RIDDIKULUS!

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the 2016 O'Richey-O Halloween Costumes:

...although I kind of look like Sally from the Nightmare Before Christmas in this PARTICULAR shot...

I'm so, so excited about this you guys.  So excited.  We've been planning this family costume ever since we realized that our child would be about a year old come Halloween.  Which is to say this has been nearly 18 months in the planning.  It's nice to see it finally take shape, even if no one else (save, like, three trick-or-treaters) got to see it in the flesh.

I am cognizant of the fact that this family portrait is actually pretty damn macabre- but then again, this is Halloween, when you're supposed to face up to the things that terrify you.  And leaving my child orphaned is definitely something that frightens me to my core- far more than any ghosts or goblins.  Fear is personal that way, as is how we confront it.  For me, at least, the best strategy I can conceive of is to laugh at it.

The boychild isn't phased, anyway.

Riddikulus, indeed.

The Rootless Ones

I have confession to make.

It's not much of a confession, as far as confessions go.  Generally speaking, confessions ought to be at least somewhat of a surprise, right?  Or at least involve some sort of naughtiness?  This one just involves confusion, mostly.  And guilt.

I guess it's the guilt that makes it a confession.

Anyway.

My confession is this: I don't understand roots.

Or perhaps- I don't know how to do roots.

I am the military brat progeny of two military brats.  My husband is also a military brat by way of at least one military brat.  We are really, truly, not from anywhere, and the culture of our childhoods is not one that we can go back and visit on a whim, because our dependent ID cards were revoked when we turned 21.

We bought a house in this town, after years of wandering for the both of us, with the idea of staying here long term- of settling down, if you will.  Putting down roots.  Four years later a little shoot popped out, young and tender and easy to transport.  Rootless, just like us.

Before he was born- before he was even conceived, we'd talked about our fears regarding raising a child in one place, without moving every three years.  We have no experience with that- we're not sure how to do it.  All we knew is that there are people in the world, people we have met, who have lived their whole lives never leaving the county they were born in- the same county their parents were born in- and they are content with that.  And that concept chilled us to the bone: we wanted more for our child.  Better.

Hence the importance of budgeting for travel.  We want to make sure he is exposed to other places, other cultures, other peoples.  We want to make sure he can adapt and thrive wherever he is planted.

And I worry I will fail at that, because the only way I know how to do it- the way it was done for me- is not what I can do for him.  And what I can do for him- will it work?

And I worry that there will be such a disconnect between us- that he will have roots and ties to a specific place, a specific house, a specific town, and I will not be able to understand it, and he will suffer from that lack of understanding.

I guess all we can do is try.

Raising a Feminist

Once upon a time, when I was still a child-free individual, I had this vision of what it would be like to raise a little girl, a fierce little feminist.  It was going to be so awesome- she wasn't going to take shit from anyone, and she was going to wear whatever the hell she wanted (pink and sparkly or blue and covered in trucks and footballs) while doing whatever the hell she wanted (playing house or playing helicopter pilot), and be a strong and smart and confident and did I mention not taking any shit?

Other people bought into this vision, as well- like without me even bringing it up in the first place.  I heard from more than source, "Oh my god you'd be such an amazing mother to a little girl!"

But I didn't have a little girl.

At first I found myself puzzled- what the hell do I know about raising a little boy?  But then I reminded myself that strictly speaking, what I "know about" is being a little girl, not actually raising one, and thus I was starting in the same place regardless of sex.  Except that I hadn't really put any thought into raising a boy.  So I put some thought into it, and the immediate thought I had was,

"Don't raise a rapist!"

This is the quip I trot out for laughs when talking to people about my child-rearing goals, but it's also not really a joke at all.  And honestly, it's a damn short step from "Don't raise a rapist!" to "Raise a feminist!" which works just as well for a boy as a girl.  After all, raising up a feminist girl is, frankly, easy, if for no other reason than all you have to do to get them to buy into it is look around at how awfully they get treated by the world.  Raising up a feminist boy, on the other hand?  A boy who will enjoy undeniable privilege due to the accident of his chromosomes, to the point where he might not naturally pick up on the fact that the patriarchy is screwing pretty much everyone over?  Well, that's a whole 'nother kettle of fish.  But "easy" is for suckers, and so I say, fish accepted!  No wait, I mean challenge.  Challenge accepted!

Which means that all that stuff I was going to do for my kick-ass daughter?  I'm doing it for my kick-ass son.  Because that is hard-core the spirit of feminism.  I'll point out inequalities, and talk to him about what he can do to make the world less shitty for him and everyone else.  That he doesn't have to be limited by society's expectations of him, and that if he does something coded as "feminine" it doesn't make him inferior, and more than him doing something coded as "masculine" makes him superior.  That he should use his privilege to give a hand up to those who could use it, because that's what real men do.  Real men behave like decent human beings.

And they don't rape people.

Untrue Things Jerk Brain Has Said to Me Recently

Things Jerk Brain has said over the past week or so:

-you don't hold your child enough
-in fact you don't pay him enough attention in general
-when you go back to work, Neeps is going to forget who you are and love his daycare providers more than you
-you don't have your shit together at all
-you're so irresponsible
-you're so dumb
-you are a complete failure
-you're worthless

Things I have said back:

-shut up
-go away
-you're not welcome here
-fuck you
-you're so full of shit
-variations on the above

Just now, as I sat down at the computer, It said, "Maybe you'll stop sucking and write something for a change." 

To which I replied, "I write stuff all the time.  In fact, right now I'm going to write about how stupid and wrong you are."

And I am.

See, the thing is, Jerk Brain took it just a little too far tonight.  It tried to tell me I'm not the best mother for Neeps.  And I looked over at my son, ready to feel that familiar sweep of despair, but the fierce, fanged love roared up out of my chest and I whispered,

"Yes I am."

Because yeah, sometimes I can totally see where Jerk Brain might have a point about a lot of my personal failings.  But not this.  It's like saying, "Humans breathe water."- it's just objectively wrong.  There's no condition in which is might be not-wrong.  It's ludicrous to the point of jarring me out of Jerk Brain's grip.  Because first of all, no one could possibly love Neeps more than I do.  But it's more than that- because love is not enough, never enough, in any given relationship.  So let's talk about some of the non-love ways in which I am/will continue to be a damn fine mother for my* son.

-I am not physically, verbally, or emotionally abusive
-I am gainfully employed, with good health insurance
-I have a damn fine lifemate/child-rearing-partner
-We have planned for fiscal emergencies, so if shit hits the fan, Neeps will be okay
-I have an amazing family (blood and otherwise) to help pick up the slack as needed
-I don't do drugs
-I read to him
-I give him lots of physical affection
-I communicate super well, and I will listen to him when he talks, no matter how "trivial"
-I am setting a good example of a (mostly) healthy lifestyle
-I will foster his independence and curiosity
-I will always be willing to play pretend with him
-I will treat him like he is an individual with his own thoughts and feelings
-I will hold him to high standards, so he will learn to do the same for himself (but not, like, cripplingly so)
-I will let him fail, even if it rips my heart out to do it.  Because he needs to learn it's not the end of the world
-I will always make sure he knows he's loved, even if I'm not here

The more bullets I put on this list, the straighter I sit, and the more positive things spring into my mind.  This is good, because those things are crowding out Jerk Brain's stupid little voice.

And now?  Now I'm going to go refill my water bottle, and settle in to some fiction writing.  Because fuck Jerk Brain.




*This is very specific to only me, and only my offspring.  Other people will have different criteria for their lives, and this is in no way meant to be What I Think You Should Be Doing, so don't let your version of Jerk Brain convince you it is.

Valentine/BabyMine

Today was my first Valentine's Day as a parent, and I started the day out right by having a good cry over my father.  I have new insight into just how sad, angry, and scared he must have been about leaving his children as such a young age- and that insight hurts.  But!  I am here now, and my son is here now, and I will live in the Now, not in the What-Ifs.

My Here and Now

On to happier subjects!

Nathan and I of course did our traditional home-made card exchange, and (as is also traditional) I'm sharing some process here on the blog:

Pencils!

Inks!

Two colors!

Nearing completion!

Final product!

Words!

I wasn't going to bother making one for Neeps, since he's so little he doesn't care, but then I had enough wine last night to throw pragmatism to the wind, because I care, and busted something out on the quick:

(no process, just results)

BOOM.

Happy Days, ya'll.

Giving it Up

As 2012 was winding down, Nathan made the following unprompted statement:

"I'm not going to eat refined sugar or drink alcohol in 2013."

"That's great, babe," I said, because it is.  Those things are in no way good for you.  And then, because I have experience with Giving Shit Up, I added,  "But... for a whole year?  Are you sure you don't want to just start with a month?"  See, I was afraid he'd get overwhelmed and frustrated at the prospect of a whole year without these things he was accustomed to having on a daily basis, and end up not even cutting back, in the long run.

"Nope."  (Nathan does not over-think things.  It is a definite strength.)

"Okay then."  And I said I'd do it too, to support him, because I know how hard it is not to be able to indulge in what everyone else is doing.  Far, far easier to show a United Front in social situations.

So that's been going on for the past thirty-six days.  And as February drew closer I knew that I wanted to clean up my act in other ways, as well.  I'd been spending way too much time on Facebook, and was fully cognizant of the fact that I needed to cut back.

"Maybe I'll have a FB-free February," I mused, but then realized that with the impending birth of Seamonkey it's just an unreasonable expectation to imagine I won't be on there posting a zillion pictures.  No point in setting myself up to fail.  "Alright then, I'll give it up for a week.  And then after that maybe I'll just check it once or twice a week."

Satisfied with this plan, I faced Friday, February First just full of good intentions.  In fact, I woke up that morning and the very first thing to pop into my head was, Don't check Facebook!

And I didn't.  I had several urges throughout the day, but I resisted.  Same thing on Saturday, maybe a little worse.  And then it was Sunday, and Nathan and I took Isis out for a hike.  And I took an excellent shot of Nathan and all I wanted was to post it on Facebook.  And also to check things.  All the things.  People had been tagging me in things!  As I waited for Nathan in the car I said to myself,

"Self, I am a grown-ass woman.  I can check Facebook if I bloody well want to," and just as my thumb moved towards the icon, Self said,

"Seriously?  Seriously?  You can't even go three full days without checking Facebook?"

And Paranoia reared up and I put my phone away.  Because damn.

(Nathan says this looks "exactly like me".  Soooo... perhaps my Best Self Portrait Ever?)

There is addiction in my family.  I've known this since I was a little girl, and thus I've always kept a keen eye on my own addictive tendencies.  Any time I feel I'm getting too reliant on something, I quit cold turkey.  Alcohol, video games, recreational drugs- all things I've walked away from just to prove to myself that I could, just to prove that nothing rules me but myself.  I know I'm lucky that I can do this- not everyone can- and my paranoia that someday I won't be able to is probably unfounded.  But maybe it's not- maybe it's only because of my long practice of giving things up, dating back to my teenage years (soda) that I'm still able to do so.  Who knows?

Nathan got into the car and I related my little conversation with Self.

"So what you're telling me is that giving up Facebook is harder than giving up sugar?"

Apparently so.

(Although looking back at when I initially had to give up all forms of sugar, perhaps not...)

Cattle, Caves, and Cats

Start: Strandhill

End: The Apparently Handicap-Accessible Room at Kinlay House in Galway, Co. Galway

We got up a bit early this morning because we were eager to get on the road.  This, of course, bit us in the behind, since our hostess didn’t get up until 0840, which meant we spent almost an hour cooling our heels in the dining room.  I know, I know- we should have arranged early checkout last night.  Except… we couldn’t find her last night.  And, as it turns out, she wasn’t around (so we “should have left a note”, apparently.  Now we know.).

At any rate we did get on the road before 0900, so it wasn’t so bad, but by the time we made it to the Cruachan Ai Heritage Center in Tulsk we were starving.  Therefore, we decided to have breakfast before we went on our tour, and since we were going to have breakfast we decided to do it up in style and have a Full Irish Breakfast.  Except that is a lot of food, so we each ordered a Half Irish Breakfast (only one of everything).  Gentle Readers, it was still a lot of food (egg, sausage, “bacon”, toast, boxty, black pudding, white pudding, tomato, onions) which I was able to eat thanks to the miracle of Glutenflam (oh man you guys- I’d forgotten how delicious buttered toast is!).  Yes, I even ate the puddings.  Which are actually more like really dry sausages, and I’m going on record here to say that white pudding is better than black.  So now you know, in case anyone ever asks you.

Neither one of us was able to eat the entire thing, but even so we didn’t get hungry again for almost eight hours.  That’s compared to the two hours that a “continental” breakfast (eaten to the point of feeling full) generally affords us.  Protein win.

We waddled out of that place and back over to the info center, where we were first sent to sit in the dark and watch a film strip.  It was a collection of shorter films run on a loop, and some of them had quite laughably poor animation.  One of the less-poorly-animated ones seemed to be missing the soundtrack, however, so we watched in silence as a bunch of soldier silhouettes marched back and forth, and then a pair of bull silhouettes ran around until one killed the other and then… exploded.

“Why… why did the bull explode?” I asked Nathan.  Nathan, who had thus far been relying on me for Irish-myth-related things, shook his head.  “I don’t know, but it was pretty awesome.”

So we went back out into the main area and asked the lady who was to give us our tour, “Why did the bull explode?” and this is how I discovered that although I know a thing or two about Irish Fairy Tales, I know nothing about their legends.

(Long story short: the bull didn’t explode, his heart did, and it was from the stress of a full year’s worth of running around the whole of Ireland with a second bull caught on his horns.  And they weren’t bulls as we know them, but aurochs.  It’s complicated.  And that's just the tip of it.)

Yes that is totally a C.

The guide was super enthusiastic and we got a lot of asides that weren’t really tour-related but were fun nonetheless, and then she pointed me towards a book to read if I wanted to get a handle on the extremely complex cannon of Irish mythology (it’s now in my bag) and sent us on our way to tromp around looking at more rocks in fields.  Which we did.  And then we went to investigate Oweynagat, aka the Cave of Cats, aka entrance to the Otherworld (as opposed to Underworld- they are different).  I was very excited about this, although we had a devil of a time actually finding the place.  Once we did it rapidly became apparent that there was no way Nathan was going to be able to get in with his pack on his back (or possibly at all), so I volunteered to go in first and have him hand things to me.

I wriggled my way in past the initial entryway, to where things opened up just a smidge (still couldn’t sit up straight), and used the cell phone as a torch to looked deeper around the bend.

"Oh this is not happening,” I said.  The tunnel sloped downward into pitch darkness, and remained too small for anything but a crawl.  And I, Gentle Readers, I have a problem with small enclosed places, especially underground.  Especially in the dark.  Especially if my escape route is blocked by my much-larger-than-me husband, and there is no room to turn around.  I got panicky just thinking about it, so as much as a part of me was deriding the rest of me for a coward, I satisfied myself with taking a few photos and then handed the phones back to Nathan so I could crawl back out.  The Otherworld will just have to wait until I am braver.  (Seriously my throat is closing up just a little as I think about it.  Stupid irrational phobias.)

As we started back for the car I heard a tiny maybe-cat-noise, so I stopped where I was and echoed it while Nathan continued on.  The cry came again, so I made mine again, and then I heard a rustling in the hedge.  I moved around a little to see what I could see, and there was a flash of white- and then a true kitten-cry, and a little white-and-black kitten came trotting out to me, pleased as she could be!

“Oh you wee little thing!” I said (yes, I’ve officially been in Ireland long enough that I said “wee” in an unironic manner) and my mind immediately wondered how difficult it would be to smuggle a kitten back to the state.  She demanded to be picked up, and I obliged, and generally felt great comfort that whatever spirit watches over the Cave of Cats wanted me to know that they approve of me in spite of my cowardice.

The kitten was entirely too clean and sweet-smelling (and unafraid of humans) to actually be available for kitten-napping back to the states, so I let her go back into the hedge, and Nathan and I continued on our merry way to Galway.

Right from the get-go Galway had a better feel to it than Dublin, and the next few hours only cemented that feeling in us.  After dropping my pack off at Kinlay House (and marveling over the hugeness of the shower- complete with chair for sitting!) we headed over to the cathedral.  When I’d first brought the cathedral up to Nathan as a potential place of interest he’d discovered it had been built in the 1960s and sneered.  But then he did a little more research and discovered that it was all done by craftsmen, and decided it was worth a look.

Was it ever.

It was definitely one of the most beautiful cathedrals I’ve ever been in.  Maybe not the most impressive in terms of size or ornamentation, but really, really beautiful.  It helps, I’m sure, that we got there as the sun was slanting through the western stained glass windows and turning the eastern wall into a rainbow of light-smears.  The rose windows were especially gorgeous, and I wished with all my little daughter heart that my mom could be there to see it.  Ah well, perhaps next time.

Primrose window, amiright?

Afterwards we just sort of wandered, taking in the sights (and picking up a genuine Irish woolen hat for Nathan) until the sun set, and then we headed back to the hostel for the previously-promised live music (which I enjoyed but Nathan declared unimpressive).

We both agree that next time we’ll spend more than half a day in Galway.

My Kind of Crazy

The following is an actual event from this morning. The lead-up to this exchange was Nathan getting up at 0400 to let the dog out... and then not coming back to bed. At 0750 he came in to check on me because I hadn't come downstairs, in spite of the fact that I need to be at work by 0800.  I immediately demanded a hug, and here is the conversation that followed...

Hormones, Ladies- amIright?  Let's all go eat some chocolate...

...what I didn't tell him was that I hadn't gotten out of bed because I'd worked myself into a sort of terrified paralysis about exactly what I mention in the fourth panel of this comic- and as long as I didn't go check on him, he couldn't be dead.

And so you see, Nathan does pay for the privilege of being married to this much hotness, because he is also married to this much crazy-pants. I'm not totally sure how he deals with it, I'm really not... But I'm glad someone can.

Plan B

"We are never going to leave this town."

She's got her upper body propped against the low wall of the parking garage as she stares out at the fifth-story view. A soft but constant breeze has the hair around her face dancing, interfering with her sight. That breeze makes it comfortable here, makes it easy to forget the heat that had been crushing their souls down at street-level.

"Technically speaking, it's a city." He's not looking at her: his camera is pointed at the setting sun, but he's not really looking at that, either. His vision is turned inward, to fractions and angles and shutter speeds.

"Well whatever the hell it is we're stuck in it."

He doesn't respond. She attempts to throw a leg up over the wall, to lay forlornly along it's thick top, but it's just a little too high for her 5'5" frame. In a perverse moment of defiance she leaves her foot up and collapses her chest against the concrete: it is a posture both awkward and unflattering, but she doesn't care what anyone passing by might think- she is miserable, and her pose ought to reflect that.

So maybe she does care what they think.

"It's a black hole, that's what it is," she mutters to the bits of gravel pressing into her cheek. "It sucks things in and won't let them leave. Look, it's even doing it to the sun."

She's not wrong about this: the sun, having turned a brilliant red in its struggle to escape, finally seems to accept the inevitable, and sinks sullenly behind the distant hills.

West, she thinks as her ankle starts to go numb and the shadows deepen. He's trying so hard to get West, but come morning he'll still be here in the East. Damn that stupid woman, anyway.

(Plan B)

Nathan I Am Totally Using My Tether for This

(Okay, before we get started, let’s have a moment to have a happy little freak out over the fact that I’m typing this up while sitting in the airport. Yes, I am aware that this is not, for the vast majority of people in my class, a major innovation. It is, however, special and awesome to me. I love my tiny, tiny netbook.)

I find that the older I get the more anxiety I have getting on planes. I’m not sure why, and it doesn’t keep me from sucking it the hell up and getting on, anyway, but there it is. Dread, dread, and occasionally further dread. Especially when the flight in question involves not being with Nathan. (Somehow his presence manages to soothe 99.7% of my strange neuroses/paranoia, regardless of the occasion.) So here I am, completely and thoroughly excited to be flying back up to Portland for the first time in over two years, to see a bunch of people I care desperately about, and yet my stomach is a pit of roiling (say it with me now) dread.

I will be fine once we get in the air, of course. It’s just all this sitting around ahead of time that brings me face-to-face with my own mortality, and whether or not I have anything that will hang, chain-like, from my ethereal neck should the plane go down. This often leads to a lot of gate-side, occasionally tearful phone-calls for me to tell people I love them. Yes, I am That Girl. Don’t judge- we all have our moments of Completely Irrational, and I can think of far worse than a compulsion to tell people how I feel about them. Today, however, in spite of my roiling stomach, I find another layer of myself almost serene- no last-minute phone calls, because I feel fairly confident that those people that I need to know I love them do know I love them.

So at least I have that going for me.