Wildest Dreams II

It's funny. The last post has generated perhaps more personal conversations than any other. Some people commented online, others talked to me on the phone or in person. I've just had so many followup thoughts and input and fallout that I decided I need to do an actual followup post, in order to continue the thought experiment. And please note, this is a thought experiment for me. I wasn't writing things that I believe are irrefutably true. I am just experimenting with ideas and saying things out loud to see if they feel right or ring true to me. Or lead me closer to understanding something. (note: this post incorporates lots of semi-organized thoughts and it's pretty long. If you're not that interested, it's cool)

• Disclaimer: I do need to clarify that this thought experiment is not necessarily about my prevailing and dominant feelings. It is only one part of me that is rolling eyes over the Wildest Dreams list. Another, very conscious part of me is saying "Go Moonsoul!!" In fact, I would say the eye-rolling didn't even really kick in until a list was requested of ME. So this has nothing to do with whether she can get that 2 million dollars or not. Like I said in my last post, I've actually seen pretty amazing accomplishments out of her, and I doubt her nothing.
  

• I'm amazed at how many people identified with me on one level or another. Honestly, I thought some people would think I was being pretty lame. Instead, I've had a number of people almost thanking me for posting.

• Since I posted I've realized this is far from a new issue for me. If anyone remembers the monologue entitled "Grown Up" from my CD Release concert (I'm sure you don't, but I do), it is a discussion about Dreams vs. Reality, in which I assert that I'm not giving up on my dreams. That was 5 years ago! In fact, that same monologue was also inspired by MoonSoul, when I barely knew her (Wow, Moonsoul. Way to inspire). Anyway, I was struggling with these issues back then too. Also, if you look at my post just a couple before this where I talk about there being a time and a season for all things, you can see that I'm dealing with these things there too. One of the thoughts I've had since posting is, "for heaven's sake, Skye, sort it out and get over it already!" Am I seriously going to be hung up on this one issue forever? (you know people who have a pet issue, and it bugs them their whole lives it seems? Like my mother. She is constantly saying, "this year I'm going to try and not schedule myself so much so I have some time for myself." or, "I just need to learn to do things for myself once in a while." She may make progress, but she still says that year after year after year. Anyway, I kind of want to learn my thingy and move on.)

After many thoughts and conversations, here is the stuff which I think is closest to the truth:

As I said, I've apparently been wrestling with this issue for years. In one way I think I should make a decision about how to live my life and move on, as I said above. But I also realize that we daily make decisions about what to do with our time and what goals to pursue. I can't expect, especially now that I have a child, to make one decision to doggedly follow a pursuit and just do that forever, not taking into consideration the feelings of others or repercussions to my family. I have to constantly be taking the temperature of things and adjusting accordingly. Maybe this is why I still and will continue to struggle with this idea. In order to not let go of dreams I have to do a constant balancing act. Like many things, I believe it is in managing the paradox that you find true happiness and self – in this case, a balance of selflessness and selfishness. So how could I really expect to just move on without constantly thinking about this issue and trying to figure out the right balance? I don't want to be lazy about it. I don't want to lose myself in mothering and wife-ing. Nor do I want to give up any of my relationship with my child or husband in my pursuit of self-fulfillment. So.

And as for my sensitivity, there's that recent post about there being a time and a season for all things. In that post I was reminding myself that I had done many great things for myself, and now I am entering a time in my life where I will - yes - give up on certain of those dreams for a time. As a friend told me on the phone this week, "you're the classic over-achiever. You don't feel good about yourself unless you're doing a million things," which is true. Some people need encouragement to get off their duffs and DO something with themselves. But some people don't need that, and maybe, in fact, need the opposite: reminding that it's ok to not do everything in the world you're capable of. So it's something I try to remind myself of, in order to not be so selfish all the time (another of my constant battles).

The Times and Seasons post was an effort to let go of some personal expectations and close a chapter of my life for a time, in order to do other things. But I can't pretend that is easy or painless for me. It's actually quite difficult, even though it's what I really want. The Wildest Dreams list, I think, opened a freshly closed wound, in a way. I know it wasn't meant in any way that should have done that, but nevertheless, when I think of my wildest dreams, I AM thinking of things I have chosen to leave by the wayside for now. And so somewhere deep inside I couldn't bring myself to write them down. It would have been like that scene in Harry Potter, where he writes "I must not tell lies" and it cuts into his skin each time. I could just imagine cutting into my heart with every line item that I know I won’t pursue right now.

So now I’ve decided that what I've learned from this is that I really DO need to write a list of dreams – but a NEW list. In my adjusting of my expectations, I need to not just leave my previous dreams by the wayside, but to also find new things to focus on that really excite me. You know: instead of switching from a positive to a negative focus, switch to another positive focus.

So here’s my first draft, in no particular order:

• I teach my children to love music.
• My children are happy
• My children and husband feel loved by me
• My children have faith in the world and people around them.
• My children grow up to be well-adjusted adults who know how to have joy in their lives.
• Jared becomes cancer-free and stays that way for the rest of his life.
• Eventually we are able to buy life insurance
• I keep a clean house
• I become a great gourmet cook.
• I become a great cook of healthy food.
• I learn to really support my husband in what he wants to do
• I am one of those people who is always willing to serve
• People trust me with their feelings.
• I make a difference in my community -- at church and other places -- by helping where I can, and being a person people admire
• I become a journalist or writer
• I find a fabulous collaborative music project to embark upon, and have tons of fun doing it.
• I help Amy Pixton market her TyBooks and she makes millions of dollars on them.
• I help Clayton with his CD and it becomes the most popular hymn CD among LDS people and seals his music career
• I have an annual reunion with my beloved roommates from my pre-marriage days
• Jared and I invest in real estate and become independently wealthy
• I lose my pregnant weight and become a "hot mom"
• I get 8 hours of sleep almost every night
• I learn to love Jared the way he wants and deserves to be loved.
• I learn to really commune with God
• I learn to act consciously, and not reactively, more often

Wildest Dreams

A friend of mine recently sent me an email about her "Wildest Dreams." In it she detailed all the things that she wants to happen in her life, much of it "wild" indeed, and unlikely to ever come to pass. But her enthusiasm is genuine, and I must admit that I've seen this friend accomplish many things that I thought were unrealistic and unlikely to happen at the outset. It's amazing, actually. She asked me to write my own list of wildest dreams and send it to her. And I can't bring myself to do it.

I've been somewhat surprised by my reaction to this email. I find myself rolling my inner eyes. "all that 'magic' ... and all that crazy 'creating my life' stuff... It doesn't measure up to reality. It just sometimes gets old" another friend told her. And I was surprised to find myself identifying with the friend, though I would never want to admit it.

Well, here I am, admitting it, I guess. My inner cynic is affecting this exchange too much to ignore. I don't consider myself cynical at all. In fact, I think this friend wouldn't probably say that I have inspired her significantly (which I don't say to flatter myself -- though I would be flattered -- but because I think it's relevant to the thought). Despite my personality of idealism, next to my friend, I am a complete nay-sayer at this moment. Have I always been? Is this a recent development? What is it about this that bothers me?

I don't know. So in order to sort through my psyche, I've decided to engage in a thought-experiment about it. I'm going to brainstorm and explore possibilities, none or all of which may be true.

here we go.

Why don't I want to write a list of my wildest dreams and pursue them? Possible reasons:

• Disillusionment: I've already tried following my wildest dreams. I believed in myself every bit. I enlisted lots of people to help out. I worked my a** off. And I was really really good at what I did. It didn't work out. Not because I'm not good enough or didn't work hard enough or anything. Sometimes the stars just don't line up right. I mean, when you're following something that isn't likely to happen, it's entirely possible that it won't happen, right? So what's the big deal. Still, now I am struggling with what to do with those dreams. I haven't played a gig since Seville was born, over 8 months. I'm not ready to say I've quit, but I don't have tons of enthusiasm to keep going. It seems like it might be more peaceful for my life to just admit that, hey, sometimes dreams don't come true. But is also feels like a colossal waste to stop. Partly because it's like letting go of a long-term boyfriend whom you have invested so much in, and partly just because I really believe I have something great to share with the world. A world that will never hear it.

• New Perspective: My perspective on fantasy and romance has changed, generally. I am a big believer now that life is beautiful, romantic, and miraculous just as it is, even without all kinds of drama and fantasy involved. I think too many people are looking for drama and fantasy, and I think they hold their own happiness hostage by being unable to accept the beauty that is their life, the blessing that is their circumstances, the joy that is that guy/girl who isn't perfect, but would make a great companion. (disclaimer: the friend in question is absolutely not guilty of this, for those who know who I mean). I'm not sure that coming up with a bunch of far-fetched "dreams" is going to improve my quality of life. Rather, I prefer to rejoice in what I have, am, live. I really feel strongly about this, as it's something I've learned mostly in the past couple of years. There is much excitement in pursuing bigger and better and more and different. But there is much peace in being still and loving what you have.

• Competition: I am a competitive woman by nature. I have tried for years to calm down my competitive side, but sometimes it surfaces. For example, I almost always have to fight feelings of resentment if I hear of another female folk-singer having success at all. Silly, I know. And embarrassing. But if I'm going to be totally honest about myself here, I have to admit that. So maybe part of me simply resents my friend for doing what I am not: following unrealistic dreams. And for accomplishing what I am not: seeing some of those dreams become reality.

• Overwhelmed: I am a bit overwhelmed these days. I have a husband with cancer, a baby who is struggling with eating and waking me up for hours at night, I'm sleep deprived, fat, tired, squeezing a budget, and generally exhausted and overwhelmed all the time. In some ways I think it's just that the idea that I should be trying to do any more than I'm already doing just makes me want to smash some china and cry. I would be happy right now if I could get dinner on the table each night and have clean clothes once in a while. Let alone following some "wildest dreams" nonsense. Maybe the idealist in me is just really struggling with the reality that I live, and the fact that day-to-day life is consuming every ounce of my energy, leaving nothing surplus for the fun and exciting stuff.

• Gratitude: Maybe I don't want to have wild dreams anymore. Maybe I just want to be happy with what I have.

That's all I am coming up with for now. Maybe I'll wake up in the middle of the night and think of something else, but for now I guess I'll sit with those thoughts. And see if they lead me anywhere.

Nekkid

Recently one of my brothers was on his way to an ultimate frisbee game straight from work. He passes my house on the way, and often stops here to change. I was talking to him on the phone and he said he might just skip it tonight: he had just looked in his trunk and only had his shoes, but no shorts.

"Jaaaared!" I called across the house. "Do you have any shorts Bryce can wear for ultimate frisbee?" Jared did, of course, and I offered them to Bryce so he could still play.

He still hesitated, "I mean, I don't have a shirt either."

"I'm sure Jared has a t-shirt you can wear. Heck, I have a t-shirt you can wear. Come over!" I protested.

"Well... uh... it gets worse than that." At which point I had to snicker. No, actually, I laughed out loud. Then I said, "I could ask the question, but I'm not sure if you would even want to borrow any... thing else." He confirmed.

This caused me to wonder. I personally have either loaned or borrowed skivvies from a girlfriend or sister in need in the past. And I know that other women do this too, if need be. Not that it's probably anybody's favorite thing, but it's not that big of a deal either. We have washing machines, after all. Men, on the other hand, I think would generally rather die a slow, painful death than share anything that intimate.

When we were backpacking last May, the subject of sleeping naked came up. I asked Jared if he would ever borrow another guy's sleeping bag if he knew the guy had slept in it naked. "Never in a thousand million years" was his response. Which is funny to me. I mean, I understand, but it still makes me laugh. Men are so phobic about contact with other men.

Death Cab for Cutie has a song about "brothers in a hotel bed," their point being that two men in a bed will sleep stiff as boards and as far away from each other as possible. Me an' the girls? We just cuddle up together. It seems healthy and good, to me, to get physical attention and affection outside of sexual relationships. Sometimes I wonder if men and women are different this way because for men, physicality is inherently sexual, and so no contact is without connotations, or whether our culture so teases "sissy-boys" that men have become paranoid about what would otherwise be a healthy way for them to experience physical touch. Are men so sexual because it's the only kind of contact society allows them? Or does society only allow it because men are, truly, just more sexual about contact?

hmmm....

For All Things a Time and a Season

With marriage and having a baby comes a new lifestyle. I made all sorts of vows to be the kind of parent who wouldn't slow down, who wouldn't make others bend to my children's "naptimes," who would still travel, still go backpacking, still be hot, still gig on the weekends, still do many amazing things.

But my ideas about that are changing (as usually happens when you predict what kind of person you will be in a situation you really know nothing about). Yes, I could be all those things. But at what cost? Am I really more concerned about my seeing Machu Picchu or about Seville's happiness and well being.

There is a time and a season for all things, and I'm starting to realize that my life will be fuller, happier, more peaceful, more loving, more fulfilling if I simply accept that the time for certain things has passed, and a new time has come. A time for certain self-less sacrifices. But they aren't really sacrifices as much as I thought. What you gain is far more enlivening than world travel.

I am grateful, at this time, that I lived a pretty full single life (and childless married life). I can say I did lots of things. I have:

• Been to London, Paris, Germany, Belgium, Denmark, Mexico, Costa Rica, Hawaii, Alaska, New York
• Backpacked a fair amount in Southern Utah and the Northwest
  
• Been sent boxed roses
  
• Been taken to the Opera
• Gone on a date to Pier 49 and Ghirardelli Square, having ridden a train, a trolley, a limo, and a car all in one evening.
• Stayed up and watched the sunrise with a boyfriend
• Been kissed on the beach
• Dated a man almost 20 years my senior
• Dated a younger man
  
• Competed in a Latin Dancing competition
• Won a snowboarding contest
• Owned a surfboard, a windsurfer, rock climbing gear, snowboarding gear
• Stayed up until after 4 am with beloved girlfriends talking about men
• Had a long-distance relationship
• Played a regular ladies-night gig at a club downtown
  
• Become intimately acquainted with the sweat-lodge, the pipe ceremony, and the Peyote Ceremony
• Dated college athletes
• Dated college drop-outs
• Loved a man with long hair
• Been taken on a trip to the Ashland Shakespeare Festival
• Gone mountain-biking on Bainbridge Island
• Had a broken heart
• Broken some hearts (oops.)
• Had real girlfriends
• Rafted the Paquare River
• Climbed Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Hood
• Fit into size 6 shiny red pleather pants, and looked good (6 is pretty skinny if you're 5'10")
• Had a raging New Years Eve party at my house
• Had a record/production deal and a manager for my music
  
• Sung the national anthem at an NBA game
• Played the Crystal Ballroom, the Rose Festival, MusicFest Northwest, Been on a "Tour"
• Had a drink bought for me by an Oscar-nominated movie star
  
• Got a college degree
• Been camping in Alaska

For these things I have to thank Dale, Mike, Eric, John, Clif, Jared, Emily, Lumina, Michelle, Aimee, Andy, my Dad, Lisa, Jeremy, my Mom, Alex, Graham Greene, Arlin, Fernando, Mitchell, Dave, Tara, Sam, and myself.

Can I really complain at this point? I don't think so.

What have you done that you can check off your list?

Surgery Day

I think there must be a requirement that anesthesiologists are funny. I've never met an anesthesiologist that wasn't joking around while going through all the pre-op questions. Even Jared's college-buddy -- from whom I've never had anesthesia personally, but who is, in fact, an anesthesiologist -- is a really funny guy. Maybe it's somehow the professional version of your friendly neighborhood dealer. You go to him for your happy fix, and he is all casual and relaxed and funny and personable making you feel all relaxed about the drugs you're taking, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

***

Various nurses, doctors, and other personnel explain the procedure to us. They'll make an incision above Jared's sternum, in his neck, reach down and around from there, blah blah blah, take out a chunk of the tumor. The pathologist will take it away and biopsy it on the spot. If he has enough, he'll tell them they're o.k. to sew Jared back up. If not, he comes for another piece and tries again. Jared gets tubes down his trachea and such, but he won't remember them. He'll wake up, drink some apple juice, eat a cracker, pee, and go home. If all goes well.

***

Sitting in the pre-op area, Jared's veins are being pumped with saline solution. Measurements on the bag are in increments reading 1 through 9. 1 through 9 whats? Not milliliters. Not ounces. "Probably cc's" says Jared.

"Oh yeah," I say. "cc's." I think about that. "What are cc's anyway?" Jared shrugs. Some word they use on E.R., which is the only reason we thought of it.

***

A song comes on the speakers -- apparently they pipe music into the pre-op area, for the nurses or to calm the patients, I don't know --it's that old Paul Young song from the 80's: "every time you go away/ you take a piece of me with you."

"You should sing this song to the pathologist," I say to Jared. He laughs.

"No. I'm probably not even going to see the pathologist."

"The surgeon then! I dare you!" I probe. Jared refuses, but we chuckle at the thought. Later, after the surgeon has talked to us and is walking out of our stall, I almost sing it through the curtain, but I don't.

***

My cell phone is ringing off the hook. I know people are trying to be supportive, but for some reason I feel annoyed. That makes no sense. I guess because I can't answer my phone in the hospital, and I'd have to leave this waiting room, which I'm afraid to do, so I feel all conflicted and torn because I want to talk to people, but I can't, and I just have to keep turning my ringer off and apologize to whoever is there. I wish I could instant message everyone.

***

The waiting room is in the center of the hospital. It's small. It has other people in it sitting in chairs, reading magazines, in various stages of stress and worry, it's over air-conditioned, the television is on, the newspaper sits on the coffee table untouched, the plants are fake. Everyone here has either a furrowed brow or a blank stare; it feels like they're all smoking, but they're not.

Outside it's 75 degrees and sunny and beautiful. I go out and try to find a place to sit on the hospital grounds, but there's only a smokers' bench, complete with Smoker. I find a bus-stop across the parking lot, where I pretend that every bus that comes just isn't my bus. I stay there as long as I possibly can without feeling like I might miss the surgeon who will look for me in the waiting room -- and in the waiting room only. I call Emily Potter and say things I've been meaning to say, ask things I've been meaning to ask. I relish the diversion. 45 minutes later I know I have to get back, and in the cruelest real-life-soap-opera-to-be-continued way I have to cut off our conversation.

***

Any minute now he'll come in here and tell me Jared's diagnosis. Will he have a prognosis too? I don't know. I doubt it. Why do so many medical terms end it "nosis"?

***

He came. No diagnosis yet. I guess the pathologist feels confident he has enough tissue, but is still "cooking" as the surgeon called it. It looks consistent with lymphoma. Maybe we can get preliminary information by Friday. Probably no final diagnosis until Tuesday. Drat! I was totally expecting to know today.

***

Jared's Mom keeps calling. She's his mom. She wants to know. I have to tell her... what? That I know nothing? Yes. I have to tell her that. She's his Mom. But I don't feel like talking to anyone. Anyone but this blog. ...Hello blog. How are you? Fine, you say? Very good. Oh, me? Why, how kind of you to ask. I'm fine too. Actually, I've been better, but I'm getting by...

***

All my friends are at a barbecue, watching a movie on an outdoor screen. My baby is with them. I keep forgetting that we can't just go over there when we're done here at the hospital. If there were longer to wait, I'd go over there by myself. Jared would want me to. But I never know when they'll come. And besides, what kind of a perverse wife goes and barbecues with her friends while her husband is having surgery next to his heart?

***

I was thinking, "hospitals have cafeterias," so I'd be fine for food. But I'm afraid to leave this little waiting room! What if they come for me while I'm gone? What if I trade a rubbery grilled cheese and room-temperature pickle for my chance to see Jared again? And if I missed them, what would I do? It's 7:30pm and all the personnel desks are empty. The waiting room desk, the information desk, the admitting desk, the day surgery desk. An occasional nurse with a clipboard walks by. Men of non-European descent wearing scrubs are pushing carts around the hallways bearing various items -- towels, blankets, linens, laundry, files, cleaning supplies, body parts for all I know.

I get a text-message that my baby is finally eating (she had been refusing before -- apparently she's become a breast-milk snob. She won't drink formula, and now I guess she won't drink frozen breast-milk either. Only the best and freshest for baby. She takes after her food-snob mother, I guess). Anyway, I'm relieved. And I wish I was eating.

***

My Mom calls. She's been out of town, hard to reach, and it's good to hear from her. I give her the update.

She has this habit of cutting off conversations before I'm ready to go. She's not unnatural about it or anything. I think she must just feel that the conversation is over, I've given her all the information I'm going to, and so she says something like, "I'll be keeping you in my thoughts," and suddenly she's saying goodbye. And while I'm always a little taken aback, and I often want to say, "wait, I wasn't done talking to you!" I don't really know what else I would say. If she were to say, "Oh, I'm sorry, what else did you want to talk about?" I would have to think about it and say, "I guess... nothing." And that would be the truth. I think the thing is sometimes you just want to talk to your Mom. Sometimes you just want to feel like she's paying attention to you and she's there, and it doesn't matter what you say. And so once the substance of our conversation is finished, I really have no logical reason to keep her on the phone, except that I don't want to hang up.

***

A man and a woman just walked past. I heard them before I could see them. She was saying, "Oh my God," quavery, under her breath. When I saw her she was crying, her hand was over her mouth, she looked shell-shocked. The man's arm was around her shoulders as he walked her toward the exit.

Reality Check: I am sooooooooooooooooooooooooooo grateful that Jared's cancer is a treatable one. Highly treatable -- assuming it's what we think it is. It's easy to think of all this as so dramatic painful scary awful, to expect people to pity us, to pity ourselves. But, really, this is not so bad as all that. There are far worse things that could happen. I'm so glad that my surgeon came and told me that everything went fine, that it looks like lymphoma, that I'll see Jared in an hour or so and then we'll go home and soon we'll arrange treatment. I'm so glad I'm not the lady crying down the hallway with my hand over my mouth and "Oh, my God" echoing through my head, anointing my trembling lips.

***

It's waaaaay past the time I expected to get to see Jared again. The anesthesiologist said he's as healthy a person as he ever sees, so he expected things to go smoothly, and quickly. We're not past the normal-sick-old person timeline. But I didn't expect the normal-sick-old timeline. Where are they? He's... fine... right?

***

They forgot about me!

A guy in scrubs just came in asking for someone else (who wasn't here). I said I wasn't Tina, but did he know anything about a Jared E****? "The the guy with the biopsy?" he asked, pointing to his neck where they cut Jared open. "Yeah," I replied. Turns out Jared had been in a regular room for some time. He asked when his wife could come in, and they said any time, but no one notified his wife. grrrrrrr....

***

I got pulled over on the way home. Figures. Apparently making a quick divert action to the exit to avoid piling up traffic is not really considered safe. But talk about having the ultimate sob story! "My husband has cancer and I just picked him up from the hospital and we need to get his medicine right away, officer!" Naw. I didn't really say all that. But I did mention the hospital and pharmacy part, and he could see that Jared wasn't looking too hot. He didn't even check my license and registration. Just told me to be careful and sent me on my way.

***

I get a call on my way home from one of my best friends. She was going to bring us dinner tomorrow night. Apparently she went to the doctor today and found out she's dilated to a four (she's pregnant). They put her on the strictest of bed rest. She has 7 month old twins. She's only 19 weeks along, which means she'll be in bed until October and can't take care of her babies. Her husband goes to work every day at 4am. How on earth is she going to manage? Can you even hire help at 4am? I started making all sorts of statements about going over all the time, and she had to remind me that I, myself, have a sick husband and I'll probably be needing to prepare for the long haul and take care of him. Oh yeah. I forgot.

Drama all around.

People with Babies, Pregnant Friends, Parent-friends, Grandparents, etc...

Time for my personal soapbox of... Products I Would Endorse For Free Because They're The Best and Everyone Should Know About Them. Up first....

TyBooks!

These are the coolest coolest things! They are indestructible baby books that feel like paper, but can be chewed and crinkled so babies love to play with them! Seville has had a prototype for a few weeks and they're her favorite thing. My sister-in-law just launched the company this week and they have some introductory prices at www.TyBookInc.com. They are well worth the price. Here are excerpts of their announcement:

Anybody who's ever watched a baby knows what will happen with anything he gets his little hands on--he'll put it straight to his mouth! Books are no exception. In fact, paper seems to be a favorite material for chewing, crinkling, crunching, wrinkling, sucking on, and playing with. Unfortunately, paper books (even board books) can get soggy and come apart, not only destroying the book but becoming a potential choking hazard for baby. Don't you wish you could let your precious little one delight in exploring books the way she'd like?

Now you can!

TyBook introduces a revolutionary new baby book invented by a mother of triplets who wanted to share books with her babies, hassle-free. They are water-proof, tear-resistant, and baby-durable, making them the perfect books for babies who "read" with their little hands and mouths.

• Tear-resistant - can hold up to baby's tugging and pulling (see "Dare to Tear")
• Waterproof - can be chewed and sucked on
• Simple stitch binding allows them to slide easily into a diaper bag
• Easy-clean with water and soap if needed
• Great baby-shower gifts!
• Age-appropriate, wordless pictures to encourage dialogic reading
• Featuring illustrations by artist, Kaaren Pixton
• Meets ASTM safety standards

Grown Up II

Tonight I read, in response to a lamentation about "growing up" (excerpts):

"Where childhood is simple multiple-choice, adulthood is an open-ended essay question. Where childhood is your heart soaring at the site of the City's skyline, adulthood is being initiated into the architect's secret and building skyscrapers of your own. Where childhood is staring in gape-mouthed wonder at the magic of the world, adulthood is the opportunity to see your enchantment, your candleglow reflected in someone else's eyes.

Childhood is a wonderful time for discovering this life. If you play it right, though, adulthood is an even better time for taking life and creating of it whatever you will. For the living, adulthood isn't forgetting the magic of childhood... it's making it yours."

~name withheld for now

I was thinking about Vermont Villa and Seville Seraglio, the two houses I lived in during what I consider The Best Years of My Life, the most internally refining of times, the renaissance of my soul. I was thinking about the women I lived with, who reached deeper than had any man (much to my surprise and despite my resistance), woke me to the possibilities, unearthed the truest and most pure from within, loved me into being.

Several months after living together at Vermont Villa, we moved to the new house, Seville Seraglio. While I have the fondest memories of both places, their essence was each different, and after I got married and we all went our separate ways, I often thought of the move to Seville as the beginning of the end.

Distanced, now, by three years, a husband, a baby, a cat, and more outward concerns than The Great "I" that consumed most of my thoughts back then, I remember things differently, and I think the above quote gives voice to what I now see as the real difference between the two places.

Our time at Vermont was innocent and pure and exciting. Our love and discovery was so new and fun. It was the gape-mouthed-wonder days for the four of us. But with the move we took things to a new level. I have long melded the two houses together in my mind, but I realized only tonight that all the "Performance Art Nights," all the reaching to new forms of expression, all of our sharing our passion and experiences with other friends happened only in Seville. Vermont was the magic of childhood and discovery, and Seville was truly making the magic ours.

The grown-up experience of bearing our souls to others came with some pitfalls. We could probably all four say that there were things we didn't do right, or well, or with the purest of intentions or the purest of love. Or maybe I am just speaking for myself. In any case, it was imperfect. I'm not even sure we could have made it last together, had I not married and left anyway.

BUT, this is the thing... all of my most most most fond memories happened at Seville. The most edifying things we did together happened at Seville. The things I grew the most from happened at Seville. Our souls found expression in art and performance and friends and novels and music... at Seville. Seville was not just the feeling and experience of soul and passion, it was the actual embodiment and incarnation of it.

And now it's to another level, isn't it girls? Korea, India, Seattle, Portland, Salt Lake, Boston. They are all recipients of our original lessons as goddesslings. Let's not forget. It's so easy to forget. Let's not forget.

Disaster Strikes

Yesterday Seville was napping and I was fertilizing my roses. I use an organic fish fertilizer, which is essentially a bottle of pureed, rotten fish-parts. The stuff is rank. My mom and I have joked many a-time about how you can still smell it on your hands 3 days after using it. You water it down to a tablespoon or so per gallon of water, and it just reeks -- and YOU reek if you touch even the watered-down version, no matter how many times you wash your hands.

So, anyway, I'm wandering around my yard fertilizing and decide to cut through my house instead of going around the side. I walk in my front door, and SWOOSH, the bottle slips out of my hands, hits the floor, goes CRACK, splits open, and dead rotten pureed fish splatters and oozes out into a big puddle all through my entryway. "CRAP!" I shouted. This is the concentrated stuff, not the watered down version that makes your hands smell for merely 3 days. I ran like the wind downstairs to fetch every towel I could find that I would mind throwing away. After wiping up as much as I could with raggy towels (while trying not to vomit from the stench), my definition of "what kind of towel I don't mind throwing away" changed, and I grabbed just about any absorbent object I could find to get this stuff OUT OF MY HOUSE! After wiping, washing, scrubbing, mopping, spraying, washing, scrub-brushing, fingernail in the crevices-ing, washing, mopping, deoderizing, etc, you could still hardly breath to save your life if standing in the entry. Even Richard Parker (my cat) stopped dead in his tracks when attempting to cross the threshold. He paced back and forth for a while before he gave up and went downstairs.

This is my ultimate fear in life: having a weird, smelly house. You ever go to someone's house and it smells funny? And of course, you never say anything. But I always think, "Man, I'd hate it if my house smelled weird." One of the main reasons I don't want a dog is that (forgive me, my dog-owning friends) dog-owning houses almost always smell like dog. Even very classy, very clean dog houses smell like dog. I know you just get used to it, but I abhor the idea or having a house that smells gross to outsiders. And here I have managed to make my house smell like dead, rotten fish. Good one, Skye.

I ended up calling an industrial-cleaning supply company and buying this crazy enzyme/deodorizer that eats any human or animal matter (vomit, poop, urine, blood, rotten flesh) and I've used it 50 million times in different concentrations on the area. After which I showered using every soap I could find, and then put every smelly lotion in my possession on my body. I still gagged when smelling my hands last night.

But I think I may have got it out of the entryway, believe it or not. At least I can't smell it now. But I'm afraid that maybe I just got used to it throughout the afternoon. So, here is my charge to all of my in-town friends:

When you come over pleeeeeease tell me if my house smells weird! It's the only way I'll ever know for sure.

Keeping Up With Skye (& Seville & Jared)

My blog has a new feature! Now you don't have to go to both my personal and family blog to see what's new. You can just look at the "Skye's Family Blog Posts" widget over there on the right. If there's one you haven't seen, you can click on it. -->

Thus I intend to stop double-posting stuff. Family stuff goes there. Personal stuff goes here. All accessible from one big happy webpage. :)

Anonymous Comments

Occasionally I get an anonymous comment to one of my blog posts. And I see them on my friends' posts too. They are almost always negative, and very often -- or am I biased? -- grammatically incorrect, conceptually unclear, and misspelled. Okay, that part might be my imposing an overly-critical eye to people who won't fess up to who they are. But, seriously, I get annoyed. In a way I totally understand people wanting to be anonymous when they are going to say something negative. But, hey, I put myself on a limb to be personal here. If I didn't ever say anything frighteningly honest it wouldn't be interesting to read. And if you aren't willing to sign your name to something you say, maybe you shouldn't say it.

The creepy part is this: there is a limited circle of people who check and comment on my blog. Every time I get a negative "anonymous" comment, I naturally assume it's from some schmoe who just happened to stumble across my post. But in all likelihood it's actually one of my friends, whom I would never suspect could be so vitriolic. So every time it happens I invariably end up thinking about each of my friends in my mind wondering, "could it be him?" That's the part that sucks. I don't like imagining my friends saying those things. And I don't feel like I can ask any of my friends this lest I offend them (I'd be less than excited if one of my friends thought I had done it) (Except maybe not James. But I don't think James would ever feel the need to hide behind an "anonymous" tag, even if he were going to say something opinionated and un-p.c. In fact, I can only imagine James using the "anonymous" tag if he were going to say something that was p.c., boring, unremarkable and totally inoffensive.)

So... I have to assume it's strangers. Strangers who never post on my blog otherwise. Strangers who.... wait! Strangers are reading my blog? Now that's creepy.

ooooh! ooooh! I just had the creepiest thought of all! Maybe it's my husband, who never comments on here. I don't even know if he reads this. hmmmmm....

How does anyone else feel about anonymous posters. Does it bug other people too? Obviously, I "allow anonymous comments," so I think there's a place for them. But... I guess it seems like sometimes people feel that common decency isn't required if no one knows who you are. This just highlights the value, to me, of real interpersonal relationships.

Jared and I were talking the other day and I lamented that I didn't live in my childhood "hometown." I never run into high-school friends and have no around who has known me longer than about a decade. He was like, "you would want that?" We then speculated on what it must be like for some people we know who are grown up and married but attending their parents' church congregation. We both agreed we would hate it and we feel sorry for them. But it also makes me wonder if there isn't something valuable about a life-long community that we're getting away from now in our post-modernist, detached, individualistic culture. People used to grow up in a town from birth to death. People knew each other and watched each other move through phases of their lives. And along with that, people had to be careful with other people. People had to be careful of what other people thought of them. People were less inclined to go offending their neighbors unless it was for a cause they believed in. People cared about honor, responsibility, community, integrity. Sure, some of that was because of others and not from within, but does that matter so much? Isn't that how we learn?

These days everyone can hide behind something -- telephones, computers, other obligations. Everyone can move around and discard people and friendships when they're used up. Even marriages get discarded more often than not now. As if hiding behind a screen-name isn't enough, we can now hide behind an "anonymous" tag. And thus with the freedom of our newfound alienation we are alienating ourselves from each other. Is the freedom and individuality worth the cost?

A Great Injustice

I have to tell you something. This is the saddest thing, and I haven't wanted to admit it, but I've decided it's true. Here goes.... my baby doesn't like it when I sing. sigh. Oh, ok, maybe that's too general a statement. She likes it when I sing "horsey horsey" or "sleep tight, sand-man's a comin'" or anything else a'capella and sweet, baby-ish. But when I sing -- I mean really sing, I mean if my guitar or my piano is involved sing -- she starts to cry. I've been trying to gradually get her used to it, but she just doesn't like it. I think the power and resonance of my voice, at its most passionate (or even just kinda passionate) sounds too much like crying or yelling to her. Maybe it's just too loud (not that can't be it, because it's even if she's on the other side of the room). For whatever reason, it's too much for her.

This makes me so sad. I always imagined singing my heart out to my little girl, and I can't do it. I can't even sing in my own house. Not when she's awake because she cries. Not when she's asleep because it wakes her up. I can't sing. I have been silenced. Because there is nothing so unbearable as doing something that makes your baby look up at you with sweet, clear blue eyes; makes her face turn downward, her eyebrows furrow; makes her bottom lip start to quiver; makes her eyes start to glisten; makes her open her mouth and start to sob. I can't do it.

And so the musician's guitars sit in their hangers collecting dust. The piano languishes toward out-of-tune. My fingers become soft as the callouses heal. Songs remain unsung. Lullabies remain unwritten. My heart continues to bust its seams without expression.

This is so unfair.

Nature Baby

For Mother's Day, we took Seville backpacking. Here she is sleeping to the sound of birds chirping, bees buzzing, a brook babbling nearby, daddy in the background hangin' out at camp. So much fun. You can see the (short) photo album by clicking the image above. Or go see the (even shorter) run-down at my other blog.

Whaddya call it NOW?

We've developed some names for some of Seville's special talents. My personal favorite:

The Snart.

I laugh every time she does it (that is... sneeze and fart simultaneously). I know, I'm so mature. There's also the "fough" and the "farcup" which happen less often, but are equally funny.

Speaking of bodily functions, what are we supposed to call the regular version now that we have a kid? I can't bring myself to refer to Seville as having "farted," nor can I abide the idea of a little child running around using that word. I mean, I've never even been really comfortable with it myself, for gosh sake.

When I was a kid, we called it a "bomb," a word that came from my mother's childhood in an English boarding school. It seemed totally normal to me all my life, but I realize it's weird to most Americans. And it certainly is weird to Jared. Other possibilities that hail from my British relatives include: "fluff" and "dust." I have stories of my stuffy English Grandmother turning up her royal nose and demanding, "did you dust?" (yes, royal. My English side is/was nobility, so imagine the scandal in a polite noble household.)

Jared suggested using "pass gas," but that's a) too cumbersome and, b) too adult/medical. It's like referring to poop as a bowel movement or sex as intercourse. Not things I'm going to have a child running around saying (I guess she hopefully won't be referring to sex for several years anyway. Especially since Jared says Seville's not allowed to date until she's 30 years old. still.)

Other rejects: Cut the Cheese (too adolescent), Break Wind (too... I dunno), and Barking Spiders (did anyone else use that one, or is that a Bryce Pixton Original?)

I've experimented with the word "toot" and it seems like the most likely champion. Even though I couldn't stand it as a kid when my friends called it that. It seems to fit a cute baby the best. Does anybody have any good suggestions?

The Great Northwest

When I posted my pictures of Seville at a week old, I included a nursing picture. I thought it was a really sweet picture. Her head is covering anything "significant," and it's not like breastfeeding is sexual or pornographic anyway. I wanted to include that picture and memory in my collection of sweet moments. It is, afterall, what I spend a huge amount of time doing with her (about 8 hours a day at the time), and a significant part of the wondrous and beautiful miracle of motherhood. It's very goddess-like, being able to provide absolutely everything this little person needs, right from your own body.

Anyway, one of the responses I got was from my Manhattan-residing brother-in-law. "Aaugh! I didn't need to see that! You Westerners!" He didn't say this to me, of course, but I heard about it. It was all in good fun, and I laughed (nevertheless, it did contribute to the eventual removal of the photo from the online album).

The Northwest is a funny place. I'm proud of most things that are characteristic of Portland. For example, I recently learned that Portland has twice the number of women doing natural births than most other places. Bravo! (I was planning a natural birth, but had an emergency cesarean birth. I hope and pray I have no complications next time and can do it then). One can also note that the Northwest is particularly prone to cool outdoor activities. I mean, we have three R.E.I.s in the Portland Metro area alone. And our whole sense of fashion reflects our outdoorsiness. We don Keens and Merrels as everyday wear. Show up in all-black New York City in a fleece vest, Columbia Sportswear pants and Chaco sandals and you'd stick out like a sore thumb (sore from rockclimbing, probably. ha ha). In Portland people go to the theater in that kindof gettup.

The question on my mind is this: Am I at home in the northwest because my personality naturally leans toward these things? Or do I lean toward these things because I live in the northwest and am influenced by the sociopolitical mood here?

A couple weeks ago Jared and I went hiking in Forest Park -- a very Portland thing to do. While hiking we saw graffiti on one of the trail fences. Now, you see graffiti all over the country. But THIS graffiti said... get this... "Mother Earth Feeds You." --! This is what a good-for-nothing subversive outcast troublemaker in Portland graffitis. "Mother Earth Feeds You" (sucka). I can just see him in his bandana made of hemp, spray paint made of renewable recycled paint, and hiking boots, painting his message to the world. "That'll show them! Stick it to the man!!" he must have been saying to himself.

so funny.

I think the punk kid is influenced by living here. Here is someone who, if born and raised in L.A. would have written "Black Gangsta Disciple." This is the northwest's version of a punk kid.

What I Meant to Say Was...

Paul and Dani's wedding: What a great and original celebration! Paul took the performance art we've all been playing with to the most extreme. The ultimate performance. Bravo, Paul and Dani. Bravo.

Singing at Paul and Dani's wedding I introduced my piece as it relates to "The Great Paradox" as they called their "performance." I fumbled over my introduction, unable to remember how I had worded it in my letter to them. I should have just read it, but there you go. Here it is, as originally written:

THE GREAT PARADOX

Love is a paradox indeed. It is both the time when you have to be the most honest with yourself, and yet the most willing to overlook reality in favor of a more hopeful and perfect view. It is a time for acknowledging harsh reality, yet for wearing rose-colored glasses. You must both love someone exactly as they are and also give them every benefit of the doubt, overlooking flaws in order to enable their growth toward something new. Love is both having absolute faith in the constancy of your partner, and also having enough faith to allow your partner to change and move through his or her own life and discovery. It is the paradox of two individual parts which are actually one unified whole. It is both embracing and letting go of someone at the same time. It is where you lose yourself to find yourself.

I chose to share my piece because the songs are about those things: The first about letting go of a fantasy in favor of a real person, and all the associated adjustments of the heart and mind. The second, about letting a real person be a fantasy, and allowing them to become something greater than they are. Sometimes relating to someone as they may potentially become is more honest than relating to them as they currently are – simply on a path toward a truer self.

It is in the juxtaposition of a deeply honest love and a forgiving ennabling love that makes us able to accomplish the greatest things. It is both humility and vision that I hope to convey.

I love you Paul and Dani! Have fun on your adventures together!




Here are the lyrics to the songs I sang:

Betrothed
by Skye Pixton
(see live video snippit from CD Release)

Walking away from
all the past lives that I’ve tried to lead
I’m walking away from
all the mistrials, all those memories

Taking a last walk
through my girlhood, through those moonlit streets
I’m taking the fast road
to the next world, to my destiny

Help me to be honest
about what I am
about what I feel
Help me to be honest
about what I need
about what is real

I know that some days
won’t be the bliss that I’ve always dreamed
and I know in some ways
you are bound to be disappointed in me

Take me as your angel
as your demon
if that’s what you need
take me as a stranger
as your best friend
anything, I can be

All of you and all of me
Nothing less will do
All my sorrows, all your dreams
Make one life of two

I’ve got a feeling
there is something that’s been on your mind
My head has been reeling
I’d be shocked if you didn’t need some time to think

an’ I’ve had my moments
I’ve had times when I thought that I couldn't breathe
well, please, love, just know that
if it’s part of you then it’s alright with me

Give me your rejoicings
all your sorrows
your fears and your shoes
Give me all your mornings/mournings
your tomorrows
anything that is you

Help me to be crazy
in the moments when logic
can’t stand
Help me to be graceful
in the moments when things don’t
go as planned
Help me to be honest
About what I need
about what I feel
Help me to be honest
About what is me
About what is real
What is real
What is real



You
By Skye Pixton

I stopped believing the world was crazy when I was in your arms
I met you and suddenly there was light behind the stars

with you there’s never any night
with you I’m alright
you know, somebody once told me if I hang on
There would be somebody someday
well I look into your eyes, and see the way

There was a time I was afraid to swim; now I’d sail the seven seas
and now I sometimes dare to hope for things I never thought could be

with you there’s never any night
with you I’m alright
you know, somebody once told me if I hang on
There would be somebody someday
well I look into your eyes, and see the way

I once believed in a thousand fables
they were lies
I used to wait for a guardian angel
that passed me by
But when you touch my face
I can have my dreams all over
And you give me faith
To know that I can start all over

and now I
Believe that I could walk on water
If I
tried I’d probably walk through these walls
You and I
together we could surely fly away

And when you think that your world’s gone crazy
I’ll be there
And when your walls seem to fall before you
I’ll be there
Just take my hand, my love, you know
I’ll be here

I could fly away with you.

Happy Easter from Seville!

(I'm no Emily Saxey Neaman. But I thought Seville's new Bunny towel was pretty cute. Also, for those who don't know, I have some pics and video posted on our family blog at www.jaredandskye.blogspot.com. )

Being a New Mother

today it took me all afternoon to eat a grapefruit.

Seville's First Week in the World

I realized that I posted this album on my other blogspace, but not this one. Here is my little baby girl, her first seven days. I can't believe she'll be a month old in just another week!

Seville's First Week in the World

Baby Seville's Arrival

More pictures than you ever wanted to see: click the album below.

Baby Seville's Arrival

Welcome to the World!

January 17th, 2007, 10:02pm, arrived Seville Megan  6lbs 14oz, and very very cute. Mommy and Baby, just after birth. As Jared put it, it was a little more "adventurous" than we'd planned. She was born a little early by emergency c-section (no, this was not like E.R. with George Clooney-like doctors running down hallways calling other hot nurses to hurry up and save lives. Nevertheless, it had to happen pretty quickly -- a story I'll tell later)
1 Hour old.

Mommy looking at Baby

Little Seville sucks on Daddy's fingers.

Mommy & Baby day 2

Richard Parker investigates the Snow

What is this stuff?

I think I'll just hang out here under this tree, thank you. I'm not sure what's going on around here.

After a while he disappeared. I could see his tracks, mostly next to the house where there wasn't much snow, from when he was nervous about walking in it.

Then I saw where he went. Apparently he discovered that snow is good for "pouncing," and ran all around the yard trying to chase birds (bad kitty!). I'm not sure if you can see it here very well, but my whole yard looks like one of those Family Circus cartoons with little dots wherever Richard Parker went. It's so funny.

... don't worry. Pretty soon we'll have a real baby and won't be weird "cat people" who think other people think their cat pictures are cute. I know you don't. I know to you-all Richard Parker just looks like every other cat in the world. But he's REALLY cute, I swear!

My Baby Shower

Tamara threw me the greatest baby shower yesterday! I am so overwhelmed by my friends' generosity and support. Thank you everyone!















So Tamara decided that instead of doing a bunch of cheesy shower games, we'd do something a little unconventional: Belly Painting! We had a theme of fruits and flowers: things that represent fertility and blooming into being. My mom painted my baby's head (upside down, hopefully she'll turn that way -- she's breech at the moment), and then everyone else contributed whatever they wanted.

I loved this! I love the idea of celebrating the big pregnant tummy with art.





















The finished product!

My Body

Here is me, two and a half years ago, just before I got married:


Here is me last week:

And the great thing about it? I feel more like a beautiful goddess now than ever.

I was actually a little shocked to come across that old picture of myself, because I remember how I "felt" about my body at the time. I felt hot n' all, but I remember being still self-conscious about various lumpy places and squishy places and feeling like I needed to get in better shape all the time. Weird to me, now, because I look at that picture and think, "Man! I was a hot little number!" I mean... I don't think I knew how hot I was, ever the self-critic (I think all girls are this way).

Last night I was at the Blazers/Celtics game and the blazer dancers were dancing in all their bare-midriffed glory. I couldn't take my eyes off their cute, flat, little navels. Having the hugest navel ever at the moment, complete with stretched and pregnant outtie, there is something magnetic to me about those tiny little adorned bellybuttons. And yet, I also couldn't help but notice the slight and subtle differences one between the other. Some girls had the teensiest bit of pooch, or a more curvy waist, or whatever. I remember when I was doing a lot of modern and jazz dance how much I would compare myself to other girls, and can only imagine it's the same for the Blazer Dancers. Every single one of these girls has an amazing figure, worthy of a magazine spread. And yet, I have no doubt that every single one of them likely stresses and frets about it all the time, looks at the others girls, laments the parts of her own body that are less perfect than the next girl.

We women are so hard on ourselves.

And I hope my little daughter will be immune to all this. But I know she won't be. And so I hope she is beautiful. But what if she's not? How can I teach her to be beautiful without patronizing her or feeding her lines? How can I be sensitive to the reality she would face but still bolster her own sense of herself? I know beauty has so much more to do with confidence and manner than with waist size and nose-profile, but I still know that those things are so real in a woman's world, they cannot be ignored or dismissed. As much as I feel like a goddess with my current body, I still cringe when I see pictures of myself over the holidays. I have that "pregnant-fat-face" thing that happens. And my "hips" are ginormous. And there are some things that are just hard to get over, even if you know it's all for a baby. If I can't get over this stuff, how can I teach a little girl to be immune?

Merry Christmas!

3 Years Ago...

I was single. I was the co-chair of a church Activities Committee. I was living in a house in Lake Oswego on Seville Street with my three goddess roommates. I was a paralegal. My life was more or less consumed with dancing salsa and swing. My superpsychojealousfreak boyfriend didn't like me to go dancing. Bless his heart, he tried to manage even though I would usually bail on him Friday nights about 10:30 or 11:00 to hit the dance floor (that part, I understand. It's the other stuff was nutty). Among other things, he also forbade me to talk too much to certain people. One person in particular, actually. There was this one guy at church who went to law school with one of Boyfriend's buddies, and Boyfriend thought that if I talked to Law-School-Guy that Buddy might hear about it and Boyfriend might be embarrassed or something. I don't know, I never quite followed the logic, but I tried to respect his feelings about it. Thing was, I happened to really like the guy he didn't want me talking to. Not in a sexual-attraction kind of way, but just in a he's-really-cool-I-like-talking-to-him kind of a way. Three years ago I remember talking to him and another guy briefly in the hallway one Sunday.

Anyway, Boyfriend and I broke up shortly (duh), and a few months later I did, in fact, become better friends with Law-School-Guy. We had lots in common. Our minds thought similarly, and he was fun to talk to. Our friendship steeped slowly, and became more and more intense as the next several months wore on.

I think it's so funny to imagine, now, what would have gone through my head then if I had known the future. What if I could go back and say to myself, "Hey self! By the way, three years from now you will be pregnant with Law-School-Guy's child. You will be living in a great old house in WestSlope with a beautiful backyard. You're working on remodeling your kitchen. Today the two of you picked out a light fixture and then raked leaves together off your front lawn. You have a kitten, and Law-School-Guy always cleans the litter box so you don't have to. He loves you and cares for you like you never imagined anyone would. And you love him in a way you never thought possible. And you're happy. And it's all with THIS guy! This one you just chatted with in the hall for 2 minutes. The one who can't laugh because of a scab on his lip from a basketball accident this week, which will become a scar, which will become one of your favorite features about him. And right now in the three years' future he's playing the piano in your living room with a fire burning and baby in your tummy and a cat sleeping at your feet."

HA! Would I have believed myself? I would surely have gawked and been shocked. The real question is.... would I have been happy to know that? I mean, there's a reason you don't know the future. If I knew I was going to marry Jared in advance, would we have had the magical and suspenseful union that we did, that created the spark, that made it all possible? Without uncertainty, would I have had the humility and ambition to love him? I'm not sure. And for all the frustration involved in not knowing the future, it sure seems it would have taken the fun out of it. I love Our Story. It's so full of each of us thinking various things and accidentally falling in love and not knowing what was going on. It's funny and suspenseful and torturous in a chick-flick kinda way. Without all that, what would it be like?

I'm glad we only live in one moment in time, and that we can only see one direction from there (backward). Whatever benefits knowing the future has to offer, they must certainly be outweighed by the adventure of finding your way.

And so I'm also glad, I guess, not to know what this child will bring to my life. It gives me the room to dream and hope and imagine things that may or may not ever be. It leaves room for surprises. And it spares me the pain, from this end at least, of many things that will inevitably come to pass, because those things are known only from the other side of time. And hopefully they are easily forgotten, just as the torment and sorrow and loneliness of so many lost loves has paled and softened with with time and with Jared and with my selective memory. And the joy and excitement and fun of the adventures is only magnified with each passing day, as events' significance is added to by their rippling and repeating effect over time. One special moment can remain just that and be forgotten. Or it can become a fond memory, a moment of enlightenment, a step forward, a tradition, a new beginning, a shared understanding, something that pops its head into the present over and over and adds to itself. Like that chat in the hallway that day. I can't think of it without smiling, remembering the brief and seemingly meaningless connection, which eventually contributed to the blossoming of the most beautiful and powerful thing I know: Us.

Things You Do Not Say to Your Pregnant Wife

Which of the following is not an appropriate response to your pregnant wife's suggestion of "cuddling":

a) Why, yes, Honey. I'd love to cuddle with you.
b) In fact, why don't you come lie over here, and I'll massage your feet.
c) You have never been so beautiful as you are now. Can you sit closer to me so I can see and feel you better?
d) We can't cuddle on the couch. There's not room for both of us because you are like a Baluga Whale.

I've got money says any other reasonable human being who reads this blog will easily pick out the (in)appropriate answer.

Oh well, though. He made me laugh, which is sometimes the best thing to do of all.

Published!

A piece of mine has been published in a real magazine! Hurrah! Sunstone Magazine's September 2006 issue includes a short memoir of mine in its "Touchstones" section (theme: Small Miracles). You can't see the text online, so I've pasted it below for those who don't have access to the magazine:

SMALL MIRACLES
by Skye Pixton Engstrom

When I was a little girl, my brother gave me two quarters so that I could use them to buy cotton candy at the fair the next day. I lived on a practical farm, and had never had cotton candy before (nor did it seem the type of thing my whole-grain mother was likely to buy me). I cherished those quarters with my stubby little four-year-old hands and heart in great anticipation.

It wasn’t long, of course, before I misplaced them, and was completely beside myself about it. I remembered a recent Primary lesson, that if I prayed in a private place, God would answer me. I went to the privatest place I knew – the small bathroom – and uttered my first little heartfelt prayer kneeling over the toilet.

After praying, I got up and wandered about wondering how God would tell me where the quarters were (my teacher hadn’t gotten to the part about how prayers are answered, and I didn’t know). Mind and heart open, within minutes I got a picture in my head, clear as day, of the quarters lying under the pillow on my bed. I went directly to the bed and looked under the pillow and, behold! Quarters.

I realize that it would be easy to explain away the spiritual significance of that event: I mean, maybe I just needed some focus and time to remember where I had put them. And it would be easy to think that I self-manufactured the idea that God had answered me, simply because I wanted it so bad. But almost all of my “spiritual experiences” to date are similarly simple: a feeling of peace, quiet assurances, wind at the right moment on a mountaintop, a bird stopping by for a significant moment – things that are unmiraculous and known only to me. Does my wanting the experience somehow create and therefore invalidate it? Our commonly used definition of faith (“things hoped for but not seen”) inherently implies, by the word “hope,” an actual desire, not just willingness. So the very ingredients of faith make it easy to dismiss.

I don’t remember the cotton candy I bought with the quarters anymore, nor do I remember the fair. But I have never forgotten my first answer to my first prayer. And while sometimes I think it’s a silly story – why would God answer such a trivial and insignificant request? – I also realize that the desires of our hearts, however simple, are of great interest to God. He lost nothing by reaching out to a four-year-old girl, in a four-year-old mindset, with four-year-old desires. He gained a lifelong friend in me. -|||-


A Story and a Brief Thanks: about 3 or 4 years ago Emily, Lumina, Michelle and I wrote "titles" on paper and stuck them on our bedroom doors. You know, like whatever you might put under your name on a business card: "Skye Pixton: songwriter, paralegal, salsa dancer," etc... I think we each boldly put at least one thing that we weren't really qualified to put there, but wished we were and hoped someday maybe we would be. I put "writer." And that month I started experimenting with writing occasional memoirs. I'm pretty sure every one of us has accomplished our title we weren't qualified for by now. Emily has a CD. Lumina is an art teacher. I can't say I know a ton about Michelle's doings at the moment, but I know we've all changed and grown and progressed in ways we probably thought nearly impossible at the time. Thanks, girls, for encouraging me!

Hawaii Sunset

Originally uploaded by skyepixie.

Our first evening in Hawaii last week. To see more pics, click the link.

I Have Sunburned my Bellybutton

Seriously. At 6 months pregnant, I have developed somewhat of an “outtie” . It’s not outrageously out yet, and it depends on how I’m sitting or standing and what time of day it is. And thus, it would never occur to me to put sunblock on my bellybutton. My sunblock application techniques, developed over the last couple of decades, involves rubbing lotion in a circular motion around my tummy, never paying heed to the little hole in the center which has not seen the sun in as many years.

It was a shock, seeing my bellybutton again for the first time. I remember the day I looked in the mirror and could see into my bellybutton hole and the light from the lamp was actually shining on the crumpled bit of skin at the back. "Holy cow," I thought. Before then, I’d always had to reach in and stretch it or poke q-tips in there in order to ascertain what was going on. Suddenly one day I could just SEE it.

And NOW that little soft fleshy piece of crumpled skin is beginning to turn inside out and poke out sometimes. Apparently when I’m on the beach it pokes out, because I have an excruciating sunburn on the tip of it. Remember: this piece of my body hasn’t seen the sun in a score or so. And then I went and thrust it into the tropical Hawaii sun as if it’s been hardened and calloused like the rest of me. Unfortunately, it responded like baby skin. Now everywhere I go, my shirt painfully rubs against it, causing my hand to reach down and try to press it back into the hole from whence it came.

And as such, I have developed a sort of obsession with my bellybutton. It’s so SOFT! It’s so squishy and tender and cute, like a baby-something, and unlike anything else on my body. It’s maybe closest to an earlobe (a part I have also long had an obsession with), but even then there’s no contest. Touching it is like touching – I don’t know – but it’s like there’s really really soft baby skin over just air or just water or just feathers or jello or clouds or something. I feel like I have to touch it carefully how I would touch a baby bird, or a delicate flower petal, or how you would touch a tomato seed without it slipping from under your finger.

I understand now why you don’t want to sunburn babies. Their skin is probably all tender like that, having never seen the sun EVER, not even 20 years ago.

Learning to put sunblock on my bellybutton falls into the category of the many things about pregnancy that you find in no book. Or if it is in books, you don’t understand what the heck they’re talking about until it happens to you. So here’s my list of advice and warnings for pregnant women-to-be of things your pregnancy book won't tell you:

1. Put sunblock on your bellybutton.
   
2. Everybody knows that pregnant women have to pee a lot, but they don’t tell you that sometimes you have to pee but you don’t really. Like the equivalent of dry-heaving when you have the flu, sometimes you really think you have to go but there ain’t nothing in there.
3. It is entirely possible that all children will suddenly become annoying and unbearable to you. I assume this goes away when you give birth to your own, but I have yet to find out.
4. When “morning sickness” (a.k.a. every-minute-of-every-day sickness) finally “goes away” it morphs into this other thing: if you don’t eat for more than 90 minutes or so, you get this feeling like your intestines are eating themselves, and you must put food in them before you are consumed from the inside out.
5. You might turn into a total sex-hound, and your husband might find he has to hide at certain times of the day to avoid you ravishing him senseless all the time.
6. You’ll probably start to bump into people and furniture and corners, because you used to be able to squeeze through any teensy space by turning your svelt little body sideways and mincing a flirty “excuse me” through the aisle. I have bumped so many people with my stomach and knocked so many chairs over and stepped on so many feet losing my balance because I forget that my profile is no longer my slimmest dimension.
7. For some reason, lots of other women feel compelled to warn you about the horrors of birth by sharing their horrible birth stories. (Why they think I want to hear this is beyond me. I’m ALREADY pregnant people! There’s no way out of it. If you wanted to scare me out of having a baby it’s too late. Now you’re just giving me unnecessary anxiety.) (As if I don’t already have enough of it).
8. The stuff our mothers were told to do and not to do while pregnant was a bunch of wacko advice that’s all been debunked by now. Don’t trust your mother’s generation when they give you advice and do’s and don’t’s about pregnancy. (Also, this tells me that probably half of what doctors advise now will eventually be proved unnecessary, stupid, or harmful, so I can’t stress about it too much. Still… it’s not like I’m gonna go eating mercury-burgers or anything).
9. You might get cellulite on the FRONT of your thighs. The FRONT, people! (I know this makes you think I’m one of those fat pregnant ladies, but I’m really not. I look mostly normal. Not that being a fat pregnant lady is bad. I personally don’t understand how anyone could possibly “control” their weight while pregnant, given the host of nutrients we’re supposed to get daily (which is impossible without eating like a horse), and the fact that you are SO hungry all the time and you’re not supposed to diet or deprive yourself of food and you’re supposed to “listen to your body” – which is probably telling you to eat chocolate and pasta like there’s no tomorrow. Here’s to fat pregnant girls!)
10. Trying to sleep with a baby in your tummy is like trying to sleep with a 15-pound bowling ball strapped to you. Only all your skin is around it, so it will painfully yank all your organs wherever it goes. Unless, of course, you lie on your back and balance it on top of yourself cutting off your circulation, your air supply, and any space that previously existed in your bladder. Not to mention how it throws you off balance in your day-to-day operations.
11. Whatever ideas you had about being the hard-core, bike-riding, backpacking, super-productive pregnant lady were likely wrong.

…more to come as I think of them…