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.