Lessons in Chilling
"Give a man a bro and he'll chill for a day. Teach a man to chill and he'll have bros for life."
- Overheard in Oakland, by some guy who probably saw it on Twitter
I grew up in Southern California, where the No Bad Days ethos was strong. And even though I lived for musical theater and figured I'd end up tap dancin' my way through New York City some day, I also tried my hardest to emulate the seemingly laid-back attitude of my Cali brethren. As young as age eight, I remember trying to pass myself off as an easygoing optimist.
"Just relax, Mom," I'd say to my frazzled mother as I threw on my tie-dye shirt and L.A. Gears, "life's a beach." Later that day, I would wrap myself up in a blanket and stare at my bedroom ceiling, contemplating the concept of infinity and the fact that we all have to die someday.
In seventh grade I spent my $50 back-to-school budget on a pair of Ocean Pacific corduroy shorts and a striped surfer shirt, certain this marked the beginning of a new era for me. I was no longer the high-strung overachiever of the sixth grade; I was the chill girl, the girl with the long beachy hair. The one who skated, listened to reggae, really just carpe diem-ed the heck out of life. A few weeks later, my mom found me sobbing on the bathroom floor, wet hair scattered everywhere, after trying to give myself a Drew Barrymore bob.
In short, I’ve never really been that good at chilling. I've always been overly-concerned with how others perceive me, and considered my clothing, activities, and career choices defining factors in my personal brand. So every time my tastes or life circumstances changed I went into a bit of a tizzy. Was it possible to love competitive cheerleading and the Cramps? Could I be a straight-A student and still smoke cloves behind the archery shed? Could I quit teaching after just three years and still support public education? Am I a sellout? Is it ok that I hated La La Land??
Given my existing neuroses, adding "mom" to the equation could have triggered a whole new identity crisis. But it didn't.
Maybe it's just that I have less time in general, but I've barely stopped to consider what kind of mom I want to be. Neither Jon nor I have read any parenting books, and we've saved most of our questions for the pediatrician rather than asking Dr. Google. I have no philosophy on discipline, no idea how I'll react to her first bad report card, and couldn't care less at this point if she's college-bound.
I'm just enjoying her. And it's one of the first times in my life that I truly feel in the moment.
That's not to say that I haven't had my fair share of anxieties. I was certain for a couple of days that our building's fire alarm had rendered her hearing impaired, and I lose it every time Jon plays baby airplane or holds his cell phone too close to her head. I still wake up at least once a night to make sure she's breathing, and am terrified of pressing too hard on her fontanelles.
But overall, there's a pervading calm and quietness in our days together. Parenthood forces this upon you, I think.
I've attended enough mindfulness workshops to know that a focused mind is a peaceful mind, and I've relied on the practices of meditation, deep breathing and one-pointed attention to quell my anxiety for years. But inevitably every time life got more hectic I would slip back into my natural state of overthinking and multitasking.
Babies won't let you do that. When baby needs to eat, you stop what you're doing and sit quietly for 20 minutes. Oh, and you thought you could check your email during play time? Heck no, even at three months Avery can tell when she's not getting 100% of your attention. And then there's the whole cuteness factor, which which renders watching her make spit bubbles in her sleep infinitely more interesting than Facebook or – I don't know – taking a shower?
It all leads to an acceptance that this is our life now. It's slower, more measured, and full of quiet magic. Over the years I'm sure Avery will teach us just as much as we teach her, and I'm grateful for this early crash course in the art of chilling.
She is a California girl, after all.
Outfit Details: J. Crew chambray button up (very old) / Silk shorts, made by me using Burda 6797, silk and bias tape from Britex / Avery: floral jumpsuit by Splendid
On a Fast Train to Baby Town
A month and half ago, Jon and I said goodbye to our 700 square-foot apartment in San Francisco and moved ourselves to the 'burbs. Since then, we’ve been living a quiet life — making dinner, going on hikes, strolling through West Elm and contemplating the best wall on which to mount a flat-screen TV. Oh yeah, and I haven’t had a drink in 16 weeks.
That’s right: all signs point to pregnant. We’re excited! We’re terrified! We’re looking forward to dressing him or her up in fancy baby clothes! But more than anything, we’re grateful that things are going smoothly this time around.
I alluded to this in a previous post, but I miscarried at about six weeks back in November. I wasn’t ready to talk about it then, even though I knew it was very common and in no way my fault. The logical part of me figured I’d be “over it” in a few weeks, ready to try again. But it took a bit longer than that. In spite of supportive friends and family and a lovely trip to Paris, it was a rough winter for both of us. I drank too much wine, I sank into depression, I cried a lot. And while I probably took it harder than Jon did, I know he suffered too. It can’t be easy to see your partner in pain while you stand by powerless to fix it, but he handled it like a champ. I think we both entered this pregnancy with a deeper appreciation of each other and of life’s fragility.
And that’s the last time I’ll use “we” for the remainder of this post. Because when it comes down to it, I’m the one who’s pregnant, and the one going through the most outrageous physical and emotional changes I’ve experienced since adolescence. Somehow I had imagined that pregnancy would be this magical time of self-care and self-reflection; a chance to retreat from the stress of my career and my usual existential angst. A time to focus on the amazing things my body is doing, to appreciate the legacy of child-bearing women who came before me, to embrace my inner earth mother goddess!
But for the first 13 weeks I felt less like Gaia and more like Gollum — a reclusive, sickly creature obsessed with and resentful of my "precious."
Indeed, nothing gets you stoked on the miracle of life quite like three months of nausea and vomiting. My daily routine — which used to include an energizing workday, Crossfit workout, walk through the Mission District and a nice dinner + cocktail — quickly devolved. In those early months I could barely make it through the day without crying in the bathroom or moaning audibly at my desk. Most meetings were spent planning my escape route in the event that I had to puke. I drove home in a haze and immediately crawled into bed, sipping on ginger ale and trying to keep down soup and saltine crackers. I felt like a specter of my former self — everything I once loved was steeped in sickness. Food tasted rotten, colors were muted, normal household products smelled like poison, even my favorite songs were off-key. I missed my life, I missed myself. I began to question why any woman voluntarily puts herself through this.
But then, as it is wont to do, the sun came out.
When I was in college, I had a dream that stuck with me for years. I was trapped in a hostage situation in my childhood home, trying to help my family escape. We found our way out through a latched door on the ceiling, and I ran as fast as I could to a nearby field shouting “I HAVE THE ENERGY OF FLOWERS!!!”
That’s kind of how I felt when I woke up one morning around week 14 and didn’t want to vomit. I didn’t feel great, per se, but I felt a little closer, a little less troll-like. And I went to the gym! Oh glory hallelujah, how good it felt to sweat! To have, apparently, the energy of flowers! About halfway through my workout, when the runner’s high kicked in with a nice jolt of endorphins, I actually started to cry (a common motif throughout this pregnancy). I felt like I'd been released from prison.
So anyway here I am, bumping out loud and proud, waiting for the last traces of sickness to fade so I can let those earth mother vibes wash over me.
I’m waiting.
...Earth mother?
...Anyone?
Fine, I’ll just work on my maternity style Pinterest board instead.
Outfit Details:
Isabella Oliver Scoop Neck Maternity Tee (made in Portugal) / Black leggings (old; similar here) / Veja Esplar Sneakers (fair trade and sustainable)