Do you know Carmen likes Stravinsky? Petruschka, The Rite of Spring, all that big stuff.  It’s different but not totally out of reach, and she digs it. I thought, growing up surrounded by primarily Western, tonal music, that she would have a hard time digesting something like Stravinsky’s atonal wildness.  Instead she just eats it up, joyfully nodding her head, slapping her thigh and saying “more loud classical MUSIC MOMMYYYY!”

I’m sure the Baby Mozart people would be scandalized.

I don’t like how hard it is to be feeling sick, wrong, tired, off. I’m the Mommy-Mommy-Mommy-Mommy.  I have things to do, people to feed, boo-boos to kiss, hugs to give, attention to provide.  In the afternoons and again at night I fall asleep exhausted and dizzy, heart pounding and skipping, from a day of mothering.

How is it that work and career get so wrapped up in our identity and what we think our obligations are.  And how is it that we think we have certain obligations?  Just because certain people expect (insert your favorite word here), does that mean I am obligated to meet those expectations?  If I don’t meet those expectations (whether or not I choose to), does that make me a failure?

People ask me what I am going to do next.  I ask myself the same question.  But I try hard not to think about the “what next” part–after all, I’m a little busy raising two thoughtful, interesting people and still (yes, people, still) recovering from what C&D call “bo-bo head.”  But I know things will be different. They already are.

After all, the morning I woke up from my surgery and we saw I could carry on a conversation, we weren’t saying, “Oh, great, I’ll be able to go back to work!” My first question was, “How are the babies?”

Completed Dec 2007.  Just thinking about this wears me out, still.

this weekend:

Me:  “Carmen, can you ask nicely?”

Carmen:  “That’s too hard! I’m going to sleep!”

Too hard?!

The trip was good, and C&D had a good time, although I feel overtired.

They not only put their shoes on, but they even got them on the right feet. Wherever they want to go, how can I tell them no?

In early July, I felt slow, dizzy, confused, overwhelmed . . . and nowhere near myself.
Then, something changed almost overnight. Some neurons found each other, maybe. Suddenly I could ride in the car; I felt less dizzy at night. I rode all the way to San Antonio. I could actually follow a conversation with other people talking in the background.

I’m not cured; I develop a persistent belly ache and earache when I’m doing too much (and, feeling so much better, it’s hard not to do too much), but it’s better, it’s better.