Before you were born

Before you were born, I was a workaholic. I was a 9-5er, a jewelry maker, an artist. I was a wife, part-time, after work, when I had a moment. I was a daughter, when I wasn't busy worrying about my job or my next jewelry show. Before you were born, I knew I didn't want children. I loved them but didn't want them because I was terrified of the responsibility, of losing myself, of screwing up big-time. Or maybe I wanted to adopt them. All of them. Before you were born, I remember speaking with my sister-in-law, who was pregnant, about how we would have no problem leaving our children with our parents or husbands so that we could get away and make time for ourselves. Before you were born, I was blissfully unaware.

And then you were born. A boy when I wanted a girl. A brown-eyed (once established), when I wanted a blue-eyed. But you were there. You were perfect. Absolutely. Astonishingly. Perfect. After you were born, my heart exploded. After you were born, I was terrified because I realized that I could never, ever imagine life without you again. I realized that I would have been just fine if you weren't born but now that you were here, there was no going back. After you were born, I knew that I would live for your hugs, your snuggles, your kisses. After you were born, I knew that I would never stop worrying again (as if I needed to worry more!). After you were born, I realized that I could never hear about another child being hurt without instantly thinking of you and becoming a blubbering, emotional mess. After you were born, I realized that while there would be moments during which I would want to hide in the basement and cry out of sheer frustration (terrible twos!), while I'd be delirious from sleep deprivation (going on 2 years), I would never, ever, regret that magical day when you came to us.You were born. And I was born with you.

Letting go is the hardest thing indeed

When you were born, I started furiously pumping breast milk with the intention of filling our deep freezer with enough to last three months beyond the three months of my maternity leave. I wanted to ensure that you'd at least get your 6 months worth of breast milk because I had read that if one could, one should at least try breastfeeding for that amount of time. I was convinced that once I went back to work I'd be unable to pump on a regular basis and it would be weeks before my supply of milk was gone.

A year later, you were still nursing like a champ and showed no signs of weaning yourself. The doctor said that it was essentially up to me to decide. I decided to hold off on weaning because the bond we had was something I wasn't ready to test. It was by far my favorite time of day - you in my lap, stroking my arm as you nuzzled me, sometimes putting you hand on my face and looking lovingly into my eyes. I wish I could capture those moments in my memory forever.

And then there were days when I just wanted my body back, when I was tired of feeling like a cow. Add to that the fact that you had yet to sleep through the night on a steady basis... And yet I kept putting it off, hoping you'd just reach a point when you'd get tired of "baby ma," as you called it. I made myself the promise that if you hadn't weaned yourself by the age of two, I'd have to do it.

You turned two last Sunday. In preparation for both myself and you, I whispered into your ear at night as you nursed that you were a big boy and "baby ma" was for babies. I whispered that big boys drank milk. I whispered and I cried as you trustingly gazed into my eyes and stroked my arm as you drifted off to sleep. I even finally got your dad to snap a picture because I realized that there were none of you nursing and wanted to have something to hold on to.

It's day 2 now. Day 2 of our trial. I say "our" because I'm suffering as much as, if not more than you. I'm bawling as I type these words while you're sound asleep after I failed to put you to sleep for the second day in a row and daddy had to step in instead. I'm crying because I'm afraid that this step will somehow sever our bond. What if you won't let me put you to sleep anymore? What if you no longer need me? I realize that most of these fears are unfounded but they are real, they are real to me.

From one workaholic to another

When I left my teaching job, they hired one person to teach and another for curriculum development. While I was there, I used to do both and then some. I used to work at home, skip lunch, do whatever needed to be done to ensure that all my tasks were covered and our students had sufficient resources to work with. I came into the program with nothing but course books that were over 10 years old and when I left, we had reading and listening modules, supplemental lab activities to make up for the books, and numerous other activities for our students.

Sever years into teaching, I finally moved on to another job within the same organization. My new position put me in the role of one of two team leaders. The division was split into two teams and I was the team leader for one of the teams. Thinking back, it’s really one of the worst positions a person can have because it’s all the grunt work without any real decision making power. During my first year on the job, I thought I was drowning. I always dutifully lasted until Friday and then ran to my car, where I proceeded to burst into tears and drive all the way home sobbing. At one point during the year I actually went to my boss and told her I might not be suitable for the job. She urged me to hang in a bit longer, told me that I was on the right track and just needed more faith in myself. She was there to hold my hand when I needed her and gave me a shoulder to (literally) cry on. So I stayed. I stayed out of a sense of loyalty and gratitude. I stayed to show her that I deserved her praise, her faith in me, I stayed because I saw her working just as hard as I did. I stayed and I once again worked night and day, worked while on vacation, took on not only my job but that of others because I saw how overworked they all were. I can specifically recall two vacations during which I did not work. Both were week-long cruises and my husband threatened to throw my laptop overboard if I so much as attempted to log in remotely. WiFi is rather expensive on a cruise, so I complied, knowing that I was not likely to stick the 60 minute allotted time. However, I called to check in whenever we docked anywhere (which I don’t count as working). 

And so passed several years. During those years, I received annual awards and glowing performance reviews. My colleague and counterpart retired about three and a half years into my working there and I took on his duties while we waited for his successor to get the necessary clearances to come onboard. We waited and waited. Nowadays the clearance process can take a lot longer than it used to because background checks are far more rigorous than they were. In the meantime, I realized that I was approaching the point of complete burnout. I realized that my job always, always followed me home. It haunted my thoughts, my dreams, my nightmares. I still wonder how my marriage survived considering how often I locked myself in the bathroom for 20-30 minutes for the sheer desperation for privacy that I so craved throughout the day as an introvert (no, closing my door did not keep people out, that was the running joke in the office).

And then, one day, I got pregnant. And when I did, I realized that inevitably, it would come down to family or work. That’s when the choice, at last, became clear – I had to leave, even if for a little while. I finally worked up the courage to speak with my boss about my decision. She was disappointed but supportive, as supportive as she could be considering she probably felt a bit betrayed by me deep down. She was always big on loyalty and we all have our own way of interpreting that word (or any other word for that matter). If she’d only known how deep my loyalty ran.

I was lucky enough with timing to find a different position in the same workplace that was a lower pay grade but also far less stressful. Before I left, we advertised for and hired my successor. And so I went on maternity leave for three months and came back to a new job.  When I came back, I kept going to the old floor for the first few months. I kept thinking I was still part of the old team – it was all just so surreal. I think at first my presence was welcomed because I had the institutional memory, being one of the few old-timers left. My memory quickly faded though, thanks to our baby’s aversion to sleeping through the night (for the next two years). And then, it all fizzled away. The duties that I had once performed by myself were delegated and spread out among 4-5 people and my successor was able to and continues to do her job. Just her job. I became part of the old, dusty memories along with my retired colleagues. Life moved on. Work moved on.

When I joined my new team, one of my colleagues said that no job is ever worth killing yourself over because if you were to die on Friday, you’d be replaced by Monday or maybe Tuesday. I used to think that was a bit much but having been out of the old job for two years and being able to observe from the side made me finally realize that he was absolutely right. Because regardless of the awards, regardless of the praise, in the end my boss moved on and gave those same awards and praise to my successor. And it’s nothing to do with her or me or anyone. The simple fact is that each of us is perfectly disposable, regardless of how much or how little we put into our jobs. Even my very own former boss. I used to think that the roof would collapse if she stepped out of the gate for the last time. She did. The roof did not.

A story

Another one of my really old writings...

A newborn cries at top of his lungs as the new mother places him on her relieved stomach.  Strange faces smile down upon him causing more tears of confusion.  A nurse loses consciousness and is quickly carried out of sight.  Her heart stops beating at the same time his last tear dries up.

            A little girl looks up into the sky with innocent eyes full of hope that an angel will come down and save her.  An old woman curses the bitterness inside her wrinkled body.  There is no one to blame.

            Virgin or not, she’s still the same sensitive fool.  I’m not a whore, mom.  I AM NOT A WHORE!  A blue eyed boy looks up at the stars and sighs with longing.  Nostalgia takes over her and she reads letters of the past.  Yellowish paper and faded ink become a big blur in her teary eyes.

            A twelve-year-old girl bids a tearful good-bye to her friends and leaves for a strange new city.  Skyscrapers and traffic scare her unadjusted soul. Language not yet mastered sounds monstrous.  “ We are the world” plays in the background as she writes her final words.

            The fight leaves her guilty once again.  3:1 is the latest score.  A tiny person stands in the middle of the room and looks up at giants ready to stomp her into a stain on the floor. Windex takes care of all stains.

             An old man lives in the days of glory.   The bomb drops down on the destined city below.  The pilot smiles and turns the plane around.  Sudden gunfire is an unwelcome surprise and the plane goes up in smoke.  “ We’ve lost him, doctor.”

             Cherry-red curls frame her thin face, giving her brown eyes an exaggerated appearance of innocence and laughter.  Her pouty lips are blood red, especially when covered by a thick coat of cherry flavored lip-gloss.

            His boyish smile and light touch send tiny lightning bolts down her spine.  Each and every kiss leaves her breathless and yearning for more.  Smoke circles its way to the top of the ceiling as the no longer virgin watches her partner exit the room.  She slips into her red dress and closes the door, leaving behind her innocence.

            A mother cries for her lost daughter.  A father cries for lost power.  A daughter cries because she is dead.

            Blue eyes stare at her in the dark.  The stained ceiling of the cheap motel stares at her naked body nomatter how deep she buries herself under the covers.

            The cradle is empty.  A baby cries for his mother in a stranger’s arms.  A girl sits in a corner singing a lullaby to a picture.

            Cold water runs down her naked body, washing away tears of anger and regret.  Semen cannot be washed out with water.  Dark stains can be taken care of with Clorox.  Pills take their effect at night and she drifts into the land of dreams.

            Darkness surrounds her as she tries to pull on her pants.  Her giggling comes to a sudden stop when her mother’s face flashes in front of hers.  Not a whore, mom.  Not a whore.

Of poems

I was looking through my computer and found some old writing. I mean really old. I haven't written poetry since...well, since a few months after my break-up with my college boyfriend. THE college boyfriend. You can tell by the writing - I cannot imagine being able to write poetry today, good or bad.

I also realized once again that I don't just have a good memory. I have a memory that allows me to relive the exact senses, feelings, and smells of that memory. Probably why I try not to do too much of that nowadays. Good thing the toddler keeps me busy!


the wise learn from others' mistakes,
less so-from their own,
the insane, they pretend they can replay a tune and change it
merrygoround's broken wings ache with pressing time
whoever knew it had a soul that hovered low to the ground?
massochists like to re-live their pained emotions
sadists like to force them to do so
hence why they look so good together
tears are not emotions, they are a natural bodily function 
that forms with chronic dissatisfaction
while sharpening its claws in the dark 
the black cat cries at the pain it causes the paper doll
her black cardigan sighs in contempt and lays itself torn

Sticks and stones aside...

"Nobody in my family wants me to marry you anyway." These words were uttered by my friend's fiance (now husband) two weeks before their wedding day, during a particularly bad argument. That was 8 years ago and to this day, she cannot get those words out of her head. It turned out to be only one of his sisters voicing her concern for unspecified reasons and regardless of the years that have since passed, those words still find a way of sneaking into my friend's head at the most inopportune moments. The husband has obviously apologized numerous times since, for uttering those inexcusably thoughtless words. And yet, the words were said and cannot be unsaid, and she cannot erase them regardless of how hard she tries.

My best friend from childhood uttered these words to me at their house, as a reason for wanting a second child: "All only children are egoists." When I choked on my food and reminded her that I happen to be an only child, she said, "yes, well, you are also an egoist." After a heated exchange that included me shoving the meaning of the word in her face, she finally apologized. I forgave her. And yet, whenever I talk to her now I get flashbacks of her saying those words to me. Of all people. Whether there is any truth to those words is beside the point.

Somehow it still surprises me how careless and tactless we can be with our words. As if we weren't bad enough already, that carelessness spiraled completely out of control with the arrival of the Internet and social media. People hurl their words, their hate, at the screen, forgetting that on the other side are real human beings, with real feelings. They think that words are only words but they are not. Words hurt, words stick around, particularly when they come out of the mouths of the people whom we love, whom we are supposed to trust. 

Trust is a fickle thing. It can be broken for a number of reasons, like when one no longer feels safe enough to trust with their secrets, to trust that they won't be thrown back at them as a key to winning an argument. It obviously doesn't take something as awful as cheating to break trust between spouses. It can take something as "silly" as words. Words, my friends, cannot be unspoken. Choose them wisely, choose them gingerly.

For obvious reasons, the people who hurt us most tend to be the ones we love and care about the most. I imagine feeling hurt and betrayed by a person we love can make us feel like children might feel when they first discover that their parents are not the perfect being they imagine them to be — shocked, disappointed, and maybe even a little sick to the stomach.

How can we protect ourselves without shutting down our feelings and becoming cynical, slowly detaching ourselves until we realize we no longer have any true friends left in our lives?

I posted something to that effect on Facebook the other day in hopes of gaining insight from my friends. Turns out that it's a rather tricky question. I did get a couple of responses. One was to the effect of, "it's possible but with lots of practice," and the other said that there is no need to protect ourselves because those painful experiences make us who we are. I agree with both statements but also think that the last could be a dangerous thing because "who we are" can easily be that very cynic I mentioned earlier. 

Based on what I read, it looks like we are once again to be held accountable for our actions as well as our reactions. As for me, I've gotten better at the words but still need a lot of work on how I perceive them. What about you?

The chronic issue of communication breakdowns

Since becoming a direct hire at my place of work, I have attended a number of training sessions and workshops on a variety of topics, from "how to manage up" to "conflict within the workplace." Without fail, all these boil down to a single message - it's all about communication.

What I just cannot understand is how, despite attending these numerous sessions, despite proudly listing them on our list of accomplishments at the end of the year for performance reviews, despite our best intentions, we inevitably go back to our damn desks and continue to fail to communicate. How?! What goes wrong? Where do these courses fail us? Where does the bridge break down?

Are we so desperate to somehow make ourselves more important by withholding information or only sharing it with a select few? Are we focused on ourselves and our own needs so much that we forget the rest of the people we work with? And I'm not talking about information that's clearly not meant to be shared. I'm talking about taking a team of 10 and in that team having only 4 people with complete information while the rest are left to guess what's going on around them. I'm talking about a team of 4, with one being constantly out of the loop. Does it happen on purpose? More often than not it's not deliberate. Sometimes we simply fail to consider how our actions are perceived by our employees and colleagues. However you look at it though, it's an issue that keeps happening. It keeps happening despite attention being drawn to the lack of communication, to the lack of transparency. It keeps happening despite bosses dutifully taking down notes in their notebooks after nodding their heads in empathy and understanding. Hell, I'm sure I've been guilty of it myself on more than one occasion. Everywhere we look - it keeps happening. I mean, just Google, "lack of communication in the workplace" and see how many articles pop up. 

It shouldn't be this hard, when we look at the issue objectively. And if we make it hard, we shouldn't wonder why our team's morale is down, why some people thrive while others slowly wilt away, why rumors become wilder, why people complain about the lack of transparency within the workplace. 

It's seems so simple, really. If employees perceive inconsistency within the workplace in terms how how people (particularly those of the same rank) are treated, we have a recipe for disgruntled employees on our hands. If employees perceive that some people are privy to information while others are not, we will have disgruntled employees on our hands. If there is no information passed from the top down to the rest, we will have disgruntled employees on our hands. If we pretend none of it is happening and ignore the complaints, we will have disgruntled employees on our hands. Yeah, yeah, we get the point. And actually, we all know this already, if not from our trainings, then from all those articles we read, right? So then, why does the problem persist? 

First entry

Here it is, my first official post. I remember wondering why in the world anyone would choose to blog, to share their stories. That was years ago. Lately I've had this incredible urge to spill words on paper. I have to particular purpose for this blog and indeed, it will likely be rather random and dependent solely on my mood. I'm not going to advertise it because I'm not sure whether anyone would actually care much for what I have to say but if you stumble upon it and like what you read, please stay and share your thoughts.

My goal, if anything, is to improve my writing in the process by forcing myself to jot down at least some of the numerous things that go through my head on an incessant basis. It won't be an easy feat, particularly when my wonderfully loving toddler is about, but worth a try.

Since I'm one of those people who is good at many things but doesn't particularly excel at anything, this could be a way for me to zone in on one particular skill and attempt to improve it, 10 minutes at a time. 

Speaking of, my time's up - back to being a mommy (picture courtesy of hubby - easy for me to laugh because I wasn't cleaning up the mess).