To sleep, perchance to dream — ay, there’s the rub…. Hamlet (III, i, 64)
Four days ago I was all set to write the post we’ve all been waiting for (you know you’ve been waiting for this, at the edge of your seat, yahhuh!) — the post IN WHICH I announce that a certain two-and-a-half-year-old is finally sleeping through the night. I was all ready to get my HOLLAHHHHHs and everything. But, then, this revelation came about, and I just had to write about it, and then, ummmmmmmmm, the certain two-and-a-half-year-old stopped sleeping through the night, and has practically stopped sleeping altogether.
“MOMMY, MOOOOOMMMMMY! I. NEED. YOU.”
How can you resist “I. NEED. YOU” in the wee hours of the morning? Actually, it’s more like, “I. NEED. HYOU.” How do I resist that? Do I want to resist it when, 10 years from now, I know I’ll be bribing him for a wee cuddle? Because, frankly, I missed the little guy last week when he slept from 7:30pm to 7:30am for a whole 3 days straight. He even played in his crib when he woke up, telling his stuffed animals to, “Wait yo turn!” He was all proud of himself for sleeping through the night, too: “Mama, you powda me?” I totally thought we had it in the bag. But, no. As the Rascal would say, “Not really.” Actually, it’s more like, “Not reeee-eey.”
But, now that he’s back to NOT sleeping through the night, I miss when he WAS sleeping through the night. Especially since my bed is extra packed these days because my parents are away in California. Yes. It’s their fault. Because now, not only is Rascal in my bed, but also
and
Minden, MAARGE (looking très creepy up there), and my parents’ dog Olivia — or, as the Monkey likes to call her, “Yulivia” (we refuse to correct this), and, as the Rascal likes to call her, “Yayvah Yayvah Yayvah” (we refuse to correct this). Olivia’s deaf. All of them and THE RASCAL (never mind Josh…) aggressively vie for my slumberous attention throughout the night…. Actually they’re vying for my attention all the time — right at this very moment as a matter of fact. Minden is purring on top of me, and I can hardly see the computer screen. Have I made any typos?
As you may have noticed in my last post, I’m on a bit of a spiritual kick. And, I know, that doesn’t explain a thing about WHAT THE HELL that post was, but that’s the point (or the non-point). Maybe “spiritual” isn’t the right word. And hopefully this isn’t a “kick.” Because, as I said in that last post, I’m happy — happy not trying to be happy. Because trying to be happy presupposes that I’m not happy. And if I step outside my bumbling brain for a bit and look at things as they are, I’m damn happy. Yeeaahh.
“Spiritual” is definitely not the right word either. I’ve sort of been-there-done-that, and it didn’t stick. It was definitely a “kick.” I don’t even really care if the psychic across the road from the big bookstore I frequent is really psychic or not, or even if I have a “spirit guide,” and what his name is, or if my dead cat is communicating with me when I’m sleeping. Because, at least for me, it doesn’t matter. Matter.
Regular yoga practice is teaching me this. How good practicing yoga makes me feel doesn’t matter. Matter. What matters is what’s here, what’s clear. My cat sitting on my lap, purring, now turning to me with stinky wet kisses, the click-clicking of the keys under my fingertips, my daughter upstairs serenading her dad: “it’s not my fault, the police gave me a ticket once because it’s not catching up to you, na-na-na-na-na” (#wtf?). Time passes quickly, and I’m done squandering my life.
So there are things to let go of. Me, the clinger. Addictions, fears, desires, anxieties. This doesn’t mean I plan on repressing or transcending these things, or never-ever-having-a-Starbucks-soy-no-water-tazo-chai-ever-again-EVER. It just means watching, noticing, observing the patterns, the wanting, the cravings — human stuff that we all get sucked into, stuck in. Not caring where it all comes from or why.
This is all a little something I’m learning from him (ignore the old caption — try)…
…and through him (who happens to have been my best friend when I was around 4-6 years old — so, kind of kismet)…
One day, I’ll have the guts to go to Michael Stone’s studio, maybe take a class, maybe let him know the impact he’s had on my life and, so, the lives around me….
Don’t worry, I’m still loving The Real Housewives. Just dancing more to the beat of my own drummer. And maybe even to a little Alicia Keys, because…
…because that’s what my girls are playing because we’re going to NYC — Blogher ‘10 — this summer with a whole bunch of other fabulous people whom I genuinely love. Come with us!? God help me, my family’s coming, too! But they’ll be staying with Josh’s sister and husband in Brooklyn. Yes, it will be quite the roadtrip. And I expect to overhear many a backseat conversation, such as this little nugget from today:
TANGENT!!!!!!!!!!!!!
All that matters: my amazing family, good friends, authenticity (but not the cliche kind), the world, this earth, “this ground.” What doesn’t matter: “big bloggers,” stats, twitter followers, fame, what-if’s, what so-and-so thinks of how my kid behaved in the restaurant, or what so-and-so thinks of what I’m wearing (again)…. None of it matters. Too much squandering. Squandering.
So, basically, while I’m not going to give up squandering altogether (you’d have to PAY me to give up Housewives right now, and, hmmm, twitter), I’m a little more focused on what matters, on what’s real, here, and now, on this earth.
One more tweet for the road – because it came out of nowhere last week and is, dare I say, très apropos….
It’s about being here and now and balanced within an extremely unbalanced society, ecology, economy, etc., etc….
Kind of like this wonderful boy, my blog friend (and fellow T-Dot book clubber) Sandra Diaz’s eight-year-old son Zachary, raising thousands of dollars for assaulted women, and volunteering any way he can for other important charities. He was honoured at Disney on Ice the other night. That’s yoga — as opposed to “blissing out” in hot pink lululemons. I got to take a picture….
Though it’s a fabulous workout and great for the nervous system, the heart of yoga is in the here and now. In not escaping but being present and active anywhere that you’re needed. Most people don’t realize it. Most people don’t realize how enlightening it is to really be in the here and now — through yoga, meditation, and even just reading (maybe even a blog post?) about it.
Bottom line in 140 characters or less? I don’t care about small stuff anymore. Dunzo. (Okay more than 140 characters.) I will continue to wear my flaws on my sleeve. But I’ll let them be. I’ll go with the flow and focus on what matters. Really matters.
It’s a work in progress…, of course.
People ask me about yoga and yoga books/dvds all the time. So, basically: Michael’s books (he has three of them now) — Cheaty RECOMMENDS.
So he’s walking around with his father’s iTouch now. And he’s talking. A lot. Unfortunately, he likes to start most of his words with “f.” This is only really a problem when he’s yelling words like “cracker” over and over again in the grocery store — which has been known to happen. “F*CKER!!! F*CKER!!!” Nice, Rascal. Nice.
So I have a cold — again. Because I don’t take care of myself: I don’t do enough yoga, I don’t eat right (despite what everyone thinks for some reason), I don’t take my vitamins, and my sniffly kids and smelly cat constantly cover me with sloppy kisses. I am so loved. Loved enough that I don’t care that I have the sniffles right now.
So I don’t care about a lot of things I used to care about. Including getting out a decent blog post every time (ahem)…. The internet can suck you in and spit you out and suck you back in again. It spit me out yesterday — and I quite like it here, all spit out. I’m in a good place. I think I’ll stay here. Covered in spit.
So I just wrote three freelance pieces. Yes, I’m freelance writing, like professional for, like, here and here. And I have very little writing steam left in me tonight because of the hours of writing, the sore eyes and sniffles. I really wasn’t going to blog this evening. But the internet spit me out yesterday, so you know….
So now that I’ve written something here, I DO have to go to bed and attempt to read this month’s book club pick (450+ pages!): The Help, by Kathryn Stockett.
So far, it’s excellent. I can easily say I’ve never read anything like it. Deep into the heart of the Mississippi, the Internet spit me out, 1962….
So I remember a while back, this blogger I used to read. She said she loathed when people started sentences with “So.” And so ever since then I’ve been a little self-conscious about my “So”s at the beginning of sentences. But, you see, I don’t care so much now because the internet spit me out. It had to, you know. I wanted it to.
It doesn’t take much to make me anxious — like a lot of mothers I know, actually! And one of my techniques for easing anxiety is to practice being thankful. This works because being thankful brings you back from the projected future (the anxiety) to the present, the here and now. It totally works. Anyway, checkit!
RASCAL: Evvybody luff me, Mama?
ME: Yes, Rascal! Everybody loves you!
Now, go on over to my latest post at Canada Moms Blog, and see what else I’m thankful for. Hint: it rhymes with “Shmeal Shmousewives.” But, first, DO TELL: what are you thankful for today?
Rascal’s sitting glued to me. I normally don’t open my computer much when he’s around. Especially since Florida. I’d made a pact with myself to limit work time to when the nanny’s here (4 mornings a week) and after the kids go to bed. But, he’s happy here sucking on his organic cherry lollipop. And we’re both sick. And the Monkey’s sick.
And I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the large man who sat on top of beside me on the plane to Florida coughing into his FIST the whole way there. I knew I was done for when I noticed the fist. I mean, GOSH, when you cough into your FIST on a plane, where do you THINK your germs are going? Straight to me, and the other lucky person sitting under your other elbow and butt cheek. She, too, probably spent her vacation flummoxed by a mysterious rash that made her feel like she was dipped in acid. She, too, probably barfed all the way home from Disney World to West Palm Beach. And she, too, probably spent nights trying to swallow through spike-covered knives in her throat. And she, too, is probably still trying to recover, feverish, eyes burning, fingers aching while trying to type some semblance of a blog post. Although I’m not sure she has a son who’s also sick and sticking to her like glue all night long, or that she has a blog — but doesn’t everyone have a blog these days? — or, okay, she’s trying to facebook…. Facebooking. “Facebook”’s a verb, now, right?
Not that I have anything against large people, OF COURSE. I mean, that guy on the plane, who boomeranged his virus off his fist and into my throat, wasn’t even really obese or anything, per se. He was just obscenely big boned — which is okay, and probably a good thing for a guy in any other situation. But, he wasn’t very friendly. He didn’t laugh at my jokes, or at the Rascal’s hand when it mysteriously appeared between the two seats in front of us, vroom-vrooming a new Thomas the Train that It’sgrandma and Papa’shere picked up at Target. I mean, GOSH.
So, now Minden’s sitting on my lap purring — well, he’s been on my lap this whole time, but I’ve only just noticed this because I’m so used to it. It’s OLD HAT. Yes, I’ve been sandwiched (in an awkward way) between Rascal and Minden this whole time. Rascal’s just discovered Minden’s shoulder blade, and now he loves bones:
“Mama, I yuf bones! I yuf bones! Mama, I wan wadah, I wan wadah, I wan wadah. I yuf bones. I wan wadah. NOW MAMA, I MADAH YOU!” (Trans. “I love bones”; “Mama, I want water!”; “Now, Mama, I’m mad at you.”)
He wants water and he wants it now. Good thing I can type without looking at the keyboard OR screen because he’s got my chin in his little hands now. He wants “wadah” and he wants it NOW. And I’m still typing.
After I get him his water, I’ll take him for a bath. He’ll get a book and go to bed — the new egg-shaped humidifier (which the Rascal thinks is making tea, as in “Make? Tea? Mama?”) humming. And then at 12 or 1am, he’ll scream the unbearable scream for me. And I’ll bring him to my bed, and he’ll lie glued on top of me for the rest of the night, like the large man on the airplane, and, alas, if it’s anything like last night, he’ll be coughing directly into my throat. But I won’t mind.
