I have been away too long. The world moves forward. I move with it. Many things get left behind.

This past month we have seen my beautiful little girl turn from happy to pained. My beautiful baby getting pulled, again, into that hole of unbelievable despair. The anger. The violence. The sleeplessness. And worst of all, the glazed look that would creep into her eyes and steal her from me for hours at a time. I would weep with joy for the times when she would look at me with clear eyes and say my name.

Although we had made no changes to her gluten-free, soy-free diet Sonya was spiraling back into the patterns we had seen before. Something was wrong. I couldn't bare to put her through more tests so, after much research we have begun the Specific Carbohydrate Diet. Grain-free, starch-free, sugar-free-- all with the intent of starving out the "bad" bacteria in her system. It has been a challenge for all of us but even after just a week we are starting to see more glimmers of the real Sonya shining through. I am participating in the diet changes right along with her. My body was not fairing as well on gluten-free as I had hoped so, as mother and daughter, we are once again traveling a new road together.

It may be years before we see our girl full of health and allergy free. But even the possibility of a lifetime free of diet induced pain is worth such an inch-by-inch progress.

My little girl deserves to shine every moment of her life.

A few weeks ago I came to a shocking realization. If I wait til both kids are in school  to figure out what I want to be when I grown up it may be another decade before I'm fully equipped to take on that challenge (whatever it may be.) I sat for a few minutes pondering this little gem. Looking over my life, the paths I've taken, the paths I've crossed. Wondering. Where am I going? Where have all these life adventures been leading?

Then, epiphany.

It's hard to put into words exactly the vision I saw that day. I know it, though, as I know my own family by the change in the air when they walk into the room. I can see it when I close my eyes. Feel it forming in my heart. A community. A garden. A space for all people to merge and learn and teach and share. A place where the once shamed domestic arts can be revived. Eventually the space will become border-less-- filling the desolate yards of the elderly and the abandoned porches of the impoverished.

I know I have a long way to go. I know I should, to do this right, begin with my own education. A degree and the ability to speak confidently before those with financial means can go an exceptionally long way here in the mountain West. I will need all the hands, hearts and resources this town can provide.

It feels lovely to have a clear path before me, now. No longer that cloud of uncertainty hanging over me. To have passion beyond the circle of my family. It really doesn't matter how long it takes. I know, now. And I'm ready.

Gavyn started school last week. An exhausting, emotional ride for us all. He's happy. He loves his teacher and has some preschool friends in his class to ease the transition. Blake and I are trying not to agonize over the details-- at least not yet. For a boy who can already read,  do basic math, and make friends with ease and sincerity.....what could Kindergarten possibly teach him? Come to think of it, he does need to learn how to tie his shoes.......

My son turned 5 a few weeks ago. It has been a exciting year of milestones rarely commented on by parenting books, blogs, or otherwise. He is growing into himself and showing the glimmers of the grown person he will become. He is also stretching his wings against the familiar boundaries of family, school and rules. He is, like his mother, an emotional being, and sometimes his stretching has hurt immensly. Hurt us all. When he was a tiny, colicky baby there were times of such painful exhaustion and helplessness that the two of us would end up puddled together on the floor, sobbing with abandon. But he grew and learned and adapted and accepted and stretched-- so that those first tearfilled months gave way to years of smiles. I was surpised how quickly those tears resurfaced in these past difficult weeks. The feeling of helplessness swelling inside my chest, pushing away all rational thought and leaving me puddled, this time alone, on the floor. This was not my boy, this angry child, screaming and lashing out over the most insignificant things. A lemonade. A kleenex. A band-aid. My feet felt unsteady everytime I took a step. Then a most horrific day came, appearing perfect and full of sunshine but ending in an event I promised I would never do. I spanked my son. It is true that my son put himself, his sister and myself in danger that day but in the end what I really did was break a promise. When we were talking about it later I explained to Gavyn that when I get really angry I stop thinking and acting like myself. Instead I act as my own parents did when they were angry. Saying this thought outloud had as much of an impact on me as it did on my son and I knew we were at a very significant breaking point. We could continue forward as we were and continue breaking each others hearts or we would break free of our pattern and grow forward. We have made changes as a family -- slowly and deliberately pulling ourselves back into the sunshine. My husband came up with an ingenious plan that lets my son see he doesn't need to act out to get our attention. It also helped my husband and I to see that we do correct Gavyn a little too much. I did, in my desperation, order a parenting book but the most volatile of our moments seemed to have difused before the book arrived. That's not to say our days are tear free. We all still have our (most human) moments. But there are more happy tears now than there have been in a seemingly long time. Gavyn starts kindergarten in 10 days and his excitement and anticipation are a joy to behold. He decoded the secrets of reading a few months ago and glows with pride whenever he can decipher a phrase. He started gymnastics, took his first plane ride, and rides his bike everywhere he can. He's overcoming his fears and hesitations. He's growing up. Excuse me while I wipe my eyes.

The family, same sunglasses, high speed....here.

Umguy so politely tagged me. As I'm full of all sorts of unusually interesting things I'm more than happy to contribute another 6 things

Here are the rules,

1. Link to the person that tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
4. Tag some random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
5. Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
TIP - Please don't tag people who've already been tagged. Play mindfully.

1. When I was around 10 I was plagued by such horrible nightmares I was afraid to go to sleep. Eventually I got so tired of hearing the well-meaning but not-at-all-helpful comments from adults and taught myself how to dream in 3rd person. When I told an adult what I had figured out, I was told "that's impossible!" I still think adults are incredibly stupid.

2. I was born 12 weeks early (yes, 12.) I weighed 2 pounds, 4 ounces. This was not such an extraordinary thing to me til I had my own 8 pound babies-- and they seemed so small!

3. My husband and I have been together for 16 years, married for 12. I love him even more now than I did when we met and I wonder every day how that is possible.

4. Sometimes I'm a little snobbish about where I live. "Oh, yeah? Well I live in the mountains at 8500 feet! So there!"

5. I think I like playing with my son's trains more than he does.

6. When I can't sleep I tiptoe into my kids' room to watch them sleep.

I'm tagging...............Sayard whose blog everyone, and I do mean everyone, should read.
And Mark Jordan because his current icon picture made me laugh really hard,
and Jodi because (other than my blood relations) she has known me longer than anyone else in creation.

The Spanish phrase for "to give birth" is "dar a luz." To bring to light. Long before my children were born,  I fell in love with those three words. I would wrap them around my tongue, curling the "r," letting the sounds whisper visions of maternity to my young feminity. I envisioned birth as a shining light of creation. Gentle. Warm. Loving and intimate. I did not see blood or fear or the cold sterile slab of an OR table.

I want to remember my duaghter's birth, but I can't. The weeks after her arrival I waited for the fog to lift. I waited for the glow of birth to shine on us and remind me how she came into the light. The light never came. Twenty-two months later my baby is a talking, dancing pre-schooler. I still don't remember her birth.

It was a wednesday, August 2nd 2006, when I had my last OB visit with my doctor. It was suppossed to be my 38 week visit but between my schedule and my doctor's the visit was almost a week late. I was tired. I was achey. The baby was thrashing the heck out of my ribs-- stretching and pushing on places that had no give. I was still upset that the labor I had experienced 10 days before had (obviously) not resulted in birth. I had a nagging fear that something wasn't right but the baby was moving well, so I tried to ignore my anxieties. I felt heavy. I felt numb. I was ready. My body, however, was showing now signs of attempting labor again.

During my appointment I blurted out that I didn't think that lump bashing my right ribs was really the baby's bottom. My left hip felt bruised from all the thrashing and pushing. Baby arms can't be that strong, can  they? My doctor chuckled. "Well it wouldn't be the first time one of us has confused heads for tails!" She said she'd take an ultrasound, just to be sure everything was ok. I pushed at the lump underneath my ribs and breathed a sigh of relief.

Half an hour later I was sitting in my husband's office. I'd interrupted a planning meeting with my arrival and could still see his co-workers trying not to peer at us through the classroom windows. The baby was breech. At almost 39 weeks, my doctor wasn't going to let me go into labor on my own. Oddly, I was fine with this. I needed my little girl born safely so all my selfish natural-labor-only ideals were quickly banished. Our choices were c-section or attempt at external version.The word "attempt" gave me pause. An attempt to externally manipulate the baby into turning head downwards. A procedure that has only a 50% success rate and an elevated risk of emergency c-section. If I was going to have a c-section I was going to have it on my own terms, not as an emergency. My husband agreed. He seemed to have aged five years in five minutes. The worry surrounding him was palpable. I called my doctor. Surgery was scheduled for August 4th at 3pm. Two days. In 48 hours I would be holding my baby girl.

The next day I busied myself with errands around town. Little things I told myself we needed but didn't have. I tried to enjoy my last day of pregnancy. My last day of mommy-hood with only one child. It felt odd to know not only the day of my child's birth but also the apporximate time of her arrival. I kept looking at clocks and counting forward.

I did not sleep well that night. I tried to think only of my daughter's tiny self curled, finally, in my arms. The word "surgery" loomed over me, impossible to ignore.

The morning of August 4th, 2006 dawned clear and bright. My son, in his typical early morning happiness bounced around our sunlit livingroom.
"Gavyn, what's today?"
"BABY-DAY!"  His face was as bright at our mountain sky. He held my belly and murmured his secret sibling language to his sister. This is joy. This is my reason for parenthood. I held both of my babies in the sunlight and felt the strength of the earth in my arms.

The clocks ticked forward. My mom arrived to watch Gavyn. I re-packed my bag again. I drank water and tried to ignore my hunger. Finally we left for the hospital. The day stayed bright and hot but a mist began to collect around me. Anxiety. Worry. Suddenly we're in the hospital's main waiting area. We see other couples waiting silently. I wonder if my fear is as visible as these other moms'. We wait. My eyes pull toward the clock. I turn away but there is always another in front of me. Taunting me.

We are led to a room. The hospital is busy, we have to share. We walk past a tired couple, each cradling a tiny bundle. I try to smile a "congratualations" and an "I'm sorry." We shouldn't be here. Birth and the hours after are private. We tip-toe past the curtain divider and whisper our anxieties. I lay down on the bed on my side and try to rest my legs. I've been sitting too long. Someone shuffles in with a cart, mumbles something then leaves. I giggle, tears standing in my eyes. We whisper and do our best impressions of clamness. The babies on the other side of the curtain whimper. The lady with the cart re-appears. She laughs and talks too loud. I wince. "I saw you on the bed but you didn't look pregnant so I thought I had the wrong room!" I hear a loud, anxious giggle and am embarrassed to realize it's coming from me.

We're in the pre-op room. Dressed in paper scrubs and hats. We've been here before but I will myself to think of other things. Waiting still, we see the world of semi-sedated patients whirl passed the door. A patient with a beard spread out on a gurney. Isn't this the maternity OR? Yes, the hospital is so busy. Patients are operated on where ever there is space. The mist becomes a cloud and settles firmly on my shoulders. Blake teases, tries to make me smile. Holds my hand. We take each other's pictures. Then a ray of light-- my doctor comes in. The cloud evaporates and I'm breathing again. She chats. Tells us a funny story. I catch a tiny glimpse of my daughter's head on ultrasound. She's asleep. Still breach. The cloud returns and settles on my chest.

There is music in the OR and it's cold. I'm sitting on bare paper in the operating table trying to roll my shoulders forward and stretch my spine. I wonder if the nurse who has given me these instructions has ever tried this maneauver. There is thirty-five pounds of belly in my way. My shoulders don't roll. There is a stab to my back and I jump. I change my mind, this isnt' what I want. My mouth is frozen shut. I can only nod when asked questions. I can only see what is immediatly in front of my eyes. The cloud has wrapped itself around me and I begin to shiver. Blake comes in. His face reflects my fear. He sits beside me, as close as the cords and wires and tubes will allow. He drops the camera. The sound of it hitting the floor is un-earthly. I manage to ask if the camera's ok then wonder why I thought that was so important for words. I've lost control of my body. I'm just a head and shoulders now. My arms attached, but not mine. I wan't to wipe my face but can't. I don't want to pull on all the spiders legs taped to my skin. The weight on my chest gets heavier. I struggle but remain mute. My doctor appears over the curtains and speaks but her voice comes from another room. I nod but I don't know what I am agreeing to. The music is too loud. "And another one bites the dust....." On any other day, in any other situation I would laugh at this, my daughter's un-chosen birth song. There is a struggle. I hear a voice "come on, come on out, come on....." My head echoes with frustration, "just pull her out already!" But my mouth refuses to open. There is a tiny cry but it's not mine. I'm not relieved. I still can't breath. I'm given a glimpse of her, my baby girl. She swaddled and pink and then she and my husband are whisked away. It's even colder now. I force myself to fill my lungs. It's over but I'm still here. Terrified. Immobile.

In the recovery room I'm given orders to which I can't comply. There is subtle worry. I'm still just a head and shoulders. My arms act out of thier own accord and surprise me by tickling my ear. I must doze. There is still some concern over my lack of sensory recovery. I'm still trying to will my lungs to inflate.

to be continued....

1. The bigger the vehicle, the more un-aware the driver.

2. There are far more cyclists in my small town than I ever imagined. On back roads and in neighborhoods kids are riding to school. Men in dress pants (and sometimes even in ties) are off to the office. Moms (like myself) are out with kids in tow. I haven't seen women in work clothes-- fear of helmet-hair, perhaps.

3. There is a wonderful camaraderie that goes hand-in-hand with cycling. One is welcomed into the cycling community the moment foot touches pedal. Smiles, nods, and "Good Mornings!" are always heartfelt.

4. A few good pieces of cycling clothing are not a luxury.

5. Running errands around town on the bike (with 65+lbs of kid in the trailer) is surprisingly fun. I'm disappointed when I need to go somewhere that I can't get to on the bike.

6. Both kids are thrilled with our biking adventures,  even my son who is almost 5 and almost too big for the trailer. Gavyn is happy to tell people how much gas we are saving by taking the bike-- and how much Mommy-energy we use! Sonya, who is not the "sit still" type, runs for her shoes and a stuffed friend the moment I say " let's go for a ride!"

7. I'm not sure how, but my asthma is gone. Vegetarian diet? Nearly soy-free diet? Nearly gluten-free diet? I have never had the joy of enjoying exercise. I'm excited by all the possibilities this new set of lungs and the warm summer weather have in store.

There is much talk here on Gaia of a change of conciousness. A shift of being. We espouse gentle and love filled ways of living. We share and send reiki and believe that our way of living will affect and infect all we encounter. We, as free thinking, forward moving individuals are quick to shake out our real life "blankets" and let them settle over us in a warm protective shell. As if to say "this is where I live and believe and breathe. This is my love around me and LOVE is all." While I do believe that Love and Eros can make the world a far more habitable place I've been forced to let my toes once again touch the real earth. I'm sorry to say but the real earth is cold. Food prices are skyrocketing. Fuel prices are signaling disaster. Basic necessities are stretching farther and farther out of reach for more and more people. My town has no public transportation and ours is not an oddity. My home is old and drafty. This too is not an oddity. We are one family among millions the nation and world over who are looking about our lives with new eyes. We are standing with millions on the edge of something ferocious, scrambling to hold on. While I'm certain a shift has occured, this certainly isn't the change I had envisioned. There is nothing friendly or gentle or lovely about this new world.

It is my job, as a mother, to protect my family. I am a big black mama bear. It is true that I have been known to run in alarm when, in fact, there was no danger. This time, however, I think the danger is even greater than my imagination permits. As a nation we have created this abyss and there will be no quick fix to fill or span it. It will be slow. It will be painful. Sacrifice and suffering will take on meanings yet unknown to many generations of people. Many will use thier plight as a platform for revolution. Others will sequestor themselves. Most will chose to stay blindered as long as possible, complaint-filled but unyeilding. All you need for proof is to count the Hummers still on the road.

I see and feel the possibility of one more path to lead us all safely back home. I am challenging you, my love filled and free thinking Gaian friends, to take up arms and come with me. And by that I mean come with me. Take up your shovels and spades. Stretch your legs and arms and hearts and head outside. Meet your neighbors. Take thier hands and till the earth together. Plant a garden and reap the benefits. Lock your car and dust off your bike. Walk. Find someone more in need than yourself and give them your change. Not from your wallet but from your heart. From your hands and feet and brain and back and goodwill. Sweat is as much a salve as tears. Give everything you have to spare and you will find there is always more to give. Get up. Turn off the lights.

Do. Go. Give.

Yesterday. Note the short sleeves.



Today. May 1st, 2008 about 10 a.m......

......and inside at about 10:15. She normally doesn't take her nap til 12:30. And, yes, I do know a 20 month old should no longer need a bottle. All in due time.