Wise

I was nine, I went to a small catholic private school in Carmel California. Clint Eastwood was the mayor, a nun was the principal and Mrs. Wise was the God fearing woman we looked in the eye while we said our prayers. Mrs. Wise looked on with approval and a satisfactory smile that said ‘I’ve finally gotten through to her’ when I chose a Rosary out of the prize basket. She looked horrified when I tore open the plastic and put it around my neck. 

“The Rosary is not a necklace Emily. You don’t wear it.” 
“But its too pretty to put in my pocket, and it fits right over my head, see?” 
“Its purpose is not to look pretty, but to keep in memory certain principal events or mysteries in the history of our salvation…take it off.” 
“Can I have the pencil then?” 

Yikes, this was bad, I was the only kid in my grade who wasnt actually Catholic and Mrs. Wise did not approve. This was even worse then the time I crashed communion just because I was hungry. 

Later we were told to get out a piece of paper and a pencil and write about ANYTHING we wanted. 

“Anything?” 
“Yes, Emily, ANYTHING. And when you’re done you will read it aloud to the class.” 
(Whoo hoo!) 

I had earlier in the year fallen in love with ‘Steel Magnolias’. My parents taped it for me and I watched it everyday, usually more than once a day. I had not only every line memorized but every scene, voice inflection and sarcastic undertone, the movie was pure poetry to me. And when I found out that ‘Shelby’s’ new movie had just come out on video I begged, BEGGED my parents to let me watch it. How appropriate to be called ‘Pretty Woman’! I didnt care that it was rated R, I HAD to see Shelby in her new movie, all that mattered was that I had heard she did not die in this one. 

So I didnt have to think very long about what I was going to write about. And when we were done writting and I was the only one who volunteered to go first I marched up front with my pretty ‘necklace’ and my best ‘you’re gonna love this’ face and read my essay about how when I grew up I was going to be in movies like Steel Magnolias and Julia Roberts latest movie Pretty Woman, which I let them know I had just watched the night before and highly recomended. 

When I was done with my witty, well thought out, brilliantly written masterpiece I looked up and saw a wide eyed tight lipped Mrs. Wise rubbing the gold cross she wore around her neck between her thumb and her finger. (I guess hers was in fact a necklace.) I waited for my applause and was excited when Malia raised her hand to ask me a question. 

“Isnt Pretty Woman rated R?” 

Malia read her essay next. Turns out her grandma had just gotten her a doll that REALLY crapped and peed….I have four children who do that and STILL dont find it very interesting but OK. She finished after saying UM 17 times (I counted because my dad had taught me at a young age that if you have the chance to talk to a room full of people the last thing they want to hear you say is ‘um’ and I had been sure to not say UM even once.) The class clapped, Mrs. Wise smiled and the day went on. When it was over Mrs. Wise picked the best, I sat up straight and smiled because not one of their stories about their dead pets and crapping dolls had come close to my perfectly articulated dream of someday playing a diabetic whore with a heart of gold on the silver screen and not only did I know it but I knew Mrs. Wise knew it too…but it was Malia and her incontinent baby that got the award, the applause and the smile from our uptight teacher. 

The next day was awards day. Mrs. Wise (an ironic last name for someone so blind to talent) had a tall stack of certificates. She gave out awards for Outstanding student, perfect attendance, most improved, outstanding girl, outstanding boy, cleanest desk, best hair cut…(ok that one I may be making up but seriously these awards were a stretch) Every kid in the class got an award but me…EVERY single kid. 

On the way in from recess the girls behind me told their teacher about a bee in my hair….and I remember being flattered that they noticed. 

When they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, i said ‘perfect’.

I keep getting questions…’why was your first post so sad?’

Well, I did not intend it to be sad, just honest. We have all been through things right?  When I had my fourth child I got a lot of attention from the women in my life. I heard things like ‘you’re so strong!’ and ‘how do you do it!?’ I had never felt strong, I still don’t feel strong, and I don’t even feel most of the time like I’m ‘doing it’ so I really can’t explain how I do it…whatever it is.

Getting compliments is great.  It makes a person feel good.  But, hearing things like that made me feel strange, like I then couldn’t admit when I was struggling, or the fact that I felt weak and incapable a lot of the time.  I ended up feeling a little closed off, like I couldn’t show the ‘real’ me, because I didn’t want to disappoint the people who seemed to think highly of me.  That lead to me being a lot more reserved in other areas of my life as well.  I have always been an outgoing person, I’ve always enjoyed art and writing.  All of those parts of my life and identity suffered, as did a lot of my relationships.

Even though I am an extroverted person, I don’t have any siblings, so I am used to keeping to myself in most cases, or dealing with things alone, is what I should say. I just didn’t know how to ask for help.  I didn’t know how to say that I just needed to talk, or vent, or yell.  I felt guilty for being stressed out.  Aren’t I supposed to be loving every second of this mom gig?  Whether we realize it or not, when we decide to live in a way that is not being true to who we really are, we’re lying. I was lying.

Being this concerned with the way I looked to other people carried over into every area.  I became too fearful to cut my fabric “what if I mess it up?”  I couldn’t write.  How does a person write openly and honestly when they have a hard time even admitting what their true feelings are?  I had always wanted to start a blog, other than just posting notes on Facebook, but I was even too worried about how that would be received to actually do it. I was sure that as soon as I started one I’d get comments like “BOO! You call that writing!?” or “What a bunch of crap! You’re no writer! Someone take away her PC!”. No matter what the project at hand was, I was so overcome with feeling that it had to be perfect that I was scared to even get it started.

So my first post was a little gloomy, but I was telling a story that was hard for me to tell on purpose.  I want other women to know that someone else has been there and has the battle scars to show for it.  And has even grown because of it.  In posting the first blog I was overcoming what had been an obstacle for me as well.  I am not aiming to be perfect or a professional writer. This is about connecting with that part of me that I lost while trying so hard to look like the perfect mom, and connecting with other people who are passionate about creativity as well.

I read that when you start a blog you need to write about what it is that you are passionate about. Well I am passionate about writing, communicating, God, love, life, art, relationships… There is so much really.  Those are the things that lift me up when I start to slip into my perfectionist tendencies, they bring me back to the reality that life is good, happy kids are loud, God is Love, and no one is ever remembered for being good at doing the dishes.

Thanks for reading- Emily

Mama drama, baby blues

This is not the place to come for parenting advice.  While I cherish all four of my small humans I do not define myself or any project I undertake (like this) by my reproductive experience.  In the begining of this trip I was so sure I would be good at this! I was too dumb to be scared.  I had no idea what I was in for. I had no idea how just being a mom takes you over whether you want it to or not. It has been nearly 13 years since the 19 year old me (to whom I still closely relate) stood in a Rite Aid wondering if a pregnancy test was a wise purchase, it would afterall, leave me without beer money…and I was only ‘like KIND of late’.

I told myself I would wait a few hours to take the test, I was scheduled for a short shift at the restaurant I was bussing tables, for 4.25/hour.  But, because I had admited the extreme possibility of there being ‘reason to spend the beer money’ I simply could not think of anything else!  ‘I’ll take the test, it will be negative, I will relax’, I thought. It was a slow night at the restaurant, I snuck away as soon as I thought I had a few minutes. ‘Wait 5 minutes for results’ the instructions said, wait 5 minutes my (soon to be much larger) butt. I’ve never seen color materialize so fast.  Or lines, or sheer panic.

Once the news set in, all shock turning into a mix of getting ready and being the best ‘pregnoid’ I could be, I spent a lot of time thinking about what kind of mom I would be.  I pictured my child and I having a magical relationship, my voice would sooth, my touch would reassure, my presence alone would be all he’d need…you know, all that crap.  Why wasn’t I panicing about being a knocked up 19 year old art student? I can’t really say, maybe it was easier to focus on the inevitable fact that my son’s birth was indeed happening than it would have been to dive into being ashamed of myself or any of that.  Picturing things working out, that’s what got me through any feelings of fear or doubt.

I focused on being a mom.  River cried all the time.  Screamed, actually. I was sure I was doing something wrong, I was sure he didn’t like me.  I was sure Ben, my husband now, also felt the same way.  I was sure of a lot of dark and sad things back then.  It seemed nothing was working out.  I cried when he cried. I cried when he slept.  I cried when I was alone, I cried in front of people.  ‘I was so wrong about myself, I was so stupid’ I thought, what made me think that I could do this?

I stopped eating, not in a hunger strike kind of way, every single thing just sounded disgusting.  I ate popsicles and Tums.  Not a good diet for someone who was under weight to begin with and is trying to nurse.  I lost the ability to stand up straight, and a sink full of dishes was enough to make me curl up in the fetal position and…you guessed it, cry. It was exhausting I tell you.

It seemed like I lived this zombie life for a year, in reality it was less than 2 months.  Something made me turn the TV off one morning (it had been on 24 hours a day for over a week because the noise made me feel better).  I sat on the floor in the living room and thought about all of the things I had been wrong about.  The way I thought things would be, the things I wanted for this beautiful baby but couldn’t even stand up long enough to give him.  ‘They’d all be better off if I were dead…my mom could take care of River, she’d do a much better job, Ben could go back to his freedom.’  The amount of time I spent entertaining this thought is a testament to the illness that had overtaken me.

A few hours later I was in my doctor’s office, reading about this post partum depression stuff, that thing that weak women make up to get people to bring them casseroles.  That thing I hadn’t even read over in any of the books, and I read ALL the books.  That thing I was much too strong to let touch me.

Within a week I had eaten real people food, slept for 5 hours straight and even spontaneously smiled!  Within a couple of months I was writing again, sewing again, drawing again, burning dinner again, funny again, and actually believing that I could do this.

Like I said, this is not the place to come for parenting advice.  I am not one of those professional moms.  I am an artist, who has given birth to 4 children, married 1 man, over cooked many noodles, taken lots of road trips, and has lots of stories to tell.