Showing posts with label Bowie. Show all posts

Why I named my daughter Bowie



Despite having tried for 6 months to get pregnant (which is shorter than many but longer that I was prepared to hold out my hope for), I found myself pregnant and miserable during the holiday season of 2011.

I wanted the baby, but I never wanted to be pregnant. I didn't know it would feel this way until I saw the pee stick reveal a positive line - well, technically two positive lines. Two = pregnant. One = not.

I knew I was pregnant before science confirmed it. Not surprising, really. Knowing is kind of my thing.

On the morning I found out, Joel and I celebrated our 10th wedding anniversary. He was working at home that day.  I had woken up at 5am, took a pregnancy test, saw a quick negative, and went back to my barren bed bleary eyed and pissed. But when I woke up for real at 8:30am, I knew I was pregnant. To help keep me sane, I tore into the bathroom garbage for evidence, and indeed I saw a negative turned positive.

Heart beating fast, I unwrapped my last clean $20 pee stick. This time I read the directions and 3 minutes later, the test confirmed what my body already knew - hell, I hadn't even missed a period yet. I was 3 weeks pregnant, hyper vigilance and all.

Relieved, yes. Excited, no. Happy, kind of. Feeling dread, completely. I walked out to Joel as he sat at our tall kitchen table. I wore a black and white striped shirt and black jeans. My hair was recovering from a bad cut. I was barefoot and cliche.

I bashfully told him that it we had completed our mission. He smiled, but I saw in his smile exactly what I was feeling - WTF have we done?



Flash forward three weeks and you'll see a bitchy and crazy tired Candace attending a holiday party with Joel at the Showbox in Downtown Seattle. It's an 80s themed party (the best) and here I am, unable to make any kind of outfit work (WTF! This never happens to me!) and unable to drink (WTF! How am I supposed to face a room full of strangers?!!) and advised not to dance (WTF! I PERISH).

I did okay for the first two hours. I faked my gin and tonic with lime and seltzer. I tried really hard to smile and converse. But when the DJ began to play the 'Sixteen Candles' soundtrack, I nearly began sobbing - everything inside of me aching to dance.

So I told myself I would dance very lightly. Whatever that means. If you know me or have seen the spectacle that is Candace dancing, you'll know I don't do it...well, lightly. Think Pat Benetar (esp at 3 min 15 seconds in) meets the gal from Flashdance (I wish) channeling every choreographic move from Footloose and aerobics competitions.

So I did it. I tried to hold back, I really did. And I thought I was okay until about 25 minutes in and I felt the familiar wet heat. It was either a lot of dance sweat, per my usual. Or it was blood.

I walked ran to the ladies. Oh god, don't let it be blood. Don't let it be blood. Just as many women have prayed for no blood and for blood for billions of bloody fucking years.

It was blood. I grabbed a bunch of toilet paper to sop it up. It wasn't a ton, but still - it was blood. I left the bathroom, told Joel we needed to leave immediately and politely excused ourselves from the dance floor and friends.

On the car ride home, the cold and dark felt so good. I was so hot. We discussed going to the hospital. We wondered if something was wrong with us because we didn't feel anything. We were both eerily calm, very flat affect. I didn't care. I couldn't care. I didn't even have time to get attached to the little thing inside of me, the dread hadn't passed yet (btw, the dread didn't pass until Bowie was 4 months old, just for the record. And it's started again as we think about her enrolling her in kindergarten next year).

At home, my toilet sits just under a window that somehow always boasts a kick ass view of the moon. On this particular December night, it was crazy clear and big - our moon. Managing blood and the worst fear I've known before or since - the wanting of something that doesn't want to stay - I texted my sister, the only person aside from Joel who knew I was pregnant.

The conversation went something like this:
Me: I was dancing at Joel's holiday party. I tried to dance like a normal person. It didn't work. I am bleeding now.
Her: How much...and other medical questions.
Me: Not too much, but still.
Her: If the baby wants to be, it will be. There's a star man, sister, waiting in the sky. He'd like to come and meet you but he thinks he'd blow your mind.
Me: Let the children boogie.
Her: Look out the window, you can see his light.
Me: If we can sparkle, he may land tonight.

This wasn't uncommon, we often have nothing but lyrics to say to each other. It's our thing.

That moment, when she said the thing about looking out the window, I looked hard and fast at the moon, directing all my wishes and power so hard at the moon. I wanted the baby. I knew it in that moment. If she made it, I'd name her 'Bowie.' In part for Teresa, in part for the moon path she'd travel, in part for David Bowie for giving us words to make the moment bearable.



She made it.
And damn, that girl boogies.

Tonight, I've spent the evening listening to David Bowie on spotify, drinking wine, watching videos of his concerts, following links like a crazy person. I've wanted desperately to join with the souls in Bowie's hometown as they sing out live in homage. I wanted to dance all night. I have wept. It has felt so good. That I could feel this way about someone I never met, simply because of his art - his words, and every thing he stood for - that is a kind of god feeling to me, if ever there was one.

David Robert Jones, you hot tramp. I love you soo. I'll try not to blow it.


1947-2016
"I don't know where I am going from here, but I promise it won't be boring." 


Look out your window, I can see his light.
crm
Bowie david bowie gallery
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Bowie's Poetry Debut


Put words in the cup.
I'm gonna drink words
That will be yummy.

-BAM
Bowie poetry
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How desperately I want to remember.

Throughout life, a lot of attention is paid to the "big" moments like birthdays and physical milestones. As kids, we slowly become more and more aware of our surroundings, but what's left when we are adults are usually only fragmented memories of childhood.

As we grow, hopefully we start to grow out of our addiction to birthdays and milestones. We start to see flowers and birds and a lovers' eyes as more important than getting a drivers's licence, graduating from college, getting married, or even having a baby. For those big moments are usually so jam-packed with a million little moments, we simply cannot grasp the enormity of it all. Maybe this is why these big events are important to capture.

I've always trained my eyes to pay attention to the big moments - hell, I've even somehow trained myself to live for them, to set my heartbeat to them.

It's becoming painfully clear to me
that you need a different set of seeing eyes for motherhood.
Maybe that's even too narrow of a scope.
Maybe you need a different set of seeing eyes for adulthood.

It is the Friday mornings of Bowie's life that I want to remember. And I sit in the living room, warming my hands with coffee as the computer boots up for the day of work ahead of me. Joel is taking Bowie to school today. I walked by a moment ago, and she stands on the bathroom counter while Joel wrangles her hair into pigtails. She has a toothbrush in her mouth, but she more bites it than brushes her teeth. She is singing the theme song from "Winnie the Pooh" and mixing up 'willy,' 'nillly', and 'silly.'


Bowie's first time drawing a 'B' on her own. We were dining at Via Tribunali in Fremont.


And this urge to make myself notice and remember these smallest of moments comes over me. And I realize I can't remember it all. And I despair.

The continued search for the profound
is buried in the details, it seems.

crm
Bowie details memories
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Wherein Bowie grows 4 years in 2 weeks and other thoughts on letting go

As with most families this time of year, as with most trees, and as with most accessories, we are in transition.  Our wonderful FT nanny has moved on and we've placed Bowie into a great Spanish immersion school a few miles from our home.

I don't know if you know this about me, but I have a tendency to imagine the worst.  However, I recently realized that this isn't just me!  Apparently the human species is hard-wired to anticipate threats.  It's left-over vigilance from a time where predators ruled our existence and staying alive depended upon staying alert, wary, sharp, and careful.

My therapist brought this up in counter-argument to my dubious reaction to the power of positive thinking.  I see it working for many people, but I assumed that in order to feel positive, one must entirely ignore the negative.   Otherwise, it would be self-deceit, and that is one thing I cannot abide.

But what if the focus on positive thinking could simply be an effort to balance the scales between our evolutionary tendency to see the worst and a practiced skill at finding goodness?

As the first day of school approached, and my dread increased, I determined to think well of it.  And this is the kicker:

If I have the power to imagine the worst
I also have the power to imagine the best.


Instead of playing reruns of Bowie weeping as I walk out the door, what if I played reruns of her happily painting pictures, engaging with her teacher and sleeping peacefully during nap time?

It turns out I didn't need to worry.  That entire first week, I said goodbye happily (as they take their emotional cues from us) and she waved saying, "Mamma go to work."  No tears, no problems.

Well, other than the crazy person that has replaced my child. Preschool has aged her overnight.  More complete sentences, more surprising emotions, worse sleep (where I hear her yelling, "It's BOWIE'S!" for over an hour), and crazy mood swings.  She's transitioning into a new version of herself, and that's so scary for me.

Why?
Because I like my baby.  My sweet, observant, independent, intelligent, easy-going, compliant, quiet baby.




This replacement model scares me because, and here's the god-awful truth:
I'm afraid I won't like her.

Then I realized that being a Mom is all about embracing every personality change your child encounters.  They will be deeply influenced by their peers and environment, and I am there to guide her through her own self-making.  It will restrict her sense of self-determination and awareness if I am attached to an old version of Bowie.

But how do I do it? I have a hard enough time not grabbing on for dear life to older versions of MYself.  But the way to self-evolution is through the proper mourning of what was.  Just allow the grief.

Allow myself to be sad at loosing my baby.  Just feel it and feel it big.  She's watching how I handle grief, so maybe I could do it for her.


But the second week of school.  Oh weary heart.  Every single day she's been upset.  Yesterday and today, she had to be pried off my legs and I had to leave with the image of Bowie reaching for me, mouth agape with cry so big it couldn't be released yet, and the feeling of my heart choking me.

Bowie at school this week. I picked her up and she didn't want to leave.


Yesterday, it ruined my entire morning.  Though I tried hard to visualize her having a great time, the image of her in grief affected me for hours.  I was more prepared for it today, but it was even worse.  I stood outside the classroom for the longest 5 min of my life (determined to have a new image to stew on for the morning, an image of her happily schooling).  As she wined down, I left.

Then I lost it.  Like royally, surprising my own self. As I took deep breaths and tried to calm myself, I realized that I was in grief too. Perhaps, just like Bowie, I needed to let it out.  I needed to not be pawed at or distracted.  I just needed to feel it.

So I cried the whole way home, I cried when I saw Joel, I cried when I made myself a cinnamon roll, I cried when I sat down to my computer.  I let the tears be grief instead of letting them spin into fears of Bowie feeling abandoned or alone.

Then I read this.
(Parents: the single-most helpful blog I've read about parenting toddlers.)

"When the children in our care are grieving a loss, our job is to facilitate that loss and simply let them grieve. Infants demonstrate the authentic expression of their feelings when given the opportunity. If we can give them the space and time to express painful feelings instead of arresting their cries, and if we can steady ourselves to work through our own discomfort, then our children can be reassured that their true responses are accepted and appropriate. Children thus can continue to experience loss naturally, learn to deal with loss capably, and know that loss is survivable."

Bowie is just learning about life.  Learning to let go, and that it's safe to do so. This lesson will hopefully give her the emotional skills to let go later in life, even and especially when it's not safe to do it.  When it's scary, when it's risky.

Like the letting go she'll experience should she have to drop off her 2-year old at preschool.

Steady girl.

crm
Bowie bowie andromeda grief
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This time, last Sunday.

10:21 pm

8:32pm


5:07 pm

4:55pm 


4:29 pm

 3:45 pm

3:41 pm

3:39 pm

3:36 pm

3:20 pm

3:00 pm

12:43 pm

12:41 pm


12:40 pm


12:36 pm

12:30 pm

12:29 pm

12:20 pm

12:19 pm

12:15 pm

12:16 pm

11:23 am


10:37 am

10:16 am

9:02 am

7:45 am



And my personal favorite:
Easter 2013                                                               Easter 2014

Happy Spring and Fertility.
crm

More Easter photos here.
Even MORE Easter photos here.
Bowie easter
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The End of an Era


It's officially over.  I've watched all the Star Trek TV there is to watch, save for a few gaps to fill in (3-5 episodes in TOS and the first three seasons of Voyager).  Last night, we finished Enterprise and I may have cried.  Star Trek is so much more than I thought it was, and it has become vastly more meaningful to me than I ever imagined.  For the future vision of humanity birthed in the creative mind of Gene Roddenberry, for the understanding of who we are,  and for what we value and the impossible decisions we have to make. In a myriad of lessons I learned through watching ST, one pervades my thoughts today.  And I have enough artist friends to know that they need to hear this.

Les Artistes,
You can change the world with one vision.
-mme.


One story, one painting, one song, one design, one photograph, one invention.
There's something there just terrifically inspiring.





I also sense my time as a stay-at-home-mom (SAHM) is nearing its end.  I've been job hunting/applying/interviewing for a year, as it was never "the plan" to stay home with Bowie.  However, it's been wonderful and I feel terribly lucky.  Momentum has been building the last 6 weeks with several interviews and leads.  Additionally, I am working hard to get a freelance technical writing career underway.  I am midway through my first assignment, and while I underestimated how challenging it would be, I also feel thrilled to be learning so much...not to mention the much-needed respite from motherhood brain.

Did you know that the majority of women report significant drops in self-confidence when they became SAHMs.  It makes perfect sense to me; it's such a different skill set, raising kids versus out-of-home work.  Both are grueling, but I am one of those women who needs to know she is good for something other than:

  1. Wiping little faces 4-8x/day.
  2. Refilling the cat's water.
  3. Laundering vestments.
  4. Vacuuming our annoyingly show-everything carpet.
  5. Meal planning, shopping, cooking, and dishes. 
  6. Try to be aware of gender biases I might unconsciously be communicating.  
  7. Arranging play-dates.
  8. Researching best practices for discipline - making sure food habits, manners, values, behaviors, and language all align with our principles while simultaneously full well knowing that she's going to be who she is no matter what.  Even IF I take pains to introduce her to an array of foods, she may not be an exotic eater.  Little battles we must approach, fight, and then ultimately let go of.  Impossible.
  9. Think about future schools.
  10. Help herself discover the world and others safely.
  11. Observe her without labeling and limiting her.
  12. Keep her safe, but let her take risks.
  13. Teach her to communicate well, and at her pace.
  14. Knowing her pace!
  15. Allow her to experience the full range of her emotions without always trying to comfort or distract her from them.
  16. Clip her fingernails.
Of course the list could go on and on, just like any job description: you are hired for one thing and end up performing a myriad of additional, unpredictable duties.  





So I am busy now, trying to arrange babysitting for job interviews and writing deadlines...not to mention prepping for interviews, applying for jobs, and teaching myself how to run my own business AND learn the business.  I told a friend last night over wine, "I feel like taffy.  Pulled in every direction." 




In other things coming to an end, my baby is nearly gone.  She toddles about the house in her Frankenstein way and her interest now lies ONLY in what I am doing at that moment.  She demands something new from me every day, but where once I could honestly say that I didn't enjoy the work ( I feel obliged to present a whole, honest picture of my motherhood experience), I now feel the pleasure of the age she is at.  It's a scrumptious stage, despite an extra dose of spicy behavior the last few weeks (MOLARS?!).  She's a brilliant baby who would do nothing outside of eating, reading books, tinkering with electronics, and being outside. Kind, patient, sweet, snugly and painfully curious - she's mine and I adore her.  

But every day, I walk into her room and this CHILD pops up out of the crib with her big head and adult-like expressions and speech. "You look different than yesterday," I tell her.  She grins toothily and reaches up to me. It's happening too fast; I consciously make myself enjoy it.




Last week, Kelly hosted a "Dia De Lost Muertos" party.  That morning, I was in my writer's workshop and we were instructed to write on "honoring the dead."  I always collect leaves on my way to class to stick into the pages of my notebook.  I wrote Denise's name on one of those leafs and from that moment on, I was thinking of her, pondering her absence, mourning Jessica's unnameable, repetitive loss in her mother...and that evening, poured her a glass of Chardonnay and lit a candle.  I placed her mother's ring by it.  I also brought a picture of Sylvia Plath and some soap - as is tradition...so the dead can clean themselves from their journey.





Despite its macabre reputation, DDLM is actually a celebration of life.  To remind us that the dead are alive and well with us, that they are happy, that they are to be remembered. 



The leaves are ending.  The stupid wind just blew them all away.  It's really the saddest thing to happen to me in a while.  The cosmic plates are shifting, the terroir is crumbling from tremors, and the chill of winter begins.  May we all be ready.

Amen,
Bowie denise dia de los muertos
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