Wee Broad's Blog | Little Woman. Big Mouth.
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Jun 4, 2013
May 6, 2013
Heavy Reflection
At about the age of 8 I started to realize I was fat. Stirrup stretch-pants and oversized sweatshirts (and Keds) were the fashion trend of the time, but I didn't realize I was bigger around the middle than other girls until summer struck and I was forced to shop for shorts that buttoned. I remember going to Mervyns or JC Penney one day with my step-mom and trying on shorts and I was frustrated that I couldn't fit into the ones I liked. I remember storming out of the dressing room and running away from her at the store. She was so mad at me, and the next day my dad haranged me for running off and when I explained why I was upset, he matter of factly told me that I'm fat. This has stayed with me my ENTIRE life. I am a fat girl. Even when I wore a size 4 I was a fat girl. I probably was a size 4 for a long time after puberty, but I still bought size 12 shorts, because I thought that was the size that I was. I always wore oversized pants and shirts, because I thought I was fat and needed to hide it.
I have battled my weight in different forms since then. I have sort of come to some peace with my body type, shape, and weight, but what I didn't learn how to handle was my own son's weight. He is nearly 5 and he weighs 65 pounds. I have saved his older brother's clothes as hand-me-downs and he fits into the clothes that fit my oldest son when he was in 1st grade. Roman is taller than Dave was at this age, but he weighs significantly more than Dave did, too. Roman has always been big. When he was born he weighed 9 pounds, 5 ounces. When he was six months old he was wearing size 12 months. He is sturdy, stocky and just a big boy. I kept thinking up until he was 3 that he's just big, he's just a big boy. After 3 I realized he was actually getting pudgy, little rolls of fat developing around his middle. He has always had a very good appetite and there is very little food he doesn't like. I admired this about him, because he wasn't a picky eater and he was willing to try and liked things that other kids his age usually turn their noses up at. As time has progressed, I realize he is heavy. He asks for a snack immediately following lunch. Any time anyone is the kitchen, he comes looking to share. It kills me. It literally makes me ache to wonder how I can stop this. How I can stop him from being a "fat kid". And I am conscious that my own issues with being a fat kid are infiltrating my thought process. My husband says, "Stop feeling sorry for him. You're going to give him a complex before he has a chance to develop one on his own." I don't want my son to grab his belly when he's 32 and wonder, "Why the FUCK is *this* here?"
Yesterday the neighbor girl, being gracious, brought a basket with three bags of chips and the last of some powdered doughnuts over to share. It was right before dinner and we had just arrived home from a birthday party where Roman had enough cake, ice cream, nachos and candy for the week. When I wasn't looking, he stuffed a doughnut into his mouth. I cringed and told him dinner was soon and quietly took the snacks inside to the kitchen where they were out of sight. He loves to eat, I love to eat. I understand his need to taste. I understand his need to have things in his mouth. When he's not eating, I catch him putting toys in his mouth, sucking on paper, occasionally chewing his shirt. Wonderously, he has never sucked his thumb. I sucked my thumb incessantly as a child, and in private from age 5 to 11.
Roman is gentle, loving and very affectionate. I do not want to kill his tenderness by shaming him about his weight. I believe the shame I felt about my body killed my joy. It killed my happiness and is the largest reason I tend toward depression. The root of my sadness is always about feeling ashamed of myself. I want him to grow up happy and confident. I am afraid if I don't fix his fatness and steer him in the right direction, his tenderness will be killed by cruel kids at school.
Parenting is about maintaining a contented balance of nurturing with love and encouragement and not goofing up your kid's brain with the stuff that may still be goofing up your brain. So, I am trying really hard to encourage healthy food choices, to limit his intake of high-fat, high-sugar foods, and to tell him No, when I think he's had enough. Roman loves to be outside, he likes to walk, he likes to bike, he likes to play with other kids. He's not the fastest, he doesn't show too much competitiveness, he just likes to be around people and be part of the group. He may just be a big kid, and I'm OK with him being a big kid. I just want him to know how to shrug off rude remarks, or people making fun of him. I have heard that being overweight is different for boys than it is for girls. And as much as the inequality of that statement sucks, I hope that it's true. I hope that he is able to avoid the kind of peer punishment I suffered as a shy, socially awkward kid. Both my boys are sensitive, but for some reason I feel like Roman's extra padding absorbs more pain. Maybe that is a reflection of what I believe my fat does for me. My fat absorbs my pain, it absorbs my fears so that I don't have to deal with them. My fat is literally my baggage.
I know I am not my children and my children are not me, but it is really hard to to not blame myself for their challenges. I am their guide right now, I am on the lookout for their well-being. So, when my son wants to have a snack every hour or whenever he feels bored, I feel like I caused this in him. Because he sees me do that. And if I can't stop myself from going down a bad path, how can I stop him. I can't tell him, "Don't follow me," when that's exactly what he's supposed to be doing. And so I have to change my behaviors. I have to make better choices. And this is where it gets hard, because the choice to eat whenever the mood strikes and the choice not to exercise is where I feel safe. It's where I don't feel like I'm being pinned to conformity. Being fat is my rebellion. Being fat is a big "fuck you" to people who think I should be like them.
If I am truly going to give Roman, as well as Dave and Nora, the ability to go forth on their own journeys with gusto and self-confidence, I guess I have to give it to myself. I guess. But sitting here right now, I am so overwhelmed with all the shoulds of life that the last thing I want is another "should". Because that's where the rebellion comes from. If you tell me I "should," or it "would be better" if I, then I will tell you to go fuck yourself. The pressure of "should" makes me want to eat an entire bag of chips. I cannot pressure my kids or myself to do anything. But I will still put one foot in front of the other, going the way that I *need* to go. I read a good quote from a 90-something year-old woman who said, "Do what you need to do, not what you want." I remember thinking, Psshh, another person saying I "should" take care of business before my desires. But, that's not it. Sometimes my desire is my need. I need to clean the sink every morning and every night, because it brings me calm. I need to sit and read for 30 minutes a day, because it alleviates my tension. I may want to buy an $88 linen bomber jacket at Nordstrom, but I don't *need* it to make me happy. And maybe if I look at eating and exercise as a need and not a should, I can decide I don't need to eat when I'm not hungry, I can decide I need a walk around the block at night, just to get fresh air and to see the colors of the sky, and if I happen to burn some calories along the way ... Bonus.
I have battled my weight in different forms since then. I have sort of come to some peace with my body type, shape, and weight, but what I didn't learn how to handle was my own son's weight. He is nearly 5 and he weighs 65 pounds. I have saved his older brother's clothes as hand-me-downs and he fits into the clothes that fit my oldest son when he was in 1st grade. Roman is taller than Dave was at this age, but he weighs significantly more than Dave did, too. Roman has always been big. When he was born he weighed 9 pounds, 5 ounces. When he was six months old he was wearing size 12 months. He is sturdy, stocky and just a big boy. I kept thinking up until he was 3 that he's just big, he's just a big boy. After 3 I realized he was actually getting pudgy, little rolls of fat developing around his middle. He has always had a very good appetite and there is very little food he doesn't like. I admired this about him, because he wasn't a picky eater and he was willing to try and liked things that other kids his age usually turn their noses up at. As time has progressed, I realize he is heavy. He asks for a snack immediately following lunch. Any time anyone is the kitchen, he comes looking to share. It kills me. It literally makes me ache to wonder how I can stop this. How I can stop him from being a "fat kid". And I am conscious that my own issues with being a fat kid are infiltrating my thought process. My husband says, "Stop feeling sorry for him. You're going to give him a complex before he has a chance to develop one on his own." I don't want my son to grab his belly when he's 32 and wonder, "Why the FUCK is *this* here?"
Yesterday the neighbor girl, being gracious, brought a basket with three bags of chips and the last of some powdered doughnuts over to share. It was right before dinner and we had just arrived home from a birthday party where Roman had enough cake, ice cream, nachos and candy for the week. When I wasn't looking, he stuffed a doughnut into his mouth. I cringed and told him dinner was soon and quietly took the snacks inside to the kitchen where they were out of sight. He loves to eat, I love to eat. I understand his need to taste. I understand his need to have things in his mouth. When he's not eating, I catch him putting toys in his mouth, sucking on paper, occasionally chewing his shirt. Wonderously, he has never sucked his thumb. I sucked my thumb incessantly as a child, and in private from age 5 to 11.
Roman is gentle, loving and very affectionate. I do not want to kill his tenderness by shaming him about his weight. I believe the shame I felt about my body killed my joy. It killed my happiness and is the largest reason I tend toward depression. The root of my sadness is always about feeling ashamed of myself. I want him to grow up happy and confident. I am afraid if I don't fix his fatness and steer him in the right direction, his tenderness will be killed by cruel kids at school.
Parenting is about maintaining a contented balance of nurturing with love and encouragement and not goofing up your kid's brain with the stuff that may still be goofing up your brain. So, I am trying really hard to encourage healthy food choices, to limit his intake of high-fat, high-sugar foods, and to tell him No, when I think he's had enough. Roman loves to be outside, he likes to walk, he likes to bike, he likes to play with other kids. He's not the fastest, he doesn't show too much competitiveness, he just likes to be around people and be part of the group. He may just be a big kid, and I'm OK with him being a big kid. I just want him to know how to shrug off rude remarks, or people making fun of him. I have heard that being overweight is different for boys than it is for girls. And as much as the inequality of that statement sucks, I hope that it's true. I hope that he is able to avoid the kind of peer punishment I suffered as a shy, socially awkward kid. Both my boys are sensitive, but for some reason I feel like Roman's extra padding absorbs more pain. Maybe that is a reflection of what I believe my fat does for me. My fat absorbs my pain, it absorbs my fears so that I don't have to deal with them. My fat is literally my baggage.
I know I am not my children and my children are not me, but it is really hard to to not blame myself for their challenges. I am their guide right now, I am on the lookout for their well-being. So, when my son wants to have a snack every hour or whenever he feels bored, I feel like I caused this in him. Because he sees me do that. And if I can't stop myself from going down a bad path, how can I stop him. I can't tell him, "Don't follow me," when that's exactly what he's supposed to be doing. And so I have to change my behaviors. I have to make better choices. And this is where it gets hard, because the choice to eat whenever the mood strikes and the choice not to exercise is where I feel safe. It's where I don't feel like I'm being pinned to conformity. Being fat is my rebellion. Being fat is a big "fuck you" to people who think I should be like them.
If I am truly going to give Roman, as well as Dave and Nora, the ability to go forth on their own journeys with gusto and self-confidence, I guess I have to give it to myself. I guess. But sitting here right now, I am so overwhelmed with all the shoulds of life that the last thing I want is another "should". Because that's where the rebellion comes from. If you tell me I "should," or it "would be better" if I, then I will tell you to go fuck yourself. The pressure of "should" makes me want to eat an entire bag of chips. I cannot pressure my kids or myself to do anything. But I will still put one foot in front of the other, going the way that I *need* to go. I read a good quote from a 90-something year-old woman who said, "Do what you need to do, not what you want." I remember thinking, Psshh, another person saying I "should" take care of business before my desires. But, that's not it. Sometimes my desire is my need. I need to clean the sink every morning and every night, because it brings me calm. I need to sit and read for 30 minutes a day, because it alleviates my tension. I may want to buy an $88 linen bomber jacket at Nordstrom, but I don't *need* it to make me happy. And maybe if I look at eating and exercise as a need and not a should, I can decide I don't need to eat when I'm not hungry, I can decide I need a walk around the block at night, just to get fresh air and to see the colors of the sky, and if I happen to burn some calories along the way ... Bonus.
Apr 25, 2013
This Might Be The Change in Meds Talking ...
.... But I do feel a lot better than I did about a month ago. It takes time to adjust to change and also to allow for little miracles to occur. I am grateful for all the love and support from friends and family, for my own fortitude of using busy work to keep my head above water. And I am grateful to my mom and John for loaning me The Beast to get Dave to school and Roman to soccer. As much as I love the offers of help I have received, there is much joy in the ability to be self-reliant.
Also, The Beast, as I have affectionately dubbed the brown '79 Ford F250, has given me the opportunity to wax nostalgic about a time when I was about Dave's age and my own mother's main form of transportation was a 70's model moss-green Ford that only played AM radio and got us from our apartment in Milton to Des Moines where the greenhouses are and where I attended school. There is a smell to these old Fords that is like warm vinyl comfort and greasy valor. It reminds me of a time of childhood nights traveling down Military Road and it's abundance of stop lights and the beginning of what is now a traffic nightmare in South King/North Pierce County, listening to golden oldies on the AM dial. In the mornings we'd stop and get hot cider for me and coffee for my mom at the 7-Eleven in downtown Milton and head on our way to our other home in Des Moines. I enjoyed this time with my mom because it felt like we were comrades sharing a journey. More so a journey of tenacity for my mom, I now realize, but an exciting one for me. You develop a lot of grit when you tough things out. Looking back on it now I realize that old Ford was likely not my mom's preferred mode of travel, but she did what she had to keep us moving. It was winter for the majority of the time that we drove that truck and I remember the frost on the hood but we were almost too hot in the cab, singing along to The Beatles or Janis Joplin. Winter is a tough time for anyone in the plant business in Washington state. Not a lot of people out beautifying their yards. We always suffered a bit in the winter. Summer was obviously profitable and the most "comfortable". But, winter was my favorite. The bitter cold of not just the weather, but also of our circumstances forced us to be closer. I revel in the knitting together we do when things are at their worst, to keep from unraveling.
I have been reminded of that time while driving this mammoth of a vehicle that elicits stares and causes heads to turn as the axles groan and squeak as I turn the no-power steering wheel in whatever direction I'm taking. Winter is a natural part of life and without the coldness to remind us how good the warm sun feels when we do get it, we might take it for granted. The spring after that winter we drove the old green Ford my mom got a brand new gray Honda Accord with a fancy *CD* player. We bought a Bodeens CD and played the crap out of it during every commute. We still would stop at 7-Eleven. We moved into a place closer to Des Moines while my Grampa remodeled our old house for us, and life moved on and we carried on, sometimes up, sometimes down, but we kept moving. That year might have been one of the last years I didn't think anything was "wrong" with our boho lifestyle, because around the age of 13 I started to roll my eyes at what I perceived as my mom's patchwork quilt way of life. It drove me nuts, the lack of routine or fluidity to our daily life. I believed that if I kept on the straight and narrow I would fair better. This is partially what lead to the puckering up of my 20's. While I have learned to let go and embrace more bohemian rhapsody into my life I am by nature a creature of habit and find comfort in routine and following traditions. I realize I can be both things and more. I have a greater appreciation for my mom and other single parents and couples down on their luck who have had to live a patchwork quilt life. It may lack congruency but it is unique and familiar to those who make it. I count myself lucky to not only experience the cold winters of life, but for the vigor it instills. My day will come when we get our fancy "Accord with a CD player" and I know I will appreciate it even more for having driven The Beast.
Also, The Beast, as I have affectionately dubbed the brown '79 Ford F250, has given me the opportunity to wax nostalgic about a time when I was about Dave's age and my own mother's main form of transportation was a 70's model moss-green Ford that only played AM radio and got us from our apartment in Milton to Des Moines where the greenhouses are and where I attended school. There is a smell to these old Fords that is like warm vinyl comfort and greasy valor. It reminds me of a time of childhood nights traveling down Military Road and it's abundance of stop lights and the beginning of what is now a traffic nightmare in South King/North Pierce County, listening to golden oldies on the AM dial. In the mornings we'd stop and get hot cider for me and coffee for my mom at the 7-Eleven in downtown Milton and head on our way to our other home in Des Moines. I enjoyed this time with my mom because it felt like we were comrades sharing a journey. More so a journey of tenacity for my mom, I now realize, but an exciting one for me. You develop a lot of grit when you tough things out. Looking back on it now I realize that old Ford was likely not my mom's preferred mode of travel, but she did what she had to keep us moving. It was winter for the majority of the time that we drove that truck and I remember the frost on the hood but we were almost too hot in the cab, singing along to The Beatles or Janis Joplin. Winter is a tough time for anyone in the plant business in Washington state. Not a lot of people out beautifying their yards. We always suffered a bit in the winter. Summer was obviously profitable and the most "comfortable". But, winter was my favorite. The bitter cold of not just the weather, but also of our circumstances forced us to be closer. I revel in the knitting together we do when things are at their worst, to keep from unraveling.
I have been reminded of that time while driving this mammoth of a vehicle that elicits stares and causes heads to turn as the axles groan and squeak as I turn the no-power steering wheel in whatever direction I'm taking. Winter is a natural part of life and without the coldness to remind us how good the warm sun feels when we do get it, we might take it for granted. The spring after that winter we drove the old green Ford my mom got a brand new gray Honda Accord with a fancy *CD* player. We bought a Bodeens CD and played the crap out of it during every commute. We still would stop at 7-Eleven. We moved into a place closer to Des Moines while my Grampa remodeled our old house for us, and life moved on and we carried on, sometimes up, sometimes down, but we kept moving. That year might have been one of the last years I didn't think anything was "wrong" with our boho lifestyle, because around the age of 13 I started to roll my eyes at what I perceived as my mom's patchwork quilt way of life. It drove me nuts, the lack of routine or fluidity to our daily life. I believed that if I kept on the straight and narrow I would fair better. This is partially what lead to the puckering up of my 20's. While I have learned to let go and embrace more bohemian rhapsody into my life I am by nature a creature of habit and find comfort in routine and following traditions. I realize I can be both things and more. I have a greater appreciation for my mom and other single parents and couples down on their luck who have had to live a patchwork quilt life. It may lack congruency but it is unique and familiar to those who make it. I count myself lucky to not only experience the cold winters of life, but for the vigor it instills. My day will come when we get our fancy "Accord with a CD player" and I know I will appreciate it even more for having driven The Beast.
Apr 18, 2013
Why little drops Reaction to Dove's "Real Beauty Sketches" Makes me Uncomfortable ... and Angry
After I got up from reading this post: http://jazzylittledrops.tumblr.com/post/48118645174/why-doves-real-beauty-sketches-video-makes-me I started putting away dishes. And as I usually do when I get fired up about something I have an internal dialogue, refuting all her points that pissed me off. As I slammed dishes onto the counter, I had these thoughts.
Guess what, dude, maybe because Dove is a company that is obviously launching an advertising campaign they are targeting their customers. Maybe they know more white women buy their products. Maybe if this was a Ken Burns documentary, we'd see every one's reaction. But, no, this was essentially an ad. Just like Folgers like to make me cry with the soldier who comes home Christmas morning and his mom practically faints from joy; so, too is Dove trying to get an *emotional* response from their target audience. Why? Oh, because *emotions* trigger us to *buy*. Yeah, so maybe we shouldn't be so hard on the *company* that is trying to sell us something. We KNOW that. We're women! We ARE smart AND beautiful ... and guess what ... as human women, that's part of our POWER.
I mean, why don't we tell Mr. Peacock (pictured above), Hey, buddy, calm down, you can get the ladies without plumping up those tail feathers. I mean, I'm pretty sure the Old Ladies Peacock Club didn't get together in the 50's and determine that they need to undermine male Peacocks by telling them the only way they're worthwhile is if they keep those plumes in tiptop shape. That comes pretty naturally. As it does with us, you know, WOMEN. And males, if I should be so bold to say so. Consumerism drives males and females equally - Hey, guys, grow your hair, maintain your hard on, trim that beard, don't stink!
And if there is more concentration on females it's because (ta-da!) we traditionally are the spenders! Advertisers: they know what they're doing. Really.
Just like I won't let a man tell me what to believe, I won't let this feminist-on-steroids tell me what is truth and what's a lie. I CHOOSE to use beauty to feel empowered. Women have greater power than men BECAUSE we can illicit responses (yes, I'm referring to sexual attraction) in our male counterparts, or not. Men (really, just people in general, but maybe men more so) are attracted to bright and shiny things. Yeah, that includes heterosexuals and homosexuals. Have you ever noticed that some homosexual men like to primp as much, if not more than some women? Right, so there is power in "beauty". It IS one of our powers, as we have MANY and men KNOW this. Men have known for millions of years that we wield greater power than they do because we are the vessels for the continuation of our species. No doubt misogynists have wreaked havoc on females for centuries. But, here's the deal, I don't need some party pooper to tell me I shouldn't use beauty to feel empowered. I am woman, hear me roar: I LIKE TO FEEL BEAUTIFUL.
Apr 16, 2013
A Little Birthday Wish List
Haircut
Jeans
Tops
Pillows
Bed frame from IKEA
China Cabinet from IKEA
Date night: dinner anywhere and any kind of show
Grass in the backyard
IKEA shopping spree
A carpenter to: build a fence, build enclosure for laundry "room", convert bonus room into master bedroom
Hawaiian vacation
Vehicle for six people and a dog
Lose 34 pounds
Cure for Stress
Desire to Exercise
“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.”
― Federico García Lorca
Apr 14, 2013
Once in a Lifetime
It's not that I'm complaining - well, no, I totally am complaining. I do realize my current life is my own doing and I am fully responsible for where I am right now. I just wish I could go back 10 years and shake myself by the shoulders and say: "The next ten years are going to pass you by like crazycakes! Do the right thing, God damnit!" I could shake down a list of regrets from the past ten years, aaaaand also the last 20 years, but I do believe the choices I made/make paint a picture of who I am. It may not be a pretty picture, but it's my picture.
I never thought I'd be in my 30's wishing I'd made better choices in my 20's, because I honestly believed I was making excellent choices. Granted, having a child at 21 was a bit of a surprise, even to me. I decided from the time that I found out I was pregnant with David Lorenzo Casillas (Dave) that I was going to be a perfect human being to prove to all the naysayers that having a child in my early 20's would be a disaster: I am fully capable of being not just a responsible parent, but a successful one. So, I buttoned up, all the way to my chin. I clinched my butt cheeks so tight no one could try to screw me, and I marched into my destiny as a mother. We moved out of our awesome studio barn, rented a reasonable apartment next to the library, I got a job, I enrolled in school, I put my son in daycare, I left his dad who I felt wasn't heeding the call of being a "responsible-enough" parent. I took on an internship. I got back together with the father of my child, because he proved he did want what I wanted: a family, a good life, to make reasonable, responsible choices. We moved into my childhood home (a rental), our first single-family home with a bedroom for Dave and a bedroom for us. We adopted a cat, I graduated, we adopted another cat. I took a job offer with good pay and benefits, I did the 9:00 to 5:00 Monday through Friday, with my child in daycare 8.5 hours per day. My partner took a better job as a painter, he got benefits. I left my job to work part-time so I could spend more time with my son. We went to Disneyland. We decided we could have another child. We felt like we were making it. David (my partner) was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. We had nutritional paradigm shift. Roman was born. I had the worst case of post-partum depression I've had with either of my three kids. Dave started kindergarten, I went back to work, I put Roman in daycare. I cried. I was depressed for 5 months. Then, in January 2009 Roman's daycare, the place I put all my faith in, told me due to the state's budget cuts, would be closing that June. I was devastated. I was dumbfounded. I fought. I fought the community college, I fought the state, I implored news stations and newspapers to listen to me, I started a petition, I sent emails. In the end the daycare closed, I left my job because I couldn't trust anyone else to take care of my baby. And I spent the summer searching the want ads online. I was determined to find a job at night, or from home. I would not put my child in daycare anymore. When Roman was in daycare those 9 months, he was sick 90 percent of the time. He had so many ear infections the doctor considered putting tubes in his ears if he had one more case. He had multiple fevers, he had sicknesses that I didn't even know existed. I got sick, his brother got sick, I missed work, I was shelling out 80 percent of my income to have him in daycare, even on the days he missed because he was sick, and I lost income to be home with him. Going back to work and putting my children in daycare was not an option for me. I spent the summer taking care of tasks I'd put off. Organizing photos, organizing closets, organizing, organizing, organizing, and watching lots of Trading Spouses. I thought I'd never find what I was looking for. By July I hit the jackpot. On Craigslist I found a job for an at-home transcriptionist. I was suspicious. I researched the company. I applied. I got an interview. I got the job! Holy hell, I got the job. I was so nervous. I thought I'd fail, I thought I'd be fired because I couldn't hack it. By September I was waking up at 4:00 a.m. to work, I was spending time with my sons, I was exercising. I was in love with my husband, who had just received another raise. I felt good. We thought we could buy a house. We did. Two days after we moved in our totally paidoff car died. We took on a loan that added an additional $500 a month (loan and increase in insurance) to our already stretched expenses. Two months later I found out I was pregnant, despite having an IUD for the past two years. I got really sick. I couldn't work. I was devastated. We were going to fail.
After Nora's birth, David left his job to start a business and I went back to work after a three month maternity leave. Summer was great. Fall was bad. Winter was devastating. We stopped paying our mortgage, because if we didn't, we wouldn't eat, stay warm, or be able to flush the toilet. We married. We started dating again. We went on vacation, we did things we hadn't allowed ourselves to do in years because we were being so GD responsible about everything. We got a dog. Our family was complete. Oh, my God! Look what happens when you give your mortgage lender the finger and start treating yourself for once. It felt *good*. I felt like a person again. I felt I/we deserved this kind of life of fun, and intrigue and fulfilling desires. I was happy. Then the foreclosure notices came, the threats from the bank. By the end of summer we were told our house would be put up for auction in November. I started to freak the fuck out. We scrambled to do as the mortgage lender said. We filled out forms, we filled out more forms. We were granted a chance to prove ourselves as responsible home owners. The last three months we have scraped up the funds to pay our mortgage right on the deadline. We are always behind on bills. I eventually had to return my leased vehicle because lenders wouldn't finance a car for us for less than $500 a month. We have had the cupboards and refrigerator bare. We have dug to the bottom of the change jar to buy gas. We live day to day, week to week and at best, month to month. And sometimes we're lucky and we can go out (sort of) like we did when we were "free".
The words that go through my head all the time is lyrics from "The Talking Heads": How did I get here? I got here because I wanted more for myself and for my kids. I refused to work 8 hours a day, spend an hour each day in traffic and pay out the nose so my kids could be in daycare where they got sick every other day.
I try really hard to be a good parent, a good wife, a good daughter, a good grand-daughter, a good person, and sometimes I feel like a failure. I don't make enough money to be self-reliant. My parents both worked so hard all the time. They separated when I was 5, divorced when I was 8, and I felt alone all the time. My mom worked every day at her small nursery. My dad worked overtime at Boeing, even on the weekends I spent with him. I don't remember wanting for much, just more of my parents' attention.
I want to be here for my kids. My chosen career is motherhood. But, I work part-time because it's the happiest medium between being available for my kids and contributing financially to our household. I still feel like I'm being stretched in two different directions. How do people do this? Do I not have the right to have children because I want to raise them myself? Should I have disregarded my love for David and waited for a richer man who may not have loved me as much? Should I sacrafice what I think is right to be considered "responsible?" Should I have aborted when I became pregnant when I I wasn't trying to get pregnant? No.
After Nora was born I understood completely that all life should be is following your heart. Before, I had tried so hard to control my environment. I thought if I pulled my boot straps up high enough I'd eventually make it. Well, guess what: Life, the collective Life, has a greater agenda than mine. If I follow my heart, everything will be OK. Maybe this hippy agenda doesn't jive with the ubequitous "they" that says I have to sacrafice to get ahead. And there is still a part of me that hates myself for not having "more", as if that is what success is. I believe I am successful even though my bank account and FICO score say otherwise. What I do have can't be shown on paper. It can't be quantified. I know everyone has something in their life that isn't they way they want it. And right now, it happens to be our finances. It happens to be that we can't afford a second car. But, I look at this struggle as a lesson. It's a lesson for our kids that we can have fun in the mud, becaue we can't afford to put grass back in our back yard, walking to school is more fun that driving, because we can pick flowers and play at the playground on the way home. The lesson is that being unconventional opens yours eyes, opens up possibilities, stirs your creativity and enriches your life.
So, I regret that in my 20's I buttoned up and puckered my butt to make people believe in me. I wish I'd followed my heart and let myself be unconventional. Who knows what amazing possibilities could have opened up for me back then. All I can do now is live with my heart wide open and wait for the next adventure to walk in.
I never thought I'd be in my 30's wishing I'd made better choices in my 20's, because I honestly believed I was making excellent choices. Granted, having a child at 21 was a bit of a surprise, even to me. I decided from the time that I found out I was pregnant with David Lorenzo Casillas (Dave) that I was going to be a perfect human being to prove to all the naysayers that having a child in my early 20's would be a disaster: I am fully capable of being not just a responsible parent, but a successful one. So, I buttoned up, all the way to my chin. I clinched my butt cheeks so tight no one could try to screw me, and I marched into my destiny as a mother. We moved out of our awesome studio barn, rented a reasonable apartment next to the library, I got a job, I enrolled in school, I put my son in daycare, I left his dad who I felt wasn't heeding the call of being a "responsible-enough" parent. I took on an internship. I got back together with the father of my child, because he proved he did want what I wanted: a family, a good life, to make reasonable, responsible choices. We moved into my childhood home (a rental), our first single-family home with a bedroom for Dave and a bedroom for us. We adopted a cat, I graduated, we adopted another cat. I took a job offer with good pay and benefits, I did the 9:00 to 5:00 Monday through Friday, with my child in daycare 8.5 hours per day. My partner took a better job as a painter, he got benefits. I left my job to work part-time so I could spend more time with my son. We went to Disneyland. We decided we could have another child. We felt like we were making it. David (my partner) was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. We had nutritional paradigm shift. Roman was born. I had the worst case of post-partum depression I've had with either of my three kids. Dave started kindergarten, I went back to work, I put Roman in daycare. I cried. I was depressed for 5 months. Then, in January 2009 Roman's daycare, the place I put all my faith in, told me due to the state's budget cuts, would be closing that June. I was devastated. I was dumbfounded. I fought. I fought the community college, I fought the state, I implored news stations and newspapers to listen to me, I started a petition, I sent emails. In the end the daycare closed, I left my job because I couldn't trust anyone else to take care of my baby. And I spent the summer searching the want ads online. I was determined to find a job at night, or from home. I would not put my child in daycare anymore. When Roman was in daycare those 9 months, he was sick 90 percent of the time. He had so many ear infections the doctor considered putting tubes in his ears if he had one more case. He had multiple fevers, he had sicknesses that I didn't even know existed. I got sick, his brother got sick, I missed work, I was shelling out 80 percent of my income to have him in daycare, even on the days he missed because he was sick, and I lost income to be home with him. Going back to work and putting my children in daycare was not an option for me. I spent the summer taking care of tasks I'd put off. Organizing photos, organizing closets, organizing, organizing, organizing, and watching lots of Trading Spouses. I thought I'd never find what I was looking for. By July I hit the jackpot. On Craigslist I found a job for an at-home transcriptionist. I was suspicious. I researched the company. I applied. I got an interview. I got the job! Holy hell, I got the job. I was so nervous. I thought I'd fail, I thought I'd be fired because I couldn't hack it. By September I was waking up at 4:00 a.m. to work, I was spending time with my sons, I was exercising. I was in love with my husband, who had just received another raise. I felt good. We thought we could buy a house. We did. Two days after we moved in our totally paidoff car died. We took on a loan that added an additional $500 a month (loan and increase in insurance) to our already stretched expenses. Two months later I found out I was pregnant, despite having an IUD for the past two years. I got really sick. I couldn't work. I was devastated. We were going to fail.
After Nora's birth, David left his job to start a business and I went back to work after a three month maternity leave. Summer was great. Fall was bad. Winter was devastating. We stopped paying our mortgage, because if we didn't, we wouldn't eat, stay warm, or be able to flush the toilet. We married. We started dating again. We went on vacation, we did things we hadn't allowed ourselves to do in years because we were being so GD responsible about everything. We got a dog. Our family was complete. Oh, my God! Look what happens when you give your mortgage lender the finger and start treating yourself for once. It felt *good*. I felt like a person again. I felt I/we deserved this kind of life of fun, and intrigue and fulfilling desires. I was happy. Then the foreclosure notices came, the threats from the bank. By the end of summer we were told our house would be put up for auction in November. I started to freak the fuck out. We scrambled to do as the mortgage lender said. We filled out forms, we filled out more forms. We were granted a chance to prove ourselves as responsible home owners. The last three months we have scraped up the funds to pay our mortgage right on the deadline. We are always behind on bills. I eventually had to return my leased vehicle because lenders wouldn't finance a car for us for less than $500 a month. We have had the cupboards and refrigerator bare. We have dug to the bottom of the change jar to buy gas. We live day to day, week to week and at best, month to month. And sometimes we're lucky and we can go out (sort of) like we did when we were "free".
The words that go through my head all the time is lyrics from "The Talking Heads": How did I get here? I got here because I wanted more for myself and for my kids. I refused to work 8 hours a day, spend an hour each day in traffic and pay out the nose so my kids could be in daycare where they got sick every other day.
I try really hard to be a good parent, a good wife, a good daughter, a good grand-daughter, a good person, and sometimes I feel like a failure. I don't make enough money to be self-reliant. My parents both worked so hard all the time. They separated when I was 5, divorced when I was 8, and I felt alone all the time. My mom worked every day at her small nursery. My dad worked overtime at Boeing, even on the weekends I spent with him. I don't remember wanting for much, just more of my parents' attention.
I want to be here for my kids. My chosen career is motherhood. But, I work part-time because it's the happiest medium between being available for my kids and contributing financially to our household. I still feel like I'm being stretched in two different directions. How do people do this? Do I not have the right to have children because I want to raise them myself? Should I have disregarded my love for David and waited for a richer man who may not have loved me as much? Should I sacrafice what I think is right to be considered "responsible?" Should I have aborted when I became pregnant when I I wasn't trying to get pregnant? No.
After Nora was born I understood completely that all life should be is following your heart. Before, I had tried so hard to control my environment. I thought if I pulled my boot straps up high enough I'd eventually make it. Well, guess what: Life, the collective Life, has a greater agenda than mine. If I follow my heart, everything will be OK. Maybe this hippy agenda doesn't jive with the ubequitous "they" that says I have to sacrafice to get ahead. And there is still a part of me that hates myself for not having "more", as if that is what success is. I believe I am successful even though my bank account and FICO score say otherwise. What I do have can't be shown on paper. It can't be quantified. I know everyone has something in their life that isn't they way they want it. And right now, it happens to be our finances. It happens to be that we can't afford a second car. But, I look at this struggle as a lesson. It's a lesson for our kids that we can have fun in the mud, becaue we can't afford to put grass back in our back yard, walking to school is more fun that driving, because we can pick flowers and play at the playground on the way home. The lesson is that being unconventional opens yours eyes, opens up possibilities, stirs your creativity and enriches your life.
So, I regret that in my 20's I buttoned up and puckered my butt to make people believe in me. I wish I'd followed my heart and let myself be unconventional. Who knows what amazing possibilities could have opened up for me back then. All I can do now is live with my heart wide open and wait for the next adventure to walk in.
Apr 10, 2013
New Look
It's Spring - time for something new and something fresh. I think the new title and design reflects my personality a bit better than the last one.
Here is a sampling, in pictures, of my week so far:
Here is a sampling, in pictures, of my week so far:
Woke up Sunday Morning to "Feed me Seymour" - these cats live for 4:00 a.m. feedings.
Miss Hipster getting ready for a trip to the G-Grandparents
Hipster Mentor, and Dave
Thrills
This is awesome!
Corn Flake Muddy Buddies make everything better.
Rhubarb found a new home with the mailbox, porcelain frog and hummerbird feeder.
The Wee blueberry bushes - I now realize they are directly under a likely bathroom for the little Wee birds ....
Moved Roman into Nora's Room. It's so cozy!
Dave has his big boy room ...
Where he has set up shop.
Reconfigured the playroom/office/guest room/laundry room.
Apparently when you don't have a car to avoid your home, you find things inside your home to keep you away from things like cleaning and working ... which reminds me, I should be working right now ....
And here is an article explaining why I'm probably stressed/depressed and trying to fix it by rearranging things in my house:
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