It’s Monday, mid-July. You’ve just finished the tour of the building of your brand new job. The job you’re starting fresh off maternity leave from the job you had to quit because your postpartum anxiety made your chest tighten and your stomach knot up at the very thought of the work you were doing before. You have your breast pump tucked into a bag, and take a deep breath before you tell your new boss that you need a private room where you can pump breast milk on your lunch break. You hope she understands, and doesn’t simply stare at you, wondering why you don’t just give your baby formula.

It’s a Thursday afternoon, and you pick your older child up from daycare, and head to your mother in law’s to get the baby. You haven’t pumped since lunch, your breasts are full and sore, and you want to nurse your baby as much as he wants to nurse. You walk through the door, and as your MIL is telling you about her day, she tells you “there’s just a smidgeon of milk left.” You look in the bottle. It’s 2 ounces, and the bottle has been partially consumed so it must be used or dumped. “Well I can just give it to him now,” she says, not understanding why you seem so upset over two ounces. You feel the pain of your milk letting down at the sound of your baby’s cries, and mutter a response through tears.

It’s midwinter, and lack of sunlight is making the postpartum depression unbearable. You make a joke to a friend about going out after work to get your hair cut, or get your nails done. She responds eagerly; it will be nice to do something without the kids. You shake your head and remind her, you can’t. You have to go home and pump, and then it will be time for dinner, and then to get the kids ready for bed.

You’ve been at your new job for six months now. You are invited occasionally to go out with some of your coworkers for their weekly lunch date out of the office. “I can’t,” you say. “I have to–” “Oh that’s right. You’re still doing that?” They’re supportive. But you can’t help but hear the unspoken, why hasn’t she switched to formula?

It’s 6:00am and you are exhausted. Your husband has worked the last four nights in a row, you haven’t had thirty seconds to yourself in two weeks, and your baby will not sleep without your nipple in his mouth. You sneak out of bed, but hear him cry before you’ve even started your pump. And you sit there anyway, trying, knowing you probably won’t even pump a full ounce because he nursed all night long, but one ounce is better than nothing. You grimace at how bad your oatmeal tastes with brewer’s yeast added in, and add a bottle of fenugreek to your pumping bag.

It’s any given night of the week. Your baby is mobile now, and hasn’t seen you all day, and wants mommy now. Daddy takes him upstairs instead so you can pump while he cries for you. Half an hour later, you nurse the baby. And then get dinner started when you should be getting the kids into the bath. You hope that maybe tonight he’ll go to sleep easily, and won’t try and make up for that lost half hour by refusing to let you lay him down.

It’s a week before your baby’s first birthday. Your therapist asks you, “Couldn’t your husband just give him formula, so you can get a break?”

It’s all you can do not to laugh.


I hit a wall with pumping in December, when the PPD and the SAD formed a nasty marriage, around the same time Sebastian starting having trouble sleeping and I started struggling with supply. It felt so pointless. I was giving up sleep. I was giving up my lunch break–the only time in the entire day I otherwise would have the chance to do the Adulting I never can at home. I was letting my baby scream for me from the other room after work while I pumped, because he only wanted to nurse, but if I nursed him before pumping I wouldn’t get any output, and my output was already a constant source of stress.

Pumping moms don’t call it “liquid gold” as a joke. We call it that because that is the value that it has for us. Every ounce down the drain is our time. It’s our baby’s nourishment. I was lucky with my second child in that he has loved table food since we first introduced it, so he could usually be placated with a squeezie pouch or shared food for a bit of milk needed to be stretched to make it through the day. But it’s what we do. It takes our time. With our children. With our spouses. With our social life. With our beds. But mostly with ourselves.

Pumping mamas–I see you. I know you. Up until a week ago when my son turned one, I was you. I have felt the silent (and sometimes not so silent) judgement that comes from all directions. Colleagues. Friends. Family. In many situations, spouses.

Why don’t you just use formula?

I asked myself that. I never asked that with my first, not once. But with my second–I did.

So why not? I can give plenty of reasons, but the biggest is that when I looked at continuing to pump I wanted to cry. But when I looked at supplementing I felt in my heart that I would be more unhappy with that choice. Not because formula is the wrong choice overall. But it was not the right choice for me.

These things helped get me through:

Looking at a full bottle at the end of a pumping session and the complete sense of pride and womanhood that came with knowing I had created a full, perfect meal for my son using only my body. That I could give him some of me to take with him when I couldn’t be there.

A partner who understood my dedication, and picked up as much as he could in taking care of the kids while I was chained to the pump. I absolutely could not have pumped to twelve months without his support.

Supportive friends. One friend even gave me a few bags of frozen milk she didn’t need, and offered more if I ran out. I didn’t need to use them, but knowing they were in there gave me the peace of mind to accept a pumping session here or there where I barely got any output. And the others commiserated, or offered encouragement, and reminded me that it’s a pretty badass thing to work full time and still provide full time food for an infant.

A supportive office. Towards the end I could see the question in people’s eyes, wondering why I was still pumping when my baby was so old. But nobody ever asked, and the women I work with understood that regardless of our day, I needed at least half an hour in a room alone somewhere, and they made sure I got it.

There is nothing wrong with choosing not to pump. It’s hard. And when I say hard I mean hard. All moms have our own unique challenges, and there’s no benefit to playing “who has it worst?” But pumping with a full time job, then coming home and nursing a baby, strips you of your identity in a way no other part of motherhood has, at least for me. It reduces you to a pair of breasts, to a milk machine, to a human pacifier. The only true way I know of to push through when you really, really want to quit, is to look inside, and weigh whether or not it’s the right choice for you, and for your family. And if it is–grab hold of that truth, ask for help anywhere you need it, and dare anyone to ask you why you haven’t switched to formula.

And if it’s not? Don’t. You are not less of a mom. You are not less of a woman. You are a badass for making it this far, and whatever choice you make is the right one for you.

When I was a child/teenager, I read. A lot. R.L. Stein and Gary Paulsen were two of my best friends, and the big series books at the time–The Baby-Sitters Club and Sweet Valley are probably still to blame for why I stay up far later than I should. I was not snobbish in what I read, though I was not as voracious as many other readers I know. I was (because I know the term for it now) a complete fangirl. I latched onto things and read and re-read, and it took me awhile to really get into reading adult literature for pleasure. I think, in a backwards sort of way, because my mom was (and still is) a voracious reader, and it gave me a false sense of needing to wait “until I grow up” to read certain authors.

In college, my pretension really reared up, and I read mostly non-fiction (when I wasn’t reading fanfiction on the internet). I enjoyed comparative religion, and bought a LOT of books that I would go on to only read a few chapters each on mythology, philosophy, and social psychology. I enjoyed them, I just couldn’t sit still–every time I started reading something, a new interest would spring up and I would read something else. Or I’d buy a new book. Or I’d hear about something else in class and decided that was my true passion. (I also read a LOT of dramatic literature, being a theatre major.)

I didn’t realize it at the time (or didn’t have a word for it), but by the time I graduated from college, I was in a reading slump. I didn’t know what books I wanted to read. I still loved books, but there were so many I had missed, and I was spending so much of my free time (and oh, how that felt so infrequent in those days!) either working on cosplay, or spending time in fandom circles online. I wanted to read, but when I did, I could never get past the antsiness over not doing all the other things I wanted to do as well, or the worry that I was reading the “wrong” book. That there was another book I should be reading first, before this one. It was perpetual procrastination.

When I started working at Barnes & Noble a couple months after moving back home, that feeling intensified, but working with other readers, there was more motivation to Just Read. One of the women I worked with (who is now the executive director of Riot Media / Book Riot) was incredible at book recommendations. She would ask me if I’d read something and the way she lit up while talking about it made it impossible to NOT buy or borrow it, just so I could tell her if I loved it as much as she did. I didn’t read nearly as fast as I should have (Billy and I started dating during this time, and the addiction of new love tends to overpower all other ways of spending your time), but I did work my way through a few of her recommendations, and it paid off, as I discovered Audrey Niffeneggar, whom I now consider one of my top three favorite authors.

But the TBR pile grew and grew, constantly surrounded by books that called to me, asking to be read, and customers, so eager to ask questions and talk about new releases and old favorites alike.

There are a couple of things that, over the last few years, have finally helped me out of that reading slump that lasted far too long.

One of which, is having kids. Which is kind of a double-edged sword, since having kids also means I have less time to do ANYTHING for myself, and have to cram an entire day’s worth of Adulting into an hour or so (if I’m lucky) after they go to bed–but it also means I’m far more aware of how much time I spend on social media instead of with a book. They’re watching, after all, and I want to make sure I’m setting the right example.

Another, is the rise of reading sites like goodreads. Having a site where other people can see my activity also makes me aware of how much time I could be reading when I’m not, and I like being able to set my own reading challenges. I’m motivated by goals, and seeing what should be a reasonable number of books per year also reminds me that I Should Be Reading.

But more than anything it’s the realization that I have stories to tell that has helped me find my Reading Voice again. Reading for inspiration. Reading for motivation. Reading to realize what I hope to achieve as a writer, and reading to see what I hope to never replicate. Reading for that amazing moment when a book takes your breath away and you have to lay it down for a minute–when you remember to inhale again, and on your exhale you murmur a low, “fuck,” because using only words someone has reached through time to seize you by the throat.

As a young reader, I read because I bonded to certain characters, landscapes, tropes, and wanted to experience them again and again.

As an adult, I have bonded to the art of storytelling. And I have come out of a reading slump renewed, and ready to experience as many new stories as I can.


I was going to write this post about religion, but every time I try to write about religion I realize there’s no way I can condense my thoughts on it into a blog post of less than 1000 words, so instead I’ll write about diet and exercise. And Neil Gaiman.

I read a response Gaiman wrote to an tumblr ask from a 14 year old about struggling to finish anything because he felt his stories were awful. Gaiman’s response was:

[…] Think of it this way: if you wanted to become a juggler, or a painter, you wouldn’t start jugggling, drop something and give up because you couldn’t juggle broken bottles like Penn Jillette, or start a few paintings then give up because the thing in your head was better than what your hands were getting onto the paper. You carry on. You learn. You drop things. You learn about form and shape and shade and colour and how to draw hands without the fingers looking like noodles. You finish things, learn from what you got right and what you got wrong, and then you do the next thing.

And one day you realise you got good. It takes as long as it takes. So keep writing. And all you need to do right now is try to finish things.

As an oldest child, an adult child of an alcoholic, and someone who was identified gifted/talent in elementary school, I don’t know how to practice anything. When I first started playing the piano, I took to it. Likewise with the violin. I gave up both of them in part because of committing my time to other things, but in part because I reached a point where I couldn’t get any further on natural talent. There were other things I wanted to do, and I didn’t want to take time away from those things to practice music the way I needed to in order to excel.

In a lot of ways I did the same with cosplay. I loved cosplay–and still do–but as it got more mainstream and the standard for what was considered “good” skyrocketed, I couldn’t skate by, procrastinating and taking shortcuts, and still be above average. In this instance, I got pregnant around the time I hit the “I’m going to need to invest actual time and effort into this to get any better” point, so I had a built in excuse to back out of it.

The depression doesn’t help. Depression tells you you aren’t good enough anyway, that nothing you do will ever be good enough, and that you don’t deserve good things, so it makes it a lot easier to give into that urge to cut and run once effort becomes necessary. “You’re not going to be able to do it anyway,” the voice says. Or if you try and something goes wrong, “See? You shouldn’t have even bothered in the first place. You’re useless.” And my favorite, which is when making an effort coincides with something else going wrong in some unrelated way, “This happened because you did something for yourself. You tried, and this is your punishment.” 

So how this relates to diet and exercise.

I think dieting is crap. It doesn’t work, there have been multiple studies proving it doesn’t work, and I firmly hold the belief that dieting culture is a business, and businesses are about making money. Plus there’s the whole idea that diet culture is based around convincing people–usually women–that they aren’t good enough.

So, as someone who already believes I’m not good enough, it’s something I should just stay the hell away from.

But I was talking to a friend the other night about this, and we were discussing how the real reason we hate dieting is that it’s about a goal that’s easy to corrupt. “I just want to lose 10 pounds.” “I want to fit into this dress by next month.” “I need to tone my arms before my wedding.” They’re easy to drop if progress doesn’t start soon enough, and they’re easy to talk yourself out of. We were talking about how making lifestyle changes is better–and different–than dieting, because the goal is the change itself, so as long as you’re doing something, you’re succeeding.

I’ve told Billy countless times that before he can be a writer, he needs to write. That he’s never going to be a writer, if he waits for it to be perfect, but that as long as he’s writing every day–or mostly every day–that he is a writer, and that he can always edit later.

Easy advice, coming from someone who is terrible at not being perfect out of the gate. but writing is different, somehow. Maybe it’s because, thanks to fanfiction, I have built a semi-habit before the depression really set it–because I was writing a lot until it got so bad I couldn’t write around the depression. But for me, the stories get jumbled in my head if I let them sit there for too long, and it becomes harder in the long run. Kids, work, the business of running a household, get in the way. But the habit was there, once, and it will be again.

I don’t know how to tell the depression that the goal is a lifestyle change. That the goal is doing 10 minutes of exercise every day even if it takes months to see results, even if the results are only visible in it being a little bit easier to hike uphill. I can tell other people, but I don’t know how to convince myself of this. Other than to just do it.

When Kairi was a baby, while searching for Halloween costume to make for a three month old, I got an idea to make her little faerie costumes themed after the four seasons as a cute way of tracking her first year. While the faerie aspect didn’t really stick (we ended up with a faerie, an angel, a ballerina, and a dragonfly), we have four canvas prints of our favorites from each session hanging proudly in our living room. I didn’t take any of those pictures—two sets were taken by one photographer [Shaun Goodman/IMG Photography] , two by another [Courtney Taylor Bowls Photography], both friends my husband made by being a very charming and charismatic barista. Courtney also took a set of Christmas pictures for us one year, as well as newborn and nursing pictures once Sebastian was born. (Check out her work. She is insanely talented and if you ever need a photographer in the Richmond, VA area, use her.)

However…I got a little addicted to having professional quality pictures of my kids. But professional photography is expensive.

Fortunately, by this point I’d learned a little more about digital photography.

sebastian flower

October, 2016

When we did our fall session with Kairi, Shaun gave me an overview of some of his lenses, what his favorites were, etc… I ended up buying a lens for myself a few years later, a [lens], that would, unfortunately, be stolen when my car was broken into one night. So after Sebastian was born I decided to go for the lens Shaun had recommended in the first place, a 50mm, f/1.8. I chose [this one] after consulting with Courtney on it, since it was half the price of the name brand, and having just recently changed jobs, cost was a pretty big determining factor in everything we did. I only justified it at all, because I kept getting asked what I was going to do for Sebastian’s four seasons pictures, and I knew there was no way we could afford to book four sessions for him, and I wasn’t 100% certain of how I wanted to do them yet anyway. So I decided to buy the lens and take them myself. They wouldn’t be the same quality as Kairi’s, but if he cares about that when he gets older, I can point out that he had professional newborn pictures and hers were taken with a cell phone—and not even a smart phone at that.


Now, flashback: I took a photography class in high school, back before DSLRs. I used my dad’s old SLR from the 70s, and learned how to develop my own negatives, and print my own pictures. As a teenager, it was easy to believe that I would have a perfect bohemian life of a theater person, where I could write poetry and take pictures on the side, and not care how much money I made because as long as I had a roof and a place to sleep at the end of the day, pursuing my passions was more important than anything. I don’t have that life; instead I have a charming husband, two beautiful kids, a mortgage, a car payment, and an appreciation of expensive beer I’m not fully willing to part with.


But the older I get, the more time my kids take, the more I struggle with depression—the more I find I desperately need artistic outlets. For a very long time, this was fulfilled through cosplay—starting in early college and continuing until Kairi was over a year old, I took to costumes and crafting, reveling in the creation process as much as I did wearing the costumes themselves. But as she got older and time became harder and harder to come by, and as my body changed, cosplay became a chore more than a hobby, and cons were dominated by eating and nap schedules we had little control over.


Enter, writing. Which overlapped with cosplay for a long time. But lately the depression is eating into my ability to write much of anything, much less anything I’m willing to share with anyone else.


But I have a camera lens. And I enjoy taking pictures of my kids, which makes photography something that I can incorporate into motherhood a lot more easily than crafting or writing—at least while they are this little. And it’s something that is easier for me to accept being only okay with, because I am so far behind the curve with technology that no matter how much I might develop my own skills, I will never really be able to compete without spending money on new lenses, and on editing software.


November, 2016. Not as much of a Pinterest!fail as it could be? 

I’m not sure what my next steps are right now. I’ve gotten comfortable enough with my camera on candid shots of my own kids that I want to start moving onto something else, but I’m not sure what. Posed shots, I think. And other people’s kids, for sure. It’s easier with my own children, because I know their moods, I can predict their behavior (a little bit, at least), and I know what environments they are going to be the most comfortable in. Plus there’s just the anxiety of “will these shots be worth this person’s time?” I’ve taken a couple of pictures for a friend—her daughter’s Christmas card pictures last year, and a couple of maternity shots for her this weekend, and while she claims to love them, how do I know she’s not just being nice? Taking pictures of my kids I can watch and wait, and take a picture when the moment feels right. Setting a time and place for someone else puts the quality of the shot entirely on my skill level—which is not that high. But the only way to develop that of course, is to just do it.

I’ll make money with it one day. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get over the anxiety hurdle for photography to be my primary source of income, but I think I can handle charging budget prices to bring in a little bit of extra income–and add a little bit more art to my life, and to the lives of others.

kairi sunset

September, 2016. Billy loves this shot. I see everything wrong with it, but it still came out better than I expected it to!

Last weekend (okay, a week and a half ago), we went up to Skyline Drive to hike the trail down to the Pocosin Mission ruins. I picked it initially since we’d never done it before and it was pretty close to the Swift Creek Gap entrance to Skyline Drive, and it was a fairly short trail. We stuck to this decision after reading that it walked past one of the PATC cabins, and, to quote Billy, “you had me at ruins.”

It ended up being pretty cold the day we went–not cold by winter hiking standards, but it was hovering around 32-33 degrees, which is pretty cold for us.

The parking spur is easy to miss, since it’s not a lot but a small road, but the trailhead itself is very obvious, as it’s a fire road. I’m not always a huge fan of fire road trails, since part of the appeal of driving out of the city is being about to hike on different terrain than the gravel trails of the parks we’re used to, but it is nice with Kairi, whose hiking stamina is still wildly unpredictable.

About a tenth of a mile down the trail, is the Pocosin cabin. We stopped for a snack (Kairi’s favorite part of hiking), and for me to try and take a few pictures of Sebastian for the ‘winter’ pictures of his First Year of Seasons pictures. I’ve wanted for years to camp in the Doyles River cabin a little further south on Skyline Drive because of the gorgeous views, but in my researching the PATC cabins I managed to miss looking up this one, and now that we’ve discovered it, we’re already making plans to spend a couple of nights there for Sebastian’s birthday. The problem with Doyles River, is that once you get off the Doyles River trail, there’s about a quarter mile hike that’s very steep to get to the cabin–with one of us wearing Sebastian (and possibly Kairi), trying to get enough gear/food/water up there for a couple of nights is something I’ve been hesitant to try while the kids are small, but because the fireroad leading into Pocosin is so flat and wide, this seems like a perfect place to start with small kids. (Don’t judge too harshly–it’s been years since I’ve been primitive camping even by myself, and we definitely adhere to the ‘better to be overprepared than underprepared’ philosophy. Especially when it comes to water.)

Even in the cold, the kids loved playing around the cabin, and it still has a pretty nice view. I’m not sure how much you’d get in summer, since the gap in the trees looking at the mountain across the valley (not sure which mountain–anyone know?) seems like it would be pretty filled in when the trees have their leaves, but I’m optimistic that in April we’ll get some nice wildflowers, and the spring buds won’t have entirely obscured the view.

When we left the cabin we continued towards the ruins. You’re on the fire road the whole way, and it’s a gentle downhill trek. There was a lot of runoff on the trail from where snow and ice had recently melted that we had to watch for for about the first tenth of a mile, but after that it dried out, and we got into the sort of quiet stillness that makes me love winter hiking.

The ruins themselves were cool, but probably better for older children than our little ones. The old wooden structure is pretty dilapidated, and because of the cold Kairi wasn’t that interested in exploring it, but I can see it being more difficult to keep her away in warmer weather, and it’s definitely not something I would want a young child playing around in. Plus there was a lot of broken glass on the ground–I hope this is not normally the case, and we would have packed it out ourselves if I hadn’t thought she would try and “help.”

There were some stone structures that seemed sturdy enough to let her climb on however, and she enjoyed those–and it made for a couple of nice pictures.


I’m pretty sure this would be her facebook profile picture if she were old enough to use social media. 

We just went down and out, but at the ruins there’s a connector trail that takes you, allegedly, to Swift Creek Falls. Maybe when we go to the cabin we’ll try that out, since we won’t have to worry as much about losing daylight by April.

The trip back out showed both of us how out of shape we are, but is really a pretty gentle incline for people who have spent less time parked under a nursing baby all winter long. Kairi would have been fine walking up it by herself if she hadn’t been so cold that she wanted to be worn (she walked up Dark Hollow Falls by herself last summer, so this would have been a breeze!). Back at the parking area I took a few more pictures–and it started snowing! Sadly Sebastian was pretty Done with posing around the time the snow started so I didn’t get any good shots with the snow, but it did treat us to a lovely trip back to the gatehouse–and I saw later in the day on facebook that Skyline Drive ended up closing two hours after we left, so it’s a good thing we didn’t try and add any extra miles to our trip!

Overall–definitely a trail we’ll try again, and we’re looking forward to our trip to the cabin this spring!


No snow–but he sure was happy!

I made 11 phone calls on my lunch break today.

 Looking at my call log on my phone, this took 16 minutes, from the first to last call. And since I called for two different issues, it included the time when I was reviewing and coaching myself through the second round of calls before dialing that first number. 

I hate the phone. I’ve had jobs for so long where I have make a tremendous number of phone calls, but it doesn’t make it any easier every time I have to dial without knowing what kind of attitude I might be met with on the other end. And even knowing that the people who answer the phones of our elected officials’ offices take hundreds of phone calls a day and aren’t interested in anything other than ‘yea’ or ‘nay,’ I still get nervous. What if they challenge me? What if they ask me something and I don’t know the answer, and I completely discredit myself? What if I say the wrong thing? 

The first call I made today was to the chair of the committee overseeing a bill in Virginia that would require employers to allow reasonable time and space for new mothers to express breast milk for the first year of their baby’s life (while, I might add, I was pumping at work!). I stuttered. I said the wrong bill numbers first and had to repeat myself. The woman who answered the phone was very polite, and all she did was thank me, and said they’d had several calls about that coming in and she would be sure to pass my message along. 
And that was that. 

There are a lot of scripts available for what to say if you want to give more detail, and while those help, they also make me nervous. What has helped me is seeing the tremendous number of people commenting saying they called, saying how quick the process was, saying the person on the other end of the phone was polite, saying they only expressed approval or concern. And it really is that easy. And each time, each day, it takes less time to psych myself into pressing the ‘dial’ button. 

So call. 

But beyond that–call to say thank you, to the reps who have spoken up in agreement with you. Say thank you for staying true to their campaigns, for the reasons you voted for them.

And call the ones you voted for when you DON’T agree. I’ve heard far, far too many people–friends and coworkers and strangers on the internet–say “I’m socially liberal but fiscally conservative.” And that infuriates me. Because we’ve had a Republican majority congress for years now, and now all three branches of the federal Government are about to be run by the GOP. So if SO MANY PEOPLE really are socially liberal–why aren’t YOU calling? We need you to call and tell your Republican representatives that you voted for them, but you won’t stand for the way their policies treat women. Treat POC. Treat the LGBT+ community. Treat Americans with disabilities. We need more pro-life feminists who can’t bring themselves to vote for a pro-choice candidate to call and demand equal pay for women, and affordable, accessible contraceptives and comprehensive sex ed. For all the talk on divisiveness right now, we are being steamrolled by partisan loyalty in the people that we elect. ELECT. As in, we chose them. And yet, we seem to just accept that horrible social policies must go hand in hand with conservative spending. 

Call. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s something that can be done every day, on every issue that you find important. 

I’m taking a second attempt at rebranding.

The last time I did this, I was gearing it towards something that was taking over my life, but not something I particularly enjoyed. Writing about being a travelling executive mom meant having to deal with the fact that I was doing something that gave me a tremendous amount of anxiety and guilt. Neither of which are easy to process publicly.


I bought a new lens for my camera last summer and I’m taking pictures of my kids. I’m reading more. We are spending more time together outside as a family. I wrote the first draft of a novel in November.

I’m painfully introverted, and the antenatal depression I had with our second baby has come back as postpartum depression. The world is a frightening, overwhelming place right now, and as it turns out, I’m not in a position to don a pink dress (or blue duster, or modified kimono, or green cloak, or–) and set out to save the world. I have very young kids who need me. I frequently collapse under the weight of the depression and find it difficult to get out of bed, much less lead a revolution.

But I can call my representatives in congress. I can make sure I am raising children who are inquisitive, who love learning, who treat others with kindness, and who respect the natural world.

I can Make Good Art.

And that’s what I intend to do.

My Daughter's Gonna Be A Super Villain!

“Have you noticed that [everybody else’s] stuff is s**t and all your s**t is stuff?” – George Carlin

I own a lot of things.  They aren’t big things or important things, they’re just… things.  Bottle caps, ticket stubs, pens, cigar bands, random arcade tokens, etc.  Basically, an assortment of miscellaneous odds and ends that I’ve managed to gather over the course of my life thus far.  None of these items have a use any more beyond nostalgia for a life I’ve since grown out of and bragging rights for some event I can’t remember the details to.

I have nineteen empty bottles that I’ve been holding on to because I like the labels.  Nineteen.  Four of them are special in that I will never be able to purchase them again, but the other fifteen?  They have gargoyles on them.  That’s it.

That’s just one example, but it’s a good one…

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When I started my new job, I had the idea to rebrand this blog. A lot of the ideas I had for entries seemed to focus more on my family than on vague philosophies about finding The Way. About a month ago I even changed the format and added a header. And a few days ago I thought about creating a completely new blog, with a new URL and everything.

I have no idea if I’m going to do anything with this place, or just continue to use it for those times when I have thoughts I manage to string together in a marginally coherent fashion. Either way, I needed a change. And while I originally thought I’d write a post on the idea of branding, and what it means from a personal standpoint (and not, I might add, a flatiron standpoint), and then, as the new year approached, thought I might write on the new year (though not, perhaps, as optimistically as I did three years ago).

But instead I want to write about Kairi, and the end of a journey.


I always planned to breastfeed. I have nothing against formula-feeding moms and know that for many, formula is the reason their babies are still here. Or the reason that mom’s sanity is still here. Or some combination of the two. But for me, breastfeeding was just what you *did,* and as long as I had milk and Kairi wasn’t born with anything that would have prevented her from being able to latch, she would nurse.

This isn’t necessarily a post about our breastfeeding journey, because we really were very lucky in terms of that. She latched for the first time about 30 minutes after birth, and never looked back. I hated pumping but managed it well enough to keep her fed while I was a work, and while I had a pretty severe dip in supply when she was about 3 months old, from a combination of travelling, me getting sick, and going back to work full time, once I got that under control we were fine. I even had some frozen milk leftover I was able to donate to another mama after Kairi’s first birthday. The hardest part of nursing for us, was that she wanted to nurse All. The. Time., and in short sessions, which made it hard to do anything when I was home, and ensured she woke up multiple times a night to nurse. And because she loved nursing so much, she loved sticking her hand down my shirt and twiddling (if you’re not sure what that is, it’s exactly what it sounds like and just as annoying). There were a lot of frustrations on my part, but not a lot of actual difficulty.

By the time I started travelling overnight for work, we were down to one nursing session per day, at bedtime, and only on the nights I was home. My supply dropped, and dropped. And around Thanksgiving, she was losing interest in nursing at night entirely, so I decided I would pick a day that would be The Last Day, so I wouldn’t miss it. And I had a few days in mind–Christmas, New Year’s, or her 18 month birthday (which, spoiler alert, was today).

Then Christmas came, and she got sick and wanted to nurse more. And last week she was mostly better, but still very determined to go back to her old habits, and between being sick and getting her molars, bedtime in general was being a nightmarish (see what I did there?) experience, and not the way either of us needed to say goodbye to nursing.

And then…tonight.  I brought my phone upstairs on a whim, since I didn’t feel like going into the bedroom to grab my book. Bedtime was way too late and I expected a battle and figuring I wouldn’t get much reading in, anyway. We sat down. She lifted my shirt, and smiled at me before latching on. And for the first few minutes, she went back and forth between the breast and her sippy cup (again–almost no supply anymore), and at one point tried to put both in her mouth at the same time. And eventually gave up and just…nursed. She popped off one more time to drink from her sippy cup and I switched her to the other side, and she nursed–comfort nursed, rather–with her eyes half-closed and that perfect, peaceful look babies have as they are drifting off, until she fell asleep at the breast and let her head drop beside me.

It was perfect.

So my rebranding isn’t about my blog, or what I want people to think of when they see me, or even what I want out of the new year. It’s about me and my daughter. And that for the first time since she was conceived, we now exist entirely as two separate people. Tomorrow I’ll wake up and drive to Lynchburg, and she’ll wake up, fully 18 months old, with no idea that anything is different. And while nothing will *really* change from this, we both had one last, beautiful moment as one.

sleeping niblet

Goodnight tiny bug. ❤

[Originally written on 10/7/14. How time flies.]
Tomorrow is my 30th birthday. And while being married to somebody over a decade your senior gives you a fairly “meh” attitude towards the actual number of your age (I actually forget how old I am quite frequently…), I’ve thought a lot over the last few months about my 20s, where I am now, and what it means to be successful. Seeing as I am going to celebrate 30 by waking up alone in a hotel room 150 miles from home, the lead in to writing about my 30th birthday almost writes itself.
I don’t remember my 20th birthday. I didn’t realize this until just now, when I tried recalling it as a point of comparison. I remember 19, which was a really incredible birthday. I was a freshman in college, and my roommate and boyfriend at-the-time threw me a surprise party. It was in the study lounge across the hall from my dorm, only had chips and soda for refreshments, but there were *so many people* there. Back then I was far more extroverted, but no less a stranger to compartmentalizing my life, and there was a crossover of those compartments that my roommate (one of the biggest extroverts to ever extravert) managed to track down and get into one place, if only for an hour or so. I felt so amazingly, wonderfully, loved. And skipping ahead two years, whlie I don’t remember 20 (it *might* have been because we combined it with a Halloween party? I remember a Halloween party that year at least….), 21 was another year marked with the various social circles I kept–my work friends one night. My family. My work friends from the job I had recently left. My school friends. With my birthday falling on Columbus Day weekend, I had a five day long celebration, and while many drinks were purchased, never got truly drunk once.
And now, a decade later, I am sitting in a hotel room, drinking beer, eating sushi and tempura delivered right to my room, and listening to music playing on a cell phone app, and the sound of a serious thunderstorm. Alone.
But this is not a lament.
I actually got the general idea of this almost two years ago, right after I announced my pregnancy at work. One of the other managers was asking me about my feelings on becoming a mother, and mentioned that she was older than I was, but I had a house (even if we rent), a husband, and now I was going to have a baby. She wasn’t being deprecating, more just congratulating me on what is, I feel, a very white, suburban measure of success (particularly as she isn’t white–and yes, that is significant, as that white, suburban dream rarely takes into account the fact that other cultures don’t share the same dreams, and aren’t afforded the same opportunities to achieve it even when they do.).
Graduate. Get married. Have a baby. These are the things you do in you twenties. These are the things I see friends who have already turned 30 joking about if they don’t have, congratulating themselves on if they do.
My response to my coworker was that success is subjective, and then to point out the numerous trips overseas she’s taken, trips she wouldn’t have been able to take as easily if she was married (traveling together is awesome, but vacations do tend to double in price, especially if airfare is involved). Trips that people who do get married young later can wish they’d found a way to do before they settled down. She brightened a little at that, and began reminiscing about some of the things she has seen. In her 20s. She’s so well-travelled–and that is successful.
I have another friend, a close friend, a friend I admire endlessly, who is just older than me, and is not married and does not have children. We worked together, years ago, and left that job around the same time–where I moved back home and ended up getting married, and finding a job in the same mall I worked at when I was in high school even if in a vastly different role, she has been touring the world on concerts for people you may -may- have heard of. Like Ricky Martin. And Beyonce. Not too long ago her job took her to New Zealand, and while it was for work and not pleasure, my jealously over that cannot be understated. She is successful.
So why, at milestone birthdays, is there such pressure to measure ourselves? Why in general? Why is success ever anything other than subjective?
For what it’s worth–I consider myself successful. I am a wife, and a mother. I recently took a job that allows me to support my family financially. I might not be home as often as I would like, but I have given my daughter the gift of her father, and given her father the gift of time to pursue his dream. I am writing fairly regularly. Maybe not anything that will ever be published, but it is a constant, creative outlet. I bought my first brand new car last month. I have roots. As nomadic as I thought I was, for as long as I spent yearning for the greener grass, I have a solid network of friends, and a city I love and am proud to live in. And I am not sad to wake up tomorrow, alone. It is a side-effect of a life that is different than I ever would have imagined, but one that I am happy with.
And time flies. Ten years ago I was reluctantly pursuing a college degree, ready to drop out to either take a full time job in theme park entertainment, or to be a military wife–whichever opportunity presented itself first. Would 20 year old me be satisfied, that I haven’t been to New Zealand? Would teenage me be anything other than disgusted to learn that she grows up to be a Suit? Because despite this ridiculous measure of white, suburban success, it’s also a white, suburban cautionary tale: don’t give up your dreams for the stable job with benefits, lest you end up with a body that won’t cooperate, remembering everything you *meant* to do. Right now, it’s what we are supposed to want. In 30 years, it will be something I compromised on.
Today, I am happy. Today, I measure success differently than I did at twenty. And I’m sure differently than I will at 40.
Tomorrow, I will start a new decade. And it will only be as different as I make it.
[I should note, here, that I woke up around 3am violently ill from the aforementioned Chinese food, and that sense then I have gained weight, found more grey hair, and an old knee injury is coming back in force. So maybe my 30s suck a little more than I thought they would on their eve. But it doesn’t change the fact that even though the idea of doing a Middle Earth tour is more and more a fleeting dream, I have a happy, fulfilling, sexy, and loving marriage, a healthy daughter who is full of joy and laughter, and a successful career, and that while I might not be protesting in D.C., or chaining myself to Redwoods, I am learning more ways to create private influence within my own life…)