Jesus and the Dinosaurs

My friend Billy sent me this with the caption, "I didn't understand evolution until this simple graphic explained the truth!" To me, this just perfectly captures the illogical weirdness that otherwise educated and intelligent people make room for in their belief systems that, when drawn out, just don't make sense. For instance, my friend has a master's degree in organic chemistry and she believes that there really were two of every kind of animal on Noah's arc. Really? Two of every animal? On a boat for forty days? That Noah built? Because God wanted to destroy all humans? Really? Or there's my friend, James, who still believes that we have never landed on the moon. And my friend, Cara, who believes that everyone is gay. Everyone, but we're all in denial.

I know I've got some too. I know that there are some really illogical ideas that I hold as truth simply because, if I question them, I'll realize that they're crazy. And then there goes my whole belief system. Like the belief that I need everyone to like me. And the belief that if someone's mad at me I'm to blame. And the belief that every relationship problem I've ever had is my fault.

This, of course, flows over into my parenting. I already know that every problem Jack will have in his life is because of me. I didn't prepare him well enough, I didn't model setting boundaries for him, I should have stayed home with him, he should have eaten only organic foods... I am your classic guilty parent.

Here's another one: conflict is scary and bad. Maybe this is the biggest one. Maybe this is the belief that I hold onto that drives my crazy behavior. I avoid conflict like the plague. You know that cooking show, Hell's Kitchen? Can't watch it. Or Jerry Springer? Nope. Even most court TV shows like Judge Judy send my anxiety through the roof. I can't stand to watch people in conflict.

Being this afraid of conflict is kind of like my friend, Cara, being angry that her mom won't admit to being gay. Which she isn't. And maybe conflict isn't bad. Maybe conflict is just something that naturally occurs when two or more people are placed in the same space. And maybe it feels bad but that's what gets us to communicate about it and reach an agreement. Or change our minds about the position we're holding. Or agree to disagree and still respect one another.

So maybe I need to rethink my illogical and weird views on conflict. Maybe my ridgid belief that conflict is bad and should be avoided at all costs is absurd. Maybe it has other people shaking their heads in disbelief, thinking, "You know, Amber is a bright girl but she still believes that conflict is bad. Can you believe it" Maybe this belief has been the big dinosaur in the room of my life... which, by the way, we don't know if Jesus ever rode them. But he probably did.

Invitation.

I feel like its time for me to step into something. My grandeur. My potential. The reality of who I am. My fullness.

This scares me, somehow. It feels a little bit like walking down the aisle with someone that I don't really know, but have a hint of. Can I count on me? Can I trust that what I see in me is real? Am I really going to be there for myself? What if what everyone said about me was true?

I can stay at the back of the church, scared and stuck. That's where I've been for a while, now. Scared and stuck, not ready to commit, uncertain about what it is I'm getting myself into. I feel a beckoning, an invitation, a proposal, if you will, to own my greatness. To claim it. To claim my portion of Life and live it to the fullest. It's mine, after all. No one else can use it. It'll just go to waste, otherwise.

But I'm scared. I'm scared to let go of convenience and safety and the norm. I'm scared that I'm delusional and will fall on my face and that I'll have no place to go. I'm afraid that my dad will shake his head at me and say, "Amber, you should have just gotten a job and sent Jack to public school, like everyone else. You had to be a dreamer, didn't you. Well, look where it got you."

Which is so stupid because my dad would be the first one to encourage me to go big in life. In fact, I think the reality is that he's sitting around, shaking his head, wondering why I haven't been on Oprah yet. He believes in me. It's me who's still unsure.

The hesitation place I've been in, the stuckness, is getting so uncomfortable that I'm listening to that invitation with perked interest. "What can you promise me?" I ask it. "Will you guarantee my happiness? Do you promise that I won't look like an ass?"

It shakes it's head and says back, "Silly girl. I love you."

What does it mean that I'm attracted to this guy?

And the guitar player, too.

It's like Three Posts in One!

It seems that, most days, something occurs that prompts me to think, "I have to write a post on this!" There's just a lot going on these days. Good stuff, shitty stuff, painful stuff, laugh-out-loud stuff. I like having this space where I can document my what I'm all about in a given moment of time, like a snapshot into my consciousness that I can share and remember. So, for posterity's sake, I thought I'd show you my photo album of the most recent experiences, ideas, interests, and moods I've had in the past few weeks:

Conversations with Bod, part II
Remember how I said I was going to take me and my body into couples counseling? Because we had turned into a nasty, bitter, abusive old couple who doesn't remember how to say nice things to one another? Well, I did. For the past 10 weeks, I've been attending a process group called Conscious Eating. The philosophy (and one I whole-heartedly agree with) holds that women (and men, for that matter) will often use food to nurture, take care of, and soothe themselves when they are experiencing some kind of distress or disturbance. These disturbances are usually unconscious (we aren't aware that we're feeling scared, worried, angry, overwhelmed, whatever) but our body takes over and says, "Feed me! I need to be soothed! I'm freaking out over here!" So, we end up experiencing HUNGER when we really aren't hungry for food, but comfort.

Friends, family, readers: Whoa. Now, this may not seem like the neuroscience to you, but to me it is fucking shocking and AWESOME. In my work in this group, I am actually learning to distinguish between real hunger and anxiety. I am able to stop myself, mid-stride to the fridge, and say, "Wait a minute, I'm not even hungry! I'm feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated right now! It's not food I want- it's solitude!" And, even better, I'm starting to give myself this stuff that I need. Like, today, I came home from my day job and laid down on my bed for 15 minutes and gave myself a little moment of rest and breath. Normally, I would have come home and stuffed my face with nachos in order to calm myself down. And yesterday, I closed my door at work, sat on the floor of my office, and listened to Cold Play on my Ipod for awhile instead of hitting Jack in the Box for an Oreo Shake.

There's this whole notion in Conscious Eating that we're overeating in an attempt to feed the other hungers in our lives. Like the hunger for meaningful friendships. Or creative expression. Or to feel passionately about anything, like our work or our husband or our hobbies. Me? I hunger solitude. And down time. Leisure is a thing of my past, a treasure I took for granted before Jack, before single parenthood, before two jobs. I am never alone and I crave it like a junkie.

But what really shocks me is this: I have been living with anxiety for as long as I can remember. But I didn't know it! I didn't know that the nagging, jittery, frantic and unsoothed energy in my abdomen that has been there forever was anxiety. I just..., well, it's just always been there. And people, that feels like hunger sometimes. Or, I interpreted it as hunger because food is soothing and numbing, like a hard shot of whiskey, and it quiets down that nervous energy.

Nerpal
About a year ago, my tortoise, Nerpal, who has lived with me since he was just a baby, ran away from home. Well, not ran, but you get the idea. I was super bummed out since he's lived with me for about 10 years now and I always anticipated that he'd be this 137 year old tortoise living with my kids' kids some day. He's an odd little guy because he's barely grown in the ten years I've had him, leaving tortoise experts puzzled and saying only, "Maybe he's a dwarf tortoise." Seriously. And even using the pronoun "he" is a bit of a misnomer since his size makes it impossible to determine if he really is even a he. Anywho, he ran away.

A few weeks ago, I was at one of the tenants apartments doing some move-out paperwork with them. The wife casually mentions that they're almost totally finished moving out except they can't figure out what to do with their turtle. The one they found in the parking lot. A year ago.

So, Nerpal and I have been reunited. I was so excited that I called everyone I knew who knew Nerpal that night, even though it was late. Jack nearly shit a brick the first time he saw him; I hadn't really considered how a two-year old would conceptualize the crawling-rock-with-eyes coming toward him in his back yard.

Join My Radish Commune
I'm becoming a communist. Or, I want to. There's so much to say about this that maybe I should save it for another entry. Let's just say that I'm over this notion of living separated and disjointed from one another, from the earth, from our children, and from ourselves. I am longing for community, a sense of togetherness and support and common purpose. I think we are all dying from disconnection; everywhere I turn I see overwhelmed, unsupported, unknown people who have no one to reach out to. No place to plug in. No place to feel useful or wanted or meaningful. I see this especially in children who feel herded from one place to another, from school to the after-school day care to the TV at home. We are outsourcing the parenting and soul-development of our children to others. I'm guilty, too, but not for long. It's my intention to live differently, in intentional community.

Jack

Which leads me to Jack, who colors my world and my walls and without whom my life would be so much easier. But who wants easy when they can have this:(mascara)

Something's gotta give...

...Unfortunately, it appears to be my blogs. And my housework. Oh, and my exercise. Smoking, I still have time for.

As most of you are aware, I just went back to work as a therapist after taking two years off to be with my son. And by taking two years off I mean worked as a nanny for three kids plus my son. This was grueling work in the most rote of ways: endless diapers and games of hide-and-seek, constant searching for sippies and blankies and teddy bears, holding two and sometimes three babies in my arms, sending kids to time outs and rushing them to toilets... It was nonstop, all day long. But it worked for Jack and me. It allowed us to be together and gave him some kids to play with and learn from. And it allowed me to take every Wednesday off to be alone, to recoup on the beach or on my couch with a book, Jack safely at Grandma's or Aunt Lisa's or Aunt Mirna's.

By February, however, I began to hate all things toddler and the family (either sensing this in me or by a random stroke of good timing) decided to place their kiddos into preschool. I was out of a job. It was time for me to re-enter the work force, to place all of my fingerpaint-stained and macaroni-and-cheese tinted clothing in the dumpster, put on some heels and head into the adult world.

Somehow, and like it always does, everything came together. I found a job and a daycare that I felt good about and have somehow transitioned from Stay-At-Home-Mom to Working Mom. Jack and I have somewhat created a new routine to our lives: wake up at 6:00am, snuggle in the bed for a half hour, try to get showered, dressed, and coifed while Jack is begging to be held all morning, eat breakfast, pack a lunch, drive through Starbucks for my caffeine fix, and arrive at day care by 8:30. I usually stay for about ten minutes and get him acclimated to his day at Chrissy's, a mom who just recently decided to create a daycare in her home so that she could be with her two kids.

I spend the day in one-hour therapy sessions with children and families whose lives are incredibly challenging and complex. It's good work and I love it and I feel honored to be a part of their lives in this sacred, special way. I love how focused each session is, how still and clear and connected I feel throughout the day. I am doing what I love and this is a good, good thing.

By the time Jack and I usually arrive back home, it's after six. This is where my day goes to hell. I would love to just come to our home, fix us some dinner, and play with my son on the floor until bedtime. I would love to just relax with him, maybe walk to the park or play in our back yard. But the moment I come home, my second job begins. I am an apartment manager.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck goddamn fuck fuck fuck. I hate this cock-sucking job so goddamn much. FUCK. Fuck.

Every night I come home and it's phone calls adn people at my door, complaining about the maintenance guys or the pool filter or yelling at me because I charged them a late fee because they didn't pay their rent. They're upset with their neighbors or with the guy who parked in their space. They want to know if they can change apartments. Their garbage disposal isn't working and it's the seventh time it's broken since they moved in. And they want me to come take a look at it.

I get phone calls at 3 am. The roof is leaking. The couple in 205 is fighting. There's a possum in the backyard. I get strangers at my door wanting to come in and use the bathroom. I have old ladies who call me and can't hear me on the phone, or worse: they want to tell me all about their most recent surgery. I have tenants who want new carpet because "I've lived here for four years." I have tenants who constantly lock themselves out. I have tenants who find the most random shit to be upset about: the spiders in the palm trees outside, the noisiness of the garbage truck, the postman not coming on time.

And then there's Carlos. My maintenance guy. FUCK SHIT GODDAMN MOTHER FUCKER. He's the owner's brother-in-law, which means that I can't fire him. Which I would have done two years ago. Because he's a cocksucker. The tenants are always infuriated with him because he'll take three weeks to respond to their maintenance request, then forget to come when he said he would, and then do a shitty job when he finally does make it over here. And who are the tenants complaining to the whole time? Yup! Me! Yippee!

So, going home is never what I want it to be. And after getting bitched at by a tenant for not taking care of them, the sound of Jack's whine is enough to send me through the roof. And poor Jack... it's SO not his fault but he gets the brunt of my frustration. I hate that I am this person when I'm at home: bitchy, annoyed, frustrated. Jack deserves more. I deserve more. I would SO drop this job if I could afford to. But, it pays the rent (literally) and until I marry a man solely for his money I'm stuck here.

Something's gotta give. We can't live like this. I won't live like this.

Lisa, Mirna, and Aunt Melissa

I thought I was adjusting well to this whole going-to-work thing, but after this shit-hole week I'm certain I'm headed for the Betty in no time.

I'll write more about that later. But today, I just want to write about how supported and loved I am, even though I threw an orange across my kitchen today in frustration and in front of my child. My anxiety levels are..., well, a wee bit elevated these days and my tolerance for frustrating and annoying things is at an all time low. I kinda feel like a four thousand pound python is wrapped around my shoulders and squeezing at all times, ready to squeeze the last living breath out of my chain-smoked lungs. And my son, wh0's been sick and feverish and needy all week, is missing his normally attentive and loving mother as she has been replaced by this woman.

I'm not good at asking for help because I really do believe that I should be able to do everything myself. There's also a bit of "you-made-this-bed-now-lie-in-it" mentality going on inside my religiously-trained and guilt-ridden mind, making it super hard to ever ask for a hand when my life feels out of control. I really feel like I don't deserve to get help and that I need to find a way to manage my responsibilities on my own. Nobody got you into this mess, nobody's gonna get you out.

Whoa. Nasty voices in my head.

But today, after the orange throwing, I decided I needed some help. I was quickly unraveling and obviously going insane and Jack needed the safety of an individual who was not hurling fruits and cuss words across the room. So, I called Aunt Melissa who agreed to take him into her shelter. Shortly later, my friends Lisa and Mirna called and offered to drive out to my part of town, pick my overwhelmed and anxious ass up and take it to the movies with them. They paid for everything: tickets, popcorn, sodas, and Korean barbecue for dinner, afterwards. Mirna's husband, who had learned through the grapevine that I had lost my ID and my debit card and therefore have no access to money, insisted that Mirna give me cash for gas money. She refused to let me pay her back.

Internet, I cannot begin to express how overwhelmingly grateful I am to have somehow manifested these amazing people into my life who unconditionally support me and take care of me, even when I feel so undeserving and horrible. Thank you, Mom, for doing my dishes on Friday. Thank you, Craig, for the tank of gas that I don't have to worry about anymore. Thank you, Lisa, for an afternoon of feeling taken care of. Thank you, Mirna, for never making me feel undeserving of help. Thank you, Melissa, for giving my son a day of fun and snuggles with you and the dog. I am so lucky and blessed to be so supported and loved. My cup runneth over.

Shit and Shat

Jack loves to look at pictures of himself. Often times, when I need him to be occupied, I will play a slideshow of pictures of him and he loves it. In fact, he goes ape shit. He thinks it's hilarious. He points at the computer screen and says, "Is Shat! Shat!" Oh, and he calls himself Shat. Which I love.

Shat and I were in my bathroom today doing the usual try-to-get-dressed-
and-put-on-makeup-before-Jack-gets-bored-and-totally-unravels tango when I hear him say it. "Oh, shit." Now, I've heard him say it before but it's never been very clear. In the past when I've heard him say it, I just assumed that I was imagining things. I mean, Jack's entire catalogue of spoken words is only four words strong. No way there's a four-letter word in there. However, this time there was no denying that Shat was saying shit. He had dropped the bag of Q-tips (again, by the way. I've picked these mother fuckers up so many times that I am beginning to recognize them individually) and then let the words fly, like a pro. No horseying around. No baby talk. Just a good, solid, "Oh shit."

And since I don't have him swearing on video yet, you'll have to settle for this video of him "chatting" on the toy cell phone. My favorite part: the random bursts of laughter throughout his "conversation." God, he's so cute.

For more Jack videos, go here.