Day 4: Melancholy of Identity

What would an international travel experience be without a slight existential crisis? Yesterday I had the melt down, wondering if I was cut out to be a mother and wanting the possibility of other lives. Today our family handled the conference better and I was able to delve (happily at first) into questions beyond diapers and toddler fits. I came face to face with one of the past lives I have lived and experienced a rather old and tired crisis of sexual identity.

Today is pride. In the U.S., it is a particularly important pride, as same-sex couples have been recognized by the federal government as a legitimate marriage possibility. Putting aside the fact that I view marriage as a problematic, archaic institution (despite reaping the benefits of my straight marriage over the past two years), I am enthusiastically happy about what this says about how society views LGBTQ people.

I have never been to a pride event before today. Seville has a rather large (in my opinion) LGBTQ community, and the pride parade was much bigger than I expected. As I stood on the sidewalk, my arm wrapped around Nikola's waist and our son looking forward with his usual confusion, I felt shivers run over my arms. Excitement crept over my skin, but settled into me as a strange type of dread.

I felt the way I always feel when I look at a group of people that I long to join: like an outsider. In this case, I really am an outsider. I am not Spanish, so I know nothing of the local LGBTQ struggle. More blatantly obvious: I am pretty much living the life of a straight woman.

They say sexuality is not defined by your current relationship, but by your desire. I have always identified somewhere in the murky waters between bi and pan sexual, but as my focus draws ever more tightly to my family, I find that even my desire is fading. I find men and women attractive, but I no longer desire to have sex with them. I no longer have the energy to imagine or desire sexually. I am pretty much Nikola-sexual these days.

I have never been comfortable in the LGBTQ community. Perhaps it is because I am a bi woman, and our experiences and existence are so often discounted. My sexuality has been called into question by gay women and by straight men. You know who has not called my sexuality into question? The people who I have dated. The man I have married. For this reason, my sexuality never became part of my culture. I never immersed myself in the political and social aspects of sexuality. I allowed sexuality to just be a part of me- not a definition of me.

Still, on days like today, I wish that I could run through the streets, laughing with my arms around the waists of others, my lips on their ears, and laughter bubbling in our throats. I wish I was part of that community of people. I wish that I could stand up and claim my sexuality in front of the world. But I am left wondering--- what is the point if the life I am living does not acknowledge it? Sometimes I feel like a traitor. Other times I feel like the only role available to me in the LGBTQ community is that of an ally, despite the fact that I am actually LGBTQ.

What saves me is that my husband is supportive of me in these moments, standing next to me as the parade passes, asking me if he should run our son under the giant rainbow flag on the street. At least there is that.   

Spain: Day 2

Yep. Head over heels with this place. Or maybe it is just the aspect of 'vacation.' Honestly, I was a little crabby before we left because I thought, "How can the primary caregiver in a family actually have a vacation, especially with the whole family there?" When your daily routine consists of changing diapers, dealing with melt downs, and singing "Where is Thumbkin?" on repeat, is a change of location going to make much of a difference? Won't there still be diapers and melt downs and thumbkin?

The answer is, yes, there definitely are all of the things I do on a daily basis at home, but they are easier to do here. For one, Nikola has actually been on vacation these past two days. He has been with me and Peatuk. He put away his computer (despite being late on a few projects- yipes) and stepped up to helping manage Peatuk and giving me attention. THAT feels like vacation. Not absolute, but taking away half of my daily responsibilities is quite a lot. I can sit and enjoy a cup of coffee. That is nice.

Besides Nikola, the parks here are a great vacation. There is something about the way they are set up, with a giant square surrounding a rather large play area, that makes it safe to let Peatuk have a little more space and autonomy. He rarely goes outside of the park, and if he decides to, I can let him wander and just trail after him. It is relaxing to not have to constantly guide, engage, and shepherd him. I love not having to tell him no. This really makes me ache for a yard of our own, which he is free to roam and explore.

How nice the other people are here also makes it feel like vacation. They are super into football. I thought that kids in Bulgaria were into football, but here it is everyone. This morning, Peatuk was wandering around and we came across two little boys playing football on the alameda. They were using the columns at one end as their goal post.

Photo from wiki commons. Columns @
Alameda de Hercules, Seville Spain

No one seemed concerned or upset that they were playing with a cultural monument. (This goes into my theory that the people here really enjoy to LIVE in their space. To make use of it. To enjoy it.) Instead, an older woman stopped and shouted encouragement at the boys, giving them tips on their foot positioning. She then asked if I was their mother. I said that I don't speak Spanish and shook my head, pointing to just me and Peatuk. She didn't mind that I didn't speak Spanish. She continued talking for a moment, with a huge smile, and then engaged Peatuk for a bit.
Peatuk was enthralled with the strange game he was watching and, of course, toddled up to the boys. They let him take their football away and put it on the ground and they both shouted, "GOAL!" for him when he gave it a little push. They didn't have that much patience to stop their game, so I took Peatuk away at that point, but the fact that they were so polite about it made my morning.
A while later, the ball got chased away by a football, and a woman around my age trapped it perfectly and kicked it back. It was like, 'If you are on the alameda, you are engaged in our game.' And that was just it- everyone WAS engaged. They were happy to be engaged with each other.

I notice fewer phones out, a few more old school newspapers in the morning. But mostly, people earnestly chatting with each other. Listening with desire to understand. Speaking with animation and passion. I really wish that I knew how to speak Spanish, but even without it, I can tell that these conversations are lovely points of engagement. 

Spain: Arrival

I need to remind myself not to fall in love while I am here. Or do I? Maybe a rousing case of city-lust is just the thing I need to get me out of the doldrums of having a toddler as my most constant companion.

As soon as we got here, I felt like I was at home. The dry heat is similar to Tucson. The food, the language. It makes my heart ache for a "home" that I put aside a long time ago. Yet, even though there are similarities, the differences make it its own, unique place. In many ways, it is better, simply because it is Spain- a place I have daydreamed so idly about that I wasn't even aware of my dreams. A constant voice in the back of my heart saying, "Someday, you should go to Spain," with absolutely no logical reason why.

In those dreams, I always imagined myself on a balcony. Second floor. White curtains blowing in the breeze. Opening onto one of those tiny, cobblestone walks. We have that in our room here, but it is better than the dream. The tiles- the cool way they feel under my bare feet and the contrasting patterns. The bare walls. The tiny balcony that actually turns our who room into a balcony. It is absolutely perfect.

The language is different than Southwest Spanish. I knew it was different, logically, but hearing it is spoken is still shocking, and beautiful. It sounds round and open, the mouth so soft as people speak. Speaking of mouths... the smiles. Everywhere, there seems to be the hint of a smile just waiting to be shared. When they are shared, they are given so liberally that I cannot help but return them. The smiling makes me slightly giddy. Drunk, and I have yet to take a sip.

Six days can't possibly be enough. Or it might be. I remember the way I fell in love with Istanbul, and the way that moving there ruined the allure of that magical place. I am sure that moving here would also taint my starry-eyed notions of perfection. However, I definitely will keep Seville in my back pocket as one of the perfect vacation cities for me. Sometimes, you step off of a plane and you feel like you are home. You feel right. Dead strings resonate in your heart. Those are places worth exploring.

The First Run After...

On Monday I went for my first run since I have been pregnant. It was my first run in almost two years. It is hard to believe it has been that long. Running was so ingrained into my identity that I could not imagine skipping two years, and in a lot of ways it feels like just last winter I was training for the cheverny marathon.

But I wasn't.

Last winter I was raising a little boy who was learning how to babble and smile. I had this and that health problem left over from 9 months of swelling to accommodate said boy, not the least of which were ingrown toenails that prevented me from walking comfortably, let alone running.

Now, everything is more or less sorted and I can run. I even have a babysitter who can watch Peatuk so I can have up to two hours to myself, reading, writing, sleeping, cleaning, or... practicing the physical exercises.

That is how Monday I packed up the aforementioned baby boy in his stroller, took said babysitter with me, and hit the track just around the corner from my house.

In a lot of ways, the 'run' was absurd. I jogged a mile, walked a lap, and then jogged a second mile. That was it. I was incredibly slow. The whole ordeal took me almost half an hour. For two and a quarter miles! My lung capacity that I worked so hard to build up over the years is almost completely shot. My joints are not used to running. Two days later, my muscles are STILL sore. And, I can no longer run in a regular bra, lest my milk-filled bosom bop me in the nose.

My body and my mind still remembers heading out for 30 km runs. They remember my posture. They remember that a 10 km used to be an easy day. Now, I can't even make a 5 km run in one go. In some ways, all of that hard work I put into running is gone. In other ways, I know I am mentally ready to get back into it and so it should not be as hard as starting over from the very beginning. I know what to expect. I know which training regimes work for me.

Even as I say it was a bad run, it was also a very good run. Because I did it. Because I used my body again. Because there were moments that I reconnected with a part of me that has been dormant for so long, and I could feel her in there. I know the first couple of months are going to be frustrating, and I know that I have to remember to be kind and gentle with myself. I have to remember not to expect to much. I have to remember that I was basically sedentary for the past year and a half. (Something I will not fall into during any subsequent pregnancies).

I have set an easy goal. By the end of the summer I want to be running 10k again. Not a fast 10k. Just 10 continuous kilometers without feeling exhausted or straining my lungs. I don't even have a weekly amount I am working towards. Nothing so complex. I just want to be able to go out, on and given day, and hit a good, solid stride for about an hour and not want to stop when it ends. 

Spring Training

Sometimes I feel like Nikola and I are smack in the middle of the traditional family fairy tale. Of course, I arrived at it in a roundabout way, 10 years after the fairy tale usually starts. After all of my adventures, this one feels quaint and frustratingly slow. At the same time, I have never felt more stable and more happy than I do here, with my husband and son, in our little one-bedroom apartment in Gabrovo, Bulgaria. The conflicting emotions are strange, to say the least, but not altogether bad.

At the moment, our goal is to get Paiyak Development off the ground. Honestly, it is going great. Nikola's profits are steadily growing. His interns are turning into junior developers that can make great contributions to the company. His clients are more than happy with his work and his client base continues to grow. At the same time, we are working on building a brand that is socially aware and makes a contribution to our community.

All of this comes at a price, though. Nikola is at the office for about 10-11 hours a day, Monday through Friday, and another 6-8 hours on Saturday. All that leaves for us as a family are Sundays. Four days a month that slip away too quickly. When I don't think 24 hours a day every day would be enough to satiate my desire to cuddle with him and explore with him, how could Sundays possibly be enough?

While I refuse to be the family that always puts works first and ends up miserable slaves to money, I realize that Nikola loves his work and is not unhappy in front of his computer, solving problems. I also realize that this is short term. In a few months, he should be able to scale back his hours a little bit, and within a year we hope that he will be working just over full-time. Until then, Sundays will have to do.

Last Sunday, we decided to test Peatuk's new bike seat on a longer ride. We were originally going to go to Etera- the classic little water village/museum at the end of town. However, in the morning, I found this interesting looking house for sale in a village about 11 km away from our current apartment:

It is a bit beyond our budget, but architecturally, it is quite different than anything I have seen available in our area, and we were both enamored with the huge windows. We decided to ride up the mountain to see if we could magically find this house and see it in person. 

On the way up, I had to stop for several miniature breaks and push my bike up the steeper hills. I realized I have not been this bad at riding in several years. I also realized that without a lot of training, getting a house up in the mountain village, even if it is less than 10km away from the city, would not be doable with the anti-car lifestyle I have created for myself. Besides hauling my baby and groceries up and down the mountain multiple times a week, I could not imagine sending Peatuk down on his own to go to school 5 years from now.

Despite these realizations, I was having an amazing time. The exertion felt incredible. Spending time with Nikola and working towards a common goal felt great. Getting out of the city and taking advantage of the mountains we moved to felt great. I was quite happy.

By the time we got to the top of the mountain, Peatuk had had quite enough of his bike seat. Even though it was t-shirt weather down in the city, it was quite cold up on the mountain, especially with the sun tucked behind clouds. As we climbed, we realized snow was still on the ground, and spring would be coming to these last 5km later than it does in Gabrovo proper. 

We tucked Peatuk in for a snack and wandered the (rather dead) village to find our home. It was just as gorgeous as it was in the pictures but, perched precariously on the edge of a mountain, I realized that it would allow no room for a garden and no room for Peatuk to play. No, the house was not for us, and neither was the village. 

Still, coming down from our mini adventure, I felt a great sense of accomplishment and bonding with my family. After all, this is what life is really about. Making small achievements together. Creating memories. 

Someday, we will buy a house. Someday, we will have a successful business. Someday, we may even be able to take vacations and have grand adventures. Until then, these moments make the wait not only bearable, but incredibly sweet in its own right. 

Nemo: My Little Orange Lenovo

My macbook pro has been on the way out for about 3 years now. Sometime before I left for Peace Corps in 2010, its battery died (has it really been five years since I came to Bulgaria!?!), but it lasted through my service. About a month before I left Bulgaria, it decided to simply not start up. Luckily, with a thorough cleaning and some new fans it was able to keep running. I installed a fan booster and got an external cooling pad to help keep the temperature manageable. Then, in Turkey, I Frankensteined its power cable and had to do another deep cleaning of it. Its graphics card blew, and I replaced it. But a few weeks ago, when I noticed that it could barely run skype anymore, I decided it was finally time to get a new computer. My first new laptop ever (the macbook had been used).

I wavered between the ASUS Transformer flip book and the Lenovo Yoga 2. The ASUS was a bit more affordable and had greater potential for upgrades, but the Yoga was just a bit more sleek.

I often have a difficult time making decisions when it comes to large purchases, especially electronics, which I know very little about. My last two decisions for electronics were quite terrible, and so I was nervous about this one. I fear that I drove Nikola a little towards insanity with all of my back and forth and obsessive comparisons. When I read that ASUS considers their warranty void when you open the back cover to install the upgrades I would have made upon purchase, I decided to go with the Yoga. So far, I think it was a great choice.

I got the 13", Yoga 2. Not the pro, which is about 400 more dollars. (Although it was tempting, it was not something I really needed. I did get the version with 8GB RAM and a 128 SSD (I wanted 256, but they don't have a 256 in the basic model). It is a touch screen, convertible laptop/tablet. I somehow doubt that I will use it in tablet mode very often, but I have already found stand mode great for watching videos. It is my first full-HD screen, and the keyboard and casing is beautiful to touch. It is just so dang sleek :)

It already inspired me to start writing a bit more. I transferred my files from one of my novels into yWriter, which I have been eyeing ever since I considered switching to windows. I love it as a program. It breaks the book down into short scenes rather than chapters, which I might actually be able to work on if Peatuk ever decides he wants to take a nap again. (For the moment, he has decided that sleep is the most evil thing ever and he will never sleep again, and I am going rather ragged over it).

I also tried skype. I can actually run skype, have a conversation, and still check out other programs on my computer. So, you know, I can look something up while talking to someone! My old laptop had gotten so slow that I had no control over anything else if I was in skype. Or if a web page was loading. Or, whatever.

I also find that my work is a little bit faster, probably because I am so excited about the laptop and none of my keys on my keyboard stick in the least.

I had a difficult time treating myself to a large purchase ($1000 on my current income is quite a chunk of change), especially because Nikola's new laptop, which he codes on, was about $100 cheaper than mine. Does a writer really need a fancier toy than a programmer? Perhaps not, but I am ecstatic about it at the moment!

Ohhhh- and I got the little convertible blue tooth mouse that goes with the yogas. It is amazing. Very responsive and a pleasure to touch. AND- no cables for Peatuk to play with. Win! 

Life is Good

Occasionally, circumstances conspire to make me appreciate life just a little more. Recently, there have been a few deaths among my family and acquaintances. In the past, death has caused me to feel a range of emotions, but only recently has it made me feel fear. I suppose that I have never been so entwined with anyone as I am with Nikola and Peatuk, and the very thought that something could separate us as permanently as death is chilling. However, it makes me appreciate our lives for what they are now.

Yesterday, the weather was beautiful. Peatuk and I went to a park with our friends to play on the swings and slide. He loves the swings. He is a little freaked out by the slide, so he decided to just sit at the top and watch his friend go by. I am realizing the spring is creeping up, and I cannot wait for Peatuk to start walking, so we can spend many days in the playgrounds. Long walks, bike rides.... I see the potential for so much more mobility in our future.

As Peatuk grows, he is developing such as awesome personality. He is sweet. He loves to make people laugh. He is cautious of new things and occasionally cautious of new people. He is always curious though, and his curiosity wins out over his cautiousness. He still hates to sleep and basically goes-goes-goes until he is physically unable to continue. He is very social. He prefers people to toys, but he is getting curious about how the world works. Basically, he is awesome, and it is such a pleasure to be his mother.

The business is growing. Our designer is starting off great, learning a lot, and seems very motivated. Our junior developer also has quite a bit of motivation and talent. This month has been hard, because Nikola is working 12 hours a day, 6 days a week in order to pull in money while completing training. I also have been supporting the business with income from my writing. We hope that it will begin to pay off soon, but we know that it will be at least a year of really hard work until it is potentially stable. Still, there is so much possibility, and Nikola's clients seem very happy.

I love our apartment. We have all of the furniture that we wanted to buy for it, and it is very comfortable. I will be sad to leave it someday, but I will also be looking forward to owning our own home and having a garden sometime in the next couple of years. Tomatoes. That is my goal- 52 jars of beautiful sunshine-tomatoes. Then, maybe, bees, but we'll see about that.

We will be interviewing a potential babysitter sometime this weekend. Then, I will have a few hours to myself each week. I am thinking: running, cycling, and yoga. I am also thinking I might pick up the pen again and finally finish the book I have been working on. Unfortunately, the longer I live in Bulgaria, the less enthusiastic I become about my writing. I wonder if it from a lack of immersion in English or if it will return to me once I can dedicate some time to the craft. Ohhh... speaking of craft, I may actually get to finish some crochet projects. I think I would like to try my first sweater next fall, so I want to get a few smaller projects under my belt.

In other words- life is normal, and very, very good. 

When Birthday Has A Whole New Meaning

Peatuk is currently in bed, taking his usual after-breakfast nap. He is so sweet when he sleeps. Lately he is on his back with his arms flung up by his ears and his lips making that little quivering hint of suckling occasionally.

We woke him up with "Happy Birthday," and "Честит рожден ден." Of course, he didn't really understand it all, but he seemed happy and excited. He liked the poem that his father recited for him to grow up big and tall. Other than that, it was life as normal.

It is hard to believe that an entire year has passed since the little bug was born. He was so tiny a year ago, and even though he could do pretty much nothing, he was the coolest person in the world. But now. Now! He has learned to laugh and to inspire others to laugh. Seriously- at one year old he has decided it is his mission to create laughter. How can I not love him?

He is almost walking. He is far away from talking, but he loves to babble. He is curious. He is joyful. He is honesty wrapped in baby fresh skin. He is amazing.

I want to take this day- blustery with just a hint of snowflakes- to celebrate my little person. However, there is another part of the whole birthday that, as a mother, is still fresh in my mind.

I found birth to be somewhat traumatic for me. I try not to label it as trauma, because I want to have a second child some day and with that label I can never let the amazing human mind work to forget the pain and intensity of birth. However, yesterday and today I can't help but think about the exhaustion and desperation I felt after nearly an hour of active pushing. After throwing up twice. How, just moments before he was born, I was laying there, ready to surrender, sure I could not finish the act of giving birth. How I looked at Nikola, ready to say I was done. I have never felt as much shame and sadness as that moment, just before it was over, as when I thought there was nothing that could make me keep going. And there wasn't. The final push was given externally- the full weight of the doctor on my stomach.

It isn't guilt that I feel about his birth. It is something else altogether. But remembering back to that day I feel scared and weak. I do not feel empowered or any of this, "miracle of birth," that I am supposed to feel.

Thankfully, the love I feel for him is much stronger than the anxiety I feel over that moment. The panic comes, but I have him to hold and play with and it goes again. In years, I will learn to forget it, and this day will be only about this amazing little being that is going to love the world with such whirlwind passion. 

Yet Another Cloth Diapering Blog

The internet is filled with blogs about cloth diapering. What works. What doesn't. Which brands are best. How to wash. How to strip. How to DIY. It is all out there. I don't really have anything new to add to the conversation surrounding cloth diapering, but I wanted to share an update on how cloth diapering went for our first year in case any of my friends are on the fence about it.

My Current Stash: On the left are my dry wipes, wet wipes (in the container) and a wool changing pad I crocheted. In the center are my cloth diapers. In the right is Peatuk's potty. Above is his diaper bag and one of his used wraps (they air out and are reuse 2-3 times before washing). 

Phase 1: Wraps and Muslin Diapers 

I started cloth diapering pretty much as soon as Peatuk was born. Before he was born, my mother-in-law bought the traditional Bulgarian diapering kit- 10 meters of cotton for swaddling and 20 meters of muslin for diapers. I crocheted and sewed a few wool diaper covers, and that was what we started with.

The first month or so, things went okay with cloth diapering. Babies that young poop an absurd amount, like 6-8 times a day. So that meant a lot of diaper changes. Sometimes we would use the wool wraps, but often, we would just have him in the muslin and wrapped cocoon style in the cotton and when he got wet, change the whole set up. We probably went through as many sets of clothes as we did diapers each day, which is kinda rough.

I would have given up if I was doing it all on my own. Thankfully, at the time, we were living with my mother-in-law and she jumped in with tips on how to fold the diapers correctly and took over the washing and ironing of the diapers for me. It is a lot of ironing, and although it is not fully necessary if you are drying the diapers in the sun, they fit better next to the baby if you iron them into neat folds.

Towards the end of this period, Nikola's sister gave us the gift of two PUL wraps. They worked SO much better over the diapers than the wool covers, and that meant less changing Peatuk's full outfit, which was a great thing.

One of my wool covers. He was swimming in it, but it worked. 

Phase 2: FuzziBunz and Other Pocket Diapers 

My first pocket diaper was a gift from peleni.bg. It was a one-size little lamb pocket diaper, and I still happily use it. After that, I bought 12 fuzzibunz, 1 totsbots, 2 rumparoos, 2 charlie banana, and one "chinese cheapy" diaper. They are all one size pocket diapers and they all have their strengths and weaknesses.

I bought them all second hand, as we didn't have the money for new diapers, but I found that a lot of them had only been used a couple of times. It seems like a lot of people try cloth diapers and then give up. I did get a few fuzzibunz that went through a whole child from birth to potty training, and I cannot even tell which ones they are in my stash now, so they are holding up well.

Unfortunately, about three months after I got them, the Charlie Bananas started leaking through the PUL. I couldn't figure out the problem and I finally had to get rid of them. The totsbots leaked a bit too, but I washed it on 60 degrees and it started holding well again.

I love pocket diapers because they are cheaper than all-in-ones and they are fast drying. My fuzzibunz take about one hour to dry in the winter, less in the summer. Stuffing the inserts can be tedious at times, but I find them worth it.

The Charlie Bananas made great hats, and I loved how soft they were, but the fuzzibunz did better as actual diapers. 

Phase 3: Wraps and Cloth Inserts 

When Peatuk was about 7 months, he started urinating in greater quantities, and so I tried bamboo fitted diapers with my PUL wraps over them. They soak up an amazing amount of urine, but I do not like the shape they dry in and it takes them all day to dry. Although I love natural fabrics, I will always recommend sticking with microfiber for diapers unless you are using a dryer for your inserts.

However, since I pulled out the wraps again, I decided to try the cloth diapers I had sewn from old t-shirts. They work very well in the wraps with a thin piece of fleece between Peatuk and the diaper, and I still have about 6 of them in my rotation. Of course, I favor my fuzzibunz, but I find that these work well in a pinch.

You can see the bright green PUL wrap sticking out. Now that it fits him better, we use it a lot more often. However, it made flats a whole lot easier in the beginning. I would definitely recommend a few wraps. 

Traveling and Disposables  

When we are around town, we generally stick to cloth diapers. Since I have doubled up the soakers in each diaper, Peatuk can wear one diaper for about 4 hours without needing a change, and we are rarely out much longer than that. I keep a diaper, the wet bag, and some dry wipes in my purse, just in case.

When we are traveling for longer periods of time, we generally buy a bag of disposables. I will admit that every time we buy disposables, it is difficult to get back into the rhythm of cloth. Cloth requires extra time buttoning and more time washing and it is ultimately easier. However, when the disposables run out, our finances always steer me back to cloth.

Peatuk's favorite diaper is no diaper. 

Washing 

I use the Rocking Green diaper detergent and occasionally a sanitizer from mio fresh. I use 2-3 tablespoons of detergent an I rinse, wash, rinse, all in cold water. This worked well until this month (11 months old).

However, lately the diapers have been holding a stink, so I am switching it up. I am going to start using a hot wash and keeping the dirty diapers in a wet bin as opposed to the dry bucket I usually keep them in.

Wipes

Recently, I started making my own wet wipes because Peatuk goes through a ton and we always seem to run out. I use a plastic container and put 7 drops of lavender essential oil and 5 drops of vetiver. I mix the two with a teaspoon of olive oil and then fill the container halfway with room temperature water. Then, I put in old scraps of t-shirt that I have cut into appropriate sized squares. Some of them are doubled up and sewn, from when I had time for such things (pre-birth) but although they look better they don't work any better.

The fabric soaks up the water and I turn them over. I try not to make more than 10-12 at a time, because they can get mildewy if they stay wet for too long. They usually last me 1-2 days and then I make up another batch.

That's my experience with cloth diapers. It has been very economical and not nearly as difficult as I expected it to be. Of course, there are hard days and a bit more trouble shooting than is necessary for disposables.

Strolling

I took Peatuk out in his stroller today. The last time we used the stroller was before we moved to Gabrovo, so it has been at least two months.

Generally, Nikola and I only use the stroller when we are together and have a lot of random things to do. This was because it can be difficult to get on and off the buses in Varna, it can be a little unwieldy in general, an Peatuk usually only lasts a little while in it before he starts crying.

Well, the little bug is getting heavier each day, and he has a huge desire to look at the world around him. He likes riding in the grocery carts at supermarkets, so I decided to try him in the stroller again.

It was like he was a different kid altogether. Before, whenever we put him in the stroller we had to distract him with toys and cooing until we got him bucked and moving. Today, I plopped him in the stroller and he sat, perfectly content, while I arranged things for five minutes. He babbled occasionally, but spent a full hour in the stroller, going to two grocery stores, without crying.

Unfortunately, I am still not a fan of the stroller for many reasons:

1. It can be difficult to manipulate- up stairs, curbs, muddy sections of paths and tight corners in grocery stores. After baby wearing for so long, I miss the freedom of going wherever I feel like without wondering if I will fit. 
2. It gets muddy. I then track that mud inside stores, my apartment building, and my home. 
3. It makes grocery shopping awkward. I have no place to put groceries, and I can't leave the stroller at the entrance to the store to take a cart instead. Putting the groceries underneath him requires a lot of stooping that is just annoying. 
4. I felt lonely. 

I think number four was the worst, and why I am hesitant to try the stroller. While Peatuk seemed perfectly happy riding along in it, I found that I missed his closeness. I am used to being able to kiss his head while we walk. I whisper in his ear. He falls asleep against my chest. It already feels like he is growing up so fast, I am not sure if I am ready to give that closeness up quite yet. 

The Boy In My Locker

Remember in high school when you used to keep  picture of your significant other in your locker? I kept this picture of Ernest Hemingway:

Perhaps I knew I would never have a boyfriend in high school. (Actually, I did, the last month of my senior year, but by then my schedule consisted of only band classes and I had no reason to use my locker up in the main building.) Perhaps I was just copying my friend's obsession with Dan Rather, in my own way.

I used to say that I was obsessed with Hemingway, but it isn't true. I knew nothing about Hemingway. People said that he was nothing more than a drunk misogynist, and I just shrugged. I wasn't offended. I never defended the man whose character they attacked. For all I knew, they were right. But, honestly, I knew very little about the man.

I never read a biography about Hemingway. I didn't care who he married or slept with. I cared about what he wrote.

Now, let someone say that his writing is dry, meandering, and without point and I will bristle. They are common critiques, but at least then we have something to argue about. You want to talk about how much he drank? Well, it seems pointless to me.

I probably should have kept this in my locker instead:

It was my true obsession, and my introduction to his many other writings which were on par, but never spoke to me quite as loudly as this book. 

Many people will argue that you need context to truly appreciate literature. You need to know the time that it is set in. You need to know the pressures that were exerted on the man or woman who wrote it. They have a point. I never liked modern stream of consciousness literature until I understood it in its historical context. Now, Joyce and Woolf are among my favorites.  I will also say that I must like some of the context of the lost generation, because I do favor Fitzgerald as well as Hemingway. 

But it isn't his themes. It isn't the context. It is the way a single sentence of his just washes over me. I feel touched. Physically touched, every time I read one of his works. There are points when I grow short of breath. There are times when I forget time and that I am reading. It is that much of a devouring experience. 

I've been thinking about high school lately. Crushes. First loves. Learning to drive. And this. 

Over the years, many of my passions have died. Love does. Obsession does. It comes and goes in waves and then, some day it is just a memory of the intensity of a moment that once was. However, it is wonderful and decadent to resurrect it in my memory occasionally. With a chicken sandwich and a cold beer on a hot summer day... I am back there. The crazy girl with Hemingway in her locker. 

Yay to the One-Drawer Wardrobe!

A recurring theme since I became pregnant a year and a half ago has been frustration with my wardrobe. Some of the frustration has been because of my changing body. Not only did I have to deal with my deeply ingrained cultural ideal of fat being unattractive after gaining about fifty pounds, but I also did not feel like myself.

When I looked in the mirror, the woman I saw did not seem like me. When I did yoga or went for a walk, my aching joints and difficulty breathing did not feel like me. Besides the physical changes, I was dealing with significant changes in my societal role. I was about to be (and then I was... now I am) a mother. I was also turning 30. I had only gotten married a year earlier, but I was feeling settled and I found that my appearance clashed with my internal identity.

Rather, I found that I had no clue who I was or who I was becoming. Mother. Wife. Expat. These were all new to me.

My short hair, shaved on one side and bleached blonde for the easy addition of blues and greens no longer felt right. My face was too round for that look, and besides, the unborn baby didn't need bleach in its blood.

Short skirts, midriff exposing tank tops, tight jeans, and heels. These all had to be put away as my breasts, thighs, and finally stomach and feet, expanded during my pregnancy. Perhaps some would fit me now, but heels don't go with baby wearing and my breasts are still two sizes bigger than they were.

Plus, even though my body is starting to look similar to how it did 18 months ago, I feel much differently.

All of this has lead to me stressing out about my wardrobe and actually getting anxious and a little depressed about my appearance.

Until recently.

When we moved to Gabrovo I did a huge overhaul of my wardrobe, and I tossed a lot of stuff. Now, two months later, I am extremely happy with my limited wardrobe.

What I have at the moment, fits into a single, small dresser drawer. Okay, it is a bit cramped, so I share a second half of a dresser drawer with Nikola, but it COULD fit in that drawer. It consists of about 4 shirts, one pair of jeans, some leggings and wool undershirts, and a couple of t-shirts. One pair of boots.

That's it.

I think what I love most about this, and find so freeing, is that there is so little choice on what to wear. Is it clean? Then I wear it. I can reach into my drawer and pull out anything. There is no hemming and hawing over matching and what looks good.

It allows me to stop focusing on my appearance and the dissonance in my identity at the moment and work on actually rebuilding my identity by doing the things I love- hiking, spending time with Peatuk, writing... rather than fussing about how I look while not doing them.

 The fact that my dreads are starting to grow up and look like actual dreads instead of painful little messes probably also helps with this semi-identity crisis....

I kept reading stuff about minimalist wardrobes and I kept stopping myself from doing it because I didn't have the necessary basics, and I didn't know what I wanted to look like, so I didn't want to lock myself into one look. Now that I have done it by accident, I can definitely agree with all of the advice. There is something absolutely freeing about owning just a few outfits and nothing more.

It isn't quite an f-you to societal norms of beauty that I thought it would feel like, but it does streamline my getting ready in the morning and doing laundry.

perhaps the best part about all of this is that nothing was intentional. I think I tend to focus so much on intentionality that I often skip doing anything, afraid of what it might mean. Now, it is just done and I realize that it means absolutely nothing. And I am happy. 

Communication, Unlocked

If you have children, then you know how magical it is when you can actually start communicating with them. I didn't, until the other day. It is true that Peatuk has slowly been gaining communication skills this year. Reaching for things, crawling away when he wants to be chased, and the tried and true standby of crying when he has desire. He communicates. Sure. But up until now it has been more of a guessing game on my part than an actual practice in communication.

Then, the other night, this happened. Doesn't look like much. A baby sitting at the table, eating a banana smoothie. The absolutely cool part is that he asked for it, and I understood him!

Peatuk is still pretty far from talking. Blame it on the dual language intake, but I am guessing it is because both Nikola and I tend to be more physical than verbal people. Tough break, kiddo. As a family, we communicate in grunts and giggles. Monster-speak, if you will.

Lately, Peatuk has enjoyed mimicking appliances rather than people. He does a great impression of the vacuum cleaner (while moving the head around the carpet) and he has an adorable rendition of the immersion blender that cracks us up whenever we make smoothies.

The other night, we settled into the table and were eating leftover stew. Peatuk was in a cute, outgoing mood, but he didn't seem interested in eating his carrots and potatoes. Instead, he turned to me and gave me a cute little raspberry with his lips.

It seemed like he was trying to say something, so I helped him out by offering words.

"Mama?" I said.

"Pthhhhvvvvvvvv!" he answered.

"Mama?"

"Pthhhhhvvvvv! Pthhhhvvvv!"

"No, no, mama!"

"Pthhhhvvv! Pthhhvvvvvvvvvvvvv!"

It was then that I realized he was making the immersion blender noise, while sitting in the place where we usually use it. I asked him if he wanted a banana shake.

"Pthvvv!" he answered.

I pulled out the immersion blender and he beamed.

Nikola blended up some banana and yogurt and Peatuk happily let me feed him (a rare treat these days of growing independence). He had actually wanted a banana shake!

The boy has preferences. Desires. And he can express them! And I can understand him!!!

Life achievement: unlocked!

I am ready for great adventures with him. 

The Thrill of the Chase

Peatuk's favorite game these days is a very simple form of, "chase." Tag. Gotcha. He loves when either me or his father threaten to "get him," and then gleefully grab him and pick him up, only to set him down again so he can run away... as fast as his hands and knees can carry him. (Which is surprisingly fast).

Lately, I know when he wants to play this game because of the signs he gives. First, he will come up to me and make sure he has my attention. He either climbs into my lap or pulls on my leg. Then, he will edge slowly away, looking back at me with obvious anticipation. He wont go too far until he is sure that I am engaged in the game. Once I pick him up the first time, it is on... and he is free to move about the room without looking back, sure that I will be coming after him.

All of this makes me think about the game. You know the one I am talking about. The one that everyone seems to think is about sex or relationships or even love, but is really just a simple game of catch and release. The one that people have been telling me is a fabricated thing that young boys and girls learn from society. The one that is unnatural, and needs to be done away with through direct, honest communication.

Seeing my young boy, only 11 months old, play at flirting so well and loving the thrill of being chased makes me realize that I was wrong. It is a completely natural desire to want to be chased. To lock in another person's interest and then turn away. To see how far they will go for you. To let yourself be caught and held and expect to be released again. Expect to remain free while constantly letting yourself be confined. It is fun. It is exhilarating. It is one of the most basic social interactions we have.

As we get older it gets more complicated. There are more layers. More signs and cues. More risk. But ultimately, it is the same game that we played from the moment we could crawl. Please! Come get me! Bring me back to safety. Let me know how far I can go. Let me know you are still there. That you still want me. Think of me. Love me.

All that being said, I think I like the simple version of the game better. Once the game gets out of a single room, a single night, a single moment, it becomes too involved for me. For now I will just play tag with my son and relish in the fact that I get to cuddle with my love, no games required, whenever I want.

When a Cyclothymic Girl Can't Be Depressed

While I was pregnant with Peatuk, I secretly passed the hours researching postpartum depression and, even more secretly, postpartum psychosis. Deep down, a part of me was terrified that I would snap under the pressure of motherhood. After all, isn't the women with a history of depression or bipolar that usually suffer from the more extreme cases of postpartum depression? Wasn't I an ideal candidate?

Sometimes, it is still difficult to separate me from my 20 year old self. I forget all of the work I have done and I see myself as one day away from the hospital, doctors deciding how many rights I have the capability of exercising. I see myself spiraling in drugs and alcohol, ending up on another continent. It isn't impossible. I have been there before.

During my mid-late twenties, I learned to control my depression, and with the controlled depression, the mania came less often. Diet. Exercise. Journals. Honest discussions with friends. Marathons. Meaningful work. All of that, combined with the natural calming of adult chemistry, allowed me to function in a way I didn't imagine possible when I was 20.

But, my highs and lows never went away. I managed them. I controlled them. I made space for them in my life and worked through them. By accepting them, I was able to loosen their control over me and they became much less extreme. Unless I was drinking. At 29 I still had shameful bouts of bad decision making. Thrilling. I had no desire to control them. But once or twice a year, for a weekend. A girl can live with that...

The point is that I was not, 'cured.' I simply found a way to control the ebb and flow of emotion within me. I found a pressure valve. I found control.

I was afraid that once I lost that control, I would face a really sudden, deep snap that I might not recover from.

During the past year, my control has been taken to the limits. I have no time to be depressed. As a mother, I cannot simply, 'take to bed' for a weekend. There has been no time to write, no time to run, and my diet has been not, 'bad' (whatever that is) but a lot further from my control than it used to be.

I find that I cannot wallow in melancholy. Even if I had the time and space, I have this constantly joyful little being giving me raspberries, yammering away about how much he loves bananas, and learning how to wave. Oh, and giggling. Laughing so hard and completely that... it is impossible to stay in my depression.

I was afraid that without a valve- without indulging in bouts of regular depression, I would fly or I would fall. I haven't though. Instead, it is as if my life is at a constant, even state. I find I am happy, or sad, but I do not have the time to question these emotions and so I do not have the time to fully feel them or fall into the high and low states that I recognize as joy and sadness.

It is strange. Am I 'cured?' Is this what it feels like to be normal? To allow yourself to get swept up in the mess of everyday, pointless life? Is this the goal? Is this mentally healthy? To allow my biggest dream to be a vacation to England and the day he potty trains and a cup of coffee? It all seems so... insignificant. Safe. Sanitary. 

Tender Is The Night

I can't really remember when I decided I needed to read some Fitzgerald. It was probably in a cafe, thinking about Paris. With my life over the past 5 years, it might have been in a cafe in Paris. I don't remember, but it must have been some time ago. I have had, Tender Is The Night in my possession for years now. I pick it up, read the first few passages, and then get distracted by life. That is how reading, and writing, are for me these days.

Somehow, since we moved to Gabrovo, Peatuk has decided that he will let me read while breastfeeding again, as long as he is already attached and half asleep. (He is such a gracious bug.) I discovered I was ravenous for the written word. I finished The Green Mile in two days. The World and Other Places took me longer, if only because I had to stop and bask in its genius too many times.

My books written in English are limited these days, and I have finally admitted that reading Bulgarian is work; not relaxing in the least. That left Tender is the Night and a few classic Bulgarian novels translated into English. I decided to be daring and pick up the Fitzgerald, once again.

It is so different from the other times I tried to start it. The book is downright delicious, and it makes me want to start writing again. Part of what I find so amusing is the parallels to every Hemingway book that is set in Europe. From the clothing of the main characters to how they eat and drink, it is the exact same scene, written in only slightly different perspective. It makes me feel like I am revisiting parties that I have already attended.

It, strangely, made me want to write a very dry, honest short story about work. It was only after I played the idea over in my mind for a day that I realized I have never actually had a 'real' job. (What makes a job any more real than another, anyway?)

I have volunteered for the majority of my life. I went from part-time college jobs: colorguard coach, fast food, exotic dancer, fire spinner.... to part time barista, sumer camp counselor, AmeriCorps, Conservation Corps, Peace Corps... I have never sat behind a desk, hating the tedium of meaningless labor. The closest I have been to that, ironically, is now that I am working as a writer. Now that I am making good money doing the thing I have always wanted to do, I feel the absurdity of supporting consumer fetishes.

I have become a writer, but instead of writing the truth, I bend reality into the perfect life that helps support capitalism. I find it to be my most meaningless work. Before, I may have been volunteering and making less than minimum wage, but I was touching the threads of human development. I was helping people create relationships and build skills. It was meaningful. Now, I make $40 an hour. That's real, but there is no satisfaction, because all of this virtual work, building the internet and bolstering consumer-capitalism is... unnecessary. It is fluff. My first 'real' job feels nothing but fake.