Ghosts from the Archives

I found this post in my abandoned drafts, dated January 3, 2009. It doesn’t go anywhere. It drops off mid sentence. Feeling grateful for being a different place, a happy and fulfilled place, one year later. I write a lot of these posts. Most of them get deleted and are never published. But since this one managed to hang in the archives for over a year, I figured this might be the one time I’ll feel the fear and do it any way.

Anniversaries
January 9, 2009

Conception Day came and went this year. There was no acknowledgement. The magical new anniversary vanished after one year. That’s the thing about anniversaries. They are as much reminders of events that have passed, as they are monuments to moments in time we can never get back.

I don’t have any clear thoughts about it. I am surrounded right now, or so it seems, by women having their second and third babies. I don’t have a word for how I feel about it, really. Except perhaps, detached. I think, “How nice for her. I hope she enjoys it.”

It. The pregnancy. The birth. The Aftermath.

I am not envious. At least envy is not the emotion I recognize. It’s sort of like watching Oprah’s Favorite Things episodes. For an hour you watch people experience orgasmic joy as they are showered with plasma televisions and cashmere dog beds. And sometimes you cry tears of empathetic joy. And sometimes you shake your head and think, “A seven day cruise, too? I think those 700-thread count sheets were quite enough, Oprah.”

It just feels like too much, watching a woman get more than one chance at this. Even Angelina Jolie with her twin births on top of adoptions on top of births. As though having another child is as easy as breathing to her. No method of acquiring them is too difficult.

And now I’m regretting this post, which is quickly spiraling into snark. People I love and care about are pregnant or have just given birth. Sometimes they read what I write here. If that’s you, I don’t want you to have the impression that I am unhappy for you. I’d tell you how I feel, but I don’t have words. I want nothing but magic for you. I want you to be filled with wonder and amazement at the work your body is doing

Things she says right now

1. Okay, I could do that.
2. I love you too much.
3. It’s time to let go.
4. I’m busy right now.
5. Daddy and Lyra hide and Mommy find you [me].
6. No.
7. I do it all by myself.
8. No Mommy help you [me] do it.
9. [While reading her books]: The next Saturday, the warm sun come up.
10. Daddy ready Chicky book and Baba Black Sheep and I read First the Egg and One Boy.
11. I can’t do that right now.
12. I need help.
13. That was funny!
14. I went pee-pee!
15. I feel it in my tummy and I push it out.
16. Mommy clap for you [me]?
17. Now I need two chocolates.
18. I need more orange juice.
19. I hurt my ____ . Mommy kiss it and it feel better?
20. I don’t want to cry.
21. I need to breathe.
22. I feel better.
23. I sorry for not listening.
24. I sorry for hitting.
25. I hungry, I want something to eat.
26. I need to watch something.
27. I want to watch Ponyo.
28. I want to watch Toy Story, the one with Jessie.
29. Mommy, don’t leave. I like you.
30. I’ll be very, very upset is Mommy and Daddy lock the door.
31. What’s goin’ on in here?
32. What are you talkin’ about?
33. My hands is all messy.
34. I made a big mess.
35. I need to clean it up.

Southbound

You’re riding on a train at sunrise. Sacramento to Bakersfield.
Nature is putting on a show.

She’s painting wispy swirls of pink and lavender. Blues from pale to dark slate. Recent rains have turned the fields into giant reflecting ponds allowing me to bear witness to our own passing. Muddy fields appear to on fire, as their mounds of compost and decay release steam, their low areas gather fog.

The scents change frequently. Their is manure and then skunk. Burnt diesel, followed by pulp mill funk as you roll past cow finishing lots, junk yards, industrial plants, and small towns–some forgotten, many abandoned by those who could afford to move on.

You are missing your instant connectivity, your Google Maps. Your ability to answer the endless questions you have about where you are, what you’m looking at, and what on earth all these aluminum-sided buildings produce.

But there is no internet on this train, just a young skinhead family, a Mac-using girl who has decided you am trustworthy enough to watch her stuff while she grabs a snack from the food cart, two Indian women who chatter and giggle endlessly, two old women from Canada who let me use their Tide-2-Go pen after you’d spilled coffee on your white teeshirt, and a business man who seems lie he knows the drill, advising the skinhead dad what the best station is for a smoke break.

Every few minutes the constant hum of recycled air and rattling tables is replaced by bellow of the train whistle. It’s so low and pleading that whistle seems like the wrong name. The sound indicates an intersection. A point when we block car traffic. You imagine the annoyed drivers, as you have been so many times. Annoyed by this unexpected stop–though not so much unexpected, but unaided. It’s Monday morning, and getting caught by the train would be the inevitable result of your careless attention to detail, your inability to get out the door on time. And then, perhaps, you might find relief in the fact that this is an Amtrak train. It will pass by fast. It’s not a treacherous freight train, with all its imported Chinese-made goodies, insuring that you will be not one, but five minutes late…

Remember to look up Stockton when you get home. Wasn’t it mentioned in Grapes of Wrath? It’s the worst city you’ve seen so far. The dilapidation is shocking, but the buildings that are visible from the train are fascinatingly rusty, their tightness suggest a previous boom…

Like all three-year-olds who are going to be in a confined space for five hours, the skinhead kid keeps whining. If he were’s sitting on the lap of his shaved-head momma (whose sweatshirt is emblazoned with the words, I REGRET NOTHING along with a silkscreened portrait of a man who looks like Stalin), you might suspect he had a bad case of head lice that lead to the close crop. But the iron cross tattooed on the back of his father’s skull along with the spider web tat on his elbow give you all of the necessary clues.

These people haven’t said a word to you or even looked your way. But their presence is making your ride uncomfortable. Your presence is probably making their ride uncomfortable, too. But you can’t do anything about being born with a sin color they choose to hate. You just wish they could have found another time to leave today, a place to be that wasn’t here. Them and their smoking breaks, beers and bloody mary’s before 7 AM. You are a snob. You are feeling disdain.

And you feel sorry for that little boy who didn’t ask to be born to those parents. Parents who will teach him to believe in things that bring pain to the world. Things that may some day send him to prison. Things that will be hard and painful to unlearn, when and if he chooses. He is just a boy, stuck on a train, wishing he could be watching another episode of Spongebob (or Hitler youth training video, or whatever skinhead parents show to their skinhead babies when they want a few minutes to themselves).

And yes, in that way you have something in common, you and the skinhead mom. You have birthed a child, whom you each love, but who will occasionally (or often) make you want to pull your hair out (regardless of length). And though one of you probably told ourselves you’d never do it, and the other probably never gave it much thought, you will both reach a point where you just want to go sit alone for a few minutes and you will plop your kid in front of a video and take that time for yourself.

It’s impossible to get a good photo, but you’re snapping away. A passing freight train. Almond groves. Fog. Sunrise. A collection of parked airplanes. Other passengers. Still-lifes of your little life on board. You know that in a few hours the novelty of this mode of travel will wear off. As with many things, you will at some point want this to be over. But for now you’re loving the freedom of a long drive with few stops an don traffic, facilitated by an invisible chauffeur. It would be better if you could crack a window, get some air, release the stench of cheap, burnt coffee. But for now, you’re putting it out of your mind.

After a few hours you learn that skinhead mom and dad are a different kind of skinhead than you’d first assumed. Skinhead dad’s elbow tattoo is actually some sort of tribal design, but you didn’t misinterpret the iron cross on his skull. A young black guy in hip, oversized urban attire picks up on the clues you’ve missed. He stops to talk to skinhead dad, saying, “Hey! You fight UFC?” To which skinhead dad affirms. And the response brings a giant smile and hellacools from the asker.

You are a snob. And you are timid. And you are embarrassed by all of the thoughts you’ve had about this family. All the judgement you’ve passed. And you know that everywhere this nonconformist couple goes there a lot of people thinking similar thoughts. But skinhead dad has just come back from the dining cart with another two beers for his lady and himself. It’s 10:30 in the morning. This is the third drink you’ve counted. You’ve gotten some things wrong, but the bleak future awaiting skinhead boy, is one thing you’ve gotten right.

December Daily: Day 18, 19, 20

With this layout I am taken again by the magic of this process of documenting every day in December. Pizza Friday is a way of life for us. It is as strong a food memory for me as one can have. But it’s not Christmas-y”. It’s just an ordinary Friday. I’d never think about documenting it, if it hadn’t been for this. I’d never think about acknowledging its role in establishing traditions, in a season that’s all about traditions. Here’s what the journaling says:

We didn’t have a lot of traditions growing up, holiday or otherwise. During the years that my dad worked two jobs, my mom and I would eat salami, cheese, and hot apple cider on Christmas Eve. We’d turn on Christmas music and turn off all the lights, except for the Christmas tree. But like many things, that started for a while and stopped. Nothing persisted. The exception to that lack of tradition, was pizza Friday. Every Friday for as long as I can remember my dad bought two pizzas: pepperoni and sausage with extra cheese, easy sauce, cooked well done. And since I’ve moved out into the adult world, it’s a tradition I continue. Often we make it at home. On this Friday, we’re at Killer Pizza from Mars eating a half pepperoni, half bacon, with one slice of cheese for Lyra.

Although both photos are from the same event, they represent the highlight of our weekend. Here Lyra is working on her first gingerbread house with her cousins. Although the decorating was mildly interesting to her, the chocolate eating was even more so. The journaling is below:

The highlight of this weekend was our Saturday spent decorating gingerbread houses with all the young kids in our extended family. For Lyra, that meant less decorating and more sampling. We followed the decorating with a huge family dinner out at the Old Spaghetti Factory. We also visited an amazing neighborhood with yard and window lighting displays, but none of the photos came out.

December Daily: Day 17

My original design for this spread had space for many more pictures, as I knew there would be a lot of story to tell when fifteen young children have a surprise visit from Santa, who just happens to bring a special toy for each one of them. To our surprise, Santa took time with each and every child, allowing them to sit on his lap and open their special gift. Lyra was first up and I was surprised how comfortable she was this time. But nothing surprised me more than the HUGE reaction she had to unwrapping one of her favorite library books, One Boy. I was too surprised and busy smiling to have captured that memory with my camera, but I’m so thrilled to watch her passion for books and “reading” emerge at such a young age. Books are her favorite play things, by a long margin.

Although I left the party with plenty of magical images to fill all of those waiting spaces in my layout, in the end, the page looked chaotic and the story was unfocused. These two images most closely conveyed the enchantment the white-bearded man creates when little believers are in his presence. I have many feelings about the myth of Santa and the role adults play in perpetuating the myth, and often the commercial greediness of the holiday; but if childhood should be about anything, it should definitely be about magic. I love the slack-jawed wonder and rapt attention on the children’s faces as they await their turn in Santa’s lap. And I love seeing Lyra sit so confidently and comfortably with this visitor who truly loves to put a smile on every child’s face.

December Daily: Day 15 and 16

First up is a clean, simple collage of black and white photos documenting a handful of mommas from our playgroup braving a chilly 42-degree night to go Christmas shopping. I had a lot of fun editing these photos. i won’t reveal all of my tricks, but when you shoot manual on a point-and-shoot camera, you’re going to have a lot of misses. With my Photoshop skills I’m able to correct a lot of wonky-colored, underexposed, and otherwise useless images. This trip was pretty fun, but is mostly memorable for three things:

1. My friend, Jessie, spraying herself in the eye with CKOne and all of the high school memories that came flooding back because of that wretched scent.
2. Me, coming this close to paying $42 for a single pair of underwear for my  husband. Luckily I came to my senses before committing the deed.
3. And me, failing use appropriate caution when backing out of a parking space and slamming my rear bumper into some poor guy’s Corolla.

Yeah. I’m on a role with unforeseen expensive mishaps in the month of December. And yet somehow I was almost willing to pay forty-two dollars for a pair of underwear? What was I thinking?

This is one of those little moments that would never be captured, if I hadn’t taken on the task of bringing my camera everywhere in December. The small fender bender, the days without television, and the night-after-neverending-night of my daughter climbing out of her bed every hour from 1 AM on, were starting to get to me. Until this day, I had mostly maintained perspective. I’d remained present, tried to accept each day for what it was. But the bad was weighing on my heavily. I spent the entire previous night flogging myself over a dark spot on Lyra’s tooth that I mistook for a cavity (in the end it was probably a raisin skin that was stubborn). So, the last thing I wanted to do was drag myself to the store and pick up the final things I needed for the following day’s Christmas party, which had been a disappointing drama in and of itself.

But there I was in the store watching my husband—who knew I was reaching the end of my rope and had volunteered to go to the store with me minutes after getting home from work—crouch down and talk to my daughter in the gentle way he reserves for her. She is offscreen, and I don’t think he even noticed me squat down to take this. And in the hustle of the shopping trip, I didn’t really know what I had captured. But when I sat down to look at my images later, this one made my heart leap a bit. It made me smile. It made me grateful for not having to do any of this alone. It made me appreciate the mundanity of a grocery aisle and the absurdity of eating strawberries that somehow manage to grow upstate in December. It stopped my pity party long enough, for me to celebrate the life I’m living right now.