HI, MY NAME IS ANGI, AND I'M ADDICTED TO MY CELL PHONE.

I slowly sink down into the tub with an audible sigh, the warmth tucking me in. Slithering forward until the back of my head is submerged, the sounds become muffled as water surrounds my ears, the buzzing forcibly muting thoughts of anything else, sucking me into the moment at hand. I rest there for a minute, taking slow, cognizant breaths, eyeing the ceiling, noticing details I previously had not, like the peace that silence extends and, of course, things that need cleaning.

A few times per week, I take baths. Quiet, warm, and cozy, they’re my winter indulgence. Typically, I grab a book, a bathrobe… and my phone. The intention is always to read, but often I don’t make it there, planning to quickly check email. Mindlessly and with inevitability, my fingers walk from Google to Facebook to Instagram … And then 20 minutes have passed as quickly as they came, my body too warm to stand another second, face damp with sweat, I emerge having squandered my bit of reprieve and solitude.

But what is it, the payoff? To disconnect from life? Responsibility? Or the alternative- connection and the search for stimulation? In all likelihood, a bit of both.

On days when things are rewarding, the phone doesn’t receive a second thought, banished to the darkness of the nightstand drawer for hours on end. Those moments, when my entire family is home and together, brimming with interaction and activity, it acts as an enemy, overwhelming me, reminiscent of a heavy rock strapped to my back. Even a text message can feel like an assault.

Other days, it’s akin to a best friend, offering comfort and distraction amidst the predictability of weekday chores and schedules, a lifeline instead of a burden. 

How can this dichotomy exist, and with such emotional polarity?

The missing link appears to be purpose. But, the to-do list of motherhood IS purposeful. Laundry, cleaning, cooking- all purpose laden because they involve an enormous role that we’ve taken on. We can’t omit them from our weeks. They are part of parenting, but so is going to the park with your husband and children and climbing the treehouse together, or confiscating your five-year old’s scooter to ride as fast as you can downhill.

The difference is that those things are fun, they’re fulfilling. My heart literally feels full after moments of that kind, a balloon slowly inflating, and my chest stays swollen for hours beyond.

Laundry, not so much.

But, we can’t run off all the time in search of satisfying interactions with friends and family. The purposeful drudgery has to happen, to remind us of how sweet the alternative is, and so your son can get back into his favorite sweatpants after you do it, his face lighting up and inflating your balloon of a heart a lil', on a Tuesday morning.

It’s okay to sometimes lose yourself in the phone. The folded underwear and rumpled shirts in front of you won’t mind. Inspiration and information abound on social media, even if a lot of sifting is required to get there. Embrace the connection that can be found as you sit on a to-do list that isn’t nearly as fun as riding fast down a hill or racing your son and losing fair and square with a belly laugh. 

But, on this to-do list day in the tub, my phone was at 1%, so I set it aside and noticed my senses, experienced being unstimulated, and got my hair wet. These moments, alone and silent, shouldn’t be stolen by mindless social media surfing. There's a discomfort with idleness that we've all come to feel because stimulation is consistently at our fingertips in a plethora of forms. Birthing, allowing, and nurturing occasions of nothingness can help center us and rebalance that habitual restlessness. Instead of finishing the bath sweaty and heavy, I felt dewy, light, and uplifted; ready to conquer the list, to answer the calls of the crock pot below, to be present with my daughter and the boys, after they returned from school.

What I’m trying to say is that it’s not about good or bad, yes or no. This isn’t a black and white issue. Sometimes we need that connection, even if it’s vaguely false in its cyber nature. But, it’s important to protect the moments that we can fill up without it, guard them with our heart balloons so that we can be walking on high as often as life permits.

-Angi

*Tips for helping with phone addiction:

-Turn your phone to grayscale. Pictures aren’t nearly as interesting in black and white. Just press the home key 3 times to switch back and forth.

-Move your apps that prove to be the greatest offenders around, so your fingers can’t mindlessly wander to them.

-Commit to keeping the phone in a drawer for the first 20 minutes upon waking. Starting off on the right foot can set the tone for the rest of your day. Of course, this requires nixing it as an alarm clock.

-Make certain rooms tech-free, like the bathroom. (You might have to think in there. Gasp!)

-Give yourself 10 minutes with it at night, and then agree to tune into your spouse instead.

-Never while eating, and please, never with friends.

POST PARDON ME- Sharing the Manifestation of Postpartum Depression.

I looked up through the night that was closing in around our apartment building. The slender crack of light glowing where the curtains wouldn’t touch, in our second story bedroom window, revealed that life was hidden within. That was where my newborn baby was. Moments ago, I’d pulled my aching nipple from her locked lips and then held my breath in anticipation of her cry, as she searched for me, suckling the air between us. This time, peace came to her, and she fell back to sleep. Relieved, I rolled onto my back and freed the sigh held captive in my chest.

“Sleep when she sleeps”

My midwife’s words came to me; tired mothers are weepy, I must maintain a diligence against postpartum. If I am not well rested the wear and tear of becoming a mother might make me sad; the deep red stretch marks etched over my abdomen, the repeatedly fresh, pink wounds resistant to heal on my nipples, the warm tangy smell of spit-up breast-milk clinging to the sheets on my bed, these things could quickly add up to an “unreliably” negative outlook.

I mouthed her name silently, still trying it on, as mother speaking to daughter. I had done this countless times while pregnant with her, rubbing circles on the growing fundus of my baby, and saying aloud the name she would fulfill;

“Haven”

I turned my head to receive the dose of oxytocin that accompanied her very existence, the folds of brand new skin squished together under her protruding lips. My eyes followed the sweet round curve of her cheek that led to a tiny glimpse of her elusive neck. I was well aware that my hormones were adjusting, picturing the trail of neurotransmitters in my body failing to light, lacking the glow that fueled all that bygone pregnant-contentment: estrogen, progesterone, endorphins, all of them once wrapped together in my grasp. Now I felt them dropping like a delicate glass ball that I scrambled to get a hold of before it left my fingers and shattered.

She wouldn’t slumber for long. I had only just stopped sleeping with her in the living room, a nest of pillows shoved around me in the papasan chair so that she could rest with her belly to mine, her cheek pressed into my chest, upright and closer than close. This yielded sleep. This was a solution to the night walks, fruitless burping, and instant spit-ups that splashed us awake when she was vertical. I had an army of supplies encircling our nest, everything was set to be a fingers-stretch away: diapers, wipes, burping cloths, giant glass of water.

“You must stay hydrated.”

Marilyn’s voice again. She told us both, repeatedly, as we sat side by side at our monthly appointments, John’s warm protective fingers laced in mine, that it was up to us to to do all these things (so many things). I didn’t understand at the time that my future baby would hold me personally accountable for all of her needs, whereas John would need me to explicitly ask for backup; assistance in successfully fulfilling all those needs. I had no idea how incapable I would feel asking for the amount of help that I actually needed. So, as I grabbed the empty water cup in my hand and reset it beside me, stuffing my thirst away, I thought of him; his body in our bed, sleeping as he always had, committing crimes with his well rested-ness, smuggling away all the availability to move freely through this world, his potential to pop up and get a drink of water without considering the impact it would make on the universe.

I rolled silently from the bed and stood admiring the tiny lump she made. Maybe we were progressing, this sleeping girl in the middle of our bed, perhaps she would allow our invisible tether to stretch and I could reconnect with solitary me. I retreated to the bathroom, lowering the seat over what was beginning to look like a frat house toilet bowl. I sat there and cried while listening to the soft chuckles from the living-room where John and our roommate, Matt played Zelda. I needed a place that I could wail. I needed a comfort that I wasn’t sure existed anymore. If I took two steps to the right, my reflection would be waiting for me and the ugliness there was too much. I had showered a total of two times, once immediately after birth and once while John paced in the bathroom, fearfully cradling our baby as her cries echoed off the walls. In that moment, I was terrified that she would cry too hard. I quickly rinsed the soap from my head and watched as startling amounts of my hair washed down the drain. Like the freak show I was evolving into, I pulled back the curtains to reveal my naked form, framed by the vapor just beginning to cling to the mirror. Nothing can prepare you for that; the empty womb pouch, extra weight, swollen breasts and stretched skin, nipples elongated and transformed by their productivity, tired, tired eyes and skin and ...ugh.

Those same bathroom walls were now closing in on me. I pulled my bathrobe around myself and walked through the living room unnoticed. I didn’t want to be seen. I left our apartment and carefully descended the cement steps outside and was met with a rush of cold air on my face as I left the alcove. I gasped and choked on my own breath and crumpled. The pitty I harbored for myself at that moment was heavy enough to pull me down. And I cried my fucking face off. I repeatedly mouthed “I can’t do it”, glancing into that sliver of light above me where she was, ashamed of the remorse and angst and confusion that I felt for motherhood.

I couldn’t raise a hand to count my blessings. I was failing at this thing. I had to get it together before anyone knew. I had to breathe. I needed to get up. Just then a shrill whine called from behind that upstairs windowpane. Haven. My body was moving up the stairs before I had time to make a conscious choice. I floated through the living-room in my long white robe like the ghost of woman’s past and disappeared down the hallway. She needed me, no matter how disassembled I felt at that moment, my parts would provide her comfort and nourishment. And, if I couldn’t get those things for myself, I could find solace in being the one who could give them to her.

I revisit this moment in my history, time and time again. There was a very metaphorical ‘window of opportunity’ showing itself to me that night, that view from below, that last bit of light shining through. Hours passed that night and I couldn’t console Haven’s cries; when she wouldn’t latch, wouldn’t stay swaddled, or be rocked, I kneeled over the bed and abruptly released her body from my arms. Then I said out loud “I don’t want you.” Instantly I clapped a hand over my mouth. I backed away from her horrified. I rushed down the hallway and jerked John awake from the couch, confessing the thing I’d done.

“I told her I didn’t want her! I told her I didn’t want her… John!”

He jumped up, putting his hands on my shoulders, looking a little terrified. Realizing that something bad may have happened, he let go of me and ran for Haven. I buried my face in my hands. He returned with an instantly consoled baby in one arm. With the other, he embraced me.

“Emily, shhh... she’s okay. She’s okay. You’re okay.”

He guided me to bed.

“Sleep.”

He tucked me in and kissed my wet cheek. With Haven in his arms, he switched off the light and closed the bedroom door. Sometime in the night he inserted her warm body back against mine, exposing my breast for her. He held me, us, a family. I would learn to depend on him. He would learn to make himself available. Our children would grow from this direct exchange between us. I would continue, from this moment on, to look for those slivers of light and connect them, knowing there would be hardship in between. But, also knowing we would make it.“Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.”

Leonard Cohen

-Emily

PEACE OVER PRODUCTIVITY- My adult ADD diagnosis.

I love me a list.

If it involves bulleted numbers, due dates, and a checkbox that’s even better. Once upon a time, I was rigid about my schedule. Every fifteen minutes of my day was scheduled out in advance and I rarely, if ever, varied from the preset schedule for that day. A model of efficiency, this historical performance-driven behavior explains the shocking (to me) conclusion my family and some of my friends have drawn that I am an organized individual. In fact, I even believed it for a while there.

For about 15 hours in 2016, I considered becoming a professional organizer- like as an actual occupation. I met with one friend who was kind enough to let me practice on her. Four hours and twelve Target runs later it was glaringly obvious to both of us; this was not meant to be. I had so much fun that afternoon, but the reality was we had made zero progress and wasted a good deal of gas. I mean, it never occurred to me to map out the scope of the project as a whole before shopping. My sweet friend broke it to me very gently that she was no longer in need of my services. What she was kind enough to withhold was probably something along the lines of, “Thanks, but I can waste gas and time roaming the aisles of Target on my own, so why would I pay you to do it for me?”

Based on my own circle of girlfriends alone, I am fairly confident I am not unique among women in craving routine. Structure. Beyond purpose, an actual plan for how the day will move from point “A” to point “B.” Maybe it's the hormones, but in about 2.7 seconds my thoughts/feelings can go from, “My children are the most precious things on the planet. I love them so much I never want to be away from them for a second,” to “Sweet Lord, I need 72 hours alone- 24 of them just to sleep...would it be normal to walk into a mental health facility and volunteer myself for a 72-hour hold?” You guys, I’m totally kidding. Mostly.

But seriously, the structure of a schedule ensures that I won’t get lost in every thought/feeling and since those change regularly, and often at the speed of light, that is a good thing. I wish I had $100.00 for every time I walked into a room to do a thing, only to find myself murmuring to no one,“Why did I come in here?” So I do the only thing one can do in that situation; return to the room I came from and try to recover the lost slice of my mind that informed me of what I intended to do next. And repeat.

Clearly, I need my schedule. It gives my days a sense of productivity. And productivity is key, right?  

By nature, I am not organized, but for years I managed to mask that fact with rigidity and sheer willpower. Also, I never cut myself slack. There was no question as to how I would get it all done - I just would. “Yes,” was my favorite response. I would have told you it was because I was capable and reliable. The truth is, I was terrified that if I said, “No,” I would miss out, or even worse, whoever was asking might not like me. (Gasp!) So, I scheduled myself to the minute, never varied, squeezed two day’s work or activity into one calendar day and was perpetually exhausted. I actually believed that productivity was more important than, well, anything. Unfortunately, this pattern continued through the early years of my marriage and into the first couple years of parenting. With my first, I was able to keep up the act and convince myself it was necessary.

Then I had two children.

Personally, nothing else in my life (and I do mean nothing!) has required me to address my innately selfish nature the way motherhood has. At the time I was entirely unaware that I had it pretty damn good with my firstborn. She essentially came out of the womb asking for instructions and clarifying where the boundaries are, so as not to violate them. Had she been an only child, I imagine I might have become an obnoxious version of myself that believes I am far better at this whole mothering thing than I actually am. My second child is my very own slice of humble pie. He has a heart of gold and wants desperately to please me and anyone else he loves. But two children to my one self came with a whole new set of tasks that had to be worked into a whole new routine. And number two, by nature, was simply less compliant than number one.

Turns out, number two has ADHD. I’ll give you two guesses where he got that from?

At 35 years old, I was finally diagnosed with ADD. Much to my own surprise, my first thought was one of intense relief. I finally had an explanation (of sorts) for why I have had to work so hard to stay on top of things. Having a name for this struggle gave me a sense of peace about my reality; without my list and the ability to check things off of it, I wind up feeling unproductive, but now I have a deeper understanding of why. Knowing that “Why” has allowed me to move in the direction of embracing the truth of my own reality instead of circling the drain of the comparison trap. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK...

-Tawni

I AM NOT YOUR GURU- Sometimes when you let go, the people around you grow the most.

When I met my husband, I was well read in the virtues of new age spirituality and quick to run my mouth off about it. Alas, the walk didn’t match the talk. I’d done little to actually integrate anything I’d learned.

In my defense, reading had brought me to a point of understanding my beliefs about the afterlife and not left me with much in the way of how to live the one I was still in. It was like knowing my ABC’s but not yet how to read. Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to see that part in the books. Having recently come out of a failed marriage, personal progress was less of a concern than survival. If your energies are tied up in an emotional battleground, whether with yourself or another, stagnation is a typical byproduct. Even though I was out of that situation and in something healthier, I was still finding my footing, regaining my confidence.

Sean, my now husband, found all of my spiritual mumbo-jumbo to be just that. He wasn’t interested, having chosen Christianity of his own accord in high school, and practicing with friends for a few years. There was skepticism about religion as “big business” and blind obedience to socially ancient political agendas. I saw that willingness to question established dogma as a crack in the foundation that I could weasel into.

I used my newness with him to push my perspective, dropping books in his lap left and right. Out of kindness and respect for me and our still novel relationship, he kinda read some of them.

It should come as no surprise that he found them to be absolute bullshit. He wasn’t looking for anything. They weren’t calling to him like beacons in the night, the way they had to me. He’d come with his own vision for spirituality, but I’m an infamous know-it-all, relentless to a fault, so I kept pushing. Cue the annoying girl at the party, forcing drinks down everyone’s throats, “making” them have a good time. You know my type, you’ve met a few of me before, probably nursed hangovers because of the me’s in the world.

I’m going to fast forward six years, because it was all more of the same, but with a slow and subtle decline in pushiness. Three children later, a lack of time had robbed me of my ability to care very much about other people’s life choices, a brilliant and much-needed thievery.

The afterlife part was concreted for me, it was nothing I needed to hash out and didn't receive much attention anymore, being of little bearing on my todays and tomorrows. The reading continued, but with emphasis on how to live in a fulfilling manner while owning my own shit. Self-help books instead of Sylvia Brown books riddled with countless trips to psychics, trying to wrangle information from them that could dismiss me of personal responsibility for the outcome of my life. I never did end up with those two sets of twins promised by the chain-smoking, botched plastic surgery faced Gerry.

But that husband of mine, I still couldn’t get him to agree with me, dammit, in spite of all my reading aloud from Earth-shattering books (poor Sean). There were fights, lots of them. He was slightly broken down. He didn’t really subscribe to his previous beliefs, but he wasn’t buying in to mine either. Full disclosure- he’s stubborn, and I’m pushy. This can be difficult, on an array of fronts. (I will not ever try to buy him clothes again.)

And then I just gave up.

I decided to quietly believe my shit and leave him alone. In fact, I decided to do that with everyone (except in my book club on spirituality, cuz that was a proper venue).

I don’t know if his beacon was calling to him or if me shutting up made space for him to see it, but something incredible happened. He started to believe. All by himself.

He didn’t read any of my books. He bought his own, decidedly more pragmatic in nature, but at their core, the same damn business. They weren’t about the afterlife. That’s of zero interest to him. Nothing too “woo woo,” but all in the same vein as my core beliefs: You are but the product of your thoughts and because of that, you have control over your responses and can manifest greatness and abundance or their opposites (in a teeny tiny nutshell). He even started eating healthy and waking up early. Gasp. Wtf. It’s 5:30 am and Sean is currently downstairs meditating, doing yoga, and gratitude journaling, while drinking Bulletproof coffee. Seriously, wtf.

I’m not pulling any “told you so’s.” I’m just giddy about it, in awe of the coalition that has arisen from this coming together, the strength that we possess as a unit, now rooted in personal power and responsibility. I respect that he’s come at it from a completely different angle than me, for his own purposes, to fulfill his own desires, and answer his own questions. I’m growing leaps and bounds through our mutual points of view of varying origins, through enlightening, empowering dialogues, and cohesive desires.

But, I needed to give him the space to get there. There being wherever he needed to be. I shouldn't have had expectations, or projected my "right." Constant chirping didn’t sway him. The ideology may have cracked the door a little, or slightly opened his mind to unconventional credos, but ultimately, this seems to be where he was always meant to land, with or without me. 

Having witnessed this process within my own marriage, friend and family relationships, and studying the art of allowing people to just do them, something that doesn’t come naturally for me (I know I’m such a weirdo… the why’s of that are a whole other blog), I’m slowly learning that everyone gets wherever they need to be eventually, whether in this life or the next, emphasis on slowlyyyyy- it’s that difficult for me to de-invest from other people’s lives. I’ll never stop sharing information because you can lead a horse to water… it’s the make them drink part that I’m working on.

In life and at parties, no more pouring drinks down anyone’s throats. Just some clinking of glasses over the beauty of our differences.

It feels good, not shouldering the weight of other’s choices, a self-imposed burden I was never meant to bear.

-Angi

HISTORY AND HELL RAISING- How Generational Gaps Among Families Serve to Bend our Beliefs.

The day after Christmas two of my favorite people show up on my doorstep; they appear unannounced like it’s going out of style. It’s kind of an “old-school bad-assary” vibe as they walk through the door. They have shunned all the hype about the ways of the interweb; social media is for idiots and sinners, and they are ‘keeping it real’ without the constant communication of cellular devices. They are like a couple of really sweet, familiar gangsters that roll up on you in the middle of the day while you’re wearing sweatpants, no bra, and a greasy top bun: they’re old, they do what they want. These are my grandparents.

I tell myself, as I feign a wide relaxed smile, that it’s okay to be loved for who I am. The kitchen is littered with last night’s dinner dishes, a shocker to any 50’s housewife. I wince at the thought of them focusing in on my holiday banner: “Peace on Earth, Good Will Towards Feminists, People of Color and LGBTQ.” They probably wouldn’t sneak-attack visit me if I made more of a priority to go and visit them on the reg. But, since I don't (and clearly harbor some shame for my ingrate-granddaughter-ness) they have a pass to get all up in my business whenever they feel like it.

Well into their eighties, my grandparents come with all the quirks that most human beings suffer from at this advanced age: aches and pains are accumulating, minds are wandering, and little fucks are given about what is acceptable to say to people’s faces. On their surprise visit, prior to this one, my grandma picked up the Rad American Women A-Z book from our living room shelf and flipped quietly through the pages. She noted, with spitfire efficiency, that an honored lesbian woman was being celebrated on one of its pages. Dismissively, she tossed the book down onto my coffee table and turned to my grandpa. “Gene,” she said, not a bit under her breath, “they’re raising a bunch of queers.”

Obviously, these two beloved people have ways of thinking that are ingrained. I lack any true resolve to promote a progressive opposition. The ‘Fox News’ laced opinions that they share with me are just the tip of the iceberg. I hear the history in my grandparent’s judgments. My grandmother’s childhood looks like Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath; families of farmers subsisting on the little fruits of their own labor. The only great thing about the midwest at this time is a depression. Folks are terrified by the changes in supposed “separate but equal” policies. My own great-grandmother depended on an orphanage to raise my grandma during some of her formidable teen years. Shit. Was. Real.

After my grandparents were married and anchored down in California suburbia, the honeymoon was short-lived. They were handed two young cousins to raise, as well as providing for the three children that they brought into this world on their own. There was a strict adherence to the literal reprimand of “spare the rod, spoil the child”. My grandpa spent long hard hours on the road as a trucker. Roosevelt's “New Deal” must have felt like a smack in the face to a man who had to choose between devoted husband, attentive father, or reliable provider. I feel a deep sadness for the young motherhood that my grandma had to traverse mostly on her own. I know my grandparents did the best they could with the lives they were given.  

On this day, my children are blessed to have great-grandparents. They came to our house laden with presents, wrapped in paper and ribbons that would shame JC Penny’s gift wrapping department. I’m also pretty sure that the only reason Avon is still in business is due in part to my grandma’s loyalty. My four kids tore through the fancy packages to reveal an abundance of trinkets and toys. I am relieved that, for the most part, they manage to make eye contact and say thank you. My youngest buries her head in my stomach only for a moment, to burst into tears as the last presents are opened, and she can’t control her desire to have more. Oh, Christmas. I manage to say something humbling about expectations and kids. My grandma noticeably glances at my grandfather with a look of disapproval.

They have come like the wise men, suddenly there, bearing gifts and judgment, and Dollar Tree bread: two whites and two wheats, because they didn’t know which type we preferred. I thank them graciously and imagine the geese that we will feed this bread to at Bass Lake, the following day. I am well aware that a treasure trove of wisdom lies in these two worn vessels; they have lived entire lives, more than double my own. The deep well of memories I can draw upon to recall my youth is flooded with their presence: loving me as a child, guiding me as a teenager, and supporting me as a confused adult. No matter the circumstance, they have always been there to embrace me as one of their own.

I walk them slowly out to the driveway a short hour later. My grandma maneuvers out from her walker to get into the car as my grandpa unfurls a dozen dollar-store noodles out of his trunk and into my arms. I buckle the shrinking mother of my mother into the passenger seat, making sure she is comfortable. I glance at the Trump bumper stickers plastered across the dash; ‘Jesus is King’ dangles from a windchime attached to the rearview mirror. I fear that my grandpa’s view of the road will be obstructed, that they are too old to be so independent. I feel like we are miles apart from each other, even as I kiss my grandma’s cheek.

She tenderly grabs my children one by one and pulls them into her frail arms to plant kisses on their cheeks. She reminds us that not a day passes when she doesn’t pray for each of my family members by name (even the future queers). Maybe our very existence is a startling opposition to what they believe. Because we are family, they will love us first and quietly chastise us second. Hopefully, the takeaway will be that not all democratic, snob-bread-eating, non-believers are monsters. And I can look forward to the handful of times that I still have left to spend graced by their sudden presence in my life.

-Emily