This last year and all of the craziness that went with it was hard. It was also wonderful and amazing. But, shit did get crazy hard. Being under constant attack by someone who is hellbent on making your life miserable for absolutely no logical reason will take its toll.  I endured it without any response to them. Not one reaction to them about all of the messed up flustercluckery they rained down. It was surprisingly hard.

The reason I say surprisingly is that I generally don’t stand up for myself. I will smile and take copious amounts of verbal excrement without responding in kind. Then I will take a deep breath and try to let it all go. Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

But, tonight I didn’t do that.

Tonight I had someone pop up out of the blue raging about some nonsense that I had zero to do with. Normally I would apologize, even though I had nothing to do with what happened. Instead, I let them know I had no idea what they were talking about and wished them a good night.  They then brought up some drama and began to spin a tale in which I should somehow be indebted to them. Indebted to them for things they didn’t even do. I didn’t smile and nod.

I did take a deep breath.  

Then I corrected them.  I called them on everything, gently but firmly. I wished them well but made it quite clear that I was in no way indebted to them for anything.  I sent them away with hugs and hopes for happiness.

And then they really lost their damned mind.

Which I could care less about. It felt REALLY good to get it out.  It felt REALLY good to say “nope, I do not think that means what you think that means.”  It felt REALLY good to not let them bathe me in undue guilt.

It felt REALLY good to truly stand up for me and still be all Namaste.

In the last year of craziness, I learned a thing.  

 A really good thing.

I don’t say it much, but I frequently feel like I’m failing- as a person, as a friend, as a mom, you name it. I feel like I’m flailing my way through life trying to be the best I can be, but the little voice in my head says it’s just not enough. We all have that voice to some extent. Sometimes I feel like I’m failing as all of them at once.

Before I sink too deep in that feeling where I almost can’t breathe, life throws me a line. Last night, before her bath, eldest was (and someday she’ll find out I documented this and probably smack me, but it was such a beautiful moment that I’ll gladly take the hit) dancing in front of the mirror. Wiggling her booty, checking out all her bits and parts while singing “naked baby, naked baby” like they both did frequently during bath time when they were wee little ones. It wasn’t some inappropriate dance of an older woman. It wasn’t the self conscious dance of a tween. It was just pure childlike joy of being naked, alive, and free. I totally cried. She didn’t see me, but I did. I worry so much about them growing too fast or having their own voices in their heads filled with doubt.

Dear Sweet, Wonderful Child of Mine,

Love of my life, light of my heart, pain in my tush- I truly love how much you love Doctor Who. I love that you feel compelled to fervently reply when someone posts a hypothesis that Rory was the Master online. Your retort was well thought out and articulate.

Just two tiny things- 1. the internet allows anyone, and I do mean anyone, to write whatever drivel they want about anything, and I do mean anything. Engaging in arguments online is rarely a good idea.

2. If you ever wake me up at the 7am on a Sunday when I’ve been sick and exhausted all week to read me the aforementioned hypothesis and your retort again, I swear on all that is holy, sacred, and Gallifreyan that you will wake up one morning to a giant angel statue at the foot of your bed. You won’t know when, you won’t know how. It will just happen.

And I will not feel sorry.

Love you the mostestest,

Mommy

Since I began this blog years ago, my girls have grown.  They are nine and ten now. Pre-tweens.

And I want to hit rewind and pause on a regular basis.

The problems they faced then were so much easier. I could kiss it better.  Now, it’s the big stuff. The stuff that scars if not handled right. The stuff that shapes them as young women.

I am super proud to be a member of the Geek Girls Book Club.  (Seriously- join us here– boys are allowed!) We’ve read some incredible books. This month, though, it’s perfect timing. April is Yes, Please by Amy Poehler. I’ve felt for a long time that she was my spirit animal. Now I know she is. It’s so smart and funny and EMPOWERING.

There are so very many quotes in it that resonate with me. Some are a balm for old wounds. One of those that struck a cord hard is:

“It takes years as a woman to unlearn what you have been taught to be sorry for.”

When I posted it on Facebook last night, it turns out that I am not alone.

From abusive relationships to upbringing,  we all bonded with the realization that we apologize for so many things that we need not. As a gender, we are forced to apologize for just being us. It is one of the hardest habits to break.

AND WE ARE DONE.

So, the “I’m Not Sorry Summit” will be coming.  Along with one of my soul sisters, we will be creating a week-long event that builds women and girls of all ages up. That fills them with love and the tools grow. To use their voices to implement change. To build each other up.

To not be sorry.

In the mean time, pick yourself up a copy of Yes, Please.  You’re welcome. 🙂

Saturday, May 05, 2007

The beauty of a name
Current mood: content
Category: Life

Growing up in a suburb like mine, having the name Natali was kinda rough. I was pretty much the only person with the name and the only real “famous” Natali’ that anyone would have heard of at the time was the chick from the Facts of Life. I HATED the fact that she had my name. Most of my generation watched that show and she was so frickin’ annoying. Blech. So, I really disliked my name. It grew on me as I got older, when I got to that age where being different didn’t suck quite so bad. Then, I got to the point where I liked it. It was during the time where I guess I finally just started feeling comfortable in my own skin really.

Like, dislike, indifference, all the phases I went through with it, never once did I think it was beautiful until I was 22. Living in California for a while at that point, I had finally gotten used to hearing other people being called Natalie. It took a while for me to stop saying “what?” every time I heard it. It’s commonplace settled in though. I was running a group home for autistic children at the time. My little guys were all amazing and I loved every one of them. One, in particular, was a challenge to me. Ryan didn’t speak at all, except his own name on rare occasion and singing “bah bah black sheep” to his toy radio. There had to be some way to get through to him and I worked my ass off on trying to find it.

After several months of being there, I noticed he used to like to watch whomever was in the kitchen cooking. So, I hunted down a cooking class for those with special needs and started taking him. The third class, the case manager for the company decided to come with me and Ryan. I am so glad she did. We had gotten to class earlier than usual and we walked Ryan to the bathroom. We sat there talking by the sink while we were waiting for him. Not but 10 seconds before he came out of the stall, I heard “Natali.” I just sat there agog, staring at the CM, hoping she had heard it too. “Did he just say your name?” Ryan came out of the stall, looked at her and me and said “Yes, Natali.” I cried. Yup, that’s right. I stood there in the bathroom, watching him wash his hands with tears just rolling down my face. It was the only time I would ever hear him say it, but it didn’t matter. I knew at that time that I had gotten through. Hearing his voice speak it, my name sounded beautiful.

Flash forward to present time and my name spawns a story that sums up the residents at the facility I run now. They are all amazing in their own way as well and I love the hell out of them too. While most of them call me Natali, there are three that have their own name for me. Robert calls me Natasha, Michael calls me “Antanette” (yes pronounced like that) and Will calls me Nadia.

About three weeks after I started the job, I was in my office one morning while Michael came running up. “Antanette, Antanette, I didn’t get my hug yet this morning.” The next thing I know Robert is standing there “Michael, you’re nuts, her name is Natasha.” Then Will “You’re both stupid, her name is Nadia.” A heated argument ensued. I attempted to diffuse it by saying “Actually guys, my name is Natali.” Will turned at me and yelled “Shut up, Linda!”

And Robert still calls me Natasha, Michael still calls me Antanette and Will still calls me Nadia. As for Linda, I’m still trying to figure out who she is.

For as long as I can remember, I have been a Star Wars fan. Every birthday I’d get pissed because I’d tear open my gifts and instead of an At-Tat or the Millennium Falcon, I’d get a freakin’ Monchichi or Strawberry Shortcake’s latest sidekick. Some solace was taken in the fact that I was the only girl that ever got to play Leia at recess. Part of that was probably the fact that I was the only one that could do the buns, but I didn’t care. I remember tearing ass down the isle to front row center when we went to see Return of the Jedi. While I may have lost my Star Wars sheet set along the way, I still have some of my trading cards left and my trusty rusty Return of the Jedi lunch box still faithfully holds some of my art supplies. And of course I own the DVD box sets.

One cold, rainy Saturday morning a couple of months after she turned 3, my eldest monkey figured out how to open the secret door of the entertainment stand and handed me “Phantom Menace.” “Mommy, this is my movie choice. I wanna watch this one.” The pride, oh the pride. I patted her head, told her it would be too scary and too hard for her to understand and insisted she pick a new one. Bless her gorgeously geek heart, she stood firm on her choice. Her arguments in the end were simple. “If I don’t understand something, I’ll ask you mommy and if it gets too scary, we can turn it off.” Hells bells, you can’t really argue with logic like that.

Ten minutes later, another fan was born. Two more actually, lilest monkey sat in wide-eyed wonderment cheering and booing right along with her. But, eldest took it to a whole new level. The rest of that weekend was spent watching all six in order up to her new beloved Anakin was “saved.” It floored me how little I needed to explain to her. There are so many favorite moments from that weekend. I think my favorite was when Luke made it out with Vader and she looked at me and said “Wow, he actually managed to pull it off.” Not remembering I was talking to my 3 year old and being mother of the year- my response? “Right? He’s kind of a wuss.” Sorry folks, I was a Han Solo girl all the way.

Most of my friends weren’t entirely surprised at my “how I spent my weekend.” I swear everyone we encountered over the next few months heard her tales of the battle of dark and light, the path of a Jedi, the power of the force, the wisdom of Obi Wan and Yoda, her undying love for Anakin and the importance of having really good friends be they human, wookie or robot. Then one of my friends sent me a now rather famous YouTube clip of a 3 year old explaining Star Wars. I watched it and giggled. It didn’t really occur to me the vast differences between that 3 year old and mine. VAST. Thinking she’d be happy to find a kindred spirit, I showed her this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBM854BTGL0

I expected a giggle. I did not expect her to lose her lil mind. She seriously damn near cussed that lil girl out. It went like this:

(Bear in mind, I did warn her it was only about New Hope, aka “When they save Leia” – oops I forgot to mention she renamed them all. I’ll footnote the rest.)

“What? The ‘sand people’ are Jawas and they aren’t that important.”

“ ‘Shiny one?’ ‘Shiny one?’ It’s C3PO. Duh.”

(At this point I’m staring blankly at my irate lil monkey.)

*HUGE GASP* “NO ONE MISPRONOUNCES OBI WAN KANOBI’S NAME!! NO ONE MOMMY!!!”

“Huh? That ‘light up sword’ is a light saber! Light SABER!”

“Leia wasn’t in jail. She was being held captive by Imperial Forces.”

“That’s it?? That’s it?? What about the subplot??!” (WTF!? Did my 3 year old really just say subplot!?!?!) “No Han? No Chew? MMMMOOOOOMMMM!!!!”

“Yeah, Darth will getchya because you, you are NO JEDI!!” (Yes, she was totally pointing her lil finger at her too.)

“Mommy, don’t EVER show me that girl again.”

That’s when it became clear to me that she wasn’t your average 3 1/2 year old. It also became clear I was raising a lil ÜberGeekGirlie in training. In my book, that’s just awesomsauce.

Yes, she still plans on marrying Anakin and is desperately pleading her case to her sister for decorating their new bathroom all Star Wars. My money is on her. Lil geek girls FTW!

***As promised- she renamed them all right away to remember them better. Never mind the fact she could tell you who Qui Gon Jinn was. So, in order:

“When Anakin was little”

“When Anakin became a Jedi”

“When Anakin caught on fire”

“When they save Leisa”

“When Luke becomes a Jedi”

“When Luke saves Anakin”

As a single mom, there are many big questions I get asked that I have to answer on my own. I tried to co-parent those answers with their father, but well that’s a whole other story. Some I have successfully dodged, some I have not.

Today Eldest turned nine. Nine going on ninety, which is what you get when you have girls who are old souls with huge, active minds. One of the most amazing things to me as I have watched them grow is, even when they were in my belly, I could feel their personalities. So different, yet so similar. Proud, strong, loving, inquisitive.

And little forces to be reckoned with.

They tackled me last summer and made me tell them about sex. Eldest, my Spock of sorts, always pulls out the logic that I can’t refute. Even at 7 (almost 8). She said “Mom, you’ve avoided it long enough and kids are starting to talk. Would you rather we learn from you, or from them? Some of them aren’t so smart.”

Today they asked me what religion we are. So I thought about it and I talked it out with them.

Neither one of the girls are baptized, which is something that bothers my parents. I was raised Catholic, but the Catholics and I definitely do not see eye-to-eye. I refused to pick a random church to have them baptized in to appease other people. There are cultures and faiths that wait until the children are old enough to choose to be baptized. Also, I don’t believe that there is a God that that would fault children for the choices of their parents.

But, that doesn’t mean they lack in beliefs or spirituality. They’ve been to church. They know who Jesus is. And Ganesh. We have a giant Buddha they call “Our buddy Buddha.” And they love to celebrate Christmas and Hanukkah. And to make a Thanksgiving Tree every year filled with the names of people we are thankful for.

All of this has one thing in common: Love. Love is the recurring theme in our lives. The cornerstone by which all the decisions I make are made. When they were one and two, I created a family motto and rules that all go back to that motto.

Our motto? “We’re All About the Love.”

It is our foundation.

We believe in love. In the power of it. We believe in not saying goodbye when we leave, but “giving love.” We hug people we just met. We hold doors open for strangers and give them random compliments. We donate to and help those in need. We believe in showing love to those we barely know and especially those that don’t seem like they deserve it. We believe that love is the most important thing in this world. We believe that everyone has the right to be loved and to love whomever they want. That every human being is worthy of love. That love has the power to save lives and change the world.

Our religion is love. <3

Just like our bodies are made up of thousands and thousands of cells, who we are is composed of thousands and thousands of moments. Some big, some small, some we barely even notice. And they all have the ability to change and fluctuate with size as others occur. A small moment that seems insignificant can turn into the most monumental one as life unfolds.

When we are young, everything seems so large. Our whole lives ahead of us, we don’t know enough to try to commit things to memory. Yet, the world has a way of ingraining those into the fiber of our being. Knitting them there for us to look back on later, or remember as we grow.

They help shape who we are.

I grew up in a small town that I never liked very much. My favorite part of it lay just outside my bedroom window. It was the house next door. And the people that lived in it. They were an older couple, former missionaries. They were amazing. I had started being sent over for play dates with their granddaughter in the summer time. Her and I had a blast. The house and its contents were an adventure itself. Add to it the huge garden outside that seemed like it was as big as a football stadium and the large garden shed that we turned into a house or a spaceship depending on our whims that day. I had met people and a place where I felt like I truly belonged.

After that first summer ended, I still ventured over whenever I could to spend time with the woman. She taught me how to make soap, bake bread from scratch, grow almost anything and the whole time she would tell me tale after tale of all their trips to far off lands. While I knew they were there as missionaries, the tales were not of Jesus or religion. They were about love and how no matter what the differences were in cultures, no matter what part of the world they were in, love was the one language that everyone understood.

The hours and hours I spent with her fed my creativity and nurtured my soul in such a way that it felt very much like home to be there.

So much so that I named my eldest after her.

This past week, our world became a bit dimmer. After 96 years of being simply amazing, Mrs. S has moved on to her next adventure. I don’t pretend to know what is in store for us after we leave here, but in my optimistic utopian afterlife, she went home to her husband Art. And their garden is even bigger.

She will be missed very, very, much.

She was Maude (minus dating considerably younger men) before Maude was.

We’ve all heard it- power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. It can turn Snow White into the Wicked Witch.

And last week I saw it in all its glory. People I once admired and respected twisted to the point of being unrecognizable. As humans, we are flawed by design. We want things we know we can’t or shouldn’t have. When we cross that line or it’s handed to us gift-wrapped, that euphoria is addictive.

We feel unstoppable.

We get ballsy.

We get stupid.

We leave neon trails begging people to question us.

Who would dare, right?

Yet, there is always someone.

Just like there is always someone above you. Your power exists merely as long as they allow it to. And you never know what that person has over others. Or others have over that person.

It’s all just a fragile house of cards on a plantation you sadly proclaim exists in the name of social change.

That’s the worst. When people who claim to be out there for the greater good, to help others. Yet, their only goal is truly to help their own small circle.

One day they will pat the wrong person on the head and send them on their merry way. Counting on them taking no for an answer and feeling rejected.

But not that one. They will come back ten fold, far surpass anything you’d ever imagined and do so with the grace you so clearly lack.

In the meantime, I wish you well. Yes, well. Because, our differences start every morning and end every night with the same thing- I am able to look myself in the mirror and still see me.

I can’t even imagine who you see anymore.