July 27, 2009

I took these two photos on the west side of Cleveland during a lunch break.

I was at the end of my first trimester.

These pictures were taken before I had my new camera.

Nick and I had just returned from a vacation in Charleston, South Carolina.

My books of choice were The Zahir and Bastard Out of Carolina.

These words were in my journal: This baby is making me think of being my best, living my best, and simplifying my life.  Simplifying my life, I’ve found, means taking care of the most important things first.

Who were you a year ago?  What were you doing?  What did you care about?  How have you grown?

There is no milestone for this date.  It’s just an ordinary summer day.  No holidays, no anniversaries, nothing but a hot sun on a July day.  An ordinary day.  A perfect time to reflect.

When a fellow Filipino has some beautifully raging words about artistry, writing, craft…anything about the fusion of art and social justice, you know I’m lovin’ it.

Here are some beautiful thoughts by Filipino filmmaker, Lino Brocka:

“The filmmaker, like his fellow artists in different media, has now
realized that the artist is also a public person. He does not work in
isolation from society. Instead of working alone in his ivory tower he
is a citizen of the slums, of the streets, of the battlefield if need
be. The artist is always a participant. He tries to be true not only
to his craft but also to himself. For it is the supreme duty of the
artist to investigate the truth, no matter what forces attempt to hide
it. And then to report it to the people, to confront them with it,
like a whiplash that will cause wounds but will free the mind from the
various fantasies and escapist fare that the Establishment pollutes
our minds with.

To the best of our abilities, and even if we oftentimes fail, we want
to do works that will hurt, films that will disturb, films that will
not make you rest. For the times are really bad, and given times like
these, it is a crime to rest. We can not rest, and we should not,
while there’s a fellow Filipino starving in Negros, an Aquino or
Galman crying for justice, a salvage victim lying in a mountain of
garbage while a corrupt family rules the country with uncontrolled
power and wealth. While it is the duty of the artist to work for what
is true, good, and beautiful, first we have to expose and fight for
what is wrong.

In these times when most of the media hide the truth from us, when
most of what we get from the media are silly gossip and petty flesh
and sensationalized crimes, we go to the streets to find out
what’s happening. We listen to those artists who dare risk their
lives and livelihoods, who reiterate once more the utmost duty of the
artist — that the artist is a committed person, that he will always
take the side of any human being who is violated, abused, oppressed,
dehumanized whatever his instrument — the pen, the brush, or the
camera.”

Mabuhay ang Pilipinas!

Being Captain Obvious here…Comments are working!
Go ‘head. Tell me what’s going through your mind.



I’ve begun to make my own baby food.  Gerber Head is a good veggie and fruit eater, provided that the vegetables are fresh and pureed at home.  What a food snob!  (He sooooo takes after me….)  His new friend is green beans.  He loves eating fresh green beans.  He loves spooning it across the room.  He loves wearing green beans.  He loves sharing green beans with the floor, tray, high chair, and the arms and face of whoever tries to pick him up afterward to clean him off.

Precious.

For the most part, Nick and I love owning our home.  It is a privilege and blessing beyond our dreams to own such a beautiful home on a gorgeous, tree lined street, surrounded with diverse array of people and families from all over the world.  The schools are excellent, the community is generous and protective, the traffic is manageable.

But, there are days, a few hours here and there, when Nick and I are lying opposite from one another on different couches, staring at the ceiling, ruminating the course of our lives when one of us says the dreaded word.  The word that makes the other close their eyes in frustration. The word that quiets the house with a its four syllable funeral bells:

PACH Y SAN DRA

Landscaping.  Overgrown.  Weeding.  Pruning.  Whatever you want to call it.

I call it aesthetic mush.  I have absolutely no investment whatsoever in landscaping, but here, in our beautiful community that loves trees, greenery, bushes, wild flowers, top soil, and a pair of worker gloves, landscaping is the outlying nuisance of homeownership which Nick and I have yet to adopt as our own.  We, literally, have been ignoring our landscaping.  Maybe it’s denial.  Maybe it’s because we’re hoping that one of these thunderstorms will send lightning down on our front lawn and burn the Pachysandra.  Struck down from God.  Similar to the Big Butter Jesus on I75 that was crisped to its skeleton last month.

So, last night, Nick and I finally bit the bullet and asked for a professional landscaper to come over, give us plans, an estimate, and hope.  John, our wonderful landscaper, actually had to lift his feet up and over the weeds and vines of our front walk to get to the front door.  And that’s with the weight of  work boots on his feet.  It was embarrassing to say the least.

We stood on the front steps, John, Nick, Isaiah, and I.  Even Isaiah was leaning over the see the plans.  He probably saw something he could fit into his mouth while Nick and I were leaning to steal a glimpse of the estimate.  He explained how pretty the Japanese Maple would be how the blue holly would accent the Seruke Berry and the Taxus would be low maintenance.  I nodded, repeatedly, waiting for the bomb.

Bomb diggity indeed.

Later, as we put Isaiah to bed, and went back and forth about the decision, we both came up with the same response: once we do this, we’ll never have to deal with this again.  The front lawn, at least.

And this is where I am convinced that certain aspects of homeownership is grossly inflated.  More and more research indicates that there is not much of a financial difference between renting and owning a home.  Take out the emotional investment, pride of ownership, and exchange it for hassle-free living, being free to roam and move if your career calls for it, and I’d call it an even split.

However, it’s the small things that are making me feel attached to our Tudor-laced utopia.  Nick and our friend Brian just added much needed cabinet lights in the kitchen so I don’t feel I am going to cut off my fingers when I am slicing veggies and cooking.  We just redid our main bathroom.  Our landscaping is soon to have its overdue makeover.  And, most importantly, our memories of our first son and growing family is slowly being etched on the walls.  That’s irreplaceable.   And it’s not about the attachment to home improvements, it’s the process of making a space your own.  The living and breaking yourselves into a house that was previously not yours and now has your creative decisions in every room.  It makes you slow-footed to move.

Back to the Pachysandra.

We decided to sleep on it through the weekend before we make the phone call.  But I know that the decision has already been made.  Neither Nick or I is going to the intense hard labor of managing the bodacious weeds that have snaked through our walkway or the persistent vines that crawl up the front bricks of our house.  And we’re in the dog house with our neighbors who are too kind to admit otherwise.  We’ve backed ourselves into a green corner and it’s time to, literally, dig deep and clean house.

Dear Isaiah,

It’s been seven months that my brain surrendered itself to become a fierce animal of intuition, protection, and memory mush.  Long, long ago, before you were even a thought, my brain was something akin to a needle.  Sharp, incisive, not to be messed with.  And now, with your arrival, it has transformed itself.  I’m still adjusting to that.

The world’s mothers know what I mean when I talk about memory mush.  It’s, what I hope, a temporary condition of forgetfulness and inability to retain information.  It’s similar to a huge, gorgeous mahogany dinner table that has been loaded with every kind of plate, silverware, glass, candelabras, and cup imaginable.  The table is full of wonderful things but each time you try to push one more thing onto the table, somewhere, on the opposite end, a plate that was teetering on the edge, quietly drops to the carpet below.  Noiselessly, I don’t even notice the exchange that occurred.  Another plate of information has been added, but another has dropped off into an unknown abyss.

That’s kinda how my brain is processing information.  And all the new plates are yours.

The information and knowledge that you have shot into my brain has crashed all the other plates to the ground and I, so hopelessly in love with every inch of your existence, barely notice the disaster that is called my memory.  Keys are tossed in the pockets of bags I don’t use.  Voicemail messages are listened to and then forgotten.  Appointments are only remembered because I tell your dad to remind me later on because, surely, it will escape my memory.  Twice this month, I had to crawl under the parked car in the garage to retrieve the spare key to the car.  This latest episode – last Sunday – ended with my holding up the key victoriously in my hand, only to find my regular keys stuffed into your diaper bag.  I got down and dirty for no reason at all.

I’ve heard that parenting is something reactive, particularly in the first stages.  Each day is something new with you.  Your two bottom teeth have cut through.  The first has been showing its top for a few weeks, this second just burst through yesterday (oh, you were such a sad, quiet baby yesterday).  Your laugh is SO LOUD (so Factora of you) and your rolls, once disappearing, are now back to their original chunk size as your appetite has now accepted a few ounces of formula in the afternoon to accompany your usual breastmilk lunches.  Yesterday, you even polished off two, yes TWO boxes of stage 2 Gerber food.  YOU ARE SUCH A GERBER HEAD.  I couldn’t believe it with each passing spoonful.  At any moment, I expected you to turn your head away, signaling your busoog (remember, that’s “full” in Tagalog) belly, but no.  Your Filipino-German-Spanish-Irish-French mouth opened itself wide open for each bite.

In fact, your size is a daily topic.  With strangers and friends alike, everyone seems to comment on your length.  Or guess how old you are.  The other in a department store, a grandpa looking man, glanced over at you and asked if you were  A YEAR AND A HALF.  I smiled and said, “Oh no, just about 7 months.”  He looked at me for a long while, like I was about to add “just kidding” to that bit of information.  He just stared at me.  Then at you.  Then exhaled, “Well, he’s going to be a really big boy.”

Big boy.

As a feminist identified writer, my love, Big boy means you are going to have a big heart.  You are going to grow a heart ten times bigger than your gigantic frame.  Because, my little lovebug, you must understand that it will be the size of your heart, the weight of your compassion, the openness of your mind that will get your through in life.  In other words, you will be just like your father.

My memory muscle is embarrassing, and that is why I write these moments to you.  Not only for your eyes to read someday, but also for my memory.  Everything these days feels like fleeing pieces of paper blowing in the wind and writing it down turns it into a sticky note.  A little bit of glue so it stays in place for a while.  Writing helps me solidify what I want to remember.

This morning, I held you a little longer than normal.  You were getting sleepy and instead of setting you in your crib for your morning nap, I propped myself up on the couch and gently laid you, tummy down, on my chest.  You squirmed and wiggled, probably thinking I was playing a new game with you, but eventually I think you understand it was just me wanting to be close to you, wanting to smell your skin – your scent of dry milk and sweetness – and pressing you gently against me as you laid your head against my breast and stuck your thumb in your mouth, finding your comfort and peace.  We stayed that way for several minutes, before I laid you in your crib and you flashed me your two pearl smile.  It made my heart ache with longing to stop the months from passing so quickly.

And as your rolled to your side, resting your two little legs on top of the bumper and I watched you fade into sleep, I whispered how much I loved you and knew again, as I often find with you, that words will never convey how truly precious each minute of your life is to me.

My memory will always hold you as the greatest miracle of my life.

Happy 7 months, my beautiful son.

Love,

Mom

I was never really a baby person.  Growing up, I was never one of those kids in school who loved to embrace younger kids and play with them at recess.  There was no giggling with my friends in the 5th grade and pointing when we saw 1st graders with their lunch boxes.  I smiled but was never squealing, “Oh my gosh.  LOOK!  They are SO cute!”  I just thought I was cute.

As a teenager and at my mother’s urging, I babysat from time to time.  I was a good babysitter.  No TV.  No junk food.  Lots of playing and chatting.  However, my skills had more to do with the fact I was deathly afraid of the parents coming home and finding me oblivious – head in the refrigerator, fudgesicle in my mouth – and their kid braiding electrical wires together in the living room.

Now, I’m the parent coming home and I’m not the babysitter.  I’m the mother.  Nearly 7 months in training and, still, can’t believe some mornings that the AHHHWAHHHGOOOO sound coming 8 feet from my bedroom door is coming from a baby who actually belongs to me.  My mornings are still foggy like that.

That being said, I’m ALL about MY kid.  I worship the ground he rolls on.  I wish there was a candy flavored after him, or a donut, that I can eat because he looks so adorably scrumptious.  But just because I wish there was a donut called Isaiah, doesn’t necessarily mean I’m a child fanatic.

I’m learning that old misconceptions crumble in the wind.  I thought that since I was never a baby fanatic that I wouldn’t turn out to be a good mother.  WRONG.  Mothers come in all different kinds of styles, colors, sizes, schools of thought, and background.  There is no spectrum measuring parenting skills, except for the hierarchy I have created in my head that I measure myself against.  Such practices that compare yourself to other people, by the way, usually send your parenting-esteem straight to the toilet.  I don’t recommend comparisons at all.  In fact, I think that unless it is semantics and verbal debate, the practice of comparing anything or anyone should be outlawed.  We are all so full of imperfections and flaws that make us uniquely individualized.

I’m learning to use Isaiah’s development and overall smile frequency as my barometer. I’m learning to measure the health of my parenthood by assessing not only the welfare of my child, but also the joy factor in my own life, the carefree laughter resonating in my marriage, and the ability to find moments where I write a poem or two about getting caught in the summer rain.  Without tools that help me stay sane, parenthood becomes a voided practice of chores and tasks, not relationship building.  Isaiah needs a mother who is calm, inspired, and energized.  The frazzled and often morose mother who counts the sacrifices is a useless, outdated model.

That being said, I’m still not a baby person.  Because of my growing Gerber prince, my knowledge of babies and children has exponentially grown, skyrocketted even, to the moon.  And I’m finding that I don’t need to be a baby person to be a wonderful mom to my own son.  I’m learning that listening to the unmet expectations, the little whispers in my head that repeat devilish little quips about my self-doubts, do not provide anything beneficial to me or Isaiah.  As a new mother, I have to sharpen my ears and be a voice snob;  there’s only a handful I should listen to.

It’s time to ditch the unrealistic images of motherhood and welcome fresh versions of ourselves as we transition into new roles as mothers.  It’s time to learn how to say YES to the things that we truly need and love while saying NO to the excessive, the impulses, to the drive that pushes us to make more money, acquire more THINGS, and act more as corporate parents than loving, free thinking ones.

It’s time for outreaching to form communities and build trust in neighbors again.  The nuclear family unit is destined for isolation without the assistance and hands of the village.  No aprons, no heels.  Or maybe just an apron in heels.  No shoulds.  Close the gender gap in the distribution of domestic responsibilities.  Reorganize your schedule, not your priorities.  The grassroots of motherhood are often secrets that are exchanged at the ground level, not on TV or in big media, and it will not tell you the thing you need to hear most:  The most critical voice in the mix that takes the most time to find, use, and shape is your own.

I never wanted to be a sports fan.

It takes too much emotion.  Instead of watching pig skin balls cross lines while being carried by brute men in colorful tights, I opted for the arts.  Theater.  Painting.  Galleries of modern art and blissful afternoons of imagery and metaphor, told on the written page.  Now that’s my idea of exhilaration.

I never wanted to be a sports fan.

And then I had no choice.  I moved to Boston.

It was everywhere.  It was on the streets during parades, it was on billboard signs of the trains I took.  I swear, sometimes, it was even in the beer.  Everywhere.  Sports was everywhere.

And still I denied it.

Before any complex understanding of different sports, I was like many non-sport fans: somewhat disgusted with the attention athletes receive and the unparalleled focus society places on sporting events.  I was a snob, in other words.  That is, until I discovered what sports CAN be about.

In the company of my sporty spouse who has a considerable amount of sport knowledge, I began attending Reds games, Ohio State football games, and scoring great seats to watch the Cavs.  Nick began to share the ins and outs of plays, the thought process of calculating risk, the strategy of a team backed up against a wall.  He taught me about watching the clock, how timeouts should be used, when to spike a ball, what it means when a shortstop stands two steps forward, how rankings are done, what preseason is all about.

Before long, my interest grew.  I would never claim to be a diehard fan of anything, but I did take a particular interest in the largest sports story to break this year: LeBron James dissing Cleveland in a long drawn-out process of ego stroking.

But, a deeper analysis of James’ decision reveals much, much more than just a desire to choose which yellow brick road will lead him to the championship ring.  What rocks reluctant fans, like myself, is that James’ decision confirms the worst about sports and small-town folks who make it big: they sell out.

LeBron sold out.  Not with money or power, but he sold out the incredibly rare connection that many of us strive to have: a person-place relationship.  It’s not about the Cavs, it’s about place.  It’s about building a foundation in the place LEAST likely to succeed that truly spins the greatest stories.  More and more, that spirit vanishing.  We are born and raised in one place and then we set our sights on the Emerald City, convinced it has the key to complete our dream. We give shout-outs to our hometowns, but we’d never be caught dead with its zip code.

It rattles and irritates me when I’m told to settle down about LeBron’s decision to leave Ohio.  And not just because his immature and diva-studded process resulted in the largest orchestrated sympathy card for Cleveland imaginable.  I am agitated by the “poor, poor Cleveland” mantra that is decimating the media waves and marching into the open ears of young people.  As if a ring is more significant than growing up with ties and relationships.  As if “finding” success is more meaningful than building it.

However, I do resonate with the geography talk.  As a writer, I’m consistently forced to evaluate my geography. I moan and wail over the midwest louder than anyone.  I worry about the shortage of creative communities.  The likelihood of finding challenging mentors or writing confidants is slim in the midwest because, well, the midwest isn’t known for its creative harbors.  In my mind, New York, Oakland, and other big, glitzy cities offer more square foot refuge to radically minded moms who want to write memoirs about interpersonal transformation and social justice.  It isn’t a coincidence I moved once a year for ten years.  Searching for your mojo kinda makes you feel restless, to put it mildly.

But, I often find myself countering those thoughts with questions like, what exactly is it that will make me the best writer I can be, what will help me best cultivate my writing voice? The answer I found as a writer is the same answer that Lebron James should have come to, the same place every person who is in search of personal achievement eventually (and hopefully) arrives: it’s what you BUILD with what’s inside you that will deliver your glory.

You travel and move to learn from other places and people, but you don’t need to live next to the ocean to learn how to swim. The New Clevelander is someone with talent.  Someone successful.  Someone with every availability to leave, but chooses to stay. You choose to stay not out of loyalty or fear or safety.  You choose to stay because you recognize that what you are pursuing can and must be built by your own two hands.  Who knows if I will be a permanent midwesterner, but I am grateful to it for teaching me its most profound lesson:  what you carry inside you, not where you live, will determine your destiny.

I’m pretty sure that when I decided to become a parent, I didn’t sign an invisible scroll that read: I AGREE TO LISTEN TO ANYONE AND EVERYONE ABOUT MY OFFSPRING.

No, I’d never sign such a contract.

But I think the rest of the world has a copy of that scroll somewhere.  And, any day now, I think someone is going to march right up, whip it out and show me on my front overgrown pachysandra-ed lawn and reprimand, “See here?  You signed away your open ears RIGHT HERE!”

Ah, parenting…the topic I vehemently try to steer clear from within my writing, but I’ve found that it’s like trying to concentrate on something important while a kangaroo recovers from a bad acid trip in your living room.  It’s just not going to happen.

It’s very difficult not to listen to people who give you advice.  Somewhere, in the cavernous darkness of early parenting, some advice IS like a beam of light and truly is helpful.  Most of it, though, is nodding and silently replying, “Mhm, I haven’t thought of that!  Going somewhere air-conditioned since we don’t have central air when it’s 95 degrees outside?  WHAT A NOVEL IDEA!”

I sometimes wonder if I should invent a parenting card, or even better, A PARENTING LICENSE, and then flash it like a cop with a badge every time someone approaches me with a parenting idea.  That might make me millions.  I could invent an online course, a brief quiz, and if you pass, I’ll send you a card – ALREADY LAMINATED! – that reads: I’m an inventive, thinking, emotionally stable parent who is imperfect but still pretty great.  Lisa Factora-Borchers says so.”

WHO WOULDN’T WANT THAT IN THEIR WALLET RIGHT NEXT TO A PICTURE OF TOMMY JR.?

The baby industry is ridden with books, articles, and every kind of folded brochure that could possibly be made with graphs and suggestions on how to measure your child’s development.  Most days, I’m thankful for it. Most of my research comes from an eclectic grouping of books, internet, close peers, confidants, and family.  And not that Nick and I know everything.  Far from it.  But, we tend to be more on the relaxed side of parenting.  Right now, I feel the most critical piece of Isaiah’s development is his emotional stability and physical flourishing.  He should know his parents are attentive, supportive, and although a bit nutty, completely reliable.  The fact that Isaiah cries once every 78 hours and is in the 94% for length leads me to think that we’re doing a pretty good job of raising him.

But that doesn’t stop the shoulds of the world.

“Shouldn’t he be sitting up on his own now?”  Probably, but he’s a bigger kid.  Maybe he can’t even out his balance yet.

“Shouldn’t he be holding his bottle by now?”  Probably, but he puts his hand on it when he’s really hungry and pushes away when he’s finished.

“Shouldn’t he be rolling over by now?”  Yes.  He did once last week, so I think he’ll be ok to take the SATs when he’s a teenager.

“Shouldn’t he be eating more solids now?”  I’m not sure.  I think babies have a really good survival sense about them and he stops eating when he’s full, so I don’t force more solids if he’s not hungry after nursing.

“Shouldn’t he wear shoes in the summer?”  Yes, but he keeps sticking his feet in his mouth.  His toes are cleaner than his sandals.

I’ve written it before and I’ll write it again: parenting has made me more humble and increased my compassion by ten fold.  There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t see another parent and feel, however slight, a small connection to them.  Or at least, a smidgen of understanding.  When I see parents by themselves and trying to handle a stubborn car seat or piercing scream, I send a smile that I not only tolerate the line being held up by their kid or the disrupted quiet, I actually understand it.

The expectations we place on parents is, at times, impossible.  We want to see a child doing well.  Society wants to see children thriving at ever stage and age.  We want to secure their welfare.  Setting expectations and should-ing all over parents, though, is a far cry from ensuring the livelihood of their children.  If nothing else, it bring parents just a step closer to the proverbial noose hanging in the dark by their bed every night.  The noose is there, relentlessly, waiting waiting waiting for your neck.  It wickedly swings back and forth while you contemplate whether or not to step up and reel it around your throat.  The noose can be spelled in five letters: G-U-I-L-T.

“It takes a village to raise a child” is the most overused cliche in the parenting sphere, but I’d be hard-pressed to find a more profoundly true statement about child-rearing.  Indeed, a village of family, supporters, listeners, and positive cheerleaders are tokens of a happy family life.  Without these scaffolds, isolation and bitterness can begin to crust the edges of our smiling family picture and the “shoulds” begin to overpower a very simple but under-appreciated phrase: You’re a good mother.

Those four words, boring by the measure of my vocabulary until I became a parent, are some of the most touching words you can put together in the English language.  A small hug.  An arm slung over your shoulder.  A warm hand on your back.  A love pat on your hand.  That’s what these words feel like.

Because these four little words aren’t just about affirming the parenting style, it’s affirming your life choices made evident by a growing creature full of vulnerability, need, and dependency.  And when you’re trying your hardest to fill that child, when you’re trying to drop every ounce of love, life, freedom, and trust into that little being, those four words break down into one beautiful message that all new parents need to hear every now and again: You are enough.