am, I am...just working up to it. You see, this cat, in addition to being a fabulous being–anyone who's met him will attest to that–is my young adult life. He's me, way back before I was a producer, a college graduate, a writer, a wife, a mother. Minos has simply always been there.
Visiting Margot meant sitting on my couch and hanging out with Minos. "Us," before "us" was Rafael and I, or Raf-Ali-and-I, was Minos and I. And you. Our friends and family, who love him too. There are cats, and then there's Minos. I know the difference–I've had both. I called him a bear-bat-monkey-cat. You called him fat. He hung out like one of the guys. He hung out like one of us.
Now he's just hanging on, and so am I.
I think of Minos as a tiny kitten who was delivered to me, sight unseen, to my first apartment in San Antonio, Texas. It was the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college. I couldn't even legally drink. He was a ball of black fuzz in the palm of my hand, fearless, his legs draped through my fingers as I held him up. When I decided to open a cafe instead of go back to school, Minos met me in the yard after every long day. My friend Jen's jaw dropped the first time she met him, because he jumped down from a tree onto the hood of my car after we pulled in the driveway. "Hellooooooo!" He meowed triumphantly. "This is my cat." I said proudly. He was so cool.
He was always a whore for people and food, but I let him roam free, and he always came back to me. To that first apartment in Texas. Then Jen's place in Denver, where he stayed while I moved to San Francisco. Then, all of the apartments in S.F.: Cole and Carl, Kearny and Chestnut, Funston and Irving, 15th and Ramona. He's even stuck with me through the last two-plus years, through the birth of our son, two moves in the East Bay, and my resulting identity crisis.
Minos found a new lease on life each time each time we moved. But here we are, in the best home of all of those places, and it’s the end of the line.
Not bad, you’ll tell me. He had a happy life! It’s time!
I know all of that. I feel it in my bones: it’s time. I ain’t got enough to give him anymore, you see. Not like he ever got too much of a say in what I did over the last seventeen years. There was partying in my house, and crying, and lots of friends, and weekends he was left alone with his mentally deficient cat sister Mellie, and some missed meals and medicine. There was much yelling back and forth between us: “MEOoooooow!”
“Shut up Minos!” The yelling at him only stopped being fun when he went deaf.
This has been my life, up to now. Or next week, or the following. Or whenever he actually dies, or I decide to stop hydrating him with an IV because I can no longer fucking take doing it every night.
With Minos’ inevitable passing, I'm pushed off the mesa of my young adult life. I think I spent the last two years hiking up a new mountain called middle age. I’m a mother. It's so humbling.
Hold on - could I please refer to this next chunk of my life that I’m facing, terrified, as “young middle age?” Because you can’t quite call me middle-aged now, can you? Is 37 middle-aged? At age 16 I would’ve said “Duh. Definitely.” At 28 I would’ve said, “Naw, middle-aged is when you’re in your forties and fifties.” I’m creeping up there, friends, and want to keep putting it off.
I always thought that the trick to getting old without getting miserable was: to retain the gut-knowledge that a great life is possible, even to be expected, and worth fighting for. Oh yeah–and to keep havin' fun, yah brah! Of course, we ask ourselves: what does “a great life” mean? It keeps changing. I keep changing. Do you remember how many times you’ve heard someone say, or said yourself, “It was the best thing I ever did”? That statement usually comes after they’ve done something they thought tremendously risky. They changed something. They changed themselves. I think it’s what we’re all supposed to be doing.
But God, I hate all the time spent swimming in the muck of the past, sorting it out, before you can actually start evolving. And that's where I am, with Minos's inevitable passing: sorting it out. Swimming in the dark again. I'm looking through all of those messy memories, where Minos was my one constant (my familiar, I used to think) and preparing to put them to bed, like him.
There will be a new chapter, a new outlook on my "young middle age," and new lives in our children. But there will never be another Minos, or a me, or a you, like we were then.
Riding with Strangers
Pretty much every weekday morning, I get into a stranger's car. We don't talk as we drive across the Bay Bridge. I focus on my iPhone, get caught up on personal emails. Or I stare out the window, watching the giant cargo ships going to and from China and who knows where. I see Alcatraz and Angel islands off to my right, and the deep red of Golden Gate bridge to the northwest. Ahead of us: our San Francisco. The sun glints off those familiar buildings which pop magically through the clouds.
I could be in a Lexus, a beemer, an American mini van, an ancient Toyota hatchback. I could be in the backseat of a coffee-infused couple driving to work. Or in the front seat with another stranger in back. Or squeezed in tight between two others in the back of a luxury hybrid SUV. (If lots of people are waiting for rides, one of us might venture to ask the driver: "Can you take three of us?" They almost always do.)
I know how weird this sounds to those who don't commute to San Francisco. It's called Casual Carpool, and it's pretty unique and amazing. There are spots all over the East Bay where one can wait to be picked up, and to pick up passengers. We all get dropped off at the same location in SF, just off the Bay bridge, which happens to be 2 blocks from my office.
The rules:
- No talking, unless the driver initiates a conversation.
- Listen to NPR. Or nothing. I think this is to avoid music choices causing major a.m. friction. Crappy house music, anyone?
- Drive cautiously and courteously.
- Passengers have the right of silent refusal. If you're a woman and a man in a two-seater or a creepy van pulls up, you can just step back and let someone else take that spot. No explanation needed.
Here's why I think it works:
- It saves time. For a driver, it means cutting 20 minutes of sitting in stop-and-go traffic as you wait to go through the toll plaza.
- It's free/cheaper. For now the carpool lane is free. As of July 1 the carpool lane will be $2.50 versus $6.00 for regular commuters during rush hour. (Ouch!!) But I don't think it will reduce the casual carpool pool by much. It's still a significant reduction in cost for those who have to drive.
- It's not personal. The general "no talking" rule means that you don't have to chit chat. I've found the majority of rides to be silent except for a "hello" and a "thank you" at the end. So amazingly, you still get your personal time in the morning.
- Community, and safety in numbers. It's not just me in a stranger's car. Usually it's me and another stranger in a stranger's car! The magic number 3 really does change the dynamic. Plus, people have been commuting this way for over a decade, and know one another, who drives what cars, etc. We're all in it together.
- It's mutually beneficial. Really, that's what it comes down to for everyone involved.
What's interesting, of course, is when people don't follow the rules exactly. I've been serenaded with classical and country music–the latter made less repulsive since it was introduced as the soundtrack from Crazy Heart. One day several of us talked about our weirdest carpool experiences. The female driver said: "When a guy had just, I mean literally just smoked a bowl in the car before he picked us up. I was like, hey, smoke it at home, man!"
I asked, "So how was his driving?"
She said, "He actually drove fine. I just really wish he'd smoked that bowl at home." It was the lack of tact that galled her.
The other passenger that morning contributed this story: he'd been out of town and parked his car under a ginko tree for a week. Apparently, ginko trees really stink. (Who'd of thunk?) So his car, he told us, smelled like puke. A woman got in the front seat, took one whiff, and said "I can't ride in here." She got out, and this well-dressed man was humiliated. "It's ginko!!" he wanted to yell after her. A man got in the car and didn't say a word about the smell. Until they were almost across the bridge, when the passenger asked:
"Hey, did you eat some blue cheese in here?"
"It's ginko!!!"
I myself break the rules when I pick up carpoolers with Ali. Having a two-year-old in the car changes everything–you simply can't be that formal. And after 15 minutes of politely listening to Michael Krasny's (insightful) blabbing on NPR, Alejandro starts demanding HIS music. I apologize and ask the passengers' permission. Not like they really have a choice. Their asses are already peppered with cracker crumbs and their feet and laptops are a half-inch deep in crumbs as well. They don't have much to lose. (They could have always stepped politely out of line, too, when they saw who'd they'd be sitting next to!) So we all sing the Pollywog in a Bog song together. Out of courtesy, I try not to repeat it more than twice.
Every morning is somethin' different. That's one of the best parts of riding with strangers.
the Technology Kid
Alejandro’s heard us tapping away at our computers since before he was born. As a baby, he was propped in my or Rafael’s laps as we worked on creative or work-related docs; answered emails; or surfed the internet. He’s seen the interfaces of YouTube, iTunes, FaceBook, and email since he could focus his eyes. Raf and I are both immersed in technology–it’s the age we live in, and the professions we’ve chosen. And Ali’s our son.
When he was about ten months old, he located the “play” triangle on the remote control to the TV. I was sitting on the floor with him (he couldn’t even walk yet) when I realized that in a few short years, I’d be a babbling idiot when it came to operating our household appliances. I’ll turn to him. “Duhhhhhhh.” I’ll say, slack-jawed and drooling as I hand him the remote, desperation in my eyes. “Me want play. Muuuuu-sic. You can, Ali? Peeeeese?”
By age one, he could operate an iPhone. I’m not kidding. He’d slide his finger across the screen to unlock it. Locate the orange iPod icon. And select the video he wanted. Yo Gabba Gabba, it was most frequently. A show created by parents perhaps somewhat like ourselves–West Coast-based lovers of music and storytelling. To all of our devices, the creators of Yo Gabba Gabba deliver the tall, thin host “DJ Lance Rock;” guest stars like Jack Black and Elijah Woods; musical acts by the Roots and the Shins; and a tribe of trippy characters who encourage dancing and recycling. On my iPhone Ali, aged one, could find, and play, the episode he wanted.
Yesterday he was on my laptop (you can tell me I’m a negligent asshole a bit later, after I’ve explained myself), and I saw he’d learned how to use a mouse. Moving it around, finding the spot he wanted. Clicking only that side of it, as I’d showed him. He was playing little games on yes, you guessed it, www.yogabbagabba.com. (So I’m a brand whore as welll as a technology whore. If only we’d envisioned that goddamned franchise ourselves.) That said: in less than two weeks of playing around with those little Flash-based games, he had control of his mouse. And hence his technological destiny, muah ha ha! He's two and a half now.
How could I be okay with all of this? First of all, it’s not like we’ve got him locked in a basement surrounded by buzzing devices all day long while the sun shines or rain falls outside in beautiful Oakland. Every day he’s at home is an insane mix of thousands – okay, maybe twenty – activities. Art projects. Puzzles. Books. Chasing. Playing with cars. Constructing and destroying train tracks. Imagining we’re dinosaurs. Imagining we’re firefighters. Digging in the garden. Playing ball. Play fighting.
And then, yes, because we’re goddamned exhausted, and have emails to answer, or want five f’ing minutes to talk between ourselves, there’s the computer. iPhones. TV. Cable, DVDs, you name it. And the PlayStation–don’t get me started on that.
I’m not proud of it. It’s not what I’d envisioned, having grown up with a stay-at-home, earthy mom who didn’t let us eat sugar. It just IS what it is. It’s our lives. He’s growing up in the 2000’s. I can’t change when he was born. And I can’t change who we are.
I can only–sometimes, when I remember–turn my iPhone to “airplane” mode before handing it to him, so his little brain is a wee bit less fried by the wireless signals that are giving all of us cancer as I type and post these thoughts.
You are likely receiving this data wirelessly, in your home or business, perhaps even via a smart phone yourself. You live in this era too, and these are our children. They’re standing on our computer-crunched shoulders.
Let’s pray that their little bodies can adapt fairly painlessly to all of the technology that surrounds them. Let’s pray they don’t treat us too poorly for being unable to comprehend and operate the things they will create in our lifetimes.
May they still dig in the dirt, and feel the joy of almost-bursting lungs as they chase balls gone out of bounds.
May they still spend time under trees, looking up at the branches and leaves and fruit unfolding.
May they take what we’ve given them, and create more wondrous and beautiful things than we can imagine.
Oh, Yeah. The Power of a Vision.
On the train on the way home last night, I had one of those moments where my heart swelled with gratitude and I gulped and tears came to my eyes. I'd done it again: envisioned something, worked on it, and then: bam. Got it. It's almost frightening. I'm not talking about getting an "it" really. Not "I envisioned my perfect luxury car, and went out and bought it on credit, yay!" I'm talking about big life goals, big picture kinda dreaming: how to have a happy life?
It's not like I've figured everything out. I get massively depressed sometimes. Awful stuff happens, and the world can seem a chaotic and angry place. But when it's up to me, I can't accept being miserable for long. After wallowing in self-abusive misery for a while, I start asking myself what would make me happier? If I'm super stuck–so stuck I think everything is crap and so am I–I'll ask for help in figuring it out.* Three examples of how it’s worked out when I've invested in defining a vision for a happier life:
#1
At age 29** I recognized I wanted to write the book, no matter how freaky-deaky scared I was to try. Some of my crippling fears before I turned this corner: Most simply put, I was an idiot. The words wouldn't come, and if they did, they'd be utter crap. If I looked inside myself, I'd fall into an abyss. Or worse, find nothing there. My dream of who I should be would be cracked, and to fill the void I'd have to accept working in a laundromat for money and doing something extreme, like hang gliding, for sport.
I took a dorky class based on a book called Creating a Life Worth Living (I already have one! I wanted to scream to the book's author. But for some reason, I was there.) Some of the exercises included writing down activities that made you happy, and how you could look at your time in different ways, to do more of the good stuff. I envisioned my ideal day job, and my future life as a novelist.
At age 30 I started writing the novel (in pieces, a grain of sand at a time), and a billion years later (I'm not really that old), I work at a great place and I'm standing here saying I'm a writer.
#2
Over a year ago, at our old pad in the heart of the Mission, Rafael and I jotted down what we'd want if we moved. In pencil, on a little white square: "Extra room. Space. Light. Backyard. Good school. Easy public transit. Ali can ride a bike." We stuck it up on our fridge with a Guinness glass-shaped magnet, amid some sticky photos and never-used coupons.
The last time I had that contracting-and-expanding feeling of good fortune–other than last night I mean–was when R. told me they'd excepted the offer on this house in Rockridge. I was on an odd little hill in Potrero Hill in S.F., standing outside our car, which was of course parked at a psychotic angle. The sun was shining and I was on top of the hill talking to Raf on the phone, staring at a mailbox, thinking mother fucker, I am so fortunate.
So here we are–granted, a kinda painful year after we decided to move. In this beautiful place. It's even better than we could have imagined. The light more light; the weather softer; the neighborhood friendlier; the whole lifestyle more relaxed; and fruit trees everywhere...We both appreciate being here and are so freaking grateful every day.
I have to ask myself: well, how did we get here? (Talking Heads: the days go by / water flowing under ground...) I think the results of our move had something to do with the broad brush strokes on that piece of paper on the fridge. We weren't studying it, but it was at eye level, and it reminded us what we wanted. It was a vision, a loose outline with lots of positive intention.
#3
Lastly, the more recent event. My awe-inspired moment of gratitude on the train was surprisingly work-related. I found out I'll be able to move from my producer role at Hot Studio to bridge two fields I'm passionate and curious about: Brand Strategy and Content Strategy. I'll get to focus on language, and its integration into our strategies and designs. I'm not going into details about the job here. The point is, this is a significant transition, a way out of something I've long known I'm over. It's the light at the end of the tunnel of a "doing the same job forever, because you've no big complaints and you need money" track.
In a large part this change is happening because Maria, the owner of Hot–imagine her Staten Island accent, and her hands opening a space on the wood table into which I could put an idea–said: "Margot, just tell me what you want to do." With her encouragement and help from my immediate boss and my career-coach sister, I did it. I drafted a vision for a new role, with a plan for getting there. It's mutually advantageous, the approach is approved, and I can just see it all working.
Now for the transition part. Oh boy. Not quite as fun as the beginning and end of the process (the crystallization of a vision and then the shocking granting of your wishes.) But oh so necessary. Oh yes. Learning. Adjusting. Waiting.
Everyday life. It's what we do in between the moments of despair and the ones where we feel like everything's so beautiful we could burst.
* I'm the child of a psychotherapist and an electrical engineer, if that gives you any idea of my polarities.
** The transition from one's late 20's to early 30's is a crucial one for the characters in Richland. <weird trance music> Check out the astrological phenomenon called Saturn Returns.
Time
I’m a real hard worker. A perfectionist. (I know the first sentence isn’t grammatically correct.) To be at my best, I need lots of time around people. And time by myself. And sleep. I’m utterly impatient with myself while learning. I just want to do a few given things flawlessly, beautifully. And then be done, basking in the glory of completing something well.
In other words, I’m perfectly ill suited to be a parent. And I’m working. And I feel like I’m losing my mind. But that’s normal, right? (Nervous inner laughter.)
Is it also normal to feel like time is diced up into tiny slivers, or powdery grains of sand? Before Alejandro, time used to feel…chunkier. Like, I could grab a chunka that. A friend’s move, a personal project–yeah, sure, throw a chunka time at those! A walk though Golden Gate park to go to Amoeba Records? Duh. Bar time, beer time? Yeah, man, throw a good ole chunka time towards some q.t. with buddies! Then, sleep in. Toss a big ole chunk o' time into the Bank of Dreams...
Time still flew by then, but it felt more manageable. If I stayed late at work, which I frequently did, that time would just come out of one of the other chunks I mentioned. No problemo. Life in the kinda-big city, right? Gotta work hard, play hard!
- "chunky" versus "slivery"
There’s nothing like a small human’s five-minute attention span to remind you that time can get diced up real, real tiny-like. In Ali’s world five minutes is forever. Forever to look at clouds calling out nouns: "I see dinosaur! A train! A bad guy! What're we doing next?" Or, forever for him could be the five minutes I didn’t show up at his play table because I was trying to make his lunch, do the dishes, or get myself another cup of coffee. "I'm sorry, honey, these five minutes are dedicated to the cast iron pan! And the next five to bathing you, brushing your teeth, and putting on your pj's!"
When I look at the diagram above, it’s clear there’s madness at hand. Possible solutions: all I have to do is figure out how to bend time…no, to push out time on either side of me! Of course. I could try to build in longer chunks of time, and thus more quiet moments, into my days. If only I knew how to, I would.
I know: retire immediately to Kauai! That island knows how to teach this whole Chill Out Reee-lax lesson…I should look up ticket prices! Get out my credit card, fuck it! Book a trip, yeah!!!
Shoot, I’m fantasizing again. I want to have this lesson learned, to emerge Master of Time and Supreme Archetype of Life/Work Balance. But aside from Kauai, which would cost about $3,000 for the fam, there's few shortcuts in this life.
While I'm waiting for Modern Baby Jesus to alight on my shoulder and whisper the secret of "loving it all while you're doing it all," I'll just have to learn the way I always do. By fuddling through and trying real hard to learn somethin'.
Over and out,
M
p.s. I know I not only blasphemed, but mixed religious metaphors in the last paragraph.
Sleep
Wouldn't you rather be sleeping right now? C'mon, if you could. Would you curl up on your couch, hug a pillow, close your eyes? Or go straight to bed, draw the blinds, and absorb the hum of your heater? Yes, my darling, yes. Sleep.
In the last two years I've been broken, humbled, and hobbled by lack of sleep. While generally a decent person, I've found myself at times a raging maniac. My bursts of uncharacteristic assholishness typically occur after 3:00am and are directed at objects on the floor, the cat, my husband, or my son, in that order. When the sleep deprivation's been extreme, despite (or perhaps because of?) the gallons of coffee I drink, it comes out at work. My best friend's mad at me. Grargh! Rarh. Ruff.
Sorry. I didn't know it would be like this.
Some folks get sleepers, we got Alejandro. We wouldn't trade him for the world of course, not for some lazybags dope of a kid who couldn't do half the things our little brainiac can do. He's two and he has a larger vocabulary than my husband. (Just kidding Raf.) He can throw rocks into puddles! Catch a ball! And you should see him play games on the iPhone. Dude, the dexterity of his thumbs and index fingers! He's gonna be SO prepared to survive in the wild. He's happy and bright as the sun. He occasionally gives unsolicited kisses. But he (until recently) just could not sleep through the night.
He woke us up between 1-7 times. A night. For two years. I know you think we're idiots. "Have you tried the ole "cry it out" method?" Yes, you jerk, we have. But you haven't met Alejandro after midnight. We're talking hours and hours of crying, folks. For days. The expensive sleep consultant told us to give up for a bit. Her plan B was completely unworkable, involving my husband sleeping on the floor of his room for eight weeks. We gave up. We prayed to the temple of our own bed, but left it to comfort him. 1-7 times a night. Oh yes. I said that already.
Not surprisingly, a two-year-old has the fortitude to force two sleep-deprived zombies to obey his mad demands. Because we were always hoping it was a "just once" kinda night, we'd slip into a pattern of crazy disbelief, one of us slipping out of bed at a time, doing a tuck, giving a pat, saying good night...Rinse and repeat. And again. Please let this be the last time.
I can't explain how this type of interrupted sleep affects one's mental state. After a 3+nighter I always felt slightly deranged. It was a subtle shift, a shadow on my character. It wasn't even working for him–he still couldn't go back to sleep on his own. We couldn't help him, and we were losing our minds.
Until 2010! This year has been awesome because thanks to an amazing woman on the Internet who gave us a plan for $45, he's sleeping through. It's all about the door: he gets to keep his door is open if he's quiet. It was hard for about two weeks as we introduced it but then, holy moly, he's sleeping though! And even if he wakes up, he's quiet. It's crazy. He's like in there doing macrame or something. We're getting consistent sleep and I'm a happier person.
Now that I'm getting rested, I just have to resist my urges to burn the candle at all ends. I have to resist my own night owl tendencies, and go to bed. If I can't sleep, I'm the only one to blame. But I feel lucky for that. It's a beautiful thing.
Now drift off...
Love love,
Margot
Antidote to the Y.S.Y.D.S. game
In writing the novel, there were moments when something beautiful happened; when sentences appeared onscreen as perfect as pie. And weeks did go by when I was happily obsessed with the secret lives of the characters unfurling. But most of the time it was a just a fuckload of work. I doubted it would ever be good enough to share. That's why I choked at the very end of the process, as I was submitting it to potential agents.
You see, by keeping my story in my laptop and head, I could play this really cool game called You Suck You Dumb Shit …whenever I wanted! (Y.S.Y.D.S.–don't you love it when the acronym is harder to say than the words?) If my book is never published and never read, I reason, I can keep torturing myself by playing out ridiculous fantasies where:
a) It’s praised as “the voice of our generation,” “a cunning retelling of a classic love story gone awry,” and “San Francisco’s best tale since Tales of the City."
OR (still in my head, that glorious beast):
b) It’s assessed as “Crappy white girl drivel. Its author should be water-boarded for adding to the piles of typewritten trash in which the world is already drowning.”
If I never share my writing, you see, I can inflate and berate myself at whim! I’m then bound to stay twisted up like a stale old pretzel, unable to produce a word…thereby avoiding all possibility of criticism and failure!
Yes, it’s hard to be such a genius of mental gymnastics.
I spent all of 2009 in a dark and fallow state related to my novel and creative pursuits in general. I crawled out from my cave in December, relieved to see a glimmer of a vision for a future life. I agreed to be here happily in idyllic Rockridge; to go nuts for this beautiful family and life; and to take a risk and just start blogging, even though I HATE that term. Yuck. A blog sounds like something coughed up from a smoker’s lung.
Anyway, Praise Be to WordPress, it’s 2010 and I’m writing again! (God, I do annoy myself sometimes. Anyway–I was trying to be positive.) Through this simple outlet of words on a screen, about whatever I want, I feel so much more…myself. Just happier, period. I’m also getting more sleep this year–but that’s another story.
To conclude this one I just have to say, to whisper in everyone’s ears: take that little bit of time you need. Do something small, another step towards your dream, the one you think is too far-reaching.
I have to remind myself that trying and failing makes for a much better story than never trying at all. We have to believe. We have to try. It’d be too painfully boring if we didn’t!
Thanks for reading,
Your Margot
Nighttime in Rockridge Country
It’s dark out here in Rockridge Country. I walked home from the Bart one night after we’d just moved to Oakland. It was 9:10 pm. I walked down a street–I don’t know, Lawton? I’d heard about frequent muggings of Rockridge commuters, but having just left night-buzzing San Francisco, I wasn’t thinking it was late, or that it would be that dark.
The only sound was that of my breath, and the legs of my corduroys rubbing together as I walked. Two reminders, I told myself, that it was good we now lived further away from Tartine. And I could still walk! I’d had two beers and then taken Bart and damned if I wouldn’t walk, just to prove I could. But I was unnerved by being alone on the street. The road itself was black; no headlights, no one else traveling at what seemed to me to be a perfectly fine hour to be coming home or going out. Didn’t they believe in streetlights? What kind of country was I in, in which night was actually…dark?!?
That’s Rockridge Country, ma’am. Oaktown, Cali-forn-i-a.
The Subarus and Hondas parked in crushed-eco-gravel driveways glittered in the–what was that?–ah yes: moonlight. The perfect brown bungalows were dark, dozing off. Soft lights gleamed here and there from windows carved out of the bark of the square-ish Craftman homes. In the dim light I spotted $300 tricycles and brightly-colored sport sets strewn about the front yards. I was confused. In San Francisco, we had no front yards, so it wasn’t even an option to leave a trike out all night to get thugged by a drunk hipster, bum, or neighbor. Never mind the contrast of all these riches against the reality of Oakland’s 18% poverty rate. So who lived inside those darn cute houses?
Families. I thought. Dear God, it’s really true! That’s why everyone’s going to bed or already asleep! It horrified me because I wanted to be better than the tame and lame parents I imagined inside the cozy houses I hurried past. Never mind that I myself was excited to be in bed by 10:45. I wanted to be cool enough, superhuman and rich enough, to have stayed in San Francisco. Even though SF was no longer working for me, for us, for Alejandro.
Of course, what I really wanted was to feel comfortable in this weird new land: to understand it. To be enveloped, rather than ostracized, by the neighborhood's warmth and richness. It is idyllic, it is isolating–for now–and it's also just beautiful. My own little patch of country, eight blocks from Bart. That’s about as country as I get.
But I'll keep this desk lamp burning, to remind the one weary traveler who passes by our new house that he or she is not the only one awake in Rockridge tonight.
