I have not blogged in a long longity long time, she stated, dutifully.
Captain Obvious.
Zack and I happened upon a documentary called "Young @ Heart" on PBS the other night. You can read about the whole thing here. I wept through most of it. At one point I was sobbing. The moment when this beautiful old woman began singing, "It's been seven hours and fifteen days...since you took your love away..." and I was done for.
My sweet husband was baffled by my tears and snotting about and hand to my heart gasping. I kept repeating, "This is blowing my mind. Is it blowing your mind?"
Zack looked at me with a bemused expression,
"It's not blowing my mind. I'm enjoying it, to be sure, it's interesting, but it's not blowing me away."
"Well, it's blowing me away."
After the show was over Zack asked me why I thought I was reacting so strongly to it.
"I don't know. I'm still trying to process it enough to put it into words."
A little bit later I made the attempt.
"I kept thinking about this time when I was eleven or so and mom and all of us kids were in a Taco Bell eating lunch. At a table for two next to the window were a little elderly couple quietly eating their lunch. I didn't take much notice of them but my mom did. In retrospect I realise she was watching them quite intently.
While we were still eating the couple got up and shuffled and tottered to the door and there the old man tried gallantly, albeit desperately, to open the door for his wife. As he struggled against the weight of the door tears began streaming down his face and his wife was patting him on the back saying, "There, there, darling, there, there...". My mom got up and helped him open the door and the couple thanked her and, while wiping away tears from his face he said to my mom, "I used to be so strong."
My mom sat back down at our table with tears in her own eyes and such a far away expression.
I'm just starting to grasp the concept that I will never be the "old" version of me. I'll just be me with a bit more wisdom and what not. I've often said that it's the mirror that changes, not me. I've never become the "30 year old" version of myself.
Does this make sense?"
(That was something like what I said. I can't possibly remember everything that was said. Obviously. I mean, I have been able to recall quite well conversations that were rather monosyllabic in nature like, "Can you pick up some milk?" "Yes." "Great, thanks." I think you know what I mean.)
Zack and I had quite an interesting conversation about oldness and elderlyish things. I quite like that by the time my kids are my age it will be quite normal for Grandma's and Grandpa's to have tattoos and peircings. You know? Most of the people I know have some form of body art. I remember Phoenix asking, "Mommy, what happened to so and so's mommy? She hasn't got a ring in her nose!" Every mommy he knew had a nose ring it seemed!
I'm sure it's been said somewhere before but, why is it, right when people become the most interesting, they get written off and shoved into a corner and deemed "old"?
I wonder how I will handle that label when it applies to me. When it might seem like an injustice when I most likely will FEEL so young and yet my body will have betrayed me.
Don't be surprised if you find I have joined the Young @ Heart chorus when I am old and lovely. I'll do a rousing rendition of "Paranoid Android".
In other news I am...overstimulated? Stressed? Overwhelmed?
My little hunting camper turned studio, Loretta, has basically been finished and is ready for recording but I haven't had the time to add the finishing touches. I.e. cushions and curtains and rugs. Oh my. And it's been cold. Ugh.
Hawke is teething and is sprouting what must be, by the way he's been acting, the largest, most toothy teethies ever known to mankind. He's fractious and frictious and perfectly incapable of getting comfortable whatsoever. In fact, as I type this at 2am, he is next to me, hooting and humming and squirming and fussing.
I am behind on everything.
Time with my husband.
Time with the boys.
Laundry.
Cleaning.
Grocery Shopping.
Emails.
Friendships.
Family.
Exercise.
Weight loss.
Sleep.
Time for myself.
And don't even get me started on studio stuff. Zack is taking this year to shoot only personal work and I have been nose deep in casting and production stuff and OneLight emails and DVD shipments and finances and planning and conceptualizing and...
I am tired.
Right now, I'm looking forward to being old. To the time when life will seem slower and I'll most likely look back on this time with fondness and "remember whens?". Even now I feel the second hand has sped up with late for a tea party white rabbit tendencies and I am chasing after it trying to give it a sedative.
"Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life." ~Charles Dickens
14 January 2010
28 November 2009
Found: Christmas Songs
My sister-in-law, Ginger, asked me in an email the other day if I had recorded any Christmas songs.
At first I thought..."Uh...no...." and then I remembered, "...WAIT. YES. I have recorded some songs!"
I was a part of the Peachtree Presbyterian Christmas album in 2007 that the musicians there did to benefit Safehouse Outreach Atlanta. My old drummer, Noah Alexander, used to be their main sound guy dude and I think I'm not remiss in saying that he put it all together. He's a good one that Noah.
I wish he wasn't in L.A. playing with this band. That's not true. I am happy for him. No I am not. Yes I am. No I am not. Yes I am.
Anyway. I recorded my versions of Drummer Boy, What Child Is This and a song I wrote, Magi. (I'll type the words out below in case you care to know what exactly I'm singing.)
So, you can have them for free if you want.
Or, if you really want to be really awesome, you could DONATE a little sumthin' sumthin' to help them out. They didn't ask me to do this, but if you did, you would rock. A lot. Like the Casbah.
What Child Is This
Magi
Drummer Boy
Magi
Oh we saw it
From far away
Wisely sought it
To see what made
The glow
And why the sky was so lit up.
Lord knows something must be up.
Moving quickly
Through the night
Ever onward
To see the sight
The glow
And why the sky was so lit up
Lord knows something must be up
A starlight baby boy
And shepherds with flocks
Angels are humming in lovely frocks
Waiting to enter onto the scene
Watching us travel
Watching us travel
Stars will often
Light a way
Leave you breathless
A cause to praise
The glow
And why the sky was so lit up
Lord knows something must be up
Chorus
He is like no other child I've seen
He is like no other child I've seen
He is like no other child I've seen
He is like no other King I've seen
Chorus
There you have it, friends. Hope you like them. More importantly, though, I hope you have the sort of peace that is beyond understanding, love unlimitless and joy everlasting as we enter into this season of remembering who these songs were written for in the first place.
Blessings.
At first I thought..."Uh...no...." and then I remembered, "...WAIT. YES. I have recorded some songs!"
I was a part of the Peachtree Presbyterian Christmas album in 2007 that the musicians there did to benefit Safehouse Outreach Atlanta. My old drummer, Noah Alexander, used to be their main sound guy dude and I think I'm not remiss in saying that he put it all together. He's a good one that Noah.
I wish he wasn't in L.A. playing with this band. That's not true. I am happy for him. No I am not. Yes I am. No I am not. Yes I am.
Anyway. I recorded my versions of Drummer Boy, What Child Is This and a song I wrote, Magi. (I'll type the words out below in case you care to know what exactly I'm singing.)
So, you can have them for free if you want.
Or, if you really want to be really awesome, you could DONATE a little sumthin' sumthin' to help them out. They didn't ask me to do this, but if you did, you would rock. A lot. Like the Casbah.
What Child Is This
Magi
Drummer Boy
Magi
Oh we saw it
From far away
Wisely sought it
To see what made
The glow
And why the sky was so lit up.
Lord knows something must be up.
Moving quickly
Through the night
Ever onward
To see the sight
The glow
And why the sky was so lit up
Lord knows something must be up
A starlight baby boy
And shepherds with flocks
Angels are humming in lovely frocks
Waiting to enter onto the scene
Watching us travel
Watching us travel
Stars will often
Light a way
Leave you breathless
A cause to praise
The glow
And why the sky was so lit up
Lord knows something must be up
Chorus
He is like no other child I've seen
He is like no other child I've seen
He is like no other child I've seen
He is like no other King I've seen
Chorus
There you have it, friends. Hope you like them. More importantly, though, I hope you have the sort of peace that is beyond understanding, love unlimitless and joy everlasting as we enter into this season of remembering who these songs were written for in the first place.
Blessings.
13 November 2009
Billy Collins...
...is a favourite poet of mine and I love this poem.
Just sharing. To share. You know. Sharingly. I've got my own words but they're all napping right now. Which is the unfortunate side effect from feeding them too many insecurities. I've tucked them all in and turned the lights down low and, hopefully, when they wake up they'll be gleefully ready to be written.
The Lanyard
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
~ Billy Collins, The Trouble with Poetry.
Just sharing. To share. You know. Sharingly. I've got my own words but they're all napping right now. Which is the unfortunate side effect from feeding them too many insecurities. I've tucked them all in and turned the lights down low and, hopefully, when they wake up they'll be gleefully ready to be written.
The Lanyard
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
~ Billy Collins, The Trouble with Poetry.
04 November 2009
+Update.jpg)
02 November 2009
Post Partum Depression is a bastard.
Post Partum Depression sucks.
Sux.
Is a bear.
Leaves you bare.
A lot.
Especially when it doesn't occur to you that that is what you have. ( When it doesn't occur to one that that is what one has? Grammar. Love. ) And I didn't. For some reason I thought that the panic attacks and the anxiety and the anger and the nerves about to snap would all go away. That somehow it was my fault. That somehow I needed to get my BEEP together and pull myself up by my bootstrapseses and DEAL.
Zack was doing his best, God bless him. He'd look at me with an expression like,
"Where in the hell did you go?"
I didn't know. All I knew was that I was having the hardest time LIVING. Not in the "oh I want to die" kind of way. Just, wow. Life is very, very hard and so I'm gonna go upstairs and pull a Rip Van Winkle and all of you can just stuff it until things make enough sense in my head to wake up.
The crazy part? Life wasn't/isn't very very hard at all. AT ALL.
I have the following:
An amazing, adorable, talented, funny, hard working husband who loves me so much and is so good to me.
My sweet Phoenix and my stepsons Caleb and Joshua. All who warm my heart and are such good boys.
Hawke, who is a DREAM baby. Sleeps through the night. Hardly cries. Smiles and coos and travels like a champ.
A lovely little house.
I don't HAVE to work. ( I do, but I don't HAVE to. I just can't NOT work. Blech. )
I could keep going about food and clothing and running water and toilet paper and the internet and pretty, pink lamps and key lime pie and trips to New York and my family and fresh flowers in teapots and Hawke's hand on my face while nursing and my slightly out of tune piano and central heat and air and books and being able to read said books and the luxury of three pillows in bed at night and lipstick and ripe avocados and being alive for 31 years and Lindt chocolate truffles...
(deep breath)
My friend, Jenny Runkel, called me out on it. She called me one day about 6 weeks ago or so and while talking she simply said,
"Meghan, what's wrong? You sound sad."
"I am sad. And I don't know why."
She convinced me to go to the doctor. Jenny even talked to the doctor before I got there as she ended up having an appointment with him the same day as me only earlier and told him,
"My friend, Meghan, will be in here to see you this afternoon. She's going to tell you that's she's really fine and that it's not a big deal and that it's really nothing, but she's really sad and she just had a baby and she's not herself so don't let her wiggle out of it."
Or something like that. Jenny knows me really well. ;-)
So I go. And the doctor says,
"Oh, you're Meghan? Your friend Jenny, she told me about you!" And he told me what she said. And I cried and said she was right. He listened as I explained about how in theory I should be very very happy but that I wasn't, that I was very very sad and how guilty I felt because that didn't make SENSE. That I was avoiding emails and phone calls and most communication with people that I really like and love simply because I didn't have the energy. I couldn't DEAL. That I have a hard time admitting that I need help. That admitting I needed help was akin to saying I wasn't good for anything. As I said that I realised how silly it sounded.
He said three words that actually scared me.
"You are depressed."
Aw man. C'mon. Don't tell me that.
He prescribed me a little white pill called Lexapro.
I started taking it about 5 weeks ago.
2 weeks into it I started to recognise myself again.
Zack did, too.
I'm not all drugged up or weird or anything. I don't understand all of the medical science behind it per se. I just know that the parts of my brain that had decided to wage war against each other have now opted to sit around my cerebellum and sing Kumbaya. But efficiently. And with zest! Happily! This situation looks a bit stressful! It's okay! We'll make a list!
I'm still heavier than I ever have been ever ever ever. And I still have stressful things going on right now. That. I. Would. Totally. Write. About. But. I. Can't. On. The. World. Wide. Web. Oh. Em. GEE.
But.
But.
I am a blessed, blessed lady. And I'm thankful for the brains of scientists and researchers and doctors who were creative in coming up with a little white 10mg pill that helps brains like mine make sense to itself again. I'm thankful for Zack who has been so patient and good while I wrestled with this other me that wasn't me.
Does that make any sense?
I have 14 tons of laundry to fold. It's nearly 2am. There is so much to do. I'll make a list.
Tomorrow.
Right now, I need to go crawl into bed with my beloved and let this mind of mine have a rest.
G'night.
"Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh.
"Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it is a good morning, which I doubt," said he.
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it."
"Can't all what?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose.
"Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush."
~A.A. Milne
Sux.
Is a bear.
Leaves you bare.
A lot.
Especially when it doesn't occur to you that that is what you have. ( When it doesn't occur to one that that is what one has? Grammar. Love. ) And I didn't. For some reason I thought that the panic attacks and the anxiety and the anger and the nerves about to snap would all go away. That somehow it was my fault. That somehow I needed to get my BEEP together and pull myself up by my bootstrapseses and DEAL.
Zack was doing his best, God bless him. He'd look at me with an expression like,
"Where in the hell did you go?"
I didn't know. All I knew was that I was having the hardest time LIVING. Not in the "oh I want to die" kind of way. Just, wow. Life is very, very hard and so I'm gonna go upstairs and pull a Rip Van Winkle and all of you can just stuff it until things make enough sense in my head to wake up.
The crazy part? Life wasn't/isn't very very hard at all. AT ALL.
I have the following:
An amazing, adorable, talented, funny, hard working husband who loves me so much and is so good to me.
My sweet Phoenix and my stepsons Caleb and Joshua. All who warm my heart and are such good boys.
Hawke, who is a DREAM baby. Sleeps through the night. Hardly cries. Smiles and coos and travels like a champ.
A lovely little house.
I don't HAVE to work. ( I do, but I don't HAVE to. I just can't NOT work. Blech. )
I could keep going about food and clothing and running water and toilet paper and the internet and pretty, pink lamps and key lime pie and trips to New York and my family and fresh flowers in teapots and Hawke's hand on my face while nursing and my slightly out of tune piano and central heat and air and books and being able to read said books and the luxury of three pillows in bed at night and lipstick and ripe avocados and being alive for 31 years and Lindt chocolate truffles...
(deep breath)
My friend, Jenny Runkel, called me out on it. She called me one day about 6 weeks ago or so and while talking she simply said,
"Meghan, what's wrong? You sound sad."
"I am sad. And I don't know why."
She convinced me to go to the doctor. Jenny even talked to the doctor before I got there as she ended up having an appointment with him the same day as me only earlier and told him,
"My friend, Meghan, will be in here to see you this afternoon. She's going to tell you that's she's really fine and that it's not a big deal and that it's really nothing, but she's really sad and she just had a baby and she's not herself so don't let her wiggle out of it."
Or something like that. Jenny knows me really well. ;-)
So I go. And the doctor says,
"Oh, you're Meghan? Your friend Jenny, she told me about you!" And he told me what she said. And I cried and said she was right. He listened as I explained about how in theory I should be very very happy but that I wasn't, that I was very very sad and how guilty I felt because that didn't make SENSE. That I was avoiding emails and phone calls and most communication with people that I really like and love simply because I didn't have the energy. I couldn't DEAL. That I have a hard time admitting that I need help. That admitting I needed help was akin to saying I wasn't good for anything. As I said that I realised how silly it sounded.
He said three words that actually scared me.
"You are depressed."
Aw man. C'mon. Don't tell me that.
He prescribed me a little white pill called Lexapro.
I started taking it about 5 weeks ago.
2 weeks into it I started to recognise myself again.
Zack did, too.
I'm not all drugged up or weird or anything. I don't understand all of the medical science behind it per se. I just know that the parts of my brain that had decided to wage war against each other have now opted to sit around my cerebellum and sing Kumbaya. But efficiently. And with zest! Happily! This situation looks a bit stressful! It's okay! We'll make a list!
I'm still heavier than I ever have been ever ever ever. And I still have stressful things going on right now. That. I. Would. Totally. Write. About. But. I. Can't. On. The. World. Wide. Web. Oh. Em. GEE.
But.
But.
I am a blessed, blessed lady. And I'm thankful for the brains of scientists and researchers and doctors who were creative in coming up with a little white 10mg pill that helps brains like mine make sense to itself again. I'm thankful for Zack who has been so patient and good while I wrestled with this other me that wasn't me.
Does that make any sense?
I have 14 tons of laundry to fold. It's nearly 2am. There is so much to do. I'll make a list.
Tomorrow.
Right now, I need to go crawl into bed with my beloved and let this mind of mine have a rest.
G'night.
"Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh.
"Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it is a good morning, which I doubt," said he.
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it."
"Can't all what?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose.
"Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush."
~A.A. Milne
08 October 2009
How Hawke got his name, (or How Hawke got his name AND remained intact...)
Warning:
I say the word penis a lot in this blog post. See? I just said it. I have the ovaries to do it, too.
The following is to be sung to the tune of O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree.
O Circumcision O Circumcision
You are mean to boys penises!
O Circumcision O Circumcision
There's no point to your existence!
You take what God gave little boys
And cut it off, makes me say, "Oi!"
O Circumcision O Circumcision
You are mean to boys penises!
Yesterday an old friend of mine, Jen Gordon, posted the following article on her Facebook page.
A Dad's View Of Circumcision
Here is a small snippet of it:
"My wife and I were concerned that our son might one day develop an ear infection, and our research indicated that, although extremely rare, it is possible for an ear infection to lead to more serious health problems ... so, just hours after he was born, we had a doctor cut off his ears.
Completely insane, right? Then can someone please tell me how it ever became “routine” for parents to have part of their newborn sons' penises lopped off?"
I LOVED IT. It very succintly summed up why I've always been against circumcision unless it's absolutely medically necessary. I read it aloud to Zack and he said,
"It's hard to argue with such well put logic."
And this little discussion reminded me that I haven't shared how Hawke ended being called Hawke.
This will all tie together, I promise.
Shortly after I found out I was pregnant with Hawke, and we still didn't know what he was going to be, ( I mean, we knew he was going to be a baby but what KIND had yet to be determined) Zack and I began the fun times of determining what we were going to call this baby for the rest of its LIFE.
I already had the girls name picked out. There wasn't a need to pick out a boys name in my mind because I KNEW that God was going to give me a girl.
Dahlia Kathleen Arias.
Done and Done.
Zack suggested, gently, that we should probably come up with some little male names, too. Just in case. I remember he was driving, I was in the passenger seat, the boys all in the back of our big ol' conversion van. It was sometime in October, around a year ago now, and we were headed to Helen, Georgia.
Why?
'Cause. What could be better than driving to a small, over rated, Germanishly influenced decor, self described "Mountain Beauty with a touch of Bavaria" tourist trap when you're 13 weeks pregnant?
"Boy names! Great! Right!", I began to joke around. "Let's see...you have your two spies. Caleb and Joshua and I only have one bird! Phoenix! So, we should have another bird name."
Zack chuckled as I began to spout off different kinds of birds.
"How about Eagle?... Cardinal?... Falcon?... Robin?....Hawk?... Griffin?...", I trailed off as Zack looked at me and said,
"OOOOH! Hawk! I love that."
I looked at him increduously.
"I was joking. As in not being serious. As in kidding."
"No, really! I love the name, Hawk! We can put him in tree bark diapers and teach him how to hunt for his own food."
We laughed. I thought that it was done.
It wasn't.
We found out that we were having a boy on December 5th. On Zack's birthday to be precise. I had the ultrasound tech seal up the results without telling me if it was an innie or an outie and surprised Zack at his party with all of our family and friends around us and he opened it up while we all waited with bated breath.
"Well, it would appear that I make boys!"
I cried. But just for a little bit. (Now I can't imagine Hawke being a girl. He is so perfectly perfect. But at the time I so had my heart set on having a girl...)
So then the name hunt began in earnest. Some of you may remember some of the names we were throwing around.
Atticus.
Oscar.
Quinn.
Beckett. (my favourite)
And...Hawk was still on Zack's list.
After one of our pre-natal visits our midwife brought up the issue of circumcision.
"Here are some articles about it for you to look over and read. I personally don't recommend it but everyone has different thoughts about this."
"Oh, we're not going to circumcise him! Not even an issue!", I crowed.
Zack looked at me askance.
"We're not?"
Our midwife looked at both of us and said,
"Looks like you have a discussion ahead of you."
For a couple of weeks Zack and I went back and forth about the issue of whether or not we should leave our sons penis alone or not. Back and forth and back and forth.
It all culminated on December 23, 2008. We were in a TJ Maxx in Buckhead doing some last minute Christmas shopping and we had been HEATEDLY discussing our unborn child's penis and the state we thought we he should be allowed to exist with it in for the REST OF HIS LIFE. Things had gotten intense a couple of times. We simply could not come to an agreement on it. While in TJ Maxx Zack walked over to a rack of baby coats, all orange in colour, picked one up and said,
"Awwwww. Look! How cute!"
Now, this threw me a bit because up to this point Zack had never oooohed and aaaaahed over baby clothes. He's just not that kind of a guy. So I walked over very curious to see what was illiciting such a response from him.
It was this coat only orange.
"Look, it says Hawke and Company on it. Hawke! With an "e"!"
"Hmmm. Hawke with an "e". That's kind of cool."
And then, from out of nowhere, I had an epiphany right there in TJ Maxx.
"I'll make you a deal, Zack."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"I'll give you the name Hawke if you give me my son's foreskin."
Zack laughed, "Like, in a box? Okay!"
"NO! You know what I mean. I'll agree to the name Hawke if you agree to let him remain...intact."
Zack stood there rocking back and forth thinking about my proposition.
He sucked in air between his teeth,
"Geez. Hmmm. Okay. You have a deal."
Right then and there we shook on it. And just like that our son had the name, and the penis, he would have for the rest of his life.
I'll save the story for how he got the middle name, "Danger", for another time.
So, there you have it, folks.
I am going to go get ready for Zack and I's date night.
And kiss this guy hanging out in his bouncy seat, too.
I say the word penis a lot in this blog post. See? I just said it. I have the ovaries to do it, too.
The following is to be sung to the tune of O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree.
O Circumcision O Circumcision
You are mean to boys penises!
O Circumcision O Circumcision
There's no point to your existence!
You take what God gave little boys
And cut it off, makes me say, "Oi!"
O Circumcision O Circumcision
You are mean to boys penises!
Yesterday an old friend of mine, Jen Gordon, posted the following article on her Facebook page.
A Dad's View Of Circumcision
Here is a small snippet of it:
"My wife and I were concerned that our son might one day develop an ear infection, and our research indicated that, although extremely rare, it is possible for an ear infection to lead to more serious health problems ... so, just hours after he was born, we had a doctor cut off his ears.
Completely insane, right? Then can someone please tell me how it ever became “routine” for parents to have part of their newborn sons' penises lopped off?"
I LOVED IT. It very succintly summed up why I've always been against circumcision unless it's absolutely medically necessary. I read it aloud to Zack and he said,
"It's hard to argue with such well put logic."
And this little discussion reminded me that I haven't shared how Hawke ended being called Hawke.
This will all tie together, I promise.
Shortly after I found out I was pregnant with Hawke, and we still didn't know what he was going to be, ( I mean, we knew he was going to be a baby but what KIND had yet to be determined) Zack and I began the fun times of determining what we were going to call this baby for the rest of its LIFE.
I already had the girls name picked out. There wasn't a need to pick out a boys name in my mind because I KNEW that God was going to give me a girl.
Dahlia Kathleen Arias.
Done and Done.
Zack suggested, gently, that we should probably come up with some little male names, too. Just in case. I remember he was driving, I was in the passenger seat, the boys all in the back of our big ol' conversion van. It was sometime in October, around a year ago now, and we were headed to Helen, Georgia.
Why?
'Cause. What could be better than driving to a small, over rated, Germanishly influenced decor, self described "Mountain Beauty with a touch of Bavaria" tourist trap when you're 13 weeks pregnant?
"Boy names! Great! Right!", I began to joke around. "Let's see...you have your two spies. Caleb and Joshua and I only have one bird! Phoenix! So, we should have another bird name."
Zack chuckled as I began to spout off different kinds of birds.
"How about Eagle?... Cardinal?... Falcon?... Robin?....Hawk?... Griffin?...", I trailed off as Zack looked at me and said,
"OOOOH! Hawk! I love that."
I looked at him increduously.
"I was joking. As in not being serious. As in kidding."
"No, really! I love the name, Hawk! We can put him in tree bark diapers and teach him how to hunt for his own food."
We laughed. I thought that it was done.
It wasn't.
We found out that we were having a boy on December 5th. On Zack's birthday to be precise. I had the ultrasound tech seal up the results without telling me if it was an innie or an outie and surprised Zack at his party with all of our family and friends around us and he opened it up while we all waited with bated breath.
"Well, it would appear that I make boys!"
I cried. But just for a little bit. (Now I can't imagine Hawke being a girl. He is so perfectly perfect. But at the time I so had my heart set on having a girl...)
So then the name hunt began in earnest. Some of you may remember some of the names we were throwing around.
Atticus.
Oscar.
Quinn.
Beckett. (my favourite)
And...Hawk was still on Zack's list.
After one of our pre-natal visits our midwife brought up the issue of circumcision.
"Here are some articles about it for you to look over and read. I personally don't recommend it but everyone has different thoughts about this."
"Oh, we're not going to circumcise him! Not even an issue!", I crowed.
Zack looked at me askance.
"We're not?"
Our midwife looked at both of us and said,
"Looks like you have a discussion ahead of you."
For a couple of weeks Zack and I went back and forth about the issue of whether or not we should leave our sons penis alone or not. Back and forth and back and forth.
It all culminated on December 23, 2008. We were in a TJ Maxx in Buckhead doing some last minute Christmas shopping and we had been HEATEDLY discussing our unborn child's penis and the state we thought we he should be allowed to exist with it in for the REST OF HIS LIFE. Things had gotten intense a couple of times. We simply could not come to an agreement on it. While in TJ Maxx Zack walked over to a rack of baby coats, all orange in colour, picked one up and said,
"Awwwww. Look! How cute!"
Now, this threw me a bit because up to this point Zack had never oooohed and aaaaahed over baby clothes. He's just not that kind of a guy. So I walked over very curious to see what was illiciting such a response from him.
It was this coat only orange.
"Look, it says Hawke and Company on it. Hawke! With an "e"!"
"Hmmm. Hawke with an "e". That's kind of cool."
And then, from out of nowhere, I had an epiphany right there in TJ Maxx.
"I'll make you a deal, Zack."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"I'll give you the name Hawke if you give me my son's foreskin."
Zack laughed, "Like, in a box? Okay!"
"NO! You know what I mean. I'll agree to the name Hawke if you agree to let him remain...intact."
Zack stood there rocking back and forth thinking about my proposition.
He sucked in air between his teeth,
"Geez. Hmmm. Okay. You have a deal."
Right then and there we shook on it. And just like that our son had the name, and the penis, he would have for the rest of his life.
I'll save the story for how he got the middle name, "Danger", for another time.
So, there you have it, folks.
I am going to go get ready for Zack and I's date night.
And kiss this guy hanging out in his bouncy seat, too.
07 September 2009
Mimosa
In my previous post I mentioned that when I was much younger I imagined that my guardian angel was French. I couldn't tell you why, I suppose I thought it was romantic at the time. I don't remember making the decision to have a French guardian angel I just...assumed it. Nevertheless, it wasn't until I was twenty-two years old that I met my angel, Mimosa. Not in my waking life, both times were in dreams. Those two dreams, though, were some of the most real and intense dreams I've ever had. I don't usually remember my dreams at all but I remember my Mimosa dreams vivdly.
The first dream I had was so real and good that I can still see it.
Mimosa and I were sitting on a porch swing and we were both many years old and watching my grandchildren playing in the snow. I was not stunned at the idea of the snow, it seemed a given, normal - and not the wet, icy poor excuse for snow that we occasionally recieve here in Atlanta. It was perfect snow. Purposeful snow. Snow with confidence. I knew, the way one knows in dreams, that I was in New England somewhere. My grand-children, those darling creatures, rolled around in happy delight making forts and men of ice dressed in dapper scarves.
I remember I had red earmuffs on and a badly knitted scarf that I know I made myself. Mimosa had a face like like the moon, it gave off a faint radiance. Her skin was smooth, a dark mahogany, and she had a crooked smile. Her eyes were brown and always a little watery and, when I asked her about her eyes, she told me that there were so many beautiful things, and so many heartbreaking things in the world, that she was ever and always on the verge of tears. She had on a perfume like roses and when she moved the fragrance came off of her gently, without me realising it, everytime it was a surprise.
The swing we were on was creaking a bit and I got up to get some oil. The front door was hard to open, I had to push hard against it wanting to stick. My house, it was my house I’m sure, because of how sure I was in walking through it, was old in a good way with arched doorways, full of knowing and smelled of cinnamon and spice and something like the smell of cookies or perhaps a pie cooling. I didn't think to see what it was, it wouldn't have made any sense to do so at the time.
I hummed a little song to myself, and opened a door to some sort of pantry, flicked on a light and rummaged through an assortment of odds and ends in drawers and then pulled out the oil.
On the way out I caught a glimpse of myself in a hall mirror. Spry, a little rosy cheeked, my hair in tufts around my face and silver. My eyes were a bit droopy but I saw that they were still lovely and I had beautiful smile lines. I was still me.
Back out onto the porch I went and there was Mimosa swinging away on my porch swing. I oiled it up nice and slick, and the creak subsided and then left in a huff. It would be back.
Mimosa and I talked about everything. I wish I could remember it all. I was wise and full of stories and I made her laugh long and hard.
Mimosa told me that Jesus is an excellent dancer and that he can throw a mean curve ball. She told me that God has his very own snowflake designer and that the snowflakes sing praise songs on their way down. Mimosa knew lots of things. She told me that nobody realises how much God roots for us (he always wants both teams to win their soccer games) and that he hates to see us feeling lonely. She told me how he has a laugh so long and wide that you feel like you could swim around in it and that he knows by heart the recipie for the perfect chocolate chip cookie.
I looked at my hands and rubbed at the wrinkles, pulling at the skin to make them look smooth, clasped them together and played “Here is a church, here is a steeple…”
I heard someone call my name and I looked as an old man made his way up my front walk. He had a spring in his step and white hair. He wore a pea coat and a grey scarf. His eyes were kind and I was happy to see him. He was my friend and I introduced him to Mimosa and offered him a cup of coffee. He lived down the street from me with his wife and their two cats. His wife was an excellent gardener, I could always count on her to give me fresh tomatoes in season and their yard was a glorious mess of beauty, always in bloom.
My grandchildren were making a ruckus and calling me to play so down the porch steps I went to throw myself into the snow and wave my arms and legs about, creating my own elderly snow angel. As I lay there, all my precious ones piled up on top of me, my earmuffs went off somewhere and the snow got into my ears and I heard faint singing, a whole chorus.
I whooped and hollered with those kids. My feet were cold and I looked down and, no wonder, all I had on were a pair of Chuck Taylor’s.
I made my way up the front steps grunting and groaning, Mimosa squawking over “what a mess I was.” My down-the-street friend did a little dance and opened my front door for me. I walked inside and then I woke up.
The second dream I had with Mimosa was a few years later, when I was going through the hardest, most gut wrenching time of my life. My marriage to Phoenix's father was falling apart, my life was a mess, a charade of me trying to keep up an appearance that I had half a clue of what was going on. I was wretched. I was stuffing a lot of hurt and anger and rage and I could only last for so long before I'd lash out and say hurtful things. I now liken that person I was then to a lioness in a cage. One night I went to bed so tired and miserable and desperate that I asked God to please let me die. I know, I know. It sounds so dramatic but oh, at the time I felt it so keenly. I feel asleep crying and in my dream Mimosa came and scooped me up and held me in her lap just like a child and hummed and prayed and stroked my hair while I wept and wept. When I woke up I felt a little braver, a little better.
Interestingly enough, a couple of years later a dude named William Young published a book called The Shack and my brother in law gave it to me for Christmas. In that book he portrays God as a large black woman...if you haven't read it that won't make sense, but I found it highly amusing!
Anyway, just thought I would explain who Mimosa is. Perhaps you think me odd. But...huh.
I AM odd. And I am really okay with it.
So, you are more than welcome to think that.
I must now get some sleep. I've been up for nearly 24 hours.
G'night.
The first dream I had was so real and good that I can still see it.
Mimosa and I were sitting on a porch swing and we were both many years old and watching my grandchildren playing in the snow. I was not stunned at the idea of the snow, it seemed a given, normal - and not the wet, icy poor excuse for snow that we occasionally recieve here in Atlanta. It was perfect snow. Purposeful snow. Snow with confidence. I knew, the way one knows in dreams, that I was in New England somewhere. My grand-children, those darling creatures, rolled around in happy delight making forts and men of ice dressed in dapper scarves.
I remember I had red earmuffs on and a badly knitted scarf that I know I made myself. Mimosa had a face like like the moon, it gave off a faint radiance. Her skin was smooth, a dark mahogany, and she had a crooked smile. Her eyes were brown and always a little watery and, when I asked her about her eyes, she told me that there were so many beautiful things, and so many heartbreaking things in the world, that she was ever and always on the verge of tears. She had on a perfume like roses and when she moved the fragrance came off of her gently, without me realising it, everytime it was a surprise.
The swing we were on was creaking a bit and I got up to get some oil. The front door was hard to open, I had to push hard against it wanting to stick. My house, it was my house I’m sure, because of how sure I was in walking through it, was old in a good way with arched doorways, full of knowing and smelled of cinnamon and spice and something like the smell of cookies or perhaps a pie cooling. I didn't think to see what it was, it wouldn't have made any sense to do so at the time.
I hummed a little song to myself, and opened a door to some sort of pantry, flicked on a light and rummaged through an assortment of odds and ends in drawers and then pulled out the oil.
On the way out I caught a glimpse of myself in a hall mirror. Spry, a little rosy cheeked, my hair in tufts around my face and silver. My eyes were a bit droopy but I saw that they were still lovely and I had beautiful smile lines. I was still me.
Back out onto the porch I went and there was Mimosa swinging away on my porch swing. I oiled it up nice and slick, and the creak subsided and then left in a huff. It would be back.
Mimosa and I talked about everything. I wish I could remember it all. I was wise and full of stories and I made her laugh long and hard.
Mimosa told me that Jesus is an excellent dancer and that he can throw a mean curve ball. She told me that God has his very own snowflake designer and that the snowflakes sing praise songs on their way down. Mimosa knew lots of things. She told me that nobody realises how much God roots for us (he always wants both teams to win their soccer games) and that he hates to see us feeling lonely. She told me how he has a laugh so long and wide that you feel like you could swim around in it and that he knows by heart the recipie for the perfect chocolate chip cookie.
I looked at my hands and rubbed at the wrinkles, pulling at the skin to make them look smooth, clasped them together and played “Here is a church, here is a steeple…”
I heard someone call my name and I looked as an old man made his way up my front walk. He had a spring in his step and white hair. He wore a pea coat and a grey scarf. His eyes were kind and I was happy to see him. He was my friend and I introduced him to Mimosa and offered him a cup of coffee. He lived down the street from me with his wife and their two cats. His wife was an excellent gardener, I could always count on her to give me fresh tomatoes in season and their yard was a glorious mess of beauty, always in bloom.
My grandchildren were making a ruckus and calling me to play so down the porch steps I went to throw myself into the snow and wave my arms and legs about, creating my own elderly snow angel. As I lay there, all my precious ones piled up on top of me, my earmuffs went off somewhere and the snow got into my ears and I heard faint singing, a whole chorus.
I whooped and hollered with those kids. My feet were cold and I looked down and, no wonder, all I had on were a pair of Chuck Taylor’s.
I made my way up the front steps grunting and groaning, Mimosa squawking over “what a mess I was.” My down-the-street friend did a little dance and opened my front door for me. I walked inside and then I woke up.
The second dream I had with Mimosa was a few years later, when I was going through the hardest, most gut wrenching time of my life. My marriage to Phoenix's father was falling apart, my life was a mess, a charade of me trying to keep up an appearance that I had half a clue of what was going on. I was wretched. I was stuffing a lot of hurt and anger and rage and I could only last for so long before I'd lash out and say hurtful things. I now liken that person I was then to a lioness in a cage. One night I went to bed so tired and miserable and desperate that I asked God to please let me die. I know, I know. It sounds so dramatic but oh, at the time I felt it so keenly. I feel asleep crying and in my dream Mimosa came and scooped me up and held me in her lap just like a child and hummed and prayed and stroked my hair while I wept and wept. When I woke up I felt a little braver, a little better.
Interestingly enough, a couple of years later a dude named William Young published a book called The Shack and my brother in law gave it to me for Christmas. In that book he portrays God as a large black woman...if you haven't read it that won't make sense, but I found it highly amusing!
Anyway, just thought I would explain who Mimosa is. Perhaps you think me odd. But...huh.
I AM odd. And I am really okay with it.
So, you are more than welcome to think that.
I must now get some sleep. I've been up for nearly 24 hours.
G'night.
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