Special Days

Today was one of those special days.

The ones without any snot or tears, where your kid runs bang on into a wall and instead of melting down like she usually does, she shrugs and sits until she stops feeling queasy and then joins in again.

The ones where moms come up to me at the park and say things like:
"That's the first time I've heard a parent say 'Watch out for the person behind you,' all day. Thank you."
"Why you got like four kids on you? Either the redheads or the Mexicans aren't yours."
"Do you have Mary Poppins pockets in your dress? Where are all those water bottles coming from?"

It's the kind of day where I notice how far Mexican culture has come, because there were four little boys in colored skinny pants and converse and that never would have flown fifteen years ago. When I smile because Abuelo still uses a bandana instead of a bandaid, and little Crystal realizes I can understand her 3 year old Spanish as she begs me to push her on the swing.

It's the kind of day when "Mom," slips out more than my name and I remember that the kids fall into this charade as much as I do. When we laugh and make brownies and lick the bowl and learn to crack eggs on our foreheads. It's when a king size bed seems too big for four people because we're all piled on top of each other.

It's when she's in the bath and I come in to check on her. "Are Mom and Dad home?" she asks.

"Yes," I smile.

"Oh," her brows are furrowed and she's thinking. She doesn't seem excited or ask if she can rush to greet them. "Will you wash my hair?" she asks instead.

"Sure," I murmur and she leans forward for me and we don't discuss it further. She knows I'll stay until she's tucked in bed.

Perhaps we've all grown too dependent. Perhaps my life is too entwined with theirs. Perhaps when they hold me and refuse to let go, or read the bedtime books with my voice bound in each page when I can't be there, it is a sign we should all pull back.

But I've taught them how to ride a bike, how to make a sandwich, how to properly eat whipped cream from the can, how to do a handstand and make it across the monkeybars. The time for pulling back passed eons ago.

Music/Events

When I got my hair cut a few days ago I bought a new product to put in it and the kids I work with have noticed. "Your hair smells good!" "Your hair smells like apples!" "Your hair smells like cotton candy!"

"It doesn't smell like cotton candy!" I laugh.

"It could," he reminds me helpfully. I'll keep it in mind.

It's one of those days where the chill nips in through my wool coat, and instead of talking about the slut-shaming unattractively going on across the interwebs, the abhorrent feelings I have for our government's inadequacy to reach a decision and wasting time, energy, and resources while holding items hostage essential to the middle and lower classes, or the deep feelings of despair and anxiety for the rape culture we have created and perpetuate every day, even in lesbian subculture, through billboards and social media and have the world wake up to it through the eyes of India, and yet it still goes unseen - I'm just going to tell you what's been playing on repeat on my iPod for the past week.


Just look at that Drummer! (swooning a little)

Heavy

When Christmas gets heavy:

I skyped with my brother's kids late Christmas night. They're cute kids, 15 and 8, but they're a little overemotional. My nephew is funny and biting but can be sensitive, and so can his sister. My niece is a junior in high school, after she skipped a grade in middle school, and she's been dealt some heavy cards lately: her best friend died from cancer last year, and her other best friend went to jail for molesting younger boys after he himself was abused. Her life has sucked the past few years.

She wanted to talk to me about it this summer, but couldn't find the words, and being raised in a family where we don't push to communicate, I held her as she cried and told her she could come to me when she was ready. Last night's call was tense, grumpy, and awkward, and finally she kicked her little brother out of the room and broke down.

She's been anorexic for the last year. She has emotions she can't understand - feeling happy and normal one day, grumpy and depressed and introverted for no reason the next. She feels anxious, paranoid, stressed, and she doesn't want to tell her parents because she doesn't want to be a fuck up.

I'm pretty good at being calm and reasonable and compassionate when people come to me, but after the fact, when I'm writing about this, I can't help but start to cry. Should I have told her about my anorexia years ago? My depression as an early teenager? The year when I'd been lost and confused and tricked into thinking I'd fatally hurt one of my best friends? Should I be talking about these things to my other nieces and nephews who might be feeling the same way?

Luckily, her mom, K, is the sibling I talk to most, and she knows, briefly, about my struggles with anorexia. After ascertaining and making sure that my niece is not suicidal, I convinced her to talk to her mom. She's struggling, she's drowning, and she needs help and understanding. Maybe it's a conversation I will be part of, maybe I will end up flying out there to help, or maybe she'll find the courage to say something and then call me later. And I understand her hesitation, because she can be emotional and now her parents tend to brush her emotions off. But now I'm worried about her. Because this is what leads to drugs and sex and suicide.

I know there's a stigma against getting help, especially in our family - I mean, hell, I never got help or talked to my mom about any of my issues for that very reason. But I'd rather get her help than see her all over the papers. I'd rather she learn that help is okay than to lose her forever. She's my baby girl who is sarcastic and funny, who lights up at Disneyland, and wants to be a singer and has so much talent, who plays the guitar with me and can sing Katy Perry better than Katy Perry can. I refuse to see her light go out because she won't tell her parents or a doctor that something is wrong.

Ladybug Update

I finally got an update from Ladybug (backstory: cousin I grew up with as my little brother). He's got some time off for the Christmas holiday, but I'm not going to be able to see him because I'm working. There's family driving down, and I want to join them, so badly, but it's the most critical time of the year and I can't just take time off.

I keep thinking about the world ending on the 21st. I've never believed in it, never been huge on prophecies, but what if it does and my last choice was to choose work over family? Over seeing the person I'm closest to? That thought terrifies me. Plus, if the world is ending, I want that badass kid by my side because I know we'd make a great team and be survivors.

He's changed so much over the last few months, somehow even taller. He seems to have grown into his dress uniform, so he looks more like a true Marine than a kid playing dress up :) He's grown quite handsome and I know I'm going to have to beat people off of him and make sure whoever gets him deserves him. I wish I could post one of the pictures I've gotten, as he carries this James Dean vibe I can't describe to you unless you see it, but I'm not going to out him on my blog. Main point is, he's safe and I'm so happy for that.

He's having fun with friends, but being responsible, and enjoying the stuff he's working on. I'm glad I know what's going on with him, but I still miss him. Hopefully he can get some time off in the spring and I'll get to see him.

Day 11 Grief

30 Day Letter Challenge

Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to

I'm not going to write a letter. This is about remembering, connecting, and seeing the world as something bigger than yourself or myself. When you’re born into a large family, like I was, death is not uncommon. I’ve attended more funerals than I can count. But two hit me particularly hard – my brother-in-law when I was 14, and my grandfather when I was 18. Both were accidents. 

I wasn’t allowed to go to T’s funeral. We didn’t have enough money for me to fly back east, since both of my parents were going to support my sister. I understand the fiscal reasons, but as a fourteen year old girl my feelings were bruised. They left for 12 days and I stayed with my grandparents on a very cold air mattress wondering what his body looked like. He used to let me braid his rat-tail. He wasn’t exactly the greatest person in the world, but for some reason he had a sweet spot for me.

When my grandpa died it was sudden, unexpected and harsh. We had been very close, had a very good relationship, and he was practically a dad to Ladybug. So, when Ladybug and I were dragged into the court case surrounding his death it was a little too much for both of us to handle. Luckily, neither of us spiraled into drugs, but it took me more than a year before I visited his grave. It was shortly after this that I came out and as for Ladybug, he joined the Marines. To each their own therapy, I suppose. 

Grief is a funny thing; sometimes you think you’re done and then it sneaks up on you out of nowhere and slams you in the gut. Or sometimes you can be in the middle of it, and suddenly be blessed with an ordinary day where you don’t think about any of it and don’t realize it until later. Grieving is a journey, and when you can finally mention that person again without crying, you start to understand that life moves forward. 

Since my grandfather died, my brothers and sisters have given birth to four children with one more on the way. I can’t stop my whole life to grieve for one person, or I would fail to interact with and love all these new people. And I wouldn’t miss out on them for anything.

Houses/Unpacking

When I went off to college, I didn't go through the normal routine. I went to a conservatory, where one is expected to put in 16 hour days (sometimes more), six days a week. I was one of the youngest in the class, with most ranging between 25 and 30. I lived in a house with roommates instead of a dorm, was required to cook and clean and split bills. It was all very...adult (or as close to being an adult as I have ever experienced). Whereas I tend to think of university as an extension of high school with dorms, cliques, and not a whole lot of responsibility.

So, after living more or less as an adult for three years, I had to return home. My father has a fatal disease, and my mother is not coping well. We weren't doing well financially. So, after three years, here I am, in my old bedroom of my childhood home. I moved back home in June of 2009.

I started unpacking today.

I never unpacked because I thought maybe there was a way to leave quickly. I worked long hours for three months, so long that I was never home, and then left on a road trip for another two. Five months of trying not to live here.

Today I threw out three bags of stuff that had been lying around. Things from when I was a kid, things from the road trip, just things in general. I started with one section. One section that, after today, feels a little more like myself. Feels a little more like if I were to bring a girlfriend home to see it, she would get a glimpse of me- of what is important to me. I finished my bookshelf today, and that is a huge start.

I think part of the reason that I haven't felt like an adult, haven't felt capable of dating, is that being in this room again makes me feel like a child. The angel figurines, the stuffed animals, the collector barbies-they all shrink me down until I'm no more than a small girl.

It's time to give those away, to pass them on. Not to get rid of them, but to take back this space as my own; to make this room grow up with me, so that I no longer shrink under its gaze. A place to play guitar, read a novel, finish my psychology homework, a place where I can lock the door and feel sexy (because I'll be damned if a woman doesn't need to feel sexy in her own bed once in a while).

Today I took a step toward that, and feel a little more comfortable inside my own house.