Oil Spill of My Mind

I didn’t mean to leave this blog quiet for so long.

Alas, April brought changes. As the world erupted fully into spring and people celebrated Earth Day, I rubbed the little brown head of my 13-year-old mini dachshund one last time. The sin curves on the monitor that represented his beautiful, loving heart’s beating flattened out into a straight line as he went into cardiac arrest for the second time in an hour. We still don’t know the medical cause of his death, but my beloved dog died peacefully and with us hugging him, kissing him, and telling him how much we love him and how LUCKY we are to have him in our life.

I can’t write any more about that at this time. It still hurts so, so, so much. There is a decided emptiness in the world. Physical size doesn’t matter—your heart size is what matters. And my little dog’s heart was the biggest heart ever.

I miss you so much, S.



So now it’s May. I stumbled upon this quote this morning (I was up very early for no other reason than I don’t sleep very well lately).

“It is a huge danger to pretend that awful things do not happen. But you need enough hope to keep going. I am trying to make hope. Flowers grow out of darkness.”
Corita Kent

I will bear this in mind.

I’ve been reading Borges in Spanish and in English. Spanish is one language I never learned (fluently, I mean, I can count to 100, etc). Ancient Greek—check. Latin—check. Italian—check. Modern Greek—check. But you know, something practical like Spanish? Nope. See, here’s the thing: I suck at pronouncing words in other languages. I really do. I was attracted to my dear dead languages at a young age, and of course, we weren’t graded on how well we could pronounce Cicero’s “Etenim si attendere diligenter, existimare vere de omni hac causa volueritis, sic constituetis, iudices, nec descensurum quemquam ad hanc accusationem fuisse, cui, utrum vellet, liceret, nec, cum descendisset, quicquam habiturum spei fuisse, nisi alicuius intolerabili libidine et nimis acerbo odio niteretur.” (Funny, I only chose this line from Pro Caello because it’s one of his shorter sentences.) So why not start with a poet whose work first struck me when I was 14, and I stumbled upon it in the New Yorker? I was in a waiting room. So yes, I’ve been reading Borges and enjoying it immensely. The Spanish is breathtaking.

I wish my friend Muriel was here to help me.

While this is interesting, it’s not so much about me. What is going on in my head? A lot and nothing, all at once. I have the Bright Eyes lyrics in my head...

“I've been sleeping so strange
With a head full of pesticide
I've got no plans in too much time
I feel too restless to unwind
I'm always lost in thought…”

[For the record, C currently loves belting out the first two lines.]

I hate when I’m lost in thought like this. It means I’m disconnected. Something isn’t right. Maybe it’s just the grief from the death of my first and only dog?

The topic of money and A’s mother came up last night. I handled that pretty well. A and I are going to rent a 3-bedroom house with an AWESOME location and a great shady yard with an orange tree (bearing fruit!) at a reduced rate (because we’re a family and not students, thus more responsible, I suppose). I’m so excited about it.

So his mom apparently called him yesterday, and mentioned a house for rent that’s about $700 out of our budget. It’s bigger, of course, and probably “nicer.” A seemed agitated when he was relating this to me. Something was bothering him. Was it his mother? Was it the fact that we cannot afford that? Was it that he thinks I’m not being honest about my budget but won’t say so?

I mean, okay…let’s be honest. We could buy a house and pay less in terms of monthly mortgage payments that the $1,600 + rent his mother suggested. Are we going to stay in this town? I don’t know yet.

I said, “Does she understand our financial circumstances?” I also confessed, “I feel pretty shitty because I don’t earn that much.”

And then, I nicely inquired, “How are our finances any of your parents or my parents business?”

I mean, for God’s sake, we’re how old. Mommy and Daddy don’t need to know everything about our lives. My parents don’t inquire into our finances. They might be nosy in other areas, but I’ve learned this awesome trick called setting boundaries. It works wonderfully. Alas, I’m not sure A has learned that completely yet. And while it’s sweet and nice that his parents care, I internalize it because I’ve got trauma-issues from B’s parents. So I take that as a “W is freeloading.”

*sigh heavily*

Well, at least I spoke up.

And speaking of feeling crappy, I HATE mother’s day. HATE IT. I’ve had three Mother’s Day’s as a mom, and all have been miserable. Because I cannot stand to stay inside, I go out. And well-intending strangers ask “What did you get for Mother’s Day?”

”Nothing, you dumbass. My child cannot go shopping by herself given that she’s 5 months/17 months/only two, and my partner is very ill/I’m a single mother.”

Of course, I didn’t say that. I believe I said something equally cheesy. And um, it’s a made-up holiday introduced at a time of rampant paternalism in our history.

I should just ignore the day, but it reminds me of how unequal things are. How much we expect women to just do. How much women have internalized this systematic oppression, and yes, even the most feminist of men have internalized this as well. It’s just expected that she’ll: pick up the kids, be the one to stay home with a sick child, do the dishes and other house work. She’s the first one up and the last one to go to bed. And she should always be chipper and cheerful and happy.

That, at least, is how I perceive some of the motherhood-oppression and how I’ve resisted it. That’s why I don’t post photos of C on my fb account anymore, and she has her own page—it was a statement, minor, about how my identity does include “mom to C” but is not just “mom to C”.

Hm…I could go on and on, but you know what? I’ve got to, oh, work or something like that. But I do hope to be writing in this blog far more often.