Learnin’
I'm rounding the bend. Now officially in my third trimester, I'm in the golden era of preggotime–lasting all of a week I'd expect–where I don't feel so tired, and I'm not yet giant. Giant is coming quickly I know: I'm getting offered seats on crowded BART trains, and thankfully taking them. More importantly, I'm starting to see how having a baby could be not only possible, but possibly beautiful.
I guess I'm Learnin'. Something I really hate doing, 'cause I like to be good at everything instantly. Rather than having spent the last six months blundering around in a confused haze, I'd prefer to have been fully evolved, balanced, and happy the whole time. Wouldn't you? But alas. That ain't how Learnin' works.
When I first learned I was pregnant, I pictured being handed a squalling newborn baby. Having had one before, I know what it takes. In this image, the poor defenseless crying babe was handed to me, a woman teetering on the edge: a full-time working mom with a toddler and a husband who travels. My carefully constructed pyramid of a survival-led life and schedule was already crumbling. The pieces were sloppily glued together, requiring superhuman feats of both myself and my amazing husband. We've both been acting as Man and Woman, Worker and House-person, giving it 135% each. We've got an incredibly lucky/lovely home life. Just no time to enjoy it. A baby?? I thought. You've got to be kidding.
I never felt integrated after having Alejandro. It was as if I was granted him–this incredibly bright small human–and I'd simply added him onto my life as a praise-lapping workaholic who was writing a novel on the side. I was a mom by fact, but I wasn't really comfortable with it. Perhaps because I never felt very good at it. Now I'm seeing that the state of mom-ness I can't quite articulate–the patience and nurturing and play and laughter I'd assumed would come naturally to me–has to happen in the scant hours and minutes allotted to such folly. Work and commuting to be done! Grocery shopping, meals made, toys picked up, floors swept, the Boy dressed and undressed and bathed and cajoled into the car yet again! For God's sake, who the fuck has time to relax and play?
As I said though, I'm comin' around. This baby is an amazing opportunity to look at this situation, my fragile pyramid, and to rebuild. I want to be here for both of my kids. I want to be a momma. I want to invest in them, in this precious baby-time. Despite the formidable mortgage and my crappy budgeting skills, I will not go back to work after 3 months off, as I did with Alejandro. I will not accept this gift of a life as the straw to break my back, but as an opportunity to create a rich and sustainable life for all of us.
I don't know how it will all pan out. I don't know what my career will look like when I return to work, as I inevitably will. But I know it will be different. I'll have to go back to something better, a scenario more in support of an integrated me.
I think it's called Learnin'. Ain't that right?
Meanwhile I'm thankful for all of the support, wisdom, and good advice I have in my life–including from you, my amazing co-workers, friends, and family. I'm a lucky lady. I'd love to eventually have more to give back to all of you. In time, I think it's gonna happen.
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!
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.
