2010 State of the Self Address

Four years ago I began delivering the “State of the Self;” a reflection on the past year of life which is always given the evening of my birthday. This is my 2010 State of the Self.

February 27, 1979 is the day I stopped breathing someone else’s air and began breathing on my own. It was not by choice. The woman’s body is built only to support another life for so long before the placenta begins to thin, before the protective and nourishing sac of life begins to deteriorate. It’s like our birthday is our first eviction and the landlord is our mother’s body.

A birth. A day.

I spare no indulgence on the 27th of February and, previous to this year, birthdays always meant my customary helium balloon, sheet cake with vanilla satin icing, and a long list of “must to do” things that include morning mimosas, naps, writing, dreaming, and sniffing around closets and car trunks for my hidden gifts. For the record, I never pretend to be more than a child on my birthday, save the mimosas.

But this birthday is different. This is my first birthday as a mother. This is the first birthday in which the word “birth” and “day” have extracted themselves from streamers and sweets and grew into profound meaning. “Birth,” as in, a son, my firstborn. Day has grown to be more than the frame of 24 hours. “Day” is now gift.

Last year, my State of the Self focused on my identity as a writer. My pen itself nearly throbbed with pain as I described the challenges of creative writing. Now, I worry less about identity as a writer and more about truthfulness. Being truthful with Isaiah may very well be the most challenging task of my life.

And one truth I am going to share with my son is to take moments for himself. Or as I like to put it: Breathe in the awesome. I never understood those who hated their birthday. I suppose it can be viewed as a self-important concept, but the celebration of life, of my own life has always superceded any other reason to deny the day. Those who dread their birthday often do so because of a number – age. Or it reminds them of death.

Birth, for me, evokes the boundless beginning of life.

But if birthdays aren’t your cup of tea, I hope and pray that you do find a day, a time to rejoice in your own life in the very miracle of your existence. Because if we can’t find a reason or an hour to relish in our blessings, to be authentically and radically grateful for our friends, family, lovers, gifts, talents, experiences, insights, and lessons – I don’t know if we’re truly seeing ourselves – or life – clearly enough.

Thirty-one years is more than enough reason for cake and drinks. And after birthing my son, I know that thirty-one seconds alone is more than enough reason for celebration. The paradox of birth – its fragility and its power – must, begs, needs to be recognized. And celebrated. Isaiah has taught me that.

So, my state at 31 is one of utter grace. Grace of understanding. Grace of frustration. Grace of holy parenting and emotion. It is a period of firsts and failures and finding that my life can hold so much more than I ever thought possible. That realization also came with the responsibility that I myself am capable of so much more than I ever thought possible.

It is my birthday wish that everyone – at some point in their life – births new life and it need not be a child. A revolution, a concept, relationship, invention, methodology, habit or path that inducts an enhanced thought-process, a better more gentle way of loving and being in the world.

Because if we all took a moment to birth and rejoice in our own birthing, the state of grace would no longer be a temporary lingering, but an everlasting positioning of soul.

Birthdays

Happy Birthday to Keith and Kay!

Big hugs from Isaiah to his Grandma and Godfather!

Isaiah 9 Weeks

Isaiah and Love

I am listening to Isaiah gulp down his milk.

He is in the other room with Nick. The strains of the television are loud, but they still cannot drown out the long sighs and squirms and squeaks of our little one. As I write this, though I cannot see him, I know he is draining his bottle, staring at the intricate patterns of the ceiling, and kicking his legs into the air.

Isaiah is 9 weeks old. Nick and I can scarcely believe it. I cannot imagine the level of disbelief I will be in when he is 9 months, 9 years or 19 years old. Those days will come, but for now, I just watch and observe my big little guy, chasing the winter blues away - which are so common for Clevelanders - with his rainbow wide smile and fat rolls on his wrists and ankles.

My father recently commented that from the photos I have taken of him, it's obvious that Isaiah is the love of my life. And I couldn't agree more. He's the love of OUR lives - Nick and mine. Every little thing he does evokes a reaction from us that reminds me how I was when I was falling in love with Nick. All the tiny details of your beloved's existence seem to burn into your memory. Nothing seems as interesting or intriguing as what is happening in their world. Life seems more exciting when you know you are going to see this person and when you see their smile...ahhhh, it's like the world was just reborn, everything's new and beautiful again.

Isaiah has moved the furniture in our hearts and has promptly and decidedly plopped his round little bottom into the middle of it. He takes up every inch we have of energy and attention, laughter and frustration, sleep and concern. This is the transition of parenthood, I assume. You begin to learn to live outside yourself. Love of self still continues, obviously (and necessarily), but the center of well-being shifts. It's no longer contained in my life, it exists in this chubby 22 inch body who cannot do anything but need, cry, and wiggle. And somehow, incredibly, this person also delivers immeasurable joy.

Sweet Isaiah, these 9 weeks have been life-changing. Your father and I will never be able to adequately explain how nuts we are about you. I hope you know that you have introduced us to a new and deeper kind of love that we never knew before. Not only have you brought this love out of us for you, but it has also further deepened our love for one another.

Gluttony, Maybe

So, the little Gerber Face received ashes today. I mean, THANK GOD, because it's been a little over 3 weeks since his baptism and he really needed to be straightened out before things got too out of hand. You saw his Valentine's Day picture, right? Flipping the camera off like he's a deranged teenager already? My sweet boy is getting a little too edgy for me. So, hopefully the ashes will set him straight. "Turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel," are mighty good words to live by.

But what sin (other than the Valentine birdy he gave me) can this sweet cherub commit? Vanity? No. Rage? Hardly. Greed? Nope. Envy? Never. Sloth, pride, lust? NO.

Gluttony?

Mhm, weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllll....

What do you call one's inability to stop drinking milk? Borderline gluttonous behavior?

He's too new to sin, but it's good to have received ashes nonetheless.

He behaved like an angel, of course, throughout all of mass, and even for the soup and faith discussion we attended after mass. Nick was leading a discussion about Lent and prayer. Isaiah was like a little Lenten prayer all on his own - so quiet, holy, pure, and awesome.

So begins 40 days of meditation and fish Fridays. Nick and I decided that although we think he would try to participate as a devout Catholic, we're not going to let him fast this year.

Isaiah - 8 Weeks, 2 Days on Mardi Gras

My Funny 8 Week Old Valentine

He's getting a little too fresh these days and thinks flipping his parents off (with BOTH hands nonetheless) is acceptable.

Here's more pics of our sweet Cupid...

Almost 8 Weeks Old

Who Doesn't Love a 4am Wake-up Call?

All the little things I never understood before about parenting, I am quickly beginning to understand now.

I used to look at parents of babies and wonder how in the world they can keep their head on their shoulders when a baby is crying like it's the end of the world Answer: you get used to it.

At parties or gatherings of any sort, how do mothers simultaneously socialize, balance a plate of food in one hand, baby on the other arm, and smile? Answer: women are capable of anything.

Reuseable diapers seem like a good idea. Answer: They're not.

Why do parents keep a million framed pictures of their babies? Isn't one enough? Answer: You can never have too many pictures of Baby.

How do people wake up in the middle of the night to take care of the endless needs of a child? Answer: Hormones and Love.

I do believe there must be some sort of hormonal explanation for my newfound ability to meet 3 or 4am head-on. Seriously, I was the type of person who could sleep through hurricanes and thunderbolts, loud music and alarm clocks. Give me a chair, bed, reclining anything and I will sleep. On land or on a plane, I even fell asleep while floating in a friend's backyard pool in highschool.

I used to boast my sleep agility stories like war vet stories. I've fallen asleep propped up against a wall in a dentist's office. In the back of a truck on a bumpy dirt road. On someone's shoulder in front of a campfire. IN FRONT OF AN AIRLINE CHECK-IN DESK THAT WAS REPEATEDLY CALLING MY NAME.

These instances are all true.

And now...

[le sigh...]

Now, one little meep or beep or squeak or tweek or gurgle or belch or cough or sniff or anything from my little one and my eyes are OPEN, head is rising off the pillow with one eye on the door the other enviously watching my dear spouse snore his life away into his pillow.

Isaiah has changed our lives. He's brought us unimaginable joy and the wonderful gift of big and small laughs. E.g. Thinking about how he'll probably be taller than me by the first grade or giggling over his tiny little toe peaking out from one of the sewn holes in a knit blanket.

There's no further proof of the power of a first baby than the altered sleeping patterns of a night owl like myself.

Nick has a belief that the older one gets, the more prominent the true self becomes. For the most part, I firmly agree with him. However, my "true" self might be put on hold until Isaiah is 18 and away at college. Or my "true" self is permanently changed to reveal a mother who used to need a sledgehammer to the gut to wake up and now wakes at the slightest wind passing through the nursery. My "true" self loved sleep, so much so that I'd sleep through historical moments (the 2000 presidential election result/debacle) or natural disasters (tornado like conditions). Alas, my "true" self has changed. And that's all due to my son.

Answer: I couldn't imagine it any other way.

Pic of the Week

This is one of my favorite pictures from the past week.

Isaiah, near sleep, is laying on Nick's chest. To keep him company and to shield Isaiah's eyes from the overhead lamplight, Nick ducks under the blanket with him.

I melt. Just melt.

Too funny. Too cute. Too many delicate memories that have to be captured.

Isaiah - Almost 7 Weeks

See more pics here!

Isaiah - 6 Weeks & 2 Days