For Nikola...

Do you remember that trip we took when the butterflies started suicide bombing us? It started with a couple of thick green splats on the windshield. I was fascinated but you were annoyed that you couldn't remove them even after pumping wiper fluid over them for a full minute. I told you that you were only wasting the fluid, and you would run out soon, but you continued to slather it on, showing your frivolous side. The third splat came in low and got caught on the wiper blade. I watched the delicate orange and black wings flutter grotesquely for a moment before you flicked the blades and sent the mangled creature off.

The spattering continued for the next twenty kilometers, and knowing that each, "thwack," was another butterfly sobered us. It had been almost amusing when they were just green and yellow bug guts displayed for us, but knowing they were the gross end form of beauty brought on a respectful melancholy that mere grasshoppers don't inspire.

I turned from you, our threaded fingers anchoring me to the car, and watched the open plain fly past. It was still early spring and only a few brave poppies were beginning to dot the side of the road. They were fresh looking, and dark red. I knew later they would take on their impressionistic form of dusty crepe paper dotting every stretch of highway, but for now the few early risers held their true shape. Overhead three storks flew, one coming close enough to the car that I could make out the blue sky between the stretched out black under-feathers of its wings. I was giddy, like a child, at the sight.

Eventually we left the plains. I climbed in the backseat to be next to our sleeping son and we slowly wound our way into the hilly forest that would bleed up into the old mountains that split the country in two. Everything was green and soft. The butterfly assault had stopped as unceremoniously as it had started and my attention was instead drawn to old villages, sprawling reservoirs, and forgotten stone pillars marking the road up to the pass.

After cresting the pass, debating its difficulty by bicycle, we descended into the old capital. I wanted to sop and wander the streets but your grandmother was waiting for us in your village. As we sped away from the city our son woke up and crankily demanded his post-nap changing. You pulled over on a quiet turn and changed him in the front seat while I waited to feed him in the back. He was happy an you, ever the excited young father, wanted to show him the world.

You held him out in the warm breeze and pointed to the lush green hills that he could not see from the confines of his carseat. Only two months old, he could not focus that far away, but he smiled and cooed from your attention.

A car must have driven past. Neither of us noticed, but it sent a fragment of tree bark swirling up into the air and directly into our son's eye.

Oh, how he screamed! Our little, mousey son who usually gets no more than a few disconcerted whimpers out before one of us scoops him up and shushes him to smiles, would not be consoled. We passed him back and forth, trying to calm him enough to pry his eyelid open and sweep out the offending particle, but he continued to scream. We tried to flush his eye and debated taking him back up the mountain to the nearest hospital. I looked at you and shrugged, helpless and broken hearted from his shrieks.

Finally, an eternity later, his tears completed their task and the small speck floated out of the corner of his eye. You swept it away with some cotton and I held our son close to me. He continued to shriek from the trauma of the event, and so you started the car to sooth him. Eventually he calmed enough to take my breast. He suckled there, his eyes red and swollen. Little whimpers came between each swallow until he fell asleep. I left him there and reached forward to gently squeeze your shoulder.

My own eyes were filled with tears and you thought I needed your reassurance. Do you remember? Really, in that moment I was just overflowing with love and thankfulness for you and our little one.

Poverty shaming... when sex belongs to the rich

I remember being a kid and being ashamed that my family didn't have as much money as other families. We may not have been poor, I realize now, but at times I definitey thought we were. Both of my parents had jobs as I was growing up. My father was enlisted in the Marine Corps, and my mother took on various part-time jobs depending on what was avvailable. Only aas an adult do I recognize how amazingly adaptable and dedicated she was. From book keeping to babysitting to circuit board manufacture, she did it all without complaint, and she did it well. Back then it was something to be ashamed of. My mom _had_ to work, rather than be a stay at home mom or just volunteer at church. Even with two incomes, keeping three growing kids clothed and fed was at times strenuous for my parents. Our back to school budget was 'only' $100 per kid, which meant that we were shopping at target, walmart, and ross- places that were regularly made fun of even though now most of the people I know shop at those stores without social shame. At most they have a little guilt for supporting big-business practices. Christmas was a stretch for my parents. My mom always seemed worried that she couldn't get us everything she wanted to. Inevitably we had more than enough presents under the tree each year, even if the tree was once made of paper and hung on the wall. Yet, when we went back to school and saw the electronics and name brand clothes the other kids got there was a twinge of shame.

Living on a military base the heirarchy was all too clear. My father was enlisted. I had a few friends who were officer's kids and lived the next street over. You could immeadiately tell the difference whe you walked into an officer's house. The furniture was better, and the bathrooms were bigger. Still, it often did not copare to luxury of the homes where families lived their entire lives, and were able to accumulate truly nice things.

I write all of this now to paint a sort of picture of the life I lived, because I feel many people can identify with it. It is not one of poverty, but of lower middle class, where things are just within your reach, but stretch you a bit too far i f you grasp them. My parents worked hard, and didn't make too many large financial mistakes that I know of, and yet we struggled. Until a certain age that doesn't matter, and then suddenly it does. Around sixth grade what we possessed determined who we could be friends with. If we didn't have a discman we were out of one crowd. If we shopped at walmart there was no way the popular girls were going to hang out with us. And then, at age 11, I felt shame for my social class. Despite the fact that I had done nothing except be born. Despite the fact that my parents worked hard to support us and I should have been thankful, I felt shame. I felt like it was my fault that I could not afford designer jeans. I felt like I had done something wrong and had to be punished by wearing generic sneakers.

It is shallow and inconsequential, I know, but the creulity of kids can be permanently scarring. I don't wonder for a second why people borrow more than they can afford just to keep up appearances. I don't question why they eat raman noodles for a month to afford the latest iPhone. I understand those actions. What I don't understand is how we got to be a society where being born poor was someone's fault... one where people accept that their hard work deserves less than the hard work of someone born a class above them. I used to believe that it was only the 'haves' that perpetuated the myth that hard work coould ay off. I listened to a fellow Peace Corp volunteer saying that if you are poor it is your own fault for not going to college... you should work two jobs and go to night school. After all, everyone has to work hard.

It is easy to call bullshit on that. They say that these poor people should not have had so many kids if they couldn't afford to support them, but then they deny access to birth control, sex education, and abortion because people shouldn'tave sex if they can't accept the natural consequuences. Since when did sex become the property of the rich? Ony the stable can afford to have sex? The rest of the world should concntrate on pulling themselves out of the muck before they are alowed that releasing, loving, fulfilling act? I don't think so. No, the 'haves' are too easy to argue against. It is when the 'have nots' begin to spin the same myth that I get confused.

How can you think you are worth less than someone else? How can you think that it is fair you can't afford to go to college? How can you think it is fair you can't afford healthcare, or to have babies? Then I realize that shame from middle school has so deeply penetrated people that they begin to believe it. They honestly believe that there is something wrong with them. They honestly believe that because they are born with less, it is okay for then to be treated as less. So they scramble to cover it... no one knows, but it always leaks out... and they are constantly screwed over... and they silently take it.

We live in a world where the poor are ashamed of being poor and sex belongs to the rich... and people wonder why I am not a fan of capitalism.

More cute gifs...

My bobble head son, trying so hard to crawl :) 

A Lesson In Desire From a 2-month Old

Apparently one of the four noble truths in Buddhism is that desire is the cause of all suffering. Of course, desire is the driving force behind many of humanity's greatest achievements as well, but the very state of humanity is one of suffering. All of our achievements fail to alleviate the suffering; fail to fulfill our desires.

Also apparently, in the first month or two of life babies are beginning to learn the hard lesson that they are a separate individual, not attached to their mother or the entire universe anymore. They learn the boundaries of their skin. They learn what is them and what is not them, and it can be quite an unsettling, upsetting experience. Taken from a state of divine equilibrium, babies suddenly have to comprehend that they are alone.

This isn't a bad thing, though. In fact, it is amazing to watch. For the first month or so Peatuk demanded to be held at all times. When he was exhausted and fully asleep we could put him down for awhile, but at the first hint of waking he wanted to be close to another body, feeling another heartbeat, being soothed by adults. Slowly I have watched that dependency drop away. Oh, sure he still likes to be held, but he has found ways to amuse himself, and to sooth his aloneness. He likes to look at things, to babble, to kick his feet. Sometimes I think that he even prefers to be left alone, playing on the bed, rather than being confined to my arms. (For very short periods of time).

As his knowledge and understanding of himself as an individual increases I see desire creeping into his life. There is a blue Russian cathedral music box that he loves. We play it for him during diaper changes to keep him amused and usually he coos and talks to it, or at least gives it a bit of a smile and a wiggle. Lately he has been attempting to get mobile. He is far away from crawling, but he can scooch himself along by flailing his arms and kicking his legs... a few inches before he exhausts himself. Today we put his cathedral in front of him to see if he would scooch towards it. He did, and then after awhile of trying he stopped and started sucking on his fat little fingers to soothe himself. He wants that church. I am not sure why he wants it. Does he want to fuse it with himself? Does he want to touch it? Does he simply want the music to continue? Is he curious about it and wants to understand it? I don't know, but I can definitely see that there is a desire there. It is a desire that will make him suffer, but it is also a desire that will make him learn to scooch and crawl and walk. It will drive him to build his muscles and lift himself from his belly onto his feet. It is a desire that will give him creativity throughout his life. So, no, it is not a bad thing.

Sometimes, suffering is sweet. 

Through his eyes

If I am completely honest I have to say that I was never really excited about having a baby. I wanted a kid. I wanted a five year old to splash in puddles with. I wanted a 12 year old to take on hikes. I wanted to explore Europe on bikes with our 15 year old. But to get to 5, or 12, or 15, you have to go through these strange years when he drools and babbles and his biggest accomplishment is a pampers-filling poop in the afternoon. Some women are excited by this helpless, adorable stage. Me? Not so much. I thought it would be something I would have to endure in order to get to the good stuff.

I have been pleasantly surprised to learn that right from the beginning there is plenty of, "good stuff." No waiting or enduring is actually required. There is much I can learn about life simply by watching him learn what life is. I love that there are absolutely no social pressures shaping him yet. his emotions seem pure and full. When he is happy he smiles with his full face, gurgles a bit, and flails his arms around. I am not sure which I am more jealous over, that he can be thrilled by something as simple as his daddy's kiss, or that he has no shame in expressing that excitement. In fact, he couldn't contain his emotions if he did have shame. When he is upset he pouts and cries and isn't afraid to scream. When did I learn that I had to suck up my anger and fear to protect others from experiencing a negative emotion?

My absolute favorite though (besides the cooing- I LOVE the cooing) is when he looks around, calmly assessing the world. He most often does this while breastfeeding. He looks up at me with those huge blue eyes, and I am shocked by what I see. He is a complete little person with thoughts and emotions. He only lacks a way to express them. I always thought that intelligence was something that we acquired with time. It grew as our language grew. However, looking at him, I see that intelligence is something we are born with. If anything, perhaps we lose our understanding of the world and our ability to process so many different experiences as we go through the process of socialization and formal education. Babies are definitely not stupid.

Peatuk has started having nightmares. They break my heart. While he is sleeping he will start screaming as if he is in pain. It is a sound he never makes when he is awake. I hold him while he wakes up and reorients himself and soon enough he is suckling and cooing again. There are two theories floating around the internet as to what causes these nightmares. The first is that he is learning too much and so has a lot to process at night. The second is that he is processing a traumatic event such as his birth or something as simple as being left to cry in his crib for a minute or two. Sometimes I think he is dreaming about his past lives, finishing processing whatever it was he last experienced. Whatever causes these nightmares, I can definitely relate. I remember the nightmares of my childhood. I remember the intensity of my teenage night terrors. Part of me is apologetic for pulling him into this world filled with confusion and pain. Another part of me is a little bit jealous that everything is so new and overwhelming for him. No wonder he is thrilled.

Having a baby is definitely not as bad as I expected it to be. Sure, I am still excited for him to start walking and talking, but now I am just a little bit sad that he will grow up and one day he wont stare, unblinking, into my eyes for countless minutes. Oh, may he never lower his eyes with embarrassment!

Baby baby baby...

My life is shit these days... literally. The most exciting thing is whether or not Peatuk has pooped yet, if his diaper is wet, or if he is hungry. His needs have become my obsession. Luckily, his cuteness makes me immune to the grossness, and it doesn't seem as pathetic as it sounds. Laying in bed all day listening to my son coo? Yes, please.

 But then, it wouldn't be so bad to get out and about. We officially get our apartment tomorrow, but we will be taking the next two weeks or so gathering furniture and moving in. It will be a nice distraction. I love organizing. I love arranging. Now I have the added challenge of baby proofing while organizing our life.

AND it isn't like Nikola and I don't get out. We made it all the way until 2am at the Wickeda concert last week. Of course, the concert didn't start until midnight, and the opener went on for about an hour... so we only got two Wickeda songs (One was Whiskey and peanuts, so I felt satisfied) before my motherness kicked in to go home and breastfeed the babe.

Oh yes, I am one of THOSE mothers.

(And I actually had nothing to say, I just wanted a reason to publish the cute bathtime gifs that we made tonight.) 

Parental Anxiety

There seem to be a few themes to this parenting thing. The first theme seemed to have developed over the past forty or fifty years of, "you're doing it wrong." The experts tell you how to care for your baby and half of the 'advice' conflicts, and what doesn't conflict just doesn't seem to work. So you put your baby to bed on his stomach, and feel guilty about it all afternoon, and who knows what else you are doing wrong. But you are sure there will be plenty of people to tell you. And if you don't know enough people then the articles you read online will make you feel like you are doing it wrong enough.

But then, over the past five or ten years, there seems to have been a strong backlash against the, "you are doing it wrong," fad. Mothers speaking out on blogs and online forums (why are there SO MANY online mother forums?) that say, "Mind your own business, raise your own kids, I know what is best for mine." So things are being challenged. From vaccines to attachment parenting, there doesn't seem to be a right way to do things. Everyone has their opinion, but there is enough support out there for any choice you make. Except one.

One parenting myth is not spoken of or challenged. It is accepted as truth. The myth of unconditional, overwhelming, parental love that is locked into place at birth between mother and baby.

I have spent the large majority of my life questioning the construct of romantic love. I never believed in Romeo and Juliet, Prince and Princess, head over feet love. Instead I worked out problems of love and came to accept Sternberg's Theory of Love as the closest model that made sense to me. Love was not something that just popped up between two people. It was something that was cultivated and grew. It ebbed and flowed. Above all, I realized, that love was about a commitment to the future. Whether that commitment was to stay in a relationship, or to respect a person in the morning, it was about that choice, and the follow through. My relationship with Nikola has been all about that choice. We both loved each other quickly and deeply. It was the most simple choice of my life, probably because there was an equal amount of commitment reflected from him.

I think that many people would love more easily if there was not a constant need for reciprocity. Our relationships are played out as a delicate dance of give and take. No one wants to feel more than their partner. No one wants to admit to greater love than their partner returns. For most people the most disappointing thing to hear when they say, "I love you," is silence. I thought that I had gotten over that. My queer years in San Francisco taught me, among other things, that love could be given without a return. Love was not a thing of scarcity but abundance. It was meant to be shared. Of course, moving out of the bay area I encountered a world of suspicion- no one believed that I could love them without wanting love in return. So I felt awkward and I went back to the pre-free-love state of giving only as much as my partner would not, "think was weird." Nikola never thought it was weird that I loved him. Maybe it was his self-confidence. Maybe it was because he was raised to believe that he was worthy of love. Whatever. It seemed perfectly natural to him that I would love him, and love him I did.

Then Peatuk came around, and I find myself questioning a whole other type of love that I always took for granted.

I never really liked babies before. I am not that type of girl. I don't have a very motherly or nurturing nature. I like to solve puzzles though, and for that reason I love working with older kids. I find children and adolescents fascinating as their world views develop. But to get a child of my own I either have to have a baby or adopt a child. For some reason having a baby felt like the right way to go about it (not to mention the easiest.), but I was still nervous about how I would care for a baby. I wasn't nervous about how I would feel about him. I never even considered it. Unconditional parental love, of course.

Except I don't. When Peatuk was born I was amazed and relieved, but I did not feel this extreme love for him. I feel responsibility and fondness. I think he is overwhelmingly adorable. But love? I still wasn't sure. The other day I found myself stressing over this. Am I a sociopath, to not love my own child? Why don't I feel the way the storybooks make it sound? Is it postpartum depression? Exhaustion? Perhaps I am emotionally stunted. Or perhaps this whole love thing is just another lie.

Perhaps parental love is just like romantic love. It is a choice we make. Except, unlike romantic love we do not have to be afraid of lavishing it onto a baby with no return. Babies are pretty much appreciative of any attention. They 'love' anyone. So parents can feel free to give them all of their love without fear of rejection. Finally, we have someone who accepts all of our love, who doesn't think it is weird when we make them the center of our lives. With a child we are free to love, and so, relieved, we do. Most people don't realize the choice they make because there is no risk involved in loving their own child (or rather, the greatest risk, but not a risk most people consider), but it is still a choice. Right then I made that choice, and I felt suddenly reassured.

I love my son, I really, really do. No fairytale bells and whistles, just a lifelong commitment to his wellbeing and as much adoration as he can stand.

House Hunting

You can't live with your in-laws forever, or can you?

Nikola and I have started the long and painful process of house hunting. Of course, in my history it has never been long, just painful. I seem to have terrible luck with landlords and roommates. I get talked into places I don't actually want to live and I end up stuck with contracts I can't get out of. After our experience in Turkey I am skittish about going to see a realtor and frightened at the idea of saying, "yes," at all. Luckily, for the first time in my life, we are in a place where we are not rushed or pushed by necessity.

Every agent likes to say, "If you don't take it today it will be gone tomorrow. There aren't a lot of this type of apartment in Varna."

For once I can say, "Okay, then let it be gone."

We are not squished with time. If we don't find anything we are welcome to stay with the in-laws for another week or month or... whatever. But what about that whatever?

I have this huge urge to move out into our own space even though it makes no logical sense. Perhaps it is a cultural thing. In the States kids move out. I was out by the end of my 17th year and I barely looked back. To me that seems normal. Of course young people move out and bury themselves in rentals they can barely afford. That is part of life. It is part of growing up. In Europe, specifically Bulgaria, it is not necessarily like that. Adult children continue living with their parents sometimes. Occasionally they move out and then move back in. Sometimes they get married and move out. Sometimes their significant other moves in with them. They stay with their parents because it is cheaper. Because there is space. Because they need to help in the garden. Sometimes they move in with an uncle or grandmother to help them. It is all very communal and it seems brilliant to me, but it just feels emotionally confusing.

Continuing to live with my in-laws right now makes perfect sense. Peatuk is not even two months old. Here I get to split the duties that go into childcare with my mother-in-law. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, ironing the many diapers he goes through... how many times have I wondered how American women do this on their own? Now, just because we are getting comfortable and Peatuk is starting to be able to hold up his own head does that mean it is time to immediately move out? No. Except because of the way I was raised I can't help but believe that deep down Nikola's parents are irritated with us. We stay in their bedroom, taking over their living room, regulating them to what was once known as the, "children's room." We eat their food and lately we offer little in return except the occasional cake and a smile from their grandson. No time to help in the garden... Peatuk needs feeding... no time to cook a full meal... Peatuk needs holding... I feel... well, guilty.

So we are looking for a house.

The thing is that the realtors are right- there are not a lot of houses in the Varna area in our price range. Everyone here lives in apartments. They are nice apartments, generally. Some are even spectacular. But I want a garden. I want a fireplace. I want a rustic little village life. At least I have time to find it. 

Tree Dressing- RWB

Once upon a time there was a tree. It was large and strong, stretching from sky to sea, and it had many leaves of all shapes and sizes and colors all dancing side by side in the sunlight. For awhile I grew on that tree. I drank its sap and I danced in the dappling shadows of my friends. But seasons change as time goes by and one by one the leaves begin to fall.

Some leaves aged and brown and fell silently from the tree, gliding down to the ground on warm autumn nights. Others were violently plucked in their prime by curious young girls, hungry birds, and the occasional storm. Every so often the tree shook with sadness for its fallen leaves and the leaves that remained rustled against each other, feeling each other's edges for a bit of comfort, and sighing, "We remember you."

But the leaves still fell, and with each passing season the tree became more exposed. You could see the branches the leaves used to cling to. Branches of song, and branches of dance, dj and fire spinning branches, and slightly creepy branches that you didn't venture too close to, and branches of soft philosophy spoken around a fire. Even the naked the branches were beautiful. Perhaps they were more beautiful in their newfound simplicity, marked with the pocks of each fallen leaf.

Today I learned that another leaf has fallen. I wont say that I knew Koyote. We barely talked (although the few times we spoke he was kind, witty and thoughtful) so I can't say I knew him mentally or emotionally. We definitely did not know each other biblically. But we did share a few days playing with our staffs on the beach, and naked contact dance affords a certain level of intimacy that I have found with few people along the way.

Being a naked fire spinner is difficult for a girl some times. Men lear. Other fire spinners are uncomfortable sharing space with me. They wonder why I don't put on some pants and they turn their noses up at me as they go practice their technical spinning. But I can't help it. I love the feel of a staff rolling over my bare shoulders, down my back, and up my arms. The sensation is worth the ostracization. Yes, it is worth it, even though occasionally I would ache for a partner to play with. Of course I am too shy to admit this most of the time. Then, one day, Koyote came along. He was confident and sure. Playing with him was simple and easy. The creativity flowed easily between us and before long we were leaping and tumbling in all the ways I had hoped for. He was completely respectful and there was nothing sexual in our exchange. There was also nothing shy or awkward. We explored movement for hours on the beach. The sun was our audience and the lapping waves were our music. There were other instances- fire shared in a performance circle, or the occasional playful run in on the playa- but nothing compared to those afternoons on the beach. I remember feeling completely free in those moments. I felt accepted. I felt calm. I felt happy. I felt more like myself than any other moments during that time of my life. I felt that I was shining. It is a great man that can inspire those feelings in others.

Any time I hear about the passing of a community member I feel a twinge of sadness, but it is particularly strong for a person who was as awesome as Koyote was. Those who met him, who played with him, and especially those who danced with him, are blessed, for those moments cannot be forgotten.

With Love. 

(Photos by Waldermer)