she pulls out her hair

But when she twists her hair and pulls it out, it hurts me. At first, I thought it was because it annoyed me. Then I thought it was because I was totally powerless over the behavior. Then I thought it was because I felt I was a failure as a mother -- how could a child with such a loving, consistent, healthy, and attentive family be so anxious that she'd give herself bald spots?

I had to trim one side to even it out after she'd pulled out so much she looked lopsided.

Now I realize it's not that I'm a failure, or Josh, or that we're not meeting her needs somehow. What hurts me about her habit is that it's so public. People can *see* her anxiety. It took me a solid 15 years to be almost okay with sharing my own fears. And here is this beautiful, happy child walking around with a flashing billboard that says, "I'm actually really, really worried."

I wish I could wash away every worry.

The pulling started just a few days after we told her she was going to have a new baby brother or sister. It's completely understandable.

I've Googled it, and the OCD-related habit also happens to run in our family. So, I'm almost able to understand she just can't help it. I talk to the other twister/puller I know and have learned more. I try to let it go, have faith that she will find other ways to help herself with her anxiety. But when I see her worries in those bare patches it's all I can do to not sweep her up into my arms, maybe put her in a sling, and keep her close to me forever.

Yummies, yum-yum, noo-noos, moo-moos...

Our family is on the lookout for a good word to teach the new baby (comes in May) to mean "I want to nurse." Maya used "nah-nah" which evolved into "neen," "neenies," or, "neen-beans."

The point of the "code word" is so I'm not in the middle of the supermarket next year with a child hanging on me saying, "boobies!" or "I want to nurse NOW!" or some other obvious thing... (Not that I mind people knowing what the kid is asking for, but I've been in situations where other people would have been really uncomfortable if they had known what Maya was asking for...)

Ideas?

Maya likes, "nummies."




.

Waking Up.

The late-night drive-through attendant passed me two cheeseburgers without judgment. Her emotionless (empathetic?) gaze was better than therapy. Finding myself camped out in the middle of the king-sized bed, computer on my lap, remote in one hand, 3 Musketeers in the other--it took two hours of dazed terror before I realized I'd been there before.

This time, I was in a hotel without my husband or daughter. That time, over ten years ago, I was alone heading toward the worst of my drunk and stoned life. This time, life was mostly full of joy, balance, and serenity. That time, chaos and loneliness led me in endless dark mazes.

I had no idea being away from my daughter overnight for the first time would be so brutal. It kicked my ass for those two hours. When I recognized where I had arrived (desperation, lack of clarity, obscured reality) it was an easy shift into pleasure. Ah ha! Look what's happened! And, immediately: a bubble bath; guilty-pleasure television with the volume up; doing what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted. And, most of all, sleeping harder and deeper than I had in years.

It's as if life is a continuous set of spirals, lines flowing up and around, higher and higher until the coil is too tight. With each forward movement--it's always moving forward--the next unspringing is more gentle. Ten years ago every lesson devastated me, as I believed in perfection and an impossible ideal. These days, I usually recognize the signs of an impending challenge or lesson and I just hold on and breathe.

Four and a half years ago our daughter came into our lives through a gash in my abdomen. She wanted to come out feet first. There was no convincing her to turn. On that first night, she lay among my IV tubes of antibiotics for the post-op infection and Pitocin to stop the hemorrhaging. She nursed enthusiastically. She slept with us then and has ever since.

Sleeping in our grand king-sized bed is full of reconnecting, snuggling, giggling, and love. Sure, she'll sleep in her own room someday but, for now, we all love our arrangement.

So, for all of her sweet little life, any time she's needed me at night, I've been there. I am breathing with her, laying with her, and always within reach.

As we work on less dependence on me and more acceptance of comfort from her Daddy, we realized the best thing for us was me spending a night away. I was desperate for a good night's sleep (being needed throughout the night had finally caught up to me), and we were both desperate for Josh's chance to be "the one" she needed. My physical presence, because of the patterns and habits we've set over the years, was problematic. Maya didn't believe she would be okay without me. What a terrible lesson to teach a child: you'll fall apart if I'm not there. So, it was with some anxiety but mostly excitement and confidence that I packed my bag for this overnight.

A massive burlap sack filled with wet sand smashing me across the room was how I felt when I first left our house. I actually thought I might vomit because I was "leaving Maya." My perception of my importance, and ultimately Josh's ability as a father, was skewed. Twisted. Distorted. Reality was again obscured.

Thankfully, it just took that bit of time for me to recognize just how fucked up it all was. As if Maya would fall apart without me. Intellectually, I was sure I didn't believe that. But those two desperate hours were close cousins to the last few months of my darkest drugging and boozing. This time, I had solutions at my disposal. Easy tools to use to fix this mess. I simply said, "Oh, hey, god? Shit, I'm totally fucked up again. I think I'm way too important and I think I'm a piece of shit. Would you fix all this?" And POP up I sprang from the bed to run the bubble bath.

Clarity. Clearness.

It's all so simple if I don't make it complicated. And, holy crap, did I sleep well that night.

Christian with a lowercase c.

My four year old says, "I'm Mary and this is baby Jesus" and proceeds to sing all the words to "Oh Come, Oh Come, Emmanuel." The time has come for me to explain why I'm christian. And why I'm not a Christian.

"I'm a Christian" vs. "I'm christian."

First let's be clear. I'm not "a Christian." The right-wing fundamentalists have taken over that term with disturbing voracity. It makes me sick to my stomach to risk being grouped with such generally hateful sorts. Christian (with a C) now means to me, and to so many I talk with, an almost drug induced state of bliss (denial of questions or doubts), glazed eyes (from crying tears of joy when someone is "saved"), rigid rules. Mostly, Christian with a C requires following the strict-father model of living. It means a woman has no right to say what happens to her body. It means taxing the wealthy, stripping social services to nothing, and expecting the poorest among us to support it all. It means same-gender love is wrong. I want nothing to do with Christian with a C.

I am christian, though. I strive to live like Jesus did. That's the essence of it, how I explain it to my daughter. In four year old terms, it's pretty simple. Love everyone. Do whatever you can to help rid the world of injustice. Forgive yourself and others for our human frailties. Know that all you can do is your best and that is enough.

The magical fairyland of miracles.

But what about the "miracles," the loaves and fishes, the healing blindness, bringing people back from the dead? Or, as Maya asked today at lunch, "Are angels real?" My answer is also pretty simple. I don't get hung up on whether or not those things are literally true (it might lean into the sort of magical fairyland kind of thing, would it not?) or if they are only metaphors and lessons. I recognize that humans wrote the Bible, so the stories are most likely stories. I take the lessons from them and move on.

But what about the rising from the dead? Again, I don't get hung up. Literal or not it isn't a huge deal to me. The lessons that we're all Okay, that we are always forgiven for our mistakes, and that the power of god is bigger than any human -- that's enough for me.

The truth is, though, at this moment I believe Jesus literally came back to life. When I'm in my "maybe it didn't literally happen" times, it doesn't scare me. Those thoughts fit perfectly in my faith, believing the truth of it as miracle or metaphor doesn't change the message.

I recognize being raised by a minister and faithfully christian mother has a great deal to do with the likelihood that I'll not find the story of the resurrection in the land with dragons, trolls, and fairies. Then again, as we all know, it could have pushed me farther away from believing the story. And, again, while I do happen to believe it actually happened, it's not the biggest part of christianity for me.

I believe christianity is a religion of social justice. Jesus ate with and talked with women. With tax collectors. With sinners and untouchables of all sorts. Talking seriously with such non-people was rebelious enough, but to wash their feet or share a table with them was truly radical. He told poor people that they were the most special of all. He said people should love their enemies. He was a teacher.

After the sadness and revulsion I feel for those people I feel are butchering Jesus' messages, those cap C's, I realized there was another great obstacle preventing me from embracing the christian label.

I don't believe Jesus would want our worship. The Jesus I understand would not want us to bow down to him. He would not want to be treated as someone more special than any other person. He certainly wouldn't want me calling him "Lord." Teacher, sure, but Lord, no way.

So, how could I be christian if I won't pray to Jesus? That's the question I grappled with for about the last ten years. But my truth has found me and I know now that, for me, being christian means I want to be as much like Jesus as possible. I want to be bold, courageous, and intelligent. I want to stay centered in my connection with god in all times of my life, as much as I can. I want to forgive myself and others every minute of every day. And, most of all, I want to help change the world. I want to help my neighbors near and far. I want people who are suffering to find justice, and I want to help make that happen.

What about Jesus as 100% god and 100% human?

The other hangup I had when I didn't consider myself christian was the stance that Jesus was 100% God, different than us humans. As with so many of my understandings of my christianity, I realize it's an issue of translation. The miracles were probably story telling tools. Jesus was a great healer (this is historical fact, not religious belief, though the ideas of what kind of healing he did are disputed), but was he as powerful as god? In my view, no. In my view, Jesus was astoundingly good at staying connected to god. He was clearly "centered" as we might say today. Serene. At peace most of the time. In no great hurry.

Again, I find Jesus to be a role model for my spiritual life. I know from my own experience that staying connected to what I call god keeps me relatively sane. I know peace when I am strongly connected to that strength. It's my view that Jesus really got it -- he found a way to stay connected more often than he was distracted by daily life. He was the ultimately god-connected person. Whether that was through prayer and meditation, through yoga, through great conversations with loved ones, or through times of quiet, I don't know. But from what I know of the man named Jesus, I can tell he wasn't easily distracted from his source of peace and strength.

But surely, you won't stand for the Father Lord King garbage, will you?

No. I won't stand for it. Mostly. My conception of god is not at all paternal. I certainly don't think Jesus would dig that kind of reference in this day and age. But, in those days when women were dismissed and not counted, using paternal references to describe power and strength makes sense. In the days of rulers like Kings and Emperors it makes sense that Jesus and others would use the language of the day. Shortcuts, if you will, to explain they believed that god was extraordinarily powerful.

When I go to church with my parents, or continue our search for a church that meets our own family's needs, I spend a lot of time translating so I can tolerate the paternal and inegalitarian concepts and language used. I usually don't even like to use a capital letter G on god, it's too high-and-mighty for me. Through the translation, though, I can still hear the message:

• Be kind.
• Be just.
• Be brave.
• Care for those who need help.
• Don't put up with shit from hateful people.
• Love yourself and others.

So as Maya plays Mary, sings the Christmas hymns with all her might, and hears a bit more of the Christmas story every morning when we sing Oh Come, Oh Come Emmanuel at breakfast, I feel good being christian. I feel honored that our child asks such probing questions, forcing me to articulate in the simplest terms what I believe. I always begin by saying, "Well, not everyone believes this," or, "Some people believe that is true, but I don't." But I almost always end up telling her the truest truth I know. The most important thing is that we try to love everyone in the world and help people who need it most.

Later that day she was playing store and announced, "I work for the giving store. We prepare food to give to people who don't have enough."

I believe Jesus would be glad.

My fingers pressed and probed his bloated belly – I thought popping the gas bubbles might ease his discomfort. When we snuggled in the evenings, or in the afternoons watching “Emergency Vets” together, my hands would wander on their own to his warm scratchy belly with its smooth balding patches.

There was an especially responsive area near where his ribs and his spinal cord met. With pulsing and increasingly firm pressure, there was almost always a great release of gas. When the gas left his body, I felt empathetic relief. I felt victorious.

Sometimes I’d lie facing him, moving his front leg over me like an arm in an embrace. We have pictures of us in that position and our mutual bliss is apparent. My fingers and palms would always find their way to his belly, relieved on the days when the bloating was minimal, determined on the days when the skin was taut and his intestines felt like hard balloons about to burst.

On Saturday, August 10, 2002, when my hands returned to their nurturing, intimate ritual, probing his belly to see if I could help, I found his bowels release under the usual gentle pressures. I used the old blanket to push the extruding bowel movement back inside and hoped the attendant would come soon to take away the carcass.