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.
