boundaries – Spread Your Dreams

mom

As I laid down and waited for sleep to take me to tomorrow, I heard a child in the parking lot below,

“Hey what does the car tell you?”

shuffle shuffle his little feet went –

“Hey, hello?! What does the car tell you?”

shuffle shuffle his little feet went –

“Mom!! what does the car tell you?”

He so deeply wanted his mom to answer the joke. Her silence was an exhaustion he did not understand. The tenor and the pleading sound of the word ‘mom’ made my psychic cackles go up – I felt for her. He had probably been telling this joke all day and jokes like it for days. She hadn’t tuned him out, but just wanted 20 seconds of silence.

The word mom. Mom. Mom.

It’s a monolith precursor of asks and needs and wants – a monolith of demands and expectations that never seem to pause. It’s often a child’s first word and the word that turns every unique individual woman who has a child into a martyr servant-being for at least 18 years. Even if your life’s quest is to be a Mother, the constant, intensity of the chant of needs will become exhausting.

The thing about the word ✨Mother✨ is that it takes away the woman who you were- sometimes even before you had truly become her. As soon as this title is placed upon your shoulders the world believes it has a right to criticize and speak down to you – in addition to the criticism and juvenilizing that happens to women for merely existing – as if you cannot be trusted to care for your child in your best intentioned manner. As if your choices, background, experience, education, or any other aspect should be up for judgment much less condemned by strangers; women who have chosen not to have kids, or men.

As a mother, your mere existence is questioned at every turn. You are criticized within an inch of your life, but honored one day a year with a Hallmark card and a box of chocolates. Oh darling! Being a mom is a Gift!

The word mother is not lifted up as a goddess term in our culture, but weighed down into a diminutive caretaker. Mothers are rarely praised for what they give their children, which is the best years of the first chapter of their life. Often mothers later feel obligated to give years beyond the best of their youth, thieving from the greatest of the wilding and free crone years. Mothers are expected to give everything and yet people say, “Oh but you can do it all … of course you can have a career … of course you can finish school … of course you can have time to write.” And YES that can all happen, but in order for it to be balanced there has to be support and boundaries and not everything will get a mother’s full attention. Mothers can do it all- but that doesn’t mean they can do it all perfectly.

When mothers are exhausted and just done the tears may fall.

When mothers are exhausted and just done the jokes will not be heard.

When mothers are exhausted and just done the world can become too loud.

When mothers are exhausted and just done the wine may flow.

When mothers are exhausted and just done they may need to simply rest, but the world does not embrace their need to take rest.

Next time your the mothers in your life seem to be fading, do not wait for them to ask for help- that is not something we are good at. Next time a mama is fading, step in and offer to drop off dinner, ask when you can pick up a kid for a few hours, ask if they need help grocery shopping so they can spend an hour doing nothing.

Next time you hear a child hollering for a mama’s demand driven attention just let the mama know they will be ok – they don’t have to provide the punchline to every joke. More importantly they should not be the punching bag of society’s criticism.

Next Chapter

“You will require a new level of integrity within your life, which will transpire into better boundaries and a more stable foundation” – Pivot Year

I’ve always been both an early & late bloomer. I was thrust into being an adult from the age of 8 when my father suddenly died and I felt I had to be responsible for helping keep my mother remain as sober as possible so she would be around for me and my sister. Of course, this wasn’t explicit and it’s hard to explain to those who haven’t experienced it – it’s just a survival instinct that you embody. As the eldest, I just did more and learned to fill in the spaces because one parent vanished and I instinctively knew another parent could as well so I worked to keep things as stable as possible and to be available for my mom. That being said, mom was emotionally absent, for the most part, and we survived by cobbling together cues on how to cook food, manage school, and navigate social interactions. If I ever was overwhelmed or sad my mother would tell me to sleep on it and I’d feel better in the morning – I learned to cope through avoidance and diminishing my feelings.

We had an aunt who loved us fiercely, but after we moved from Texas to Colorado that lifeline was gone, save letters we would send back & forth. The Colorado move happened when I was 14 and my sister was 11. That’s when we really began being on our own for most intents and purposes. That fall I convinced my mom to let me travel to NYC on my own for a week. Her semi-boyfriend encouraged it, saying, “All flowers bloom in their own time.” I took that to heart and mom seemed glad to let me go. By the time I was 16 I’d begun periodically living on my own and had backpacked solo in Europe, twice. At 19, I had completed just shy of 2 years of college and enlisted in the Navy – letting my mother, who was off bicycling with a boyfriend, know via a phone call. My sister was finishing her junior year and maybe just off at summer camp, best I can recall.

While I launched myself into the world as early as I could, I never took the time to look within or rather to claim what was within and follow my heart – there was no time for introspection in our home and I kept chasing my tail for decades. Even though my mom was emotionally vacant and I knew from a place in my gut that she’d never know how to support me emotionally, I so badly wanted to be seen by her. In the end, I waffled and wobbled through life until I found myself sitting, still unmoored at 50, unwrapping what I get to be in this next chapter, who I am now, and all that I’ve been. My longest role has been caregiver – first to my sister & my own mother. Later, as mother to my daughter.

The role of mother – perhaps the most important yet least valued in our culture and I don’t mean that in some trad wife way, but that mothers are not honored for their sacrifice and diligence. It’s an expectation that the mother will simply Be There for their child and I made the expectation my identity. I did not demand that her father step up because it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t, until it was too late and I found myself resenting him for not being more engaged in her life. He had her half the time, but never actively engaged in ensuring all the details of life were covered. More precisely, I got there first. I took action- I wanted to be fully present for her while giving the best I could of life experiences. He was an available dad and, in truth, that’s solid.

When we were still married, he once told me, “If you want someone who is ambitious, we should just get a divorce now.” I replied that I’d be happy if he’d just finish projects around the house. But with thirteen years of reflection, he was correct. If I am to have a partner, I need one with ambition. That being said, my ambition was funneled into my daughter, which brings me to where I sit, 17 years later, wondering What Next?

There is no book on how to be a “Good Mother” and every single experience is different. We can only do what we feel is best, and no matter what our choices, our children will likely seek therapy. I watch my own daughter move through the world and I witness the success of my efforts. I feel validated for the sacrifices I made, the lack of career tributes are fully accepted when I watch the tribute that my daughter has become for the world, because let us not pretend she won’t be a tribute. All of her joys, successes, hardships, dreams, goals, and her soul itself will be chewed on by the world. It has already begun – that is what each of us is in truth- a tribute to the world we are part of in all ways. And the world, for me, has been focused on her for the last 17 years, but it is now time to begin a return to me.

My focus, for the first time in my life, can be completely about the second half of my life and how I will begin to fall in love with life once more – not that my life hasn’t been good – but it’s been a buffet of taking care of others who I perceived as needing me and in that being “needed,” I failed to allow myself to be the main course. I am so excited to no longer be an option within my own life, but to be the Main Course in my decisions.

sometimes the journey is shit

“Toxic” gratefulness negates the journey we are on – some things in life are just shit and maybe you don’t need to be grateful for the shit, but for the ability to keep moving forward. Accept the moment, live in it fully, with dignity. Recognize the obstacles, even on the slowest roads there can be speed bumps, and then look past those obstacles to a future where you can be grateful for your resilience. Build a life that allows you to sit in the moment you’ve created and embrace with a joy of self-reflection that acknowledges you survived some shit.

Accept the now – there is shit in the world and there is beauty – they co-exist – do not let either consume you – move through both with centeredness. Do right by those you meet. Navigate around those that block your joy/journey. Do not fear calling bullshit on bad news shit stirrers.

Present the present …. give love now.

To Be

If you are unable to sit in the stability of simpleness – a simple life – there will be no satisfaction in more. If you are not grounded in your core, more will never be enough, different will never satisfy, because your nervous system has not learned to be still. Once simply being is a place that doesn’t make you anxious, you will be able to step into new levels of growth because you will see there is not starting over or failure, but simply rebirth and completion. Simple does not mean less, but rather simple means To Be.

getting by on less

A week or so ago, I knocked a stack of glass votive candle holders out of a cabinet. They shattered with epic velocity and shards of glass were everywhere. While vacuuming up the mess, my vaccum got jammed. I didn’t have time to mess with unjamming and managed to sweep up what remained of the glass. It was a situation passably managed & I left the vacuum staged near my kitchen- like a low-priority patient in an understaffed ER- to be dealt with in order of urgency.

Today, I finally had enough bandwidth to look at the wounded warrior of domestic convenience and, wouldn’t you know, it took ten minutes to get the vacuum working order. I just had to pull off the long hose and fish out the mangled mess of glass wrapped with dog fur. With a few jabs and shakes, I fixed my vacuum! It worked again – I double tested it by sucking a whole new batch of dog fur. Pleased with myself, I was.

But with that fixed, now the a/c in my truck is more balmy than cold. I’ve been dreading this moment, but getting by and by with an occasional coolant charge that isn’t hard to perform. Now, however, it’s more mechanical, becoming another thing I’ll need to handle.

The only thing I’m certain of, as I age, is that there will always be something to keep up or repair or retire & replace.

Anyone who ever tells me “everything is great” is fully suspect. I once had a friend who answered, “How’s life?” with, “Oh my life is great, for a kid in Haiti, so I can’t complain.” What he was saying is it’s all perspective and you can be “blessed,” have all the general necessities covered and even some luxuries, if you’re lucky, but the reality is life, & everything in it, is in a stage of decay. Nothing will ever remain perfect.

I try to listen for those perfect moments and find them outside of all the Life Things that will inevitably break down and fuck up and cause us angst, but some days it’s harder than others. Some days boundaries are crossed or you just can’t seem to get traction in life and on those days that things aren’t great and there’s no reason to say “everything is fine.” Some days everything is shit and that’s just the angle you gotta build from- those are the days your attitude will make or break you. On those days, it doesn’t mean you don’t show up, but also don’t be shy to say, “Fuck it. This is all I got.” Here I am, fighting the good fight- sometimes with a drier tank.

critters

I’ve been hearing critters at night- always around 11pm the activity escalates. It’s a cacophony of scraping -scurried scattered scamperings as critters of some sort, I believe mice, make their way around and about the crawl space of my house. I’d not been able to figure out how they were getting into the pier & beam crawl space, but finally found an egress hole in the dirt, against the back of the house that had been hidden by overgrown vegetation and am quite sure, from their sound patterns, that this is where they make their approach to join the party.

This isn’t a new problem. There are mouse / rat poison stations tucked near the house perimeter- placed by previous occupants, but apparently long ago unbaited. Sadly, today I will bait the traps again. Whatever is small enough to access both the trap and my house, will ingest the poison and wander back to their nests to die in 24-48 hours. From what I’ve read, the poison is a neurotoxin and the death process may be painful.

I don’t want to kill the animals. I appreciate their place in the ecosystem and I wish our yard had a rat snake that was fat on the hog, so to speak, from these mice. I wish the falcon I’ve seen swoop in and snatch up a blue jay would feast on these mice. Neither of those demise would be painless, but at least it would be the natural cycle. That cycle is not the reality in this scenario. Nature’s prey predator cycle can’t keep up when prey have such a generously provided hiding spot.

The reality is 75 years ago this little neighborhood was built on what was then farmland near the heart of Austin and a bustling neighborhood grew up with yards and trees and people. The animals continue to breed and have to live within our constrains and are doing very well for themselves. The reality is a mischief of mice is residing under my bathroom and they are terrible guests. In addition to late night antics, which I could possibly get used to, they have terrible hygiene. Their antics are creating the smell the ammonia which is likely off gassing from their piss and shit. Appropriately, the smell is limited to the bathroom which means they are likely in that area- which is virtually unreachable via said crawl space. Some days it’s worse than others- likely related to their reproductive cycles and the number of freeloaders under the house. Regardless, their hidey-hole is also my home and they are awful squatters. Thanks to their foraging nature, they will soon die a painful death and I will be able to have a clean smelling, healthy house once more. Nature always creates balance. In this case humans with an understanding of chemistry and the ability to create poison, so that balance isn’t always fair.

picking up boys in bars

There was a time, for several years, I went dancing 2-3 times a week. In the beginning, it was hard for me to let go and allow someone else to lead, but I soon found safety in letting go on the floor. With that came swing, two-step, freeform jazz, it didn’t matter the music or style of dance so long as it required a strong lead and lots of connection. I felt so alive on the dance floor and able to be completely free for those windows of time. It brought out a boldness in me that was otherwise muted through much of my life.

Early on, I made a rule with myself that I never would never go home with or date any dance partners. I was not about to ruin those windows of connection and trust. But that wasn’t much of an issue- most of the dancers were there only to dance, few drank, and fewer still dated each other. They were a community and I appreciated being allowed to share the floor. But sometimes, I would meet someone who was not a dancer. Not a regular, and that is intriguing. While I know picking up boys in bars is not a great idea, sometimes I just can’t help myself.

On this night, I was dancing at a place so small it felt like a friend’s oversized living room when I thought I’d noticed a handsome, well-put together man watching me dance. When I took a water break at the bar he asked, “How did you learn to move like that?” I told him, “Well, I come here often, but I’ve never seen you.”

And that was because he was here for an interview- for a big promotion- and he had actually just learned that he’d be offered the job so he was checking out Austin but he didn’t really know anyone here so he’d come out to listen to some music. I introduced myself and said, “Now you know someone. I have a couple more dances left in me if you’d like to dance.” He said he prefers to be the one making music but would love a tour guide if I was up for another spot after I finished dancing. I was game because I loved showing off my town to geographically unavailable men.

He was hoping for more Texas music so we grabbed an Uber to the Whitehorse and I tried to teach him to dance, but he really wasn’t a dancer. He did live up to making music and gathered a crowd playing the broken down piano on the enclosed porch of the bar. After he’d played for about 20 minutes, we sat outside and shared stories about figuring out life and fears of making big changes. I felt the quick intimacy developing that is only found in chance encounters. Those encounters where you may never meet again so you can afford to be fully vulnerable.

He asked if I’d like to go back to his place. I was hesitant, because our time together was so lovely and going with him might turn a good moment sour. He interrupted my thoughts by saying his hotel/apartment was on the 16th floor and had a beautiful view of the city. I had seen bigger cities from higher spots. I wasn’t hesitant about going with him as a concept, but was debating if I wanted this bubble of a perfect night to be burst by the world that existed outside of our immediate experience.

I decided if he’d be willing to walk across town, I’d go with him. So I told him, “I’ll go, but only if we walk through the city. It’s about thirty minutes.”

“That sounds great! I love to walk,” and I became a bit more smitten.

We walked through downtown and he told me how music came to him in colors. I told him about how when I write, I live in the places that emerge through my pen. He asked about the high rises we passed, all so new, what was here before? He was inquisitive and observant. Cultured, but not snobby. We met cops on Clydesdales and dodged puking bachelorettes. We laughed at the strangeness of brides entering what was to be the “Happiest Day of My Life” with a hangover. He told me stories about riding his Triumph up Hwy 1 and mused about how he was looking forward to riding it across the high desert of the west. With a squeeze of my hand, he said how he’d love someone to ride with him and my heart kept at wondering, “Could I be that someone.”

Back at his corporate apartment which did have an undeniably lovely view. I leaned against the glass wall of the patio, looking straight down and then far out arms stretched wide. I don’t have a fear of heights so love these rare opportunities to feel like I was flying. He stepped behind me, ran his hands along my arms and held them out as he kissed my neck. I could suddenly only think of the Titanic, Rose & Jack over the bow. To keep from giggling at that, I turned back toward him and kissed him back. He kissed my neck and I leaned back with a purr. Then, with a wave that was a mixture of nausea and sobriety, I realized that glass was stress tested, but I didn’t know for how much. While, I’m not afraid of heights, I’m terrified of slamming to my death so shoved him away and suggested we go inside.

We went in and he offered me wine. I was beginning to feel sober so accepted the wine, but only took a sip. I was vaguely recalling that he had earlier, casually mentioned a woman he was dating, but wasn’t in love with. She wanted to help him move to Austin, but he didn’t think it was a good idea, “It’s just a casual thing,” he said. As he kissed me in all the right ways, I kept hearing, “it’s just a casual thing.”

My brain took us two years ahead and in this imagination, I was “the casual thing” he wasn’t in love with and the whole situation of his beautiful hotel, perfect kisses and quick wit moved from fabulously romantic to just plain ick. It just didn’t feel right- I felt out of my body. I was cheating on my morals. There was a woman out there who I would never want to be- a woman who might be talking to her friends about this great guy and the potential of their future. This guy would never become a dance partner or any other kind of partner. He was just a guy from a bar.

I extracted myself from all of our mixed up limbs and clothes and told him I couldn’t stay because while it might not make sense to him, but she didn’t likely think things were casual. He insisted on exchanging contact information and I figured that was harmless enough and we exchange numbers and emails into each others’ phones.

As I held my heels and walked barefoot toward home. I imagined a love that included riding Triumphs across high deserts, stopping for picnics at an abandoned graffitied rest area, and making love under the Texas sun. A week later, he was still under my skin, I wrote an erotic story about all the potential of an adventurous love and, after a couple glasses of wine, emailed it to him. He wrote back, from a different email, that he loved it. Over the following couple months, he texted me a few times with questions about neighborhoods, advice on Austin generalities, and tedious chitchat. Last I hears from him, was when he let me know he’d gotten a place in a horrible new concrete block building, which told he took none of my advice. About 6 months later, we quite literally ran into each other one afternoon at Whole Foods. I was on the phone with my mom so we didn’t talk, but he texted me later, saying he wanted to see me again, “I owe you dinner,” but like that night, we never closed the deal, because I blocked his number.

On the night we met, I wish I’d just said goodbye at the bar, but was glad I later listened to my gut and made my 3am exit. If I hadn’t extended our encounter, I would have always wondered after lost potential. But instead, our night together was a perfect capsule. We met, momentarily fell in love, and had an perfectly simple breakup. I didn’t let myself become “the other woman” or “a way out” for him and I learned a beautiful lesson about the warning “Don’t pick up boys in bars.” There is nothing wrong with picking up boys in bars, but you have to know when to put them down.