Sunday was Mother's Day.
My father-in-law called from the other side of the world to wish me a happy mother's day. The boy reminded him that I am not a mother, and he replied that I was a mother to our cats and the dog, so "that's something..."
I know he was trying to be sweet, and had nothing but the best of intentions, but it added a piercing blow to my already aching heart.
Whenever people ask me if I have kids I feel my stomach sink a little, and a twinge of grief creeps into my heart. "Oh, your time will come!" they always assure me. Or they casually assume that we can easily adopt, if we wanted to, and I don't care to explain the costs and lengthy processes to them.
We spent the day at my sister-in-law's home with the boy's family. My mother-in-law was there, as well as my sister-in-law's mother-in-law (I know, that's a lot of "in-laws" in one sentence, and reads pretty awkwardly, forgive me!). I love spending time with his family, and playing with our niece and nephew is one of my very favourite things... but all of the mothering, the fussing over mushy cards, the hugs and kisses and celebration of the wonderful relationship that is mother-to-child, left me feeling like I'd been kicked in the gut.
Of course I would never do anything to take away from their day. I enjoy the time I get to spend with the kids, and have some fun conversations with the adults. We share a meal, laugh together, and I manage to maintain a genuine-looking smile when I'm asked, again, when we plan to start our family.
"Soon, we hope!" I answer as sweetly as possible.
It is difficult to fail gracefully. I would like to say that I have become immune to the pain of watching everyone around me having children with ease, but I haven't. I feel like an outsider.
I feel this horrible longing to have what they have, and I feel awful because of my jealousy. I am conflicted and confused. I am so happy for them at the same time that I want to scream out that I DO NOT want to hear about it ANYMORE!!!
I feel selfish and ashamed. I know that I am not alone in this, nor am I the only woman struggling with fertility and procreation... but sometimes it feels that way.
I am nobody's mother. I am incomplete.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
roles-shmols.
I was upstairs on my mac, working, when The Boy, downstairs watching Y&R, starts laughing suddenly...
Me: "What's so funny?"
The Boy: "Haha ' The role of Heather Stevens will now be played by -' Imagine if you missed that? You'd be like, wtf? Who's this?"
Me: "Is she hot at least?"
The Boy: "Who?"
Me: "The new chick, is she hot at least?"
The Boy: "I guess, a little bit."
Me: "What's so funny?"
The Boy: "Haha ' The role of Heather Stevens will now be played by -' Imagine if you missed that? You'd be like, wtf? Who's this?"
Me: "Is she hot at least?"
The Boy: "Who?"
Me: "The new chick, is she hot at least?"
The Boy: "I guess, a little bit."
Friday, April 23, 2010
Happy Earth Day!
In honour of earth day today I spent the day working on my yard and getting things ready for this year's veggie garden.
Okay, full disclosure time... I was planning on doing it anyway, it was just convenient that yesterday was earth day! ;)
I really do try my best to be conscious of what impact I have on the environment, though there is so much more I could be doing, many of the "big" things, like having a hybrid or electric car, for example, are simply out of reach for me, due to the financial cost involved. However, there are many "little" things that I do to be as earth-friendly as I can, within my current means... here is a list:
Happy Earth Day! :)
Okay, full disclosure time... I was planning on doing it anyway, it was just convenient that yesterday was earth day! ;)
I really do try my best to be conscious of what impact I have on the environment, though there is so much more I could be doing, many of the "big" things, like having a hybrid or electric car, for example, are simply out of reach for me, due to the financial cost involved. However, there are many "little" things that I do to be as earth-friendly as I can, within my current means... here is a list:
- Every light bulb in my house is an energy-efficient compact fluorescent
- We use a programmable thermostat to maintain a temperature between 20 to 22°C, depending on the season and time of day, and often don't use the furnace or central air at all in the spring and fall
- I keep a small veggie garden as well as an herb garden... you just can't beat home-grown tomatoes, beans, peppers, carrots, etc... so much yumminess!
- Planting bee-attracting wild flowers in my yard
- Composting yard clippings and garden trimmings
- I do not use pesticides or artificial fertilizers on my lawn or garden. I get down on my hands and knees and yank out anything I don't want in there
- We bring our own reusable cloth grocery bags for shopping
- We like to seek out locally grown foods, and try to buy produce from within Ontario when possible (full disclosure - I can't live without things like coffee & chocolate, so I would never be able to make it on a true local or macrobiotic diet)
- I really enjoy patronizing farmer’s markets
- We use non-toxic cleaning supplies, or simple "home solutions" like vinegar, or baking soda. This includes laundry detergent & dish soap that is phosphate and nitrate free
- We do not buy bottled water, and have instead invested in a reverse-osmosis filtration system for our kitchen sink that supplies us with our drinking water
- Bringing our own water with us in reusable bottles/containers
- All of our laundry is washed in cold water
- We try to purchase products that use as little packaging as possible, or are made using post-consumer products
- We buy recycled toilet paper
- Our city has a fantastic waste-management program that requires all waste be sorted into three specific categories for separate processing... this allows us to ensure that we are recycling all paper, plastic, glass, and aluminum products. All compostable/biodegradable materials are sent to a different facility for use in biomass energy production. This ensures that very limited amounts of garbage end up in landfill.
- Both my husband and I work from home (I own a small home-based business, and he telecommutes), so our car is not used very often
Happy Earth Day! :)
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Bad Company.
I got this on my Formspring today:
Since I have neglected you - my dear blog - for a long while now, I thought I would share my answer here, since my response felt like something I would share here anyway...
Alright... Here's a random memory:
When I was nine years old, my Mom, little brother, sister, and I went to live with my mom's friend Mandy and her family for a while.
That summer the whole lot of us went to visit people who I think were Mandy's relatives. They lived in this really cool old house that had "secret" passageways between some of the rooms, including upstairs bedrooms and the attic. Creaky wooden doors in the backs of closets led to hidden, narrow hallways behind the walls. The house had a humid, sticky feeling to it, and for some reason I remember there being lots and lots house plants around.
It was made clear that we were to stay out of the way. While the adults sat in the backyard in a circle of lawn chairs, shooting the breeze, drinking, and whatever else, all of us kids crept around upstairs, pretending we were spies on an adventure.
I remember crawling up to this window that was open just a few inches, overlooking the backyard. It was one of those old wood-framed windows, with years of white paint caked over the hardware, weighing it down. There was a can (or maybe it was a jar?) propping it open, and all I could hear was "Feel like makin' love" by Bad Company blasting out of a stereo somewhere downstairs and into the yard. The smell of weed being smoked wafted in the window, accompanied by the heavy ozone smell that summer air takes on just before a thunderstorm.
I remember looking at my mother, her head thrown back, laughing... smoke from her cigarette curling around face. She looked so happy in that instance. I remember wishing I could keep her that way... wishing I scoop her up, and put in my pocket, or hide her away in one of the secret passageways of that house. I remember feeling so sad, because I knew that I couldn't, and even at nine years old I was aware that time marches on and changes everything, no matter how much you wish it wouldn't...
I heard that song today on the radio, and I thought of my mom. In my mind it's been forever linked to her and that summer.
Since I have neglected you - my dear blog - for a long while now, I thought I would share my answer here, since my response felt like something I would share here anyway...
Alright... Here's a random memory:
When I was nine years old, my Mom, little brother, sister, and I went to live with my mom's friend Mandy and her family for a while.
That summer the whole lot of us went to visit people who I think were Mandy's relatives. They lived in this really cool old house that had "secret" passageways between some of the rooms, including upstairs bedrooms and the attic. Creaky wooden doors in the backs of closets led to hidden, narrow hallways behind the walls. The house had a humid, sticky feeling to it, and for some reason I remember there being lots and lots house plants around.
It was made clear that we were to stay out of the way. While the adults sat in the backyard in a circle of lawn chairs, shooting the breeze, drinking, and whatever else, all of us kids crept around upstairs, pretending we were spies on an adventure.
I remember crawling up to this window that was open just a few inches, overlooking the backyard. It was one of those old wood-framed windows, with years of white paint caked over the hardware, weighing it down. There was a can (or maybe it was a jar?) propping it open, and all I could hear was "Feel like makin' love" by Bad Company blasting out of a stereo somewhere downstairs and into the yard. The smell of weed being smoked wafted in the window, accompanied by the heavy ozone smell that summer air takes on just before a thunderstorm.
I remember looking at my mother, her head thrown back, laughing... smoke from her cigarette curling around face. She looked so happy in that instance. I remember wishing I could keep her that way... wishing I scoop her up, and put in my pocket, or hide her away in one of the secret passageways of that house. I remember feeling so sad, because I knew that I couldn't, and even at nine years old I was aware that time marches on and changes everything, no matter how much you wish it wouldn't...
I heard that song today on the radio, and I thought of my mom. In my mind it's been forever linked to her and that summer.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Venus - a watercolour nude
This artwork was done with Pentel watercolour paints and acid free, permanent, pigmented ink on 140 lb cold press watercolour paper. The paper size is 9x12".
Sunday, January 24, 2010
On thinking for yourself
Today I am cranky. I'm really trying not to be, but I hear myself being short with people, and feel as though I can't help it.
I was talking with my father on the phone earlier, and it has really soured my mood.
I know my dad means well when he starts trying to tell me about the virtues of some bastardized interpretation of a bible verse, and how we really should take the lord's advice on a particular topic, and I can barely contain the bubbling frustration in me that wants to point out to him that he should probably read the entire book for himself before he starts spouting off about how great and true it is.
He knows I'm not a fan of religion, but it seems as if he thinks it's some sort of a phase that I will grow out of, and it frustrates me.
It is so hard for me to feel the way I do when I have spent much of my life admiring my dad for his intelligence and strength. I don't want my father to feel like I'm talking down to him, but some of the things he says really set me off. How can a man with so much wisdom not see the hypocrisy in some of the things that he says? How can he start quoting scripture as if he is speaking in truisms, when he's never actually read The Bible himself, only had it read to him bits and pieces at a time, followed by some perverse interpretation and prophesying from some middle-aged, over-privileged white dude telling him how to analyze and apply the information.
I just want to yell at him to THINK FOR HIMSELF!!! for once, and really listen to what he is saying. Really analyze where that information is coming from, when it is coming from, and really question how much sense it makes. Really!
He likes to say he's a Christian, and how good and noble that is, how wonderful a guide for living he has, and he easily ignores any criticism of his supposed religion. My father hasn't even stepped foot in a church, save for the occasional wedding or funeral, in at least two decades. I've never witnessed him reading any literature on the subject, or having any conversations with any clergy or other religious scholars. He has this tiny little bit of information, and he clings to it and quotes it as if it were the absolute and complete truth, and it is driving me just a little bit mad.
Though I disagree with religion in an utterly complete way, I can at least understand the extremely pious individuals who had studied "the word" intensely and have found themselves to be passionate about the subject. I can respect a religious scholar or a learned clergyman who is able to debate on the subject, and defend their viewpoint, as much as I disagree with them. But when someone has very little knowledge of the subject about which they are arguing, they immediately lose any credibility, and this is what frustrates me when it comes up in conversation with my father.
He will mention something to me about a certain bible passage, and how it is words to live by, and sometimes I cannot help myself... I will point out to him that lovely as that verse may be, it is mere pages away from this other verse talking about stoning someone to death for gathering wood on the sabbath. I will ask him how he can pick and choose which verses he believes and lives by, and which ones he disregards. I will ask him how he can call his god a loving one, when his god would wipe out an entire city for daring to not acknowledge him in the way that he would like. I will ask him how he can believe that this book is one of love and goodness when it is filled with so much hate and violence, and I am so irritated when he easily brushes these questions aside... dismisses them as not being the important parts... being the wrong part of the book.
Apparently the new testament is the right testament... the old one, the original one, the one which provides a foundation for the other, is all irrelevant in the face of the new testament. Apparently, upon sending Jesus to earth, God got to take a mulligan on the entire old testament.
Some days it is so hard for me to continue talking to my father about anything else when I am so sad for him that he truly believes the things that he is saying. I have such a hard time taking anything else he says seriously, and this makes me so angry with myself.
I love my father. I love him so much, and I aspire to be as kind and strong, and gentle as he is. I hope to be half as wonderful a parent as he was to me when I was a small girl. Nearly every happy moment I have from my childhood involves him somehow... his strong hands pushing me on a swing, or lifting me from a pool... the way he turned scrambled eggs with cheese into the exciting and enticing "Eggs Surprise" that I would beg him to cook for me when I would see him during our scheduled weekend visitation. My father was a strong beacon of light and strength for me during some pretty dark years growing up, and I don't ever want to lose that.
But more and more often I am finding myself losing my patience when speaking with him, because he keeps peppering our conversations with religion and I cannot stand it. My father is one of the people I cherish most, and I feel myself losing respect for him. It makes me feel sick and depressed. I want to be a good daughter. The problem is that my dad taught me to stand up for myself and what I beleive in (or what I don't, in this case I suppose). My dad taught me that my intelligence was my greatest asset, and that I should be strong and assertive, as well as kind and compassionate.
How can I be a good daughter, be kind to my father, and also be myself and stand up for what I know is right?
I was talking with my father on the phone earlier, and it has really soured my mood.
I know my dad means well when he starts trying to tell me about the virtues of some bastardized interpretation of a bible verse, and how we really should take the lord's advice on a particular topic, and I can barely contain the bubbling frustration in me that wants to point out to him that he should probably read the entire book for himself before he starts spouting off about how great and true it is.
He knows I'm not a fan of religion, but it seems as if he thinks it's some sort of a phase that I will grow out of, and it frustrates me.
It is so hard for me to feel the way I do when I have spent much of my life admiring my dad for his intelligence and strength. I don't want my father to feel like I'm talking down to him, but some of the things he says really set me off. How can a man with so much wisdom not see the hypocrisy in some of the things that he says? How can he start quoting scripture as if he is speaking in truisms, when he's never actually read The Bible himself, only had it read to him bits and pieces at a time, followed by some perverse interpretation and prophesying from some middle-aged, over-privileged white dude telling him how to analyze and apply the information.
I just want to yell at him to THINK FOR HIMSELF!!! for once, and really listen to what he is saying. Really analyze where that information is coming from, when it is coming from, and really question how much sense it makes. Really!
He likes to say he's a Christian, and how good and noble that is, how wonderful a guide for living he has, and he easily ignores any criticism of his supposed religion. My father hasn't even stepped foot in a church, save for the occasional wedding or funeral, in at least two decades. I've never witnessed him reading any literature on the subject, or having any conversations with any clergy or other religious scholars. He has this tiny little bit of information, and he clings to it and quotes it as if it were the absolute and complete truth, and it is driving me just a little bit mad.
Though I disagree with religion in an utterly complete way, I can at least understand the extremely pious individuals who had studied "the word" intensely and have found themselves to be passionate about the subject. I can respect a religious scholar or a learned clergyman who is able to debate on the subject, and defend their viewpoint, as much as I disagree with them. But when someone has very little knowledge of the subject about which they are arguing, they immediately lose any credibility, and this is what frustrates me when it comes up in conversation with my father.
He will mention something to me about a certain bible passage, and how it is words to live by, and sometimes I cannot help myself... I will point out to him that lovely as that verse may be, it is mere pages away from this other verse talking about stoning someone to death for gathering wood on the sabbath. I will ask him how he can pick and choose which verses he believes and lives by, and which ones he disregards. I will ask him how he can call his god a loving one, when his god would wipe out an entire city for daring to not acknowledge him in the way that he would like. I will ask him how he can believe that this book is one of love and goodness when it is filled with so much hate and violence, and I am so irritated when he easily brushes these questions aside... dismisses them as not being the important parts... being the wrong part of the book.
Apparently the new testament is the right testament... the old one, the original one, the one which provides a foundation for the other, is all irrelevant in the face of the new testament. Apparently, upon sending Jesus to earth, God got to take a mulligan on the entire old testament.
Some days it is so hard for me to continue talking to my father about anything else when I am so sad for him that he truly believes the things that he is saying. I have such a hard time taking anything else he says seriously, and this makes me so angry with myself.
I love my father. I love him so much, and I aspire to be as kind and strong, and gentle as he is. I hope to be half as wonderful a parent as he was to me when I was a small girl. Nearly every happy moment I have from my childhood involves him somehow... his strong hands pushing me on a swing, or lifting me from a pool... the way he turned scrambled eggs with cheese into the exciting and enticing "Eggs Surprise" that I would beg him to cook for me when I would see him during our scheduled weekend visitation. My father was a strong beacon of light and strength for me during some pretty dark years growing up, and I don't ever want to lose that.
But more and more often I am finding myself losing my patience when speaking with him, because he keeps peppering our conversations with religion and I cannot stand it. My father is one of the people I cherish most, and I feel myself losing respect for him. It makes me feel sick and depressed. I want to be a good daughter. The problem is that my dad taught me to stand up for myself and what I beleive in (or what I don't, in this case I suppose). My dad taught me that my intelligence was my greatest asset, and that I should be strong and assertive, as well as kind and compassionate.
How can I be a good daughter, be kind to my father, and also be myself and stand up for what I know is right?
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
fat & happy
We had the boy's family come to our house for Christmas dinner for the first time, and I loved every minute of it! I have the "cooking gene", as well as it's chubby little sister the "feed people as much as humanly possible" gene, so preparing dinner for nine was a happy chore for me.
I wasn't sure at first if we would be able to squeeze seven adults and two kids into our tiny eat-in kitchen area that we call the dining room, but thanks to some folding chairs, a poker table, and a group of people who don't mind rubbing elbows while they eat, we worked it out.
I might also have the "Martha Stewart" gene, because I even baked gingerbread cookies and added each person's name in frosting in lieu of a place bard.
*insert pleased-with-myself giggles here*
I decided to be ambitious and try cooking the turkey differently than I have in the past and used Alton Brown's brining method - and it turned out fabulously:
I also served buttermilk biscuits, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, dressing, candied carrots, creamy dill potato salad, as well as apple-caramel cheesecake and apple crisp with ice cream for dessert.
Don't you feel fatter just reading that? lol
The only way I was able to pull it off was baking the biscuit and the desserts the day before, and preparing the sweet potato casserole so it just needed to be popped in the oven to warm while I carved the bird. I made a detailed schedule and solid plan for the day of and stuck to it.
Afterwards we all piled down into the rec room and watched a movie. We had to set up the air mattress due to a lack of seating, but it meant that the kiddos had a comfy place to fall asleep, as well as prime cuddling opportunities, so it was a good thing.
Everyone left happy, and just a little fatter, so I'm calling it a job-well-done.
:)
I wasn't sure at first if we would be able to squeeze seven adults and two kids into our tiny eat-in kitchen area that we call the dining room, but thanks to some folding chairs, a poker table, and a group of people who don't mind rubbing elbows while they eat, we worked it out.
I might also have the "Martha Stewart" gene, because I even baked gingerbread cookies and added each person's name in frosting in lieu of a place bard.
*insert pleased-with-myself giggles here*
I decided to be ambitious and try cooking the turkey differently than I have in the past and used Alton Brown's brining method - and it turned out fabulously:
I also served buttermilk biscuits, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, dressing, candied carrots, creamy dill potato salad, as well as apple-caramel cheesecake and apple crisp with ice cream for dessert.
Don't you feel fatter just reading that? lol
The only way I was able to pull it off was baking the biscuit and the desserts the day before, and preparing the sweet potato casserole so it just needed to be popped in the oven to warm while I carved the bird. I made a detailed schedule and solid plan for the day of and stuck to it.
Afterwards we all piled down into the rec room and watched a movie. We had to set up the air mattress due to a lack of seating, but it meant that the kiddos had a comfy place to fall asleep, as well as prime cuddling opportunities, so it was a good thing.
Everyone left happy, and just a little fatter, so I'm calling it a job-well-done.
:)
Thursday, December 24, 2009
silver bells
My husband calls himself Roman Catholic (though non-practising) and I am an atheist (though I call myself a secular humanist), and we both love to celebrate Christmas (though in an entirely secular and commercially propogated way).
I am a big fan of hauling out our well-loved artificial tree and all the other sparkly, shiny bits that make our home feel so cheerful and inviting during the otherwise dull month of December.
Happy Holidays! :)
I am a big fan of hauling out our well-loved artificial tree and all the other sparkly, shiny bits that make our home feel so cheerful and inviting during the otherwise dull month of December.
Happy Holidays! :)
Sunday, December 20, 2009
This is going to hurt tomorrow...
For the record, tonight I consumed:
1 bottle of cabernet sauvignon
+ several shots of hypnotique
+ a shot of strange Japanese liquer that we only purchase because it has weird floating fruits in it (we referred to it as testicle juice for the rest of the night)
+ chocolate martinis made with white rum because there was no vodka around
= a very good evening that will surely result in a headache for me.
That probably did not make any sense, but I don't care, because I am very very drunk.
Why am I tryng to blog while I am drunk?
Just because.
1 bottle of cabernet sauvignon
+ several shots of hypnotique
+ a shot of strange Japanese liquer that we only purchase because it has weird floating fruits in it (we referred to it as testicle juice for the rest of the night)
+ chocolate martinis made with white rum because there was no vodka around
= a very good evening that will surely result in a headache for me.
That probably did not make any sense, but I don't care, because I am very very drunk.
Why am I tryng to blog while I am drunk?
Just because.
Friday, December 4, 2009
and that's when I killed him your honour...
The boy has has a couple of running jokes that he thinks are positively hilarious. The main one is annoying me into saying things to him sarcastically, and then turning my sarcasm against me... another is taking movie quotes and bastardizing them for his own purposes. In this case it's the "I am dangerous... ice... man." from Top Gun.
I realize that explaining this all probably kills any inherent humour in the exchange to follow, but I felt you might need the back story to understand our insanity.
So I was laying in bed this morning beside the boy, after waking him up...
The Boy: "Your eyes look tired"
Me: "Yeah, I am"
The Boy: "Ice Man"
Me: "What?"
The Boy: "You ARE tired... ice... man"
Me: "Not what I said"
The Boy: "Yes it is."
Me: "No, I said Yeah, I am"
The Boy: "See!"
Me: "No. You said that my eyes looked tired, and I agreed, because I am tired. I said Yeah, I am"
The Boy: "No, you said I am... tired"
Me: "Yeah, that's totally what I said, exactly."
The Boy: "See... I told you. Ice man."
Me: "Wow."
The Boy: "Man, that joke is awesome... seven years, and it's still awesome."
Me: "Why? Must you always do that?"
The Boy: "Yes. SEVEN YEARS."
I realize that explaining this all probably kills any inherent humour in the exchange to follow, but I felt you might need the back story to understand our insanity.
So I was laying in bed this morning beside the boy, after waking him up...
The Boy: "Your eyes look tired"
Me: "Yeah, I am"
The Boy: "Ice Man"
Me: "What?"
The Boy: "You ARE tired... ice... man"
Me: "Not what I said"
The Boy: "Yes it is."
Me: "No, I said Yeah, I am"
The Boy: "See!"
Me: "No. You said that my eyes looked tired, and I agreed, because I am tired. I said Yeah, I am"
The Boy: "No, you said I am... tired"
Me: "Yeah, that's totally what I said, exactly."
The Boy: "See... I told you. Ice man."
Me: "Wow."
The Boy: "Man, that joke is awesome... seven years, and it's still awesome."
Me: "Why? Must you always do that?"
The Boy: "Yes. SEVEN YEARS."
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Grace in small things - part 45
- a trip to the local farmer's market with the boy
- freshly made apple-cider doughnuts from the Mennonites
- imagining that the doves and finches are appreciative, and somehow know it's us who fills the feeders in our yard
- curling up on the sofa under a warm fleecy blanket
- watching tv with the boy, and providing our own colour commentary to the silliness on the screen
the almosts and could-have-beens
I've been feeling nauseous off and on for the past three days. I'm attributing it to my meds, or that I started taking the pre-natals again (just in case we ever get lucky), or that it's just another symptom of the foul mood I've been in lately.
I do my best not to let the boy know just how foul I'm feeling lately because he worries so much. It's probably counter-productive, since I end up feeling cruddy longer because I'm holding it in... but I don't like that look he gets when he's worried about me... his brow is knit with concern and he is determined to fix me... to take on my stress, or ask an endless stream of questions until he gets to the bottom of what's bothering me. Sometimes I don't want to have to explain that there is nothing in particular that is bothering me, it's just that I am bothered in general. Does that even make sense?
Probably not.
So I'm sitting at my desk, working away... reconciling receipts, listing prints, and sipping on room-temperature water, trying to ignore that wave of yuckiness (is too a word spellchecker! Because I said so, that's why!) that comes and goes. I put my head down on the desk periodically and wait for it to go away. I'm trying to ignore it because I'm sure that it's nothing. I really am.
I won't let my mind go there anymore... I used to get just a little bit excited if I started feeling nauseous, because it could mean that we had succeeded... that my biology wasn't a failure after all! I don't allow myself to get my hopes up anymore because I don't want to feel like I'm mourning every time I bleed... especially when it comes late, as it often does. I don't like imagining that we were (at least partially) successful, and maybe conception had in fact occurred, and it's more than run-of-the-mill menses being flushed away.
I don't like knowing that it is often the case... that my problem isn't entirely with conception, but with getting it to stick. I don't know how to stop myself from grieving the almosts and the could-have-beens.
Then I get angry with myself for feeling like I'm losing hope... for not being more positive. As if a smile on my face will somehow a baby make. I try not to let it get to me when people say "maybe if you weren't trying so hard" or "maybe if you just stopped thinking about it... it will happen when it is meant to". Because it's somehow my fault that my plumbing doesn't work, right? Clearly I am subconsciously and deliberately self-defeating, psychically destroying each zygote with my negative thoughts! Thank you for pointing that out to me - it's all so clear now!!!
Grrrrrrr!!!
I know... I don't need to be an asshole about it. It's not anyone else's fault either, and their intentions are not to make me feel worse. I know that I should lighten up, and that there are other (very expensive) options out there for me... for us... but it's hard to be positive when the chaos in your uterus matches the clutter in your mind.
I know I shouldn't dwell, and I'm not trying to be this way... I swear that I don't live in my own perpetual self-pity party. I'm actually a pretty bubbly person... but sometimes I'm a mess, and I wish I was just a little less so.
I'm rambling. Again.
I do my best not to let the boy know just how foul I'm feeling lately because he worries so much. It's probably counter-productive, since I end up feeling cruddy longer because I'm holding it in... but I don't like that look he gets when he's worried about me... his brow is knit with concern and he is determined to fix me... to take on my stress, or ask an endless stream of questions until he gets to the bottom of what's bothering me. Sometimes I don't want to have to explain that there is nothing in particular that is bothering me, it's just that I am bothered in general. Does that even make sense?
Probably not.
So I'm sitting at my desk, working away... reconciling receipts, listing prints, and sipping on room-temperature water, trying to ignore that wave of yuckiness (is too a word spellchecker! Because I said so, that's why!) that comes and goes. I put my head down on the desk periodically and wait for it to go away. I'm trying to ignore it because I'm sure that it's nothing. I really am.
I won't let my mind go there anymore... I used to get just a little bit excited if I started feeling nauseous, because it could mean that we had succeeded... that my biology wasn't a failure after all! I don't allow myself to get my hopes up anymore because I don't want to feel like I'm mourning every time I bleed... especially when it comes late, as it often does. I don't like imagining that we were (at least partially) successful, and maybe conception had in fact occurred, and it's more than run-of-the-mill menses being flushed away.
I don't like knowing that it is often the case... that my problem isn't entirely with conception, but with getting it to stick. I don't know how to stop myself from grieving the almosts and the could-have-beens.
Then I get angry with myself for feeling like I'm losing hope... for not being more positive. As if a smile on my face will somehow a baby make. I try not to let it get to me when people say "maybe if you weren't trying so hard" or "maybe if you just stopped thinking about it... it will happen when it is meant to". Because it's somehow my fault that my plumbing doesn't work, right? Clearly I am subconsciously and deliberately self-defeating, psychically destroying each zygote with my negative thoughts! Thank you for pointing that out to me - it's all so clear now!!!
Grrrrrrr!!!
I know... I don't need to be an asshole about it. It's not anyone else's fault either, and their intentions are not to make me feel worse. I know that I should lighten up, and that there are other (very expensive) options out there for me... for us... but it's hard to be positive when the chaos in your uterus matches the clutter in your mind.
I know I shouldn't dwell, and I'm not trying to be this way... I swear that I don't live in my own perpetual self-pity party. I'm actually a pretty bubbly person... but sometimes I'm a mess, and I wish I was just a little less so.
I'm rambling. Again.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
can I fake it 'till I make it?
I have these pictures in my mind that I need to get out.
That's the way my drawings and paintings start. But I try to get them out too quickly I think... I draw furiously, rushing to empty the image from my mind before it slips away, before the idea is gone... and the end result ends up feeling flat.
I feel like I should take more time with my pictures. Nurture them. Build them slowly, bits at a time. Leave them for a while and then revisit them. I beleive that this approach would produce better art... that the paintings and drawings, and little doodles and bits would have more emotion in them... I think that they would have more feeling, and consequently they would draw more people to them... maybe then I would be a "successful artist".
Maybe then more people would buy my work.
But I can't create this way. I want to. I need to. But I can't. Instead I am compelled to rush into it when the mood strikes, and work away at a feverish pace, producing many pieces in a night, until I am completely spent... until all the pictures and ideas are drained from my mind... my fingertips are numb... my hand is aching... my heart is empty... I push myself until I have to sleep.
It seems manic, almost. It is a little crazy, but that's the only way I know how to produce my art. One would think that this would result in fun, fiery paintings with lots of movement and texture and feeling... but what it produces are paintings of birds, and drawings of goldfish... sketches of dainty ballerinas in fluttery tutus.
If I'm feeling especially "indie" I might come up with a tattooed woman, or a sassy pin-up... but that's about as badass as my artwork can get.
I want more.
I want to produce giant pieces with thick flashes of colour, and found pieces of pages from old texts... swirling abstracts and striking colour fields... dark portraits of lost lovers with haunting eyes. But when I try to paint like that... when I try to get those images down on canvas, or paper, or whatever surface I can... what comes out feels fake. It feels like I'm trying too hard to be something that I'm not. It doesn't feel... authentic.
I don't know what I'm doing... I don't know who I am as an artist.
Why did I think this was a good idea again?
I get frustrated with myself for thinking that I could possibly make it as a full-time artist... as a small business owner... as my own boss. I'm not good enough. I'm not talented enough. I'm not strong enough. Sometimes I feel like I'm only pretending to be an artist, and that someone is going to notice... that they'll point out how there are too many brush strokes in that particular painting... I must have struggled to get the right gradation in the shading... Then everyone will know I'm not a "real" artist. I'm just good at faking it.
Okay. Breathe.
I know... we are all our own worst critics. I know that I can do more. I am capable. I am better than this. Maybe I just need to write affirmations like that all over my office and repeat them to myself all day... that wouldn't make me seem any more crazy, right?
Haha. Yup. Manic.
I don't know where I'm going with this, or why I even started typing this out. I probably shouldn't even hit publish. I don't know what I'm doing here, right now, this minute. Beating myself up because my sales aren't where I hoped they'd be when I decided to take this risk and focus on my art. What is the point of this? This isn't productive, and this won't help me be a better artist... and it's certainly doing nothing good for my level of anxiety.
I wish I could just get over myself and get on with it.
That's the way my drawings and paintings start. But I try to get them out too quickly I think... I draw furiously, rushing to empty the image from my mind before it slips away, before the idea is gone... and the end result ends up feeling flat.
I feel like I should take more time with my pictures. Nurture them. Build them slowly, bits at a time. Leave them for a while and then revisit them. I beleive that this approach would produce better art... that the paintings and drawings, and little doodles and bits would have more emotion in them... I think that they would have more feeling, and consequently they would draw more people to them... maybe then I would be a "successful artist".
Maybe then more people would buy my work.
But I can't create this way. I want to. I need to. But I can't. Instead I am compelled to rush into it when the mood strikes, and work away at a feverish pace, producing many pieces in a night, until I am completely spent... until all the pictures and ideas are drained from my mind... my fingertips are numb... my hand is aching... my heart is empty... I push myself until I have to sleep.
It seems manic, almost. It is a little crazy, but that's the only way I know how to produce my art. One would think that this would result in fun, fiery paintings with lots of movement and texture and feeling... but what it produces are paintings of birds, and drawings of goldfish... sketches of dainty ballerinas in fluttery tutus.
If I'm feeling especially "indie" I might come up with a tattooed woman, or a sassy pin-up... but that's about as badass as my artwork can get.
I want more.
I want to produce giant pieces with thick flashes of colour, and found pieces of pages from old texts... swirling abstracts and striking colour fields... dark portraits of lost lovers with haunting eyes. But when I try to paint like that... when I try to get those images down on canvas, or paper, or whatever surface I can... what comes out feels fake. It feels like I'm trying too hard to be something that I'm not. It doesn't feel... authentic.
I don't know what I'm doing... I don't know who I am as an artist.
Why did I think this was a good idea again?
I get frustrated with myself for thinking that I could possibly make it as a full-time artist... as a small business owner... as my own boss. I'm not good enough. I'm not talented enough. I'm not strong enough. Sometimes I feel like I'm only pretending to be an artist, and that someone is going to notice... that they'll point out how there are too many brush strokes in that particular painting... I must have struggled to get the right gradation in the shading... Then everyone will know I'm not a "real" artist. I'm just good at faking it.
Okay. Breathe.
I know... we are all our own worst critics. I know that I can do more. I am capable. I am better than this. Maybe I just need to write affirmations like that all over my office and repeat them to myself all day... that wouldn't make me seem any more crazy, right?
Haha. Yup. Manic.
I don't know where I'm going with this, or why I even started typing this out. I probably shouldn't even hit publish. I don't know what I'm doing here, right now, this minute. Beating myself up because my sales aren't where I hoped they'd be when I decided to take this risk and focus on my art. What is the point of this? This isn't productive, and this won't help me be a better artist... and it's certainly doing nothing good for my level of anxiety.
I wish I could just get over myself and get on with it.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Grace in small things - part 44
- feeling prepared for my first ever trade show since starting to do my art full time
- how sweet and helpful the boy has been as preparations for this show have consumed my life recently
- the yumminess of light cream cheese on a toasted blueberry bagel
- the crisp smell of fall air in the morning
- the soft purring from one of my cats, Shadow, as she sprawls across my arms, on the desk between me and my laptop
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
This is the post where we cross over into too much information land... way, way TMI... A Public Service Announcement
I am sharing this as a note of warning to the ladies out there, so that they may learn from my daft mistake.
Always, and I mean ALWAYS... no matter what... even if you think your hands are clean...please, for the love of everything... make sure that you wash your hands thoroughly and completely before attempting to remove a Diva Cup...
Especially if you have very recently been rubbing Vicks Vapo-rub onto the chest of your ill husband.
*shudder*
Camphor and eucalyptus + sensitive lady bits = OW OW OW OW OMIGAWD OW!!!!!
That is all.
Always, and I mean ALWAYS... no matter what... even if you think your hands are clean...please, for the love of everything... make sure that you wash your hands thoroughly and completely before attempting to remove a Diva Cup...
Especially if you have very recently been rubbing Vicks Vapo-rub onto the chest of your ill husband.
*shudder*
Camphor and eucalyptus + sensitive lady bits = OW OW OW OW OMIGAWD OW!!!!!
That is all.
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