I am in a new stage of becoming Bowie's Mom.  It's so strange and empowering to look back over the pregnancy, birth, and first three months of her life and see how I survived what I never thought I would and learned and guided her in ways I was sure she'd never understand.  

In the beginning, I had little to gush about and a myriad of complaints of caring for a newborn.  I knew (in a place I had not yet accessed, but never doubted its existence) that I loved her, but I was not yet her Mom as much as a person in shock performing the hardest job of her life on the littlest sleep she's ever known.  However, in the last three weeks, I found myself newly in love with baby girl Bowie.  She's come alive to me, and not just because she is more alert, smiling, forming delicious rolls, sucking her thumb, and sleeping enough to get us both into good moods.  No.  

Candace has fallen for Bowie.  

My friend Leif (in a luminescent moment of encouragement where most people sigh, roll their eyes, and say 'well, I hope you're ready for the "joys" of parenting.'  Not that I judge them; we are not our most awesome selves when we do the hardest work ever known) told me that being a parent was like reliving that crush you had in college.  You totally adore this human, and yet you are petrified of that kind of powerful love.  You are terrified of the way it strips you bare and makes you vulnerable, for the wanting of it so badly.  I want things for Bowie I've never DARED have the audacity to dream for myself.  And I am both happy and relieved to say that where once I doubted my ability to feel this crush for my daughter, I am now completely and utterly normal.  I adore her.  I suffocate on my desire to see her daily.  My heart threatens halt when I imagine her in pain.

Going back to work has no doubt fanned the flame of this spark.  I have this bittersweet taste in my soul all day as I sift through copious and blinding amounts of tedious html.  Where I used to be relieved to have another pair of hands to assist me, I now urgently rush home to have the chance to swoop her up and put on her adorable footed pajamas and snuggle her and sing to her as we rock back and forth in a quiet house.  Where once that same quiet used to haunt my soul, it now feeds it.   Where once I doubted that she knew me from any other person, I now know she finds comfort in her mother.  I prolong her bedtime where once I counted down the moments.  I have such a privileged and blessed life that I get to have this baby and have very little else to worry about - a stark and jarring contrast to the resentment I felt that she was all I had to think about during the day.

So now, I guess I might say that I love being Bowie's mother.  That question used to confuse me, invalidate me.  But now - I can say most assuredly that I do enjoy it.

But here's the thing.  For all the things I like about being her mother, I seriously dislike how illogical motherhood makes me.  

Typically, I see a problem, and I can massage it into understanding via wisdom, experience, and logic.  In other words, I have mad problem-solving skills, yo.  I always thought this would be an asset in parenthood, but something new is emerging from the underbelly of my ability to fix things.

Perhaps I can best explain what I mean via an example.

I spent the last 5 weeks sleep-training Bowie.  She now has a predictable sleeping and eating schedule, and she and I are both happier for knowing what to expect from our days.  I don't want to 'brag,' but I do want to say that because I trained her so, she now sleeps totally in her own bed, comforts herself to sleep, and sleeps long and hard through the night, not to mention that she wakes up happy.  I go into her room at 6am every morning, and she is lying there - wide awake, sucking her thumb.  She grins like a fool when I greet her, and seeing her so happy is my thrill!  All of this work, all of the reading and doubting of myself as she cried in the other room even though I reassured her every 5, 10, or 15 minutes...all of this work has paid off and I feel not only proud of myself with fighting hard against myself for what would make her happiest, but also immensely proud of what SHE was able to accomplish with the slightest bit of nudging.  

But now.  Now! Where once I barely breathed for the anxiety of her waking up after sleeping only 45-minutes, NOW I feel panic that she is probably sleeping TOO MUCH.   Does this mean she is coming down with something? No doubt this nameless 'something' has been contracted BECAUSE I abandoned her by going back to work, and most assuredly this nameless 'something' is a terminal illness.

It's akin to knowing that Mac'N'Cheese is a nutrient-deficient meal, but smugly preparing an organic version of it, full-well knowing it's still nutrient-deficient, but HEY! At least it's ORGANIC.

No.

Illogical.

So it goes with Bowie and myself.  The illogicality of seeing a problem, fixing it, feeling a bit of satisfaction and then a new strain of panic - ie. then MAKING UP A NEW PROBLEM in its stead -  has me frustrated with the biology of mothering. So I think to myself that it may not be about that problem at all.  My concern with making sure Bowie gets enough sleep isn't addressing the true core of what's happening.  Yes, I saw that problem.  Yes, I addressed it by implementing a new system.  

But perhaps deeper than that is the hidden notion that I am not a good mother unless I am worrying about Bowie.  Or that if I can anticipate her maybe being sick, it will be less traumatic to me.  Or perhaps, worst of all, I am fearing a motherhood of sitting on my laurels, being too easily satisfied.  I am not quite sure I know what it is yet.

But I can tell you this.  As with life, motherhood presents roadblocks and extremely difficult-to-manage self-doubt.  I do not commit to fixing all of Bowie's problems or addressing all of her unknown ailments.  I commit only to the issue in front of me, to chewing on it, to ingesting it into my soul, and to finally letting it either resolve itself or make me into a more real and vulnerable version of myself.

Or (so say we all) both.

My favorite kind of human has always been the one that lets life evolve herself into something new.  I see it happening with my progeny daily.  I chose to follow her courageous example and morph into a more mature and capable me.

Baby girl, we will learn to walk together.

I made it through my first day back to work.  I cannot say the same for my mascara.

I recently learned that human internal organs have a dual function. There is the physiological aspect as well as the emotional.  Apparently, the lungs hold grief.  This may explain why I could not catch my breath today; not once could I lull myself to peace via deep breathing.  I am guessing I had a few things to mourn.

107 days ago, I became a Mum.  When I began maternity leave, I intended to go back to work, but my position was trimmed (I was fat, apparently).  I then planned to just stay home and suck it up - as I was never convinced about what I wanted to do anyway.  I was then offered a 4-week contract that I decided to take.  That contract work began today.  

When I accepted the position, I was thrilled and in serious need of a break from Mommy-hood.  I was lucky enough to line up Jessica as Bowie's nanny, so the pain of leaving her would at least be that little bit easier.  However, between then and now, something strange shifted with Bowie and I.  I found myself enjoying nursing, craving time with her, even wanting to peak in and snuggle her while sleeping.  Before, I was way too exhausted to do anything but exist.  Since I could leave for dates with Joel as soon as she was 1-week old, I figured maybe I wasn't as attached as a Mother is supposed to be.  

This of course was a direct result of Bowie beginning to sleep consistently through the night.  I was much more capable of loving her. But it still seems like I blinked and suddenly motherhood has engendered a choking kind of love.  It sits on the back of your throat, somewhere between your heart and your mouth.  It's as if I am perpetually watching a deeply-moving cinema and stuck on the part just before the flood of tears.  

I'm stuck at the edge of catharsis.  

I was fine most of the day.  I couldn't breath, but I was managing.  But then night.  Oh.God.Awful.Night.  

After an hour in rainy traffic, after feeding and changing Bowie, after washing and organizing all the shit from pumping breast-milk at work all day, after an hour of trying to get Bowie to sleep (that NEVER happens), and after more pumping, I had to lie down on my bed and weep like a baby.  Dinner was not made, relaxation was nowhere in sight.  Bowie cried in her bedroom and I cried in mine and the poetic symmetry broke my ever-lovin' heart.  

Joel rescued with a cocktail and a hug, and I lost it even more.  It's just so much work to get to and from work, even though I am leaving Bowie with my best friend.  I still don't get to spend the day assessing her every little movement.  I come home and feel like a stranger and read WAY too much into the fact that she won't go down easily and has to cry it out for up to an hour (don't judge me!).  She finally drifted off to sleep somewhere between my Negroni and 2nd pour of Chardonnay, but man - I just had no resilience left.   

I am so glad this is a short contract.  I think I needed this to realize that I am happy at home - and that whatever structure and mental stimulation I need, I need to provide it for myself - income would be nice too.  

Time to dream again.

Tonight, Joel went in to comfort Bowie and as soon as she saw him, she not only stopped fussing, but looked at him with a huge grin.  He said he had no idea how much she had hooked him.  Looks like I am not the only one being manipulated by biology.

I just returned from peeping in on her as I make my way to my own bed.  I never used to do that.  I never wanted to risk waking her.  Now, I am so enamored of her smell and personality and cute little jammies that it's almost worth the risk of losing sleep just for that one last cuddle.  I might have to go in and sniff that head.

Yeah. I'm 'effed.  This picking up of a soul only to let go of a soul - it may be my undoing.  My body cannot contain it.  Mothers, how can you walk around and not be completely undone by one prick?  I guess we all get used to it - like I've become accustomed to Bowie's varying cries and therefore less traumatized by them (hell, she almost never cries anyway).   

Moms are my new superheros.  Yoga pants aside.

Monday, I am not sad to see you go.  But I am glad to see that Motherhood is happening to me, just as it should and in its own time.  

Worry not, Candace.  Your biology will not betray you.  It's supposed to hurt this much.

There is nothing to ruin a perfectly cozy fall morning than over-poached eggs.  Did I eat them? You bet I did.  Breastfeeding makes me crazy.





I wish you could enjoy this moment with us.  Yo-Yo Ma plays Bach in the parlor, I sit cuddled in Joel's large sweater perusing beautiful photography on Flickr, the best wind makes the leaves dance and I ache to feel that brisk air on my face.  I think I'll go on a photo walk.  Joel is trying to finish his MA, so our house is emanating this quiet, academic study as he reads and works on a paper.  I have thoughts too.

Confession. I don't feel awesomely proud about almost anything I've written, including most of the poems I self-published last year.  In fact, you know how you read an old diary entry from grade 5 wherein you swear your undying affection for Craig, despite his liking Missy instead?  And you know how your gushing, maudlin writing makes you cringe with embarrassment?

That's how I feel about my past work as a writer - even about work completed quite recently.  As I walked  through this gorgeous suburban nook in the city a few days past, I realized that I think I have to agonize over work in order to feel good about it.  It might be a given that we feel that way about past work, just like how we feel that way about past hairstyles, but just in case I am wrong...I'd like to sit with these questions for a bit.

Is the best work of mine best because it is labored?  Does it require blood, sweat and tears to be good?  Is there room for  work that simply comes to you?  And if it is easy, does it mean it's not good?  Are you supposed to bully the easy work into submission as well, infusing it with angst in order to know it has substance?  Am I required to wait for my muse in order to write?  Can a poet be dry and logical or is she required to be a mystic?

Where some artists find a hard time working without their muse, I find it difficult to work with her.  She is just as illusive as most, but most of the time she does not have much of anything to say.  Instead, she creates a little nest in the artistic part of my soul and makes room for us both to sit there for an extended period of time.  She plans the poetry party and holds the door open for me to enter.  

But once I sit across from her, pen and paper in hand, ready to dictate her words, she falls silent.

I have a mute muse.

Others talk about certain memes or totem animals or recurring themes that seem to appear in their work almost entirely without their willing it so.  Their muse seems to take their hand and sketch and they wake from a reverie and realize that they are suddenly compelled to make a certain earring, painting, or picture.  All other projects that they work at with daily diligence take a back seat to this branding iron of ideas.  These artists will be the first to tell you that they work and work and work and hope the muse shows up, but are determined to just work and work.  Still, their muse seems to infuse their mind with ideas.

Mine just doesn't.  My mind doesn't lack words, and I've never stared at a blank paper wondering what to write.  But I cannot say I've ever cried on the floor of my "studio" for working hard at an idea.  I've never worked so hard that I bled.  I just write it and hope it's good (since we are often the worst judges of our work, I don't try to assess my own.  This is a hard practice, to send something out into the world without placing a stamp of approval on it, without trying to control how it will be received  but I feel there is little other way to ensure that I actually do SEND the work out.  Otherwise, I will be paralyzed with fear of quality).

I am no master at my craft, and I really want to be.  I want to take a poetry class, I want to labor over poems and make neat little scratch marks through words and place commas cleverly. Yes, I want to work hard - but I also wonder, is it okay if it just comes easy and angst-free?

Of course it is.

Is your Saturday bustling with chores and social plans?  Are you feeling restless for want of plans?  Are you out hiking or grocery shopping?  Are you snuggled in with cups of coffee and Downton Abbey?

May it bring you what it is supposed to bring you, this day.
And may you respond with awareness and gracious self-forgiveness.

On this sunny and brisk Friday morning wherein I was able to get Scout and I out for a walk (and perhaps have accidentally stumbled into the donut shop), I find myself in pairing down mode.  I want to sit and read my friend's beautiful blogs.  I want to sip my Americano slowly.  I want to hold my sweet baby girl just a bit longer before I put her down to nap.  

I so appreciate having an online space in which to escape.  It's an integral part of my life, the writing of and reading of blogs.  I have made bosom friends and met myself in a gracious way.  Like I imagine a painter to her brushes or a sketch-artist to her pencils, I love the way my fingers adroitly fly over the keyboard, my soul comfortable and easy within technology.  

My sister came up to see Madonna with me two nights ago, and while we had such an epic time, it ended up being a stress trigger for us both.  Her wallet and phone were stolen at the concert and she was due to get on a plane the very next day - without ID.  My sister is my number 2, and we do not talk very often.  When I have her soul in front of me, I love to hear her speak and share it.  She also came up to be with Bowie...but that annoyance of life became the focus of our one day together, and thing after thing just kept going wrong.  She was able to get home, but as I drove a screaming Bowie and myself back to the house from the airport, I realized how deeply stressed I was.  I came home, put Bowie to bed, and promptly put myself down for a nap, more because I was so over-wrought and over-stimulated than sleepy.  I stared out the blinds for an hour.  My poor sister, Seattle keeps doing wrong by her. I miss her so much.  I miss all my family since having Bowie, it's changed my need for them somehow.

Joel came home after a busy day at work and also the first class of his trek to finishing his Master's in Theology (that he started 7 years ago), and we were both even too stressed to watch Star Trek, our usual relaxer.  He took his time making us a home-cooked meal, I sat on the couch with a mason jar of wine and just tried to breath.  I think what I hate most about stress is how it lingers in your body even when the stressor is gone.  

This morning, after a good amount of sleep (though not as good as this week has been, since Bowie slept through the night on Sun-Wed), and after a walk intended to rid my being of that residual adrenaline, all I want to do is linger on my friend's blogs, tumblers, and flickr photos.  I want the beauty of how they see their lives to wash over me with kindness and inspiration, like a soft inter-webular hug.