Goodbye, 2014!

2014.

I birthed a son. I watched him grow from squirming, weird infant to awesome, curious, nearly walking toddler.

What could be better than that?

What could sour that perfection?

Now that I feel like we are in the proper place for us, I am looking forward to more of these too fast, too slow, lovely, boring years.

Oh yeah, I was still pregnant at the beginning of this year... like really, really pregnant. 

Then, out popped Peatuk-Antares :) 

And he was very loved! 

But, oddly, spent most of his time asleep. 

Then, he grew up and got even more interesting. And interested. And adorable. 

Paiyak Development was born. Super proud of Nikola for opening his own web development business, and someday my content writing will fall under that business, too. 

And here we are, ready for next year. 

Fairtrade, Consumerism, and Buying Local

Two years ago, while I was in Turkey, I was taking a class on social resistance. It was a bit too anarchist for my taste (Did I really just say that!?!), but there were a few sections of the curriculum that really got me thinking. One of them was a critique of the concept of fair trade.

The articles we read and discussed, which I cannot find at the moment, focused on how fair trade is implemented on tea plantations in India. They showed how calling a plantation a cooperative takes away the few governmental protections plantation workers have without giving them the benefits that fair trade consumers assume fair trade implies. Ultimately, it results in higher poverty for the workers, and fewer educational opportunities for their children. Not really what you want to contribute to when you purchase fair trade.

I am not saying that all fair trade certified companies are like this. However, it is the problem when you use one set of standards and try to apply them as something meaningful across different types of industries, different sizes of companies, and different work cultures. It actually becomes harmful, not helpful.

Before taking this course, I was one of the westerners who thought fair trade was a great concept. I thought it was a way to be an ethical consumer without having to do constant research. Because, honestly, we have too many choices to research them all. Now, I am not anti-fair trade, but I do think it is more or less meaningless and definitely not worth the price mark up.

In almost every online forum I am part of, the idea of ethical consumerism (and ethical production) comes up at some point or another. Inevitably, someone jumps in with the simple solution of, "Just buy fairtrade certified products!"

I usually provide a few links to fair trade in regards to tea production and write a small blurb about how fair trade is not as simple and clearcut as many Americans believe. I usually advocate buying local, when possible or doing research about the specific brand you are purchasing if you really want to be ethical.

Usually, my comments are taken quite poorly. People get defensive. They say that at least fairtrade is trying, or there is no way to purchase the products they want locally when production is almost completely outsourced from America. I know to stop then. It is pointless. It is not my goal to make people feel bad about themselves, or even question their own spending habits. All I want is to give information to people who have already decided that they want to be fair and responsible consumers. Unfortunately, what I have learned, about others and myself, is that we only want to be fair and responsible consumers when it fits into our budgets and lifestyle.

We don't want to give up our technology, our clothing, our out of season food, and our great coffees, teas and chocolates. We want to buy them ethically, but if we can't, we will still purchase them, because we are used to them. They have gotten ingrained into our quality of life. Ultimately, we think we deserve them.

The other day, when this came up in my writing group, I had an epiphany. About all of the anger and guilt people feel and about my own shopping. When make excuses, such as,

"Researching ethical companies is impossible. It takes too much time and the information isn't there." 

OR

"What I want/need is simply not produced ethically."

OR

"Ethical consumerism is beyond my budget."

OR

"What I want/need is not produced locally."

We are more or less saying that our desire and comfort is more important than the living conditions of the people who produce what we consume. That hit me hard. Is my cheap cup of coffee more important than a child's education? Is my ability to drink wine, eat chocolate, or use a smartphone more important than someone's ability to eat and have adequate shelter? Am I really that selfish?

Of course, looking at it from the other angle, you have to wonder what would happen to these people is Europeans and Americans stopped buying their products. They have a very poor living at the moment, but how much worse would it be if they had no work? Is a boycott really the solution? Because the owners of sweat shops and tea plantations are already rich enough to not be hurt by closing down and retiring. It will only hurt the workers.

It is no wonder we just try not to think about where things come from and make blind purchases, hoping we are somewhat ethical. But ultimately, global consumerism has very little hope of being ethical. It is only when we start to focus on people and experiences as opposed to things that we might be able to make changes. Maybe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Be Nice To Mothers

I will admit that before I became a mother, I was one of the judgmental ones. I liked to think that I wasn't. Honestly, I thought I didn't care about what mothers did because I didn't think motherhood had anything to do with me. But now I realize that I held an idea of perfect motherhood within me, and even if I never expressed my judgement, I was still judgmental.

The other day, two things happened that made me realize this. First, I  asked my husband to bring me a book to read while I  was breastfeeding. He chastised me, because Peatuk tends to get easily distracted. It's true, and I know I can't use my tablet or computer while he is eating. But still... I told him I would make him hold our son for half an hour three or four times a day, doing nothing but looking at him. Would he make it through a day? A week? I have been doing this for 10 months.

The same day, I was chatting with an old friend and I mentioned I had to go feed my son. He said he hoped I wasn't feeding him formula because his sister uses formula and he is certain it causes many negatives, like the child not being toilet trained by three years old. I think the first reaction that would have been natural is pride, because I DO breastfeed. But it wasn't. Instead,  I was angry.

Who is someone without a child to judge a mother as lazy because she doesn't adhere to his semi-researched ideals? How much does he know about breastfeeding, or potty training for that matter? What does he actually grok about raising a child? And what if I was supplementing with formula? Isn't that between me, my doctor, and my child? Not every person who wants to comment on my child but not take on the responsibility themselves? 

There are plenty of reasons a woman cannot breastfeed. But even if she can, it is draining, often painful when they learn to bite, and does not work well with work or any life outside of child rearing. But people assume that when you become a mother, you should take on these difficulties easily. Happily. With excitement.

I love my son. I love the bond we have created through breastfeeding and weaning will be difficult. However, I recognize how difficult it can be. I also know I could not breastfeed without the emotional and physical support of my husband and mother in law, who anticipate my trials an help me through them, whether it is bringing me a glass of water or rag to catch spilling milk, or taking Peatuk for a few hours so I can (finally) get some alone time. 

I could be one of those people who think that if I could do it, anyone should be able to. If I suffered through it, I should hold it as a standard to others. I am not though, and I like that about myself. When I struggle through something, my first thought is how I can make it easier for future people. Not, because I had to do it, it is only fair that others have to do it, too. This isn't about fairness. It is about compassion. It isn't about a gold standard for raising children, it is about the relationship between a child an those around them. 

Being a mother has taught me a lot this year. Above all, I think it has taught me compassion. And I ask, whether you have kids or not, please stop judging mothers. 

Gabrovo

It is official. Really official, seeing how we have internet in our new place... We have moved to Gabrovo, Bulgaria.

For those of you not from Bulgaria:

Gabrovo is a long (23km), thin city in the middle of Bulgaria, in the Stara Planina. It clocks in with a population just shy of 60,000, which makes it a bit larger than the city I went to high school in, but a bit smaller if you combine it with its neighboring valley. It has a river that runs through its center, and it is quirky. It has a museum of humor, mostly poking fun at the historical precedence of people from Gabrovo being overly frugal.

Gabrovo is surrounded by mountains. I walked to the store today and I looked up at the hills all around me and I felt completely protected. Downright snuggled. The mountains provide road cycling, mountain biking, hiking, camping, and skiing, all pretty much right outside our front door.

Well, actually, the bus station is right outside our front door, and there are regular buses to take us further out and away into the fresh mountain air.

The city is about half an hour car ride from the geographic center of Bulgaria, Uzana, where Nikola and I apparently met the first time (neither of us remembers it) and where we were married.

We haven't even been here a week, but I am starry eyed about this place. Optimistic. It feels like the perfect size for me. Of course, I am also hesitant. I get the one year itch that all military people get. I guess it doesn't matter if I wasn't in the military, moving around with my father got me on the schedule and now I find I have a need to search and discover and unlock new places. Relocate. Relocate. Start looking one year in, and after two I am on my way again. I hope, for Nikola and Peatuk's sake, that I can settle down and be satisfied in Gabrovo.

Our apartment here is definitely small. It is one bedroom, a living room, and a kitchen. I adore it. Nikola likes it, but he likes more modern apartments and more space. I am hoping that once he rents an office and can expand a bit more, he will feel satisfied as well.

It is strange. Our bedroom is medium sized. It isn't particularly large, but not one of those tiny boxes. However, I realized that I would have no clue what I would do with all of the extra space if Peatuk's crib and dresser were not in there. I suppose I would have a desk in there, or maybe a craft corner. What do people who don't have a baby in their room do with all of the extra space? Eventually, Peatuk will move out into the living room. Maybe. Or we will keep him in the bedroom until we move into a bigger apartment or a house. I like having the family sleeping room, except it is a bit rough on the intimate life.

Our kitchen is super green, which matches my dishes and furniture perfectly. Yay! for that. Our living room will take some work. I am not really sure what to do with a living room. Most people put a television in it. We have one. I am not sure that I want to encourage lots of tv though. So, I am guessing it is going to end up more like a reading and play room... oh well. There is nothing but time to figure it out.

Until then, I can only say... I am home!!! 

9 Months Is Apparently the Golden Age

The past month and a half have been incredible parenting months. Peatuk is 9.5 months right now, and he is amazing. I mean, downright charming. I mean, heart-meltingly adorable. Yeah, he is that good right now.

Here are some of the oh-too-awesome things he is doing:

• He is stable on his feet when he has something to hold onto. This means he can cruise around the room with limited supervision and not randomly fall on his cute little head when he forgets to hold onto whatever is in front of him. 
• He has mastered the art of bending his knees to sit down, so he can freely go from crawling to standing and back again. 
• These two things make for a highly mobile baby, and mobility allows him to express interest in different things. He crawls to the people who interest him, picks out toys on his own, and is generally developing a personality. 
• He has learned that when he laughs, other people will also start laughing. When there is a lull in the conversation he will look around the room, make eye contact with someone, and then do his fake little laugh to get things started. 
• He wants to walk. The other day, he randomly turned away from the bed, let go everything and tried walking. He immediately face-planted and I nearly had a heart attack. He is okay, but it is something we have to be on the outlook for these days. 
• We have started elimination communication- and he loves using his potty. (We are NOT potty training yet! As far as I know, no 9-month old has bladder control. We are just getting him used to recognizing when he eliminates). He has also learned to clap when he pees, so now we know when immediately when he pees in his diapers because he randomly claps. 
• He is learning soft touch. Slowly. Very slowly. Actually, he is not learning soft touch. We are trying to teach him soft touch. 
• He babbles more, and it actually seems that he is trying to communicate with some of his babbling. I am almost certain his first word will be dada, but it might be banana. 
• He can express when he wants me to do "itsy bitsy spider" for him. :) :) :) 
• He can eat all sorts of soft foods- bananas, steamed carrots, boiled potatoes, sweet potatoes, basically any cooked vegetable. We still have to cut up meat really tiny for him. He also is mastering the pincer grip, so he is able to pick up small pieces and bring them to his mouth, greatly expanding the foods we can give him. 
• He gets very happy when he sees me or his father after we leave him with his grandparents. 

The list goes on. But basically, he is totally at that golden age where he is still a baby but developing toddler skills really fast, which simply blows my mind. 

How much one little human can learn on a daily basis is amazing and inspiring. It makes me thirsty to learn and explore with him. I can't wait to take him to museums and travel with him. It is going to be so very cool. To hear his opinions. To develop our relationship... there is so much to look forward to.

At the same time, it is bittersweet, because I realize that we are rapidly leaving the baby stage. He is starting to self-wean- getting more of his calories from solids and only wanting to breastfeed for comfort or at night. I am definitely not ready for that, and I hope it is just a phase and that he does not fully wean. Of course, that means that we can leave him with his grandparents for hours at a time, which is amazing in its own way. He is outgrowing his clothes every months now. 

Soon he will be walking, talking, eating, and eliminating by himself, and I know that will greatly change our relationship. His 'need' of me will change. So, yes, it is sad. But at least there is so much cool going on that keeps me distracted from the babyness that is fading. 

Hovering Positive

Lately I have been complaining about this stasis that I feel. I used to be extremely mobile, and with that mobility came passion and vibrance. But for the past year, despite the amazing joys of being a mother, I have felt stuck.

I get the need to constantly be on the move from my father. My mother could happily settle in one place, and every time she had to pack up our home and move us across the country it took some convincing. They are still doing it. Hopping from one state to another even in semi-retirement.

Six states before high school graduation. That gets in your blood.

Yet even as a voice tells me it is time to go... burn my bridges and never look back, I have another tugging desire that aches to settle. Exhaustion. It creeps in tangled with a strange satisfaction. I can finally let my guard down and trust someone with my future and I find that instead of feeling relieved, I feel a crumbling sense of pure exhaustion. It is as if my strength all of these years was made from sugar and the love I share with Nikola seeped in like a warm wave and melted it away.

It is a strange mix, these two needs pounding in my heart.

Nikola finally heard my need to get out of Varna. I don't know what it is. Can I really dislike the sea that much? Or was being scammed a few months back to final tipping point? Maybe it was the hesitation of not knowing whether we would stay here. Maybe I just can't find my way on these streets. They always seem to move, and it can be frightening for someone who usually has such a s good sense of direction.

He heard it about a month before we lost our last apartment. He heard it in a thick depression. Then, while we were creating a plan to go to Gabrovo in the spring, we lost our apartment and I was devastated. I felt like I had absolutely no control in this crazy expat life and there was a solid two days when I gave up. I made Nikola make all of the decisions. I almost went blank, and I think that let him know how serious the situation is with me. Precarious, to say the least.

So we've moved up our move date. We are going to look at apartments in Gabrovo this weekend. Hopefully we will find something and we will be officially moved in by the holidays.

I don't know what I expect to find in Gabrovo. People keep asking me why I want to move there and honestly I cannot answer them. I have only spent a few hours in Gabrovo proper and although we say we like the nature and skiing, that has very little to do with this need to go there.

I guess I am hoping for a sense of community. A few more roots than we have in Varna. I guess I am hoping that things feel smaller and that I can understand them better. Whatever I am hoping for, it is the hope that is important. Because right now, in this hovering state, as we wait to make large decisions that could affect the rest of our life, I feel peace.

Windows

Nikola and I have started looking for a house. A home. A place to call our own. Partly because next year we will be able to afford a house (barring any crazy financial mishaps) and partly because I went a little insane during our spur-of-the-moment move last month.

It was something about taking down the fabrics we hung on our wall and packing away our curtains for the foreseeable future. It was something about painting over our names on the door and leaving behind the wood stove we took so much time to pick out and install.

It was also about moving into a furnished house. By 'furnished' in Bulgaria they mean, 'full of someone else's personal belongings." Toys. Clothes. Entire rooms that we can't use. The bed they had sex on. It doesn't seem to bother Nikola, but I am one of those people who believe that rooms and belongings hold energy, and after I work so hard to put my own positive energy into a place, I don't want to be crowded with the random energy of strangers.

Yes. That is the best word. I feel so crowded. Crowded, and insecure, knowing we will have to relocate again in six months. That is how I felt, and it showed. To the point that I got seriously depressed for a few days, considered bailing on Bulgaria completely, and Nikola promised we would look into buying a home more seriously.

Our home. That we can't get kicked out of. Our home. With only our belongings. Only our energy. A safe space for me in a country where I feel so awkward and out of place...

Currently, our search is in its infancy. I browse the real estate ads on various websites and send anything appealing to Nikola for him to tell me yes or no or, "Uh huh..." We have found a couple of houses that we like, but the decent places tend to get snatched up rather quickly by the Brits, and no decent place in our price range is going to stay on the market for a year. So, really, I am just getting a good feel of what we can actually expect to find for the money we want to pay. You know, "Research." (Nikola calls it obsession. Whatever.)

But this has made me start viewing houses completely differently. Today, I was walking to the store, looking at all of the new constructions in the area and I noticed how huge their windows are. We are talking very large, nearly floor to ceiling windows along the entire south wall. It is very common now days, and I have to admit that I love it. The cat in me wants nothing more than to curl up in the sunshine from those reenforced, double pane windows and fall asleep.

However, these are very different from the old village houses that come up in my search (and that are still in this neighborhood). Those houses have tiny windows. They are basically little caves with a bit of light coming in here and there, and none of these grand explosions of sun.

It makes me wonder if this move towards huge windows is simply because of advancements in technology or if it has something to do with the crumbling of society. I mean, of course bigger windows are more affordable, easier to transport and install... yada yada, within the reach of everyone. BUT. I wonder if it has something to do with the modern man's desire to separate ourselves from others.

We lock ourselves in our homes. Perfect climate control. Sunlight streaming in. Skylights to see the stars at night. A whirlpool bathtub in place of a hot spring. Everything is so sterile and individualized. We want to control everything.

These old houses with small windows had amazing summer kitchens. Patios next to the house with a stove, a canning setup, and a picnic table. It makes me think that there used to be a separation between private space and nature- and people went out into nature more often. They heard the birds. They got hot. They sweated. They walked to the town center. They said hello to their neighbors.

I know, I romanticize the past. It is one of my weaknesses.

It's just that up here in my tower room, which gets sunlight every day, and up here on my balcony that is perfect for yoga, I can't help but wonder if our houses were less beautiful, would we spend more time with strangers and friends and walking in the woods?

Is it a question of windows, or have I simply gotten lazy? 

Growing Up

Some days are good, and then some days setting the kidlet down so I can pee is a chore. Yesterday was a difficult day. So while we were cuddled up, letting dishes rot and laundry go unfolded, I tried to remind myself why this little, needy parasite is so cool.

He is definitely growing up. Beyond the physical abilities, which are just amazing. (He has learned to stand, walk around the edge of his crib and the edge of our bed, transfer to the nightstand from the bed, and to sit down. Now he is working harder to crawl hands and knees instead of the belly.) It is the cognitive abilities that are just cool to see develop.

About a week ago he learned that if he cries, he will get my attention. Before, his crying always seemed so pure and inspired. It was a reaction. Now it sounds different. Sometimes he still cries as a reaction, but I can hear the difference when he cries because he wants me, or wants something, or doesn't want something. Frustrating, but cool as it is the first way that he can really communicate his preferences.

He looks at objects differently. A month ago, he would crawl to an object and it would immediately go to his mouth, where it would be gnawed on until he lost interest and crawled to the next object. Now he is learning to explore objects with his hands and eyes. He still tastes objects, but they spend a lot less time in his mouth and more time being turned over and transferred from hand to hand. Finally, he can hold paper, which he LOVES, without eating it!!!

It makes me wonder which things are currently leaving an impression on him. I imagine him growing up with a fondness for wind chimes because of the two sets we have hanging in the house, one of which is visible from his crib. Of course, he wont remember the smooth tubes and punched out stars, but maybe they are becoming a feeling inside of him. Maybe right now he is also learning to live in a messy house, to cuddle half the day away, and to eat in front of the television (I know, SUCH a bad habit).

My favorite moments these days are snuggled between my boys as we sleep. I have always been a nester, but it is hard to achieve this primal level of cuddling among friends. There are always barriers (I never did make it into a 'cuddle pool' at any of the parties I went to). But after a man who has promised to spend his life with me has seen a baby split open my vagina, it is possible to transcend the sexual tension and social propriety that creates distance. Then there is Peatuk, who is the most primal, intuitive cuddler I have ever snuggled next to. He simply knows that tucked in next to the warmth of his mother is the safest place to sleep, and the relaxation when he is in my arms for the night is amazing.

So, yep, another bout of crying. Cutting teeth. Growing. Learning. But it is all definitely worth it.

Stuck

I didn't move back to Bulgaria because I like the country. I do like the country, but that is not why I moved back here.
When Peace Corps ended I knew I wasn't ready to move back to the states, so I took a year to finish my degree in Istanbul. It was a perfect transition, in theory, and I imagined myself boarding a plane (actually, in my mind I was sailing the ocean back) and returning to work in outdoor education and conservation. I hoped there would be an open position with SCC again- office, not field- and I would spend five or six years there and then the next step would make itself known.
Or, there was the dream a friend and I had of travelling the world and teaching English together. First Georgia to build up my experience, and then UAE to make good money, and then wherever we really wanted... running marathons and eating green smoothies the whole time. But then boys got in the way. A husband for me, a boyfriend for her.
Suddenly, halfway through my year in Turkey, I realized that I couldn't bring my husband with me to the states.
Do you know how difficult it is to bring your spouse to the US?
You need proof of income. You need a home for him. You need a year to wait. You need at least $3000 in processing fees.
I had none of that, which meant that I would have to leave Nikola in Bulgaria while I established residency, found a job, and earned money for his visa. Six months apart before we could even start applying for a spouse visa, and then another year of processing. We would be apart for a year and a half.
Of course, for people who live in the states, own a home, and have money, bringing their spouse into the country is relatively simple. I am not one of those people. The laws were not made for me.
Bulgaria, on the other hand, had an insanely easy visa application process. The 100 bgn fee was waived for me, because I was his spouse, and it took about a month to process everything. We did not have to prove anything beyond our marriage. (Staying in the country is a different headache, but they give you six months to get yourself set up before you have to start proving that you have the means to support yourself.)
I like to think that I can live anywhere, and I like Bulgaria, so we moved to Bulgaria. But my heart wasn't set on it. To be clear, if this rambling has not been, my heart wasn't set on any other place, either. My heart was not set. I was liquid. I was so used to flowing in and out of places that I had no concept of permanent residence.
Then I realized I could not do Peace Corps Response without leaving Nikola behind. I realized I could not return to the states for a few months without leaving my husband and jeopardizing my residency here. Then we had a baby. I realized we couldn't move to the Netherlands to take better paying jobs there. I realized that we had to stay near my mother-in-law for help with Peatuk. I realized that we had somehow become permanent.
It terrified and depressed me.
I would like to continue this story.
A big, "AND THEN..." and explain how I came to accept this weird concept of settling down and permanence.
But I can't. That is still where I am at right now. I am terrified and depressed. Little tiny grievances keep piling on top and I feel that I have very little control over my life. I feel stuck.
Don't get me wrong here. I love my husband. I love my son. I like Bulgaria. I want to be here. I just don't want to be stuck here. 

Plot Twist

Well, today was definitely a plot twist, but I hope that it all turned out for the best.

Our landlord is apparently in the middle of an ugly divorce. I have never really heard of a pretty divorce, but from what his mother says, this one is particularly brutal, after 19 years of marriage. Because of the divorce, he and his daughter moved back in with his mother, whose house is connected to ours. The three of them collected in her small house isn't working and so they want to open up the wall they sealed off to make this apartment, which ultimately means that we won't have a place to live.

His mother came over to our house this morning and told us that we needed to find a new place as soon as possible. It sounds harsh, but from what Nikola says (he talked with her while I was sleeping) she was actually rather nice about it. I mean, as nice as you can be when telling a family they have to find somewhere new to live. She even told us that her other son was willing to rent his section of their house, and the widow down the street was giving part of her house for rent.

We decided to look at the younger brother's house, which is more than twice the rent that we are paying now. It is furnished quite tastefully (except for the antlers in the main hall). That should be a good thing, but in reality we wanted a place that we could furnish ourselves. We have spent the past 6 months collecting furniture in this place, making it our own. In fact, this week a bedroom set and table are supposed to be delivered. So now we are going to have to squeeze our furniture in with their furniture, which is not ideal.

We met the new brother and his wife tonight. They are young. Vibrant. Energetic. It was hard for me to believe that they have a six year old son, but apparently they do. Overall they were nice. The man made one joke about me preferring the bed in their room that I pretended not to understand. I wish people would quit trying to explain dirty jokes to me when I pretend not to understand them.

We decided that we would move in next weekend. Settled. It wasn't as difficult as we thought it would be, and they are rather relaxed about when we pay the deposit, so that is a good thing.

Another gray/silver lining: they may want the house back next summer, so we may have a good reason to actively look into moving to Gabrovo.

Despite how easy things were, I found myself tearing up as I sat in our living room. We have worked hard to turn this into our warm place that feels like ours. I love the furniture we have acquired, and it definitely takes a bit of time to build up that much energy in a home. Now, bits of furniture are being sent here and there and all of the hard work buying just the right stuff for the past year is for nothing.

Nikola is really good at saying, "plot twist!" and moving on. Me, I need to wallow for a while. If I was my 24 year old self, I would go get drunk right about now. As it is, I'll just wallow for a few days and try to make it through. 

Peatuk Update

It surprises me how quickly Peatuk is developing. Just a few months ago he was a jelly-like blob whose only interest was eating and cuddling. It seems so sudden that he wants to touch everything and try everything and understand everything.

I think he falls about four times a day. Luckily, he is finally learning to bend his legs and fall on his side instead of cracking his head on our wood floor. It isn't exactly graceful, but at least he seems like he is in less pain. I think putting a carpet down where he spends most of his time cruising has also helped, but that might be more of a placebo for my racing heart.

In the picture above Peatuk and his daddy are watching Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. He was fascinated, but not quite as into it as he was into We Will Rock You. Of course, that involved hitting things and clapping and daddy singing along, so it's quite a bit more fun. He really likes music though. He likes when I dance. He likes when I play guitar. He likes to be sang to sleep.

This is Peatuk hanging out with a photo of his daddy that we found in Nikola's grandmother's house. It is difficult to tell, but they look quite similar. Supposedly. Everyone tells me that he got Nikola's eyes and my nose. To me, he just looks like him. A unique individual. And everyday his looks change. From chubby thighs to skinny. From no teeth to sporting pearly whites... how is a constantly shedding chameleon supposed to look like anyone?

He's trying out solids these days. Bananas and sweet potatoes still seem to be his favorite, but we have tried pretty much everything we eat that doesn't have a lot of salt or hot spice. He doesn't seem to be a picky eater, yet, and I hope that sticks, but between Nikola and I, he is probably going to pick up several food issues.

And my favorite moment? Without a doubt it is putting the little bug to bed. I love the limp way his sleeping body curls into my neck and chest, the casual way his hand grips my sleeve. I love setting him in his crib and then walking away, turning back to see him sleeping peacefully. Of course, it doesn't happen like that enough, but when it does... precious. 

Lascivious

I went to the dentist today. On the way there, I was walking with my head up, enjoying the hot autumn day. Perhaps I even had a smile on my face as I watched the sunlight filter through the light reds and oranges on the leaves around me.

At one point, I made eye contact with a male. It wasn't on purpose. I was just curious about the world. I wanted to look up and around and at all the places that weren't 3-4 feet in front of me on the sidewalk. I wanted to see things. I wanted to examine. It is a perfectly natural desire, to examine, and yet the ever-examined can rarely indulge.

I looked away, quickly. I put my eyes back where they, "belong," but it was too late. Somehow, in that 3 milliseconds, the man had seen me looking, at him. Which, of course, must mean that I am interested in him.

His face curled up. He turned from blank to lascivious before I had taken another step.

Lascivious. Honestly, I didn't know the exact meaning of the word. I had to look it up. It is one of those words that bounces around in my vocabulary based on feeling instead of logic- the wet of the s, the exposure of the v. It slithers off the tongue, leaving a gross trail of sludge behind it.

Imagine my surprise when I looked it up, and learned that the word does not imply anything gross, or an ill behavior. It is simply feeling or revealing an overt sexual desire. I am lascivious multiple times a week. My husband is lascivious multiple times a day. Yet... we aren't.

The history of the word, the context in which I have always experienced, comes when someone expresses that overt desire without permission, without invitation, without provocation.

Lascivious. I want to rescue the word. Empower myself and turn it into something sexy. Something intimate. Something I control. But all I can think of is the wolf-like way his lips curled and the violence in his eyes, and the crude words he said as I passed.

I passed. It was over. Just three steps on the sidewalk and the turn of his head. But then, so were my wandering eyes and the feeling that the day was light and full of promise.

Lascivious. 

9 Things That Have Changed in My Yoga Practice Since Giving Birth

Yoga as a 31 year old mother is nothing like yoga was as a 21 year old single girl. Here are 9 things I have been noticing lately:

1. Interruptions. These days a half hour sequence takes me about two hours, if I actually finish it. Usually, by the second time I have to change the baby's diaper and the third time I have to stop to give the little guy a snack, I just give up. 
2. "Relaxation" is a thing of the past. I used to be able to stay peacefully in shavasana for at least ten minutes after a yoga session. My body was present. My mind was present. Now, it takes an hour just to wind down, and still it is rare that I can get to a fully relaxed state. Even when I can, the likelihood that there will be 10 golden minutes left after a full session is... nearly nonexistent. 
3. I am less concerned with how I look. I didn't even know that I was concerned with how I looked when I practiced yoga before. I thought I was all about the feel of it. But there was always a small part of me that was trying to impress that crunchy guy a few rows away. Now... let's just say that 9 months of pregnancy yoga and the year following it is very humbling. I allowed myself to be curious about how I looked. I allowed myself to open my eyes and gaze. Then, somehow, I found that true focus on feeling rather than appearance that I had thought I had all along. 
4. I feel more. Maybe it is because my body is so stiff. Maybe it is the ingrown toenails that accompanied pregnancy. Maybe it is all the little aches and pains. Whatever it is, I feel more in every position than I used to. 
5. I have more fear. When I was 21, I didn't really care what a pose, if I missed it, would do to my body. At 31, I definitely am aware of how it would feel to fall out of a balancing pose or stretch too deeply. I am aware, and I am afraid. However, this doesn't keep me from attempting these poses. It just makes me concentrate on the build up to them a lot more. 
6. I am less present. It goes with the lack of relaxation and interruptions. I am definitely thinking of other things a lot more often these days, and then I end up feeling guilty during parts of my practice. 
7. Catharsis is harder to obtain, but much stronger. I don't know how many times during yoga I have almost cried in the past three months, but it is more than I ever cried during the past ten years. 
8. It is more difficult to control my breath. I find connecting my breath to my body a challenge these days. 
9. I am more interested in the spirituality behind the practice than I used to be. 

Introversion and Motherhood

I am an introvert. I knew I was an introvert long before the, "How to treat introverts," internet meme became popular. I knew what introversion was, and I never had to take a quiz to know whether I might be introverted.

I spend a lot of time in my head, and I spend a lot of time alone. This has been true for as long as I can remember. When I was a child I spent most of my afternoons exhausted from school, playing by myself in my room. I was shy, as well, and lacked confidence, but mostly I just liked being alone. I found relief when I was by myself.

This only got stronger during high school. Because I was active in band and orchestra, there was no longer a lot of time to be alone. I found myself reading novels and writing short stories during classes instead of engaging in lectures. I relished the time when I was home alone after school and my brother was still at football practice. I filled journal after journal with introspective, reflective musings.

As an adult I didn't do particularly well with housemates. I couldn't keep a college roommate for more than a semester. I even had problems with significant others because I simply became too stressed when I lived with someone else.

When I was around 22 I moved in with a roommate who was surprisingly understanding. He (and later they) allowed me to spend entire days in my room without questioning whether I was okay. Still, despite their understanding approach, I always felt awkward in the shared living spaces. So I nested in my room.

Eventually, I met Nikola, and we practically moved in together as soon as we met each other. Things went surprisingly well. He felt like an extension of my self, and I didn't mind sharing my space with him (except the shower... sometimes I just wanted more space in the shower). Most importantly, he had no problem giving me alone time. He simply went to work on his computer and let me write, or veg out on countless episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or whatever.

Then, we decided to have a baby, and I worried about finances and whether I would make a good mother since I seemed to lack the basic drive to nurture, but I never even considered what role my introversion would play with a baby.

Well, 7 months later, my time allotted to introspection has dwindled to almost nothing. For the first few months I could read or play games on my tablet while the little guy breastfed, but now that he is more aware, easily distracted, and has teeth, I have to engage with him during his feedings. Likewise, his naps that used to add up to 20 luxurious hours a day are down to about 4, with a longer stretch of nighttime sleeping. This adds up to me being unable to sit and ponder with myself.

Generally, I take care of Peatuk while Nikola works. I am not constantly engaged with him, though. We play a few games and then I do some work or housework, or even edit the novel I am working on. However, I usually get about twenty minutes of uninterrupted 'me' time, at most. For example, by the time I finish one of these blog posts I have probably fed, changed, and played with Peatuk at least once, sometimes twice.

Lately, now that my sex drive is back in place, as soon as Peatuk goes down for a nap, Nikola (and I) takes that as a cue for quick and quiet lovemaking, because there is no other time for it. It's the only time for Nikola and I to reconnect, without focusing on the little guy. Only, Nikola is coming from working all day, which is mostly solitary activity, and I am coming from engaging with Peatuk. Read: resentment. Sometimes, even though I want to connect with him, I also just want to be selfish and be alone.

I am starting to think about taking a full-time remote position, because working alone is time to let my mind wander and prance- to move through ideas without interruption, whereas 24/7 childcare involves this constant engagement that absolutely exhausts me.

They say it is important for all mothers to carve out some alone time, and I do. A shower without the baby. The occasional bike ride. It happens. However, how are you supposed to adjust from craving the majority of your waking hours to be spent in introspection to suddenly being taken out of your self and into the world of a very demanding little being. And one that cannot talk or process complex ideas to boot?

I guess this is where I end this post, and I guess this is one perfect example of what I am talking about. My ideas on this topic went no where. I started writing this post over two hours ago, and I was interrupted so many times that I can't begin to taste the coherency that I used to relish after hours of careful consideration... I am starting to think a side effect of motherhood is my brain turning to mush.

Keeping House - The Perpetual Laundry Cycle

I, like all humans, am a victim of entropy. Everything I own just wants to come out of its nicely labeled drawer and find its way onto the floor, or coffee table, or any other flat surface. I suppose these inanimate objects are more like me than I thought before- they want to stretch out, feel stable, and not be so crowded. I can't really blame them.

But unlike most adults that I know, I am still like a teenager when it comes to fighting the entropy battle. My defenses are pathetic. Occasionally I get inspiration and the dishes get done or the laundry gets put away. But then there are diapers to wash (Does the baby EVER stop pooping?) and toys to put away and receipts from all of the up-and-up corner markets that follow the tax laws. I don't know how adults have immaculate homes. Dusting? I think I have dusted three times in my life. I always have bigger fish to fry. (Hmm... fried fish for dinner?)

When other people invite me over and say that their house is a mess I inevitably feel embarrassed. Do they really consider the coffee cup in the sink a mess? What would they think of my stove top? Or the spider webs growing in forgotten corners? Or the mountain of laundry? There is ALWAYS a mountain of laundry.

Of all of the household chores I neglect, laundry has always been the worst for me. Perhaps it is the worst because I have an excuse. The hippie in me that wants to conserve water and limit my use of chemicals cannot condone the act of washing my clothes every single time I wear them. Add to that my complete distaste for being clothed at any given moment (And breastfeeding as an excuse to quickly shed layers, although I don't know any other woman who decides she just CAN'T breastfeed in jeans at the moment...) and I am hopeless. While the perfect couples know to toss their clothing directly from their bodies to the hamper, avoiding clutter, mine and my husband's are strewn about the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen... those are the only spaces we have in our home or I am sure the clothes would be elsewhere as well.

Apparently there is a term for this. It is called a floordrobe. (Isn't that adorable? Doesn't it sound a lot less intimidating than giant mess on the floor?) It is a term for those of us who know exactly what the growing piles on our floors contain, and somehow magically know exactly when a re-worn piece of clothing is up for washing, usually without even having to sniff it. (Although, sometimes...)

I have made an effort to fight the floordrobe in our house. I really have. I designated one space where our pre-worn clothes could be folded and ready to wear again. I like to blame my husband for that failing, but I was just as bad at it. I have considered a second hamper, but as it is, the only clothes that regularly make it into the first hamper are Peatuk's, and then only if he has managed to pee or spit up on them.

Honestly, I am at a loss. I always feel like if I could just get on top of the housework it would never get out of hand again. Then I get Nikola to take care of Peatuk for the afternoon and wash and scrub, and by the time I cook dinner I really just want to zone out or work (oh, the blessed escape of work!) rather than doing the dishes. Or folding my clothes. Besides- when we only have ten minutes to have sex before the baby wakes up from his nap, do I really want to spend one of those minutes putting my clothes away!?! (Or, forget sex, a SHOWER, on my own, without entertaining the baby... am I giving up one minute of that for housework? No way in hell!) 

When I started writing this I thought it was going to be a how-to, sharing how hippies actually organize their floordrobe. Now I think: Screw it. Clothes on the floor just make for softer walking. 

The Writing Process

When I write, I usually don't know what my conclusion will be. On rare occasions I only know the ending, and I have no idea how I will get there.

Writing, for me, is a process of discovery. It is not like I have a complete story inside of me that I need to get out. I have just a glimpse. A heartbeat. A descriptive breath. If I am quick enough with pen and paper I can capture that moment. If not, it fades away to wherever dreams that haven't been finished being dreamt go.

Of the moments I catch, some stick there in the pages of my notebooks for days or months before I reorganize my life and toss them out. A few of them, though, keep going. My pen latches on to them, or maybe they claw at my pen, drawing it down to the paper, and I keep writing, never knowing what will happen in the next moment.

These are the good ones. Or, at least they are the fun ones. They are what make writing a joy.

I tend not to be superstitious, but I am overly cautious in this area. I have learned that if I think about something I am writing- if I tongue it and work out some kind of plot in my head, then it will never get finished. Instead, every time the story insists on being thought I must let it be written. Sometimes, when I finish a passage, I reread it and wonder how that plot twist happened.

When I blog it is the same thing. I get a beginning. A point. An instant. From there I simply write, figuring out what I think and feel along the way. I know that if I work out phrases ahead of time the post will get to be a draft at best, and will never reach a conclusion.

Honestly, this even happened in academic writing. I was always the student who turned in her thesis proposal and then wrote a paper that completely contradicted it. Luckily, my instructors accepted my final conclusions. I always thought it was silly, to have an idea and then find the research that supports it. I would rather let the research lead me in loops until I reach a logical conclusion. THEN go back and have an idea.

I'll never understand those people who have a crystallized thought in their head that they need to express. For me it is all murky exploration. It is a wet, slippery process, and I love it. 

Intimacy

Today, while breast feeding Peatuk, I started crying. It was just a trickle of hot, salty tears and a bit of a smile as he faded away to sleep. I am not sure what it was. He is in pants and shirts a lot more than onesies these days, and maybe it was that he looks so big in those clothes compared to the tiny little being that we held with fear of breaking 7 months ago.

He closed his eyes. His jaw slowed, and I stroked his tiny yet plump fingers. I realized that I have never had this level of intimacy with someone in my entire life. This is coming from an intimacy addict. I love getting intimate with people. Physical intimacy. Sexual intimacy. Emotional intimacy. Mental intimacy. I get excited by sharing and having people share with me. Honesty excites me. I respect vulnerability. So, I have had quite a few intimate relationships, from friends to lovers, and nothing comes close to the intimacy I experience with this little guy.

It is weird to talk about physical intimacy and not immediately jump to sexuality. But being able to kiss his foot and hear him giggle with joy- having to wipe his bottom and inspect his poop for the latest gastrointestinal offenders- allowing him to lick my face and chomp on my nose as he tries to learn how to give kisses- these trump even the most open hugs and massages that I have shared with friends.

Part of me knows that this intimacy is only temporary. The more self aware and self sufficient he becomes, the less our bodies will be one. It is a fading intimacy since the moment of birth. However, as that physical intimacy fades, there is the mental and emotional intimacy growing in its place.

This little guy is learning who he is. He is learning what he likes and needs, and he is learning to communicate it. For the time being, I get to be the primary person he practices and explores with. I get to know his entire vocabulary. I can anticipate his habits better than he can. It is an amazing feeling.

Positive Reflections on Istanbul

Now that over a year has passed since we left Istanbul, I can start to look back on it fondly. The politics of the place fade away and all that is left in my memory are the concrete facts of what it was.

I smell fish grilling on the streets. I feel the damp, drizzly winter seeping through my clothes and into my skin. I see thousands of cats roaming my university campus as if it was created for them. I feel the weight and motion of large ferry boats bobbing in the waves of the channel. I remember the fear and excitement of a new language tripping over my tongue, and the simple joy of being understood. I remember the frothing emotion of the Gezi Park protesters- excitement, anger, fear, and joy shaken up into youthful bodies and youthful voices. I taste countless cig kofte wraps and potato bureks. I feel the satisfaction of making it up one of those winding, never ending hills on my bicycle. I feel the fear and joy of slipping down the other side, my hands hovering nervously over the brakes. I feel the morning rhythm of the ride into school, along the water, seeing shops open and the occasional car slip by. I remember the feel of my feet on the concrete as I ran up and up, to the very northern edge of the endless city, to watch the boats wait for passage.

A year later, my frustrations have faded. I no longer think about my time there and immediately feel vulnerable. I no longer feel angry that so many people tried to take advantage of us. Instead, I just feel the moments, and there were plenty of good moments. Plenty.

The Bedroom Set

"The things you own end up owning you." 

How much does a new bedroom set really say about me? Does it define me? Of course, the answer is much more complex than the question. 

Yesterday Nikola and I purchased a new bedroom set: bed, frame, mattress, nightstands, dresser with mirror, and wardrobe. It is all set to be delivered in two weeks. The large impulse purchase- for we really didn't NEED it- has me thinking about space and self. 

When I was young, my bedroom was a public space. 

As a child, I had a single bed and a closet filled with toys. When we had company over, my mother would send me and whatever children were around my age into my room to play. Pink plastic horses and teddy bears, along one wall a cornflower clue comforter covering the bed, and no privacy. 

As I grew, my bedroom changed several times. Being the only girl in the house I had my own room, while my brothers had to share, but was never particularly possessive of it. A room in California, three different rooms in New York, and finally, a room in Prescott. The 'playing' changed from dolls and horses to whispered conversations about boys and school and other teenage drama. I graduated to a queen sized bed, and packed countless friends into it over the years, wondering briefly if friends cuddled or slept on opposite edges of the bed before I fell asleep. 

During these years I was slightly more obsessed with decoration than I am now. My walls housed posters, drawings, and, strangely, the back covers of three years worth of reader's digest magazines. At least twice a year I shuffled the bed, desk, and dresser around to try to find a new perspective. 

In high school, the room became less of a place to play and more of a place to work. It was where I practiced my instruments. It was where I wrote. My senior year I got my first computer, a Christmas present for impending college, and I moved my studying from the kitchen table to my bedroom. 

Then, college began, and I started sharing my room. Bunk beds and a refrigerator, the room, especially my dorm room, became a social hub. People stopping by with sack lunches, or to heat a bowl of spaghetti-o's, to play a board game or get dressed for RHPS. People came and went, and still, the decorations in the rooms were meant to say something about who I was to the many people passing through. 

Even when I lived alone, as a single girl, my room was designed to be presented. A cuddly nest on the floor for dates, a few conversational pieces on the walls. 

Now, suddenly, it seems like things are different. Nikola and I have a "grown up," life, and a "grown up" living arrangement. Which works out to a very private bedroom that very few people have any reason to enter. 

We have a living room, where we live. There is no reason to retreat to the solitude of our bedroom with a meal or to watch a movie. We can do that in the dining area or the living room. When we have guests, we have a fold out couch where they sleep, making our bed our own. Computers are in the living room and office. Guitar is in the living room. All of our 'life' is lived outside of our bedroom. 

And yet... our bedroom is not a place for only sleep and sex. It is a place for a very private, intimate family life. It is where we read Peatuk bedtime stories. It is where we lay in bed, looking up at fake stars and point out false constellations to each other. It is where Peatuk eats his last snack before bedtime, and falls asleep so peacefully on my breast. It is where we cuddle and whisper secrets to each other. In some ways it is a very sacred space. 

So, as we slowly accumulate furniture to put on display and make our guests comfortable- a couch, a table, a microwave, shouldn't we also take the time to turn that private space into the sanctuary it could be? Yes, we could last with the hard mattress and slightly squeaky bed that rocks back and forth like a ship at sea whenever one of us crawls in at the end of the day. We could keep the slightly wonky, blocky cabinets from the 1980's. Or, we can fill that room with warm, elegant furniture and make it into our oasis. 

I am not the type to neglect my own desires for the sake of appearances, and neither is Nikola. Hopefully, that is something we will teach Peatuk as well, as we lay on our comfy bed and dream together.  

Desire

Perhaps I am just another victim of the romance myth. You know, that myth that drives our consumerism and gets the female half of box office sales.

"Find your one. Find your one. Find your one."

The myth whispers.

It gives every little girl (and boy) a purpose. Okay, not everyone, but many of us.

Then, one day, I find my, "one." Even though I don't believe that there is a one, I can say I achieved the disney dream of my prince.

I have a husband, and not just any husband, but one that makes me happy. Giddy at times. Not just a husband, but a best friend. I have found the one, and I am left flat, wondering, what now?

I guess this is why they say to build a career. I guess this is why they say you shouldn't look for another person to complete you.

No, I do not feel like he completes me, but I do feel overly satisfied.

I talked with Nikola about this the other day... I told him that I was too satisfied by him and our life together. I used to run around- different activities and different festivals and different countries, and although I was not always looking for someone, the thrill of possibility was always there. Who will I meet that will make me go weak in the knees?

I am not saying that I wont meet amazing people now. I am just saying that I am content to stay at home, playing with my son and flirting with my husband. An entire existence broken only by brief trips to the store and the occasional visit to grandma's.

I have no desire to leave our little bubble, but I do have a desire to have a desire. I have grown accustomed to desire- thirst. I want to want.

So, I am thinking of old hobbies and new hobbies, and how to integrate a little baby into a life that allows me to explore on my own, or at least explore myself.

I bought some acrylics the other day- perhaps I will take up painting. I am also looking for earthbuilding workshops in the area. Of course, when the half hour I get to myself every day is taken with dishes or laundry or a bit of writing... the thought of adding more is a bit daunting. But I fear that if I don't find a thirst I will let myself wither, and we can't have that. 

On Motherhood

Usually I don't think of being a mother as a particularly big deal. Sure, there was the whole pregnancy and birth thing, and yes, I am constantly tied to a small being, unable to travel or even go get a coffee on my own for longer than three hours. But still...

Peatuk is this unbelievably chill, fun little person. He is all smiles and laughter and curiosity and discovery. So, he coos from the bed when he wakes up and I have to go get him and sing him, "Good Morning Beautiful," as he giggles at me. It's really not a lot to ask from a person.

Then, there are moments when I really feel like a mother. Moments (rare) when he is sobbing uncontrollably because he is tired and the world is so big and he just can't fall asleep. True, it might be his father that finally gets him to calm down, but as I rub his back, fighting off his whimpers and keeping him asleep, I realize that I am his protector.

That is when I realize that being a mother... being HIS mother, is a big deal. The trust that he can't help but give me. His complete dependence.

Slowly, he will grow up. I already see so many changes in his eyes as he begins to see the world for what it is. Eventually, if I do my part correctly, he wont need me.

But for now I am completely honored to welcome this soul into the world and guide him through those first, wonderful, frightening, overwhelming years. 

Moments in Motion

The debate over digital cameras, and how much they distract individuals from, "living in the moment," vs. their ability to capture and share experiences, thoughts, and ideas is tired. At least, it is tired in me. Perhaps because I surrendered to my desire to purchase a nice digital camera for Peatuk last holiday season and have become one of those obsessed mothers, sharing thousands of bright colored photos of my son on facebook with hardly any intention of looking back on them again. I've made my decision. I am pro-camera. 

However, even with the decision made, I can't help but be overwhelmed with how much the digital camera influences our every day lives and our cultural rituals. 

First of all, it seems like we are living in a never-ending photo-shoot. I remember being a teenager, trying on clothing. I remember twisting this way and that in front of a mirror. I remember twirling to see how a dress or skirt flowed. After all, clothing is meant to be worn in motion. We do not sit still all day. That is why fashion shows involve live models walking a runway. It is not the final pose that matters, but the pathway to the climax. 

Now, bombarded by online catalogues and constant pictures of girls posing at the beach, in front of statues, at the club, wherever they are... it feels like the motion has been lost. Selfies in the mirror show how girls try on clothes, and there is no motion to it. Butt out, breasts out, lips ducked. Does the outfit hit the pose? It is as if existence has ceased to move and has instead become a stop-motion caricature of life. 

I remember being guided through one of my first modeling sessions by my friend. She had me twisting into uncomfortable, unnatural positions. The pictures turned out great, but they were not something you would see in real life. They were a statement, they were not me.

Now, I think that it is a lot more likely that I will see these postures in every day life. On the street corner, girls wearing 6 inch heels, arching their backs as they lean against a wall. Everyone is a pin up model. 

Parties, weddings, the first day of school... they are all optimized for photos. Everything works towards that single 'click.' It has gone beyond distraction and changed the very fabric of life. How we relate to each other. How we relate to our selves. How we relate to the world around us. 

The world feels jolted. 

Click. Step. Click. Step. Click. Smile. Click.

It continues, like strobes.

I wonder if that is why I have lost my motion. The world has stopped moving around me. 

Scammed

We are too trusting, as a couple.

Yesterday we ran into a guy talking on his cell phone, saying that he was frustrated that no one spoke English in Varna. (Should have been the first clue, because there are plenty of people who speak English). I went over to him to ask if we could help, thinking that maybe he was a traveler needing a bit of translation.

He told us a sob story about how his bag was stolen, he had missed his flight home, and he had a dissertation to defend on Tuesday. I should have known. It was too thorough of a story and there were too many holes in it as well.

But we were trusting, and gave him 250 euro. He insisted on wiring us the money from his bank before he would accept the money. When we got home, we realized the receipt was fake, from a fake bank, and the emails he gave us for him and his father were fake. It was a scam- one that I foolishly didn't expect to be played in such a poor country.

There were moments when I felt wrong, but we went ahead, giving this stranger the benefit of the doubt. Now, I feel sick to my stomach, knowing that he took advantage of a young family, with a baby no less. :(

I know, we shouldn't have been so trusting. I think I was waiting for Nikola to say something, to confirm my feeling, and he never did.

It isn't like we are rich. We pretty much emptied our bank account for that guy. <Sigh>

Now, how do I make the feeling of sickness and sorrow in the pit of my stomach and behind my eyes go away? 

Community and Home

I tell people in Bulgaria that I want to live in a village, and for the most part they turn up their noses at me and, almost suspiciously, ask why I would want to do that. Of course, these are the young ones. But they see the villages as dying venues. In a way, they are right. The population of Bulgarian villages continues to shrink while their urban areas swell.

Their words inspire me to dig deeper into my dream. To cling. I want out of the city. A little house, heated by wood, built with my own hands, designed from the lines that grow in my brain. A garden. The sound of kids exploring louder than the sound of cars revving their engines and honking their horns.

I wonder what everyone finds so intoxicating about cities. The promise of a better life. A high paying job in a capitalistic society. The potential to meet anyone. Likeminded. To surround yourself with a clique of your choosing. Over 100 different cafes. Restaurants. Nightclubs. Bars. Places to get drunk and pretend that you might meet someone, except that everyone is too wrapped up in their own lives, and trying to remove the pressure of being stacked 10 stories deep, that they never actually make an effort to say hello.

Life would be difficult in a village. Cooking every meal, or at least 95%. No place to go to just stare at people and imagine who and what they are. No creative outlets. Friends would actually have to travel to us. A lack of schools. A lack of stores to get my mind off of my social frustration.

People say we should only move where we know we will have work, and a village is not a place offering jobs. But Nikola and I work in a virtual world not constrained by location. Unless he starts a business. For now, we could isolate ourselves in the woods and, so long as we can run high speed internet there, have enough money for food, heating, and to pack away for family trips and the University education I no longer believe in.

In other words: work is a very small limitation.

Then what is stopping us?

I have no idea where in Bulgaria I would want to live. When we were in Istanbul, daydreaming about being back in a land where we trusted people and could communicate without issues, we said Hissar. Now, it seems so far away. Strange. No further away than Tucson from Prescott and yet it seems like a completely impossible distance.

Maybe it is because, honestly, I don't have a desire to live there. Here's the thing: I want a house, and a home, my version of the "white picket fence" but I don't know where I want that. I don't even have a clue. It feels like yet another attack of paralysis due to too much choice.

I used to choose where I went next based on the amenities. A fire spinning culture. Writers and artists. Cafes and pool halls where these people gathered. Organic food stores. Awesome nature. Japanese food. Mexican food. Killer sunsets. An airport.

Now, none of that seems to matter. It would all be nice to have, but I have learned to live without it. By the time I applied to join the Peace Corps, I was really done with a desire to live in certain places. That is why it was so easy for me to say, "Georgia? Sweet! Bulgaria? Okay!" I no longer cared about place. I was seeking something else.

Then, I went to Istanbul and I thought that I found another place that would invigorate and inspire me. Force me to grow. And I was sorely disillusioned by my experience there. We came back to Bulgaria and I just fizzled out with my need for place.

I found something more important. I need community. I need to live around likeminded individuals. Where is the Dunbar springs of Bulgaria? The Haight? Heck, I would take Tucson in general. Where are there hippie parents raising hippie, barefoot kids? Who hang out on the beach, watching the sunset and discussing philosophy and poetry and art? Where are the people who make art? I am sure there are some in Varna. There are a few sprinkled everywhere, of course. I am just so out of touch with the culture I love that I have no idea how to find or build community.

Remember those days when we used to dream of a little haven. A commune, if you will. With burners. With geeks. With D/s, sex positive advocates. With... someone who reflects who I want to be. People who drive me to better myself.

I guess it was all just dreams.

At least now I know. The reality of my situation. I need to stop looking for land and houses and potential roots. Instead I need to find people who settle my heart and set my soul on fire. 

Monster

Gone is the sweet, well-behaved boy that everyone used to be shocked by... He has been replaced with a monster. A terror. The idea of sleeping makes him cry. We're talking screaming, crocodile tears, the whole works. Last night Nikola loaded him up in the wrap and took him for an hour walk to get him to sleep.

We considered cry-it-out to get him sleeping, but I honestly can't. If I can't fall asleep without Nikola next to me, why do I expect my 6 month old son to? Of course, I don't kick and claw as much as he does... But still.

We need to start getting him into a routine, which is difficult considering both of us are home employed and don't know noon from moon. Maybe I just need to nap during his four hour morning nap instead of working and taking 'me' time.

Routines? Gradual parental extinction? Any ideas?

PS- He is still really sweet, after we both get naps. I mean, just check him out with his new favorite toy!

Cruelty

The way people drive in Varna makes me upset. Most cars seem to drive too fast, cutting everyone off, not stopping for pedestrians, and generally driving in a jerky, intense way that raises my blood pressure. This comes from someone who is always the passenger. I can't imagine the headache I would get if I actually had to drive here.

For the most part, I am forgiving of this behavior. It annoys me, yes, but in the end I chalk it up to selfishness, not cruelty. People who live in cities live in little bubbles, from which they cannot stop to imagine other people have needs and desires that are equally important as theirs. Laws are meant to keep order in the city, and are obviously not meant for, "ME," the individual. It is a complete lack of awareness and a struggle to carve a free life out in a city where people are stacked, one on top of the other, ten stories high.

Then, there are moments when I see real, inexcusable cruelty. Today one of those assholes that has too much pride in his noisy car skidded up to the sidewalk, and hovered there for a moment. On the sidewalk stood a man who obviously did not have full reasoning capabilities. He stood, staring at the silver car, not moving. Finally, the driver of the car rev'd the engine, and lurched forward towards the man, turning at the last second and screeching his brakes. The sudden movement startled Nikola and I, still 50 feet down the street, and made the man on the sidewalk jump. The guy in the car laughed and backed into his spot.

Nikola and I passed the scene, disturbed by this guy's stupidity. Then, there was a loud bang. Being from the states, my first thought was that one of them had a gun. Nikola, being from Bulgaria, thought fire cracker. Either way, the guy who had been driving the car was shouting, gleefully, "It's coming!" and the guy from the sidewalk was shuffling off, looking uncomfortable.

It gave me a tight feeling in my chest. It made me feel, for the first time, unsafe in my neighborhood, and I do not think it was the idea of gunshots that made me nervous, but the blatant cruelty.

On the bus ride into the city I was pensive. I don't see blatant cruelty that often, and yet however much I do see it is still way too much.

It makes me wonder why/ how people can be so mean. Maybe people were mean to them when they were children, so they grew up thinking it was acceptable behavior. Or maybe it is just the opposite, no one was ever mean to them and so they have no ability to empathize with other people. Maybe, and most likely, they watch too many films where people relate to each other with drama and violence.

I wonder if he only does that to strangers. Is it a power thing? Is cruelty an extension of the selfishness I see everyday?

The questions had no answers, and as we got off the bus I immersed myself in enjoying the day with my son and husband. My husband, who has no cruelty in him and is kind to a fault, and my son who I hope to raise the same way. But the sickness in my stomach stayed. Oh, humanity, where are you going wrong? 

Without Fashion, Without Style

.... I say in my most "fashionable" outfit of two years. Yes, vests make me feel fashionable. 

The lip ring and slave collar might be gone, but that is only because I learned about the world of D/s that exists beyond fashion. 

 

A jean skirt used as a belt over a pair of jeans and a scarf as a belt? Yeah, that made sense to me... 

Another Burning Man is rapidly approaching, and about to just fly by without me. Strangely enough, I could probably do without the debauchery this year, and the really large scale art sounds nice but unnecessary. What I really miss are the costumes.

For those of you who knew me back in the day of festivals and camp outs, you might be a little shocked to hear me say that I miss the costumes. After all, I was the girl who packed less than a small backpack of costumes and ended up naked by the end of the first day, only to begrudgingly put my clothes back on during exodus. Well, except for the occasional belt that I claimed was a skirt, and the coat or robe. You gotta have a coat or robe.

But yeah, honestly, I would love a reason to dress up.

I have never been particularly fashionable. Jeans, long hippie skirts, and tiny tops covered by oversized button ups have been my thing since high school. Not much has changed in 10 years. Except, it has. Sometime over the past four years of living in Bulgaria I lost the idea that clothing is meant to be fun, which is strange, because those of you who have been here know that the girls love dressing up. Strolling down the street at 2pm in 2am club wear? No one bats an eye. How many times have I lamented leaving my blue jean Baby Phat jumpsuit in the states? And yet, would I wear it here?

In high school, college, and San Francisco, I had a certain style about me. I never cared about impressing people. I never cared about fitting in. I never checked my outfit against magazines and I never followed trends. However, I definitely cared how I looked. I used to take half an hour or an hour to get dressed before going out to a club or on a date. It wasn't to be attractive. I wasn't trying to attract. But I definitely wanted to fit a fun, symbolic, aesthetically pleasing image. I wanted to impress myself.

Which meant eyeliner but not coverup. Occasionally a third eye, and sometimes lipstick. Not everyday. Not as an expression of who I was, but for fun.

It meant ripped jeans that were comfortable and 8 inch boots that weren't.

It meant chains and bullet belts. Peircings. Tattoos.

That exploration of appearance was fun. I loved using my body as a canvas.

Then I joined SCC and moved back to Tucson. I traded in my stilettos for work boots and my tank tops for t-shirts. But I kept a light, hippie fashion on my off days. I was one of the few girls that brought a skirt to wear every day after skirt, only because a skirt let me feel naked and free after a day of getting trail stuck to carhartts. I still kept my makeup for the occasional festival or trip to a night club, although nothing was as extravagant as my style in San Francisco. I also still kept my dreads even though I let my mohawk grow out.

Then I got my acceptance letter to the Peace Corps. With it came the warning about piercings, tattoos, and alternative hairstyles. Business casual. I had NEVER, in my life been business casual.

I made sure my tattoos were covered all of training.

I took business skirts and slacks and lived in a nine west wardrobe for three months. Of course, I had my little bits of rebellion:

Like the striped socks at our swearing in ceremony.

But as the years progressed, and I found myself working with older women and not around anyone I wanted to date, I found my sense of style fading. Comfort took over.

Yoga pants. Workout clothes. Sure, there were still jeans and vests occasionally, and a newfound adoration of scarves, but it was nothing like San Francisco. Make up faded completely.

My desire for style made a resurgence around our close of service, when I chopped off my hair and dyed it platinum blonde, followed by bits of blues and purple and green:

 Then, I got married. I got pregnant. I lived at my husband's parent's house on the outskirts of town, with little public transportation. I would go days, and even weeks without seeing anyone besides my extended family. As I got too big for my clothes I found it didn't matter. Naked. Comfortable. Anything that fit.

Now that clothes are starting to fit me again, I am finding it really difficult to get back into "style," let alone fashion. I find that I have no one to impress. My husband likes me in anything, and most of all likes me in nothing. Similarly, my son's only preference is clothing with quick access to the breasts. Beyond that, I find that I no longer have a social circle to bounce style off of.

I guess, as much as I thought I didn't care about how I looked, I did care what other people thought. I found style to be a creative outlet. I didn't want to talk to strangers, but I did want them to look at my flowing skirts and stompy boots. Now, having no one that cares what I wear, I find that I can't bring myself to care. And I strangely miss it.

I miss it because it used to be a way of defining myself. It used to be a way of creating boundaries. It used to be an exploration in symbolism. It used to be an art. (Okay, maybe that final one goes too far.) Now, it is a chore.

I need a jumpstart. A festival would be just the thing. Maybe I should ditch the every so slowly forming dreads and get a hair cut... maybe I need a fashion backwards friend to play with. Maybe I need to find somewhere to work or volunteer or play so I am seeing more than the two cuddly, naked-loving boys in my life every day... maybe I need to need fashion.

Or, you know, a costume party.