A Common Anomaly

Yesterday I got a refrigerator. Finally. I’ve been using a compact fridge and it has not been fun. I’m absolutely ecstatic!

I’ve been wanting to get a full sized refrigerator  since I moved into this house but because I had the little one and money has been very tight I’ve just been making do. Yesterday when the new (used) one got here I was absolutely giddy and this morning I cheerfully emptied the old one and started arranging everything in the new one. So much space! So icy cold! No more slush instead of ice cubes! No more cramming in food so awkwardly that you have to unload the damn thing just to take out one item! Isn’t it wonderful, the splendid convenience of it?

And kind of sad how excited I am? I mean, don’t people generally consider having a full sized refrigerator a given? The way I see it, I’m building my new life from the ground up. I started off my life here with only two suitcases and now I have a relatively comfy little house. Sure, I must do battle with aliens (bugs) on a daily basis, and taking baths all the time because there is no shower can be frustrating, but I don’t expect, or even want, for things to be handed to me (much less on a silver platter).

It’s exhausting starting over with nothing. In some ways it feels like a failure. I have fallen. I have LOST. And it’s frightening, looking forward and seeing how far I have to go to reach a situation in life that I am truly satisfied with, but you know what? I’m going to struggle there on my own and respect myself all the more for it. That isn’t to say that I wouldn’t mind having someone to lean on every once in a while, but we’ll see…

I’m not made of stone, though sometimes I wish I was. I push myself to be strong, and then stronger. I think I’m going to try to give myself a break more often. Let myself cry my eyes out and laugh myself silly and pretty much just be the emotional woman that I am.

Sounds like a plan.

And yes, I see the humor in this post, that this little examination of my current life stems from me buying a refrigerator. It’s best not to take ourselves too seriously!

I’ve been talking about how I need a break from my booger and I think I’ve almost got things arranged so that I can go see a movie with Carissa on Thursday. Woo! I don’t even care what movie. Maybe we’ll even stop at a restaurant and I”ll actually have a meal completely devoid of fussing, crying, and squealing. Whoa…

I can’t even.. I just… You know?

Yesterday I went to visit with my mother for a few hours since she really needs support with what she’s going through. Carissa picked up Tristan and off I went. It’s such a funny combination of relief and intense worry I feel when I’m away from him. I’m always so eager for a break from him but when I finally get it I’m missing him horribly within 10 minutes. When I got home I texted Carissa to let her know she could bring him back but apparently he had knocked out. I spent the hour after that doing absolutely nothing. Just waiting for him. And when he got home I felt an intense rush of happiness that stayed with me for the rest of the day.

It was nice having the chance to miss him a little, to appreciate all the beautiful mess and fuss he makes when he’s home. And it was absolute JOY to get him back. I could gush on and on, but I’ll stop now.

I talked to my father today and we started arguing, debating really but I get worked up sometimes, about some family drama. I just melted down and cried. I don’t allow myself to do that very often and I was a little surprised by all the frantic emotion that came pouring out of me. I’ve been keeping it together so well. I’m certainly stressed out, worried as hell about what I’m going to do, but I didn’t realize I was holding so much in while I was strutting about in my armor. Then I decided, what the hell, I damn well earned those tears.

OH! I am currently without TV.  Seriously. I have Dish Network and on Saturday I got an error message on my TV telling me the signal had been lost so I called customer support. They were useless and unable to fix the problem so they said they’d send a technician to my house (the soonest day being Tuesday, and keep in mind this was Saturday). Oh, and that’ll be 15 dollars, Miss.

???

It’s not like 15 bucks is a load of cash or anything, but I’m already paying monthly for their services and it boggles my customer-service-centered brain that I should have to pay 15 dollars more because their shit isn’t working. So now I’m torn between my principles and my love of TV. When I complained about the absurdity of it to the helpful lady on the other line she pointed out that Dish Network would generously replace whatever faulty equipment is causing the problem free of charge. Well, slap my ass and call me Judy! We’re SAVED!

The book I ordered on cultural anthropology came in the mail today. I guess I’ll be reading that instead of watching TV. Probably a more enriching way to spend my limited free time. But how will I distract Tristan while I’m trying to get chores done??? Perhaps he might find the topic of human diversity and responses to challenging globalization issues very interesting. Possibly.

Crap. I’ve only got 3 or 4 kid friendly DVD’s… I’ll have to borrow some from my sister.

Today is a special day. One year ago today I got on a plane with my son and left the fuss and chaos of New York City for the slow nothings of Crapstink, Arkansas. You can read about my decision to move here, and my thoughts right after the move here.

My sister Vanessa had flown out to NYC early so that she could spend a day in the city and then travel back with me. I had insisted on someone flying with me, since I was a nervous wreck and I knew I couldn’t handle Tristan alone on an airplane. As it turned out we spent more than an hour just sitting on a runway and Vanessa, with patience that awed me, managed my cranky little son.

Kostya had been in charge of calling for a car, so of course when the driver showed up I spotted immediately that he was Russian. The whole drive to the airport he kept turning around to ramble at Kostya in Russian. He talked about Tristan a little, and talked to him, his voice going all high pitched. Vanessa kept giving me that look of hers, raised eyebrows and all, the one that says “Uh HUH.”

At the airport Kostya clung to Tristan and I stood nearby, chomping at the bit. The nerve it took for me to do what I was doing was propelling me forward and I admit that I didn’t have the patience for drawn out goodbyes.

Yeah, it took nerve. The moment I graduated from high school I hightailed it out of Arkansas and swore I’d never go back, so I felt defeated moving back here. And I was scared out of my mind. I had talked to my father and Vanessa and made them swear they’d help me out with Tristan if I moved back because I just didn’t know how I’d do it alone.

Then and Now

I lived out of a suitcase for a while. I slowly acquired the little conveniences I needed for Tristan. I say conveniences because after losing or leaving behind nearly all my earthly possessions more than once I’ve learned that one actually needs very little to survive. As long as Tristan had what he needed (and wanted, which was very little) I felt secure.

I stayed with Vanessa and then moved in with my sister Carissa and her boyfriend since they had a spare room. A teeny tiny one, but I could finally have my own space. For a while I struggled just to get through each day. Tristan was incredibly cranky and I was really sick from the gallbladder problems so I spent every moment I could curled up with a pillow on the couch, drowsy as hell from the nausea medication. I was used to having Kostya around to help with Tristan when I was too sick to get up. My weight dropped down to a sickening 88 pounds. More than once I thought about going back to New York, which would mean moving back in with Kostya. I needed help.

The gallbladder surgery was a nightmare. No one seemed to care (in fact Carissa referred to it as my “stupid surgery” whenever she got stuck with Tristan duty) and I was absolutely terrified. I know it’s not a major surgery or anything but being put under, feeling yourself slip away like that, is just plain scary. I needed someone. Family, a friend, anyone. Doesn’t matter, I guess. I survived!

Everything changed after the surgery. The very day I got home from the hospital was when Tristan started walking. The control and independence he gained when he started walking made him a much happier little guy, and with the help of the surgery I was feeling much better myself. I still struggled a little with the complete loss of freedom that came with being his sole caretaker, but I began to really enjoy each day with my son. I wasn’t just trying to get through the daily routine anymore.

When I moved out of Carissa’s house and into my own I really settled comfortably into my life as a single mother, but being Tristan’s sole caretaker is still difficult for me at times since I really don’t have any time at all for myself. I’d love to just go to a movie or out to eat sometime but it’s hard getting one person to watch Tristan and another to go out with me. I quickly realized that I can’t and don’t want to ask my family for help very often. I usually reserve those calls for help for when I’m feeling really ill, but most of the time I just try to deal on my own. As for an actual vacation? I’m thinking it’ll be many long years before I get a chance for one of those.

Sometimes I wish Tristan could spend some time with my sisters or my dad so that I could spend time with myself, but I totally get that they’re all busy and wrapped up in their own lives. Sometimes I wonder if it would be worth having Kostya around to help out, to carry some of the weight, but then I come to my senses.

Things definitely aren’t ideal right now, but if I’ve learned anything it’s that things are always changing. Tristan has infused my life with this light, this magic, and things will keep getting better.

One year ago today I swept my son up in my arms and we went out on our own. It’s hard. It’s so fucking hard to do this alone. I tense up and my heart throbs as I write those words. I’m weeping. I can’t possibly express enough how difficult it is. Or how absolutely amazing it is.

Motherhood has saved my life.

“Understanding and resolving your own struggles, challenges, and emotional issues may be one of the greatest gifts you give your child.” – from Positive Discipline: The First Three Years

I hate asking for help. I’d rather suffer alone under the crushing weight of my problems than ask for help. So, when I DO come out and ask for help it’s a big deal. And I mean it.

Why do I continually allow myself to be upset by the immovable, the unchanging? Why would I expect someone who is hopelessly self-absorbed to pull his head out of his own ass for two seconds and see me? I understand that no man can truly comprehend another mans pain, but one can at least try. That’s compassion. I snapped at him for being such a jerk and amazingly, I felt guilty after.  Because I am compassionate. It makes me tired. Eh. I’m tired of crying over things I can’t control.

A couple days ago my father dropped by and we started talking about relationships and I mentioned that I was fine being alone. The following conversation ensued:

“Yeah, but you’re lonely.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m REALLY not. I enjoy solitude.”

“No… You’re lonely.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m really not.”

It was comical and revealing. Am I so odd? Am I some kind of anomaly for not needing someone around, or is he just totally incapable of understanding people who have different needs than he does? What’s normal, anyway? I guess it depends on a fancy combination of character and upbringing.

There can’t be anything wrong with my preference for being alone as long as I’m happy. And I am. More happy than I’ve ever been in my life. Isn’t that enough for people? I’ve got years to figure out all the little details.

I got a box in the mail this past week. A big one, containing toys for Tristan (including a Tickle Me Elmo), and all of my maternity clothes from when I was pregnant with Tristan. I bought a LOT of cute clothes (back when I didn’t have to worry about rent)! I had Kostya go into my storage unit in Brooklyn to get the clothes, and it’s a huge relief because I don’t have money this time around to buy new ones. Kostya was in one of his helpful moods. Then a couple nights ago he flipped out because I informed him that as the person who will be doing ALL the work when it comes to the new baby (from growing it, birthing it, and raising it) he would get no say as to what his or her name is.

He did NOT take that well. I assured him I’d give the child his last name (along with mine, of course) as I did with Tristan but that I already have names picked out. I’ve had a boys name picked out since before I found out I was pregnant. I was lucky enough to have the name come to me, to KNOW that it was his. As for a girl… It’s a tie between two names, though I’m leaning more toward one than the other. Anyway, I guess it’s customary in Russia for the child’s middle name to be a patronymic, derived from the fathers first name.

I tried to be nice about it at first but he would not hear me so I told him, “Well, this ain’t Russia!” and then he almost sucked me into his favorite little battle of  “My country, your country” complete with “Fuck your country!” and “Americans are stupid!” before I told him to blow it out his ass because I really don’t care. Then I hung up upon understanding that he was no longer willing to send money for Tristan. Which would be a financial nightmare for me at this delicate point in time.

Eh. He was due for another tantrum. I just didn’t think he’d get over it so fast. This morning I had a message from him, sounding  as if everything is just hunky-dory, telling me he sent me money. It’s funny because I can pay my bills at the same place where I pick up the money, so the lady handed me the money and I handed it all right back to her so I could pay the utilities. Sad to see it go so fast, but what a relief…

I’m so emotional lately. I look at Tristan and I feel like I could just melt into a puddle. I would do ANYTHING for that boy.  I will do anything, but as I’ve learned it’s best not to talk about what you plan to do. It’ll just take time.

The view from my window: Brooklyn, NY

Those years I spent in New York City, especially the single and unattached one, were easily the best of my life. I’ll never forget the moment I decided I was moving to NYC. I felt so reckless and free.  And so romantic, since I was moving there for love, even if the guy did turn out to be a rather soulless son of a bitch… None of the mistakes I made matter, though, because I felt like I was really living. I didn’t know what was going to happen or where I would end up but that didn’t matter because I was sure of one thing: I was enjoying every moment.

My “single year” was the best. It came after a relationship in which my self-esteem was ripped to shreds so it was all about healing and figuring myself out. I learned that I thrive on solitude. Since I don’t have any kind of college degree I used hard work and talent to land an awesome job. I started painting, I took music lessons (violin and piano), and pretty much did whatever I pleased. I was all about pleasure. Pleasure in art, in music, in food. And I had no responsibilities to tie me down, so I floated through life.

Heavenly, right?

But slowly I realized something was missing. The big question popped into my head and would not be dislodged: What am I doing with my life? And then, more importantly: What will I leave behind me when I die?

It turns out Tristan was the answer to both questions. I am a mother, and I will leave behind my children when I die.

As a mother I had to make the very difficult decision to leave the city I love. NYC is too expensive. If I was lucky I could find a studio apartment for twice what I’m paying for a two bedroom here in Crapstink. And it would be in a questionable neighborhood, most likely. Who knows what kind of school Tristan would end up going to in NYC. After I moved to Arkansas I went back to NYC to visit and it looked so much dirtier and more dangerous than I remembered. I suppose that’s because I was seeing it with a mothers eyes.

The view from my window: Crapstink, AR

I’ve always hated Arkansas. The bugs here are like alien lifeforms and they creep into the house in droves. There’s nothing to do here and there’s no public transportation. No museums, no concerts, NOTHING. It’s not all bad, of course. It’s calm. In NYC I always found myself rushing. Here I walk with Tristan to the store and, even though there’s still this jittery part of me that screams “Go go go!”, I actually enjoy the stroll.

As for the people, surprisingly I don’t think the people in the country are nicer. I thought there was supposed to be this whole southern hospitality thing going on, but not so much. Ok, I’m not being entirely fair. One of the neighbors came one evening and cut the grass in my front yard (the backyard is a swamp) because everyone around here is aware by now that I’m a single mother. Sometimes one of the neighbors drags my trash can to the curb for me because those suckers get heavy. They do this when I’m not looking, even.

I just mean that most people assume Southern people are really friendly and New Yorkers are rude, but I always found New Yorkers to be wonderful and helpful, if a little blunt and nutty. And I’ve met my share of rude southern people. My point is that both places have nice people and both have assholes. Nice southern people are probably a bit more involved, though.

I’m sad that I wont be able to take Tristan to classical concerts, or to central park, or to museums but I’m happy, for now, to raise him in a small town where everyone recognizes us and people sometimes help us out. Even if I’m too awkward to know how to talk to them.

I knew from the beginning (back when I first peed on a stick and it screamed “You’re pregnant!”) that I wanted more than one child. After I had Tristan I became even more sure of this. I grew up surrounded by sisters and I can’t imagine how desolate my difficult childhood would have been without them, even if we did drive each other bonkers and beat each other up all the time. I don’t want Tristan to be an only child. Two kids, that’s just right. Not so many that I feel like I work at a day-care center, but enough that we’re a cozy little family.

How does my family feel about me becoming a mother again? Well, that depends on who you ask. There are those who can’t wrap their tiny, traditional minds around the fact that a single mother would actually want to have another baby and *GASP* *CHOKE* *DOUBLE TAKE* still remain single.

Holy heart failure, Batman!

Yep, as if he hasn’t been enough of an ass lately, I’m referring to my father. Is he worried that I won’t be a good parent, that I can’t handle two children? Yeah, because he sure did a bang up job parenting us kids. FINE, I’ll play nice. Starting… NOW.

The legitimate concern that my family will have is my financial situation. But hey, if my dad had kept his promise then that wouldn’t be such an issue… And you know what? If I have any material success in my life it will be because of my children, not in spite of them. Look at my sister Vanessa. She had three kids and then got herself through college and now has a job as a teacher. Don’t they think I can do the same? I’m smart, I’m stubborn (hey, someone’s gotta pep talk me). And if anyone in this family is strong enough to be alone and yet happily raise two children that would be me.

I have faith in myself. I hope my family will too. I know I can count on my friends, at least…

I’m ecstatic. I knew I was pregnant right away, but being a jumpy and impatient little thing I tested too soon and got a negative result. At wich point I sulked and sighed and contemplated writing bad poetry. Then when I missed my first period, ok you got me, slightly before I missed my period I tested again. OH, those double pink lines! When I found out I was pregnant with Tristan I actually cried. Out of fear. Not this time. I almost wept with JOY. I have no doubts and not the slightest hesitation.

I’m just crossing my fingers and praying to my lucky stars that the baby is ok and I’ll carry to term. Yeah, ok, and I’m worrying myself sick.

But that’s normal.

It would be pretty easy for the casual observer in my life, or even people who’ve known me for ages but never made the effort to really know me, to assume that I am untouchable. I am so guarded and just buzzing with this energy that I can’t even describe. In the past I’ve always been ready to pounce, claws out, the moment I felt threatened. In the past I felt threatened a lot. Why? It was so easy to hurt me.

Not so much anymore. Partly because I’ve grown up, and partly because having my son has made me tremendously brave and much less worried about petty things, and petty people for that matter. I’m more realistic and this has allowed me to be more tolerant and forgiving. Which has allowed me to be more loving. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve still got fight in me. I’ve got my Mama Bear instincts and enough memories from my past dealings with icky people to get me jumping down the throat of anyone who tries to fuck with me, but overall I’m far more patient with people.

I’ve always been one to judge people by what is inside them. You’ll catch me saying “So-and-so has a good heart” and that usually means that even if so-and-so really pushes my buttons I’m not going to stay angry. I’m capable of verbally ripping someone a new asshole if what I see underneath their mask isn’t pretty but I’ve gotten really good at biting my tongue when good people do stupid shit. I don’t feel threatened.

I like being single. I’m perfectly comfortable raising my son alone. Take a cursory glance at my relationship rap sheet and you might find it hard to believe that I refuse to compromise but it is, eventually, true. Yeah, I fell for people who weren’t right for me because I was young, impulsive, passionate, but I didn’t stay with them. In the end I knew it wasn’t right and I left. If things got ugly it was usually because I was too stubborn to let go and move on. Like trying to hammer a round peg through a square hole. But in the end…

I’m not going to waste anyone’s time like that anymore. More importantly, I’m not going to waste my time like that, or confuse my poor son with yet another guy who doesn’t quite fit into my life (and personality).

I know what I want, and it’s surprisingly simple. He’s a just a good guy, mature, strong, and secure enough in himself to not let my issues become his. Because let’s face it, everyone has their issues.

The great thing about knowing exactly what I want, and being contently single, is that I can just kick back and wait for him to appear in my life instead of searching for him in the wrong places out of sheer loneliness. And if some hot shot struts into my life with anything except the most sincere respect and appreciation for me and my splendid little son I will just laugh, wink, and say “Keep walkin’, Cowboy!” That’s the power of knowing what you want, and knowing your own worth.

Yeah, part of me, somewhere deep down where I’m still childishly hopeful and naive, still craves that traditional family dynamic, but I’m happy with this little family of two.

We make sense.

I’m lonely. Sometimes I wish that I had someone. I almost miss Kostyantyn.

Almost.

And then I just feel free. There’s something thrilling about not being in love. I sometimes stop and catch my breath because I realize that I don’t have to answer to anyone or consider how my actions will affect the person I’m with, because I’m alone. I get giddy. I want to do a little dance. And then Tristan wakes up and I’m rushing to make his bottle…

I have decided that I want to move to California.

I have realized that I don’t have the money to move to California.

There’s just no way I could pay to move all my stuff across the country right now. Of course it’s only when the idea of moving back there starts to really grow on me that I realize I can’t do it right now. I miss my friends and I want to take Tristan to the beach.

Tristan still does the “one” thing. He holds up one finger and points at everything. Or at nothing. He’s so silly!