And when I watch my son grow up a little more each day, I admit my maturity takes a similar turn just of the adult version.  Yet the parallel is that we each gain in emotional health, which is my focus spot.  For him, the words, the legs, the adventures, and the smarts will all evolve organically with curiosity.  What matters more to me is that he can experience any emotion independently of me and that I understand–enough to hold him, sometimes in my arms and other times just in my vision, so he knows I know he is moving through the feeling just with a little support close by.

This last year and a half has helped me shift around to act on this parental love.  Yet I have grown to understand that adult friendships can fly on such consistent support–a simple presence to show consistent love in case a friend falls.  No judgement.  No advice.  Just presence by giving enough space for life experience to happen.  In this safe space, we all grow up with each other, whoever is in the closest circle.

When I watch my son’s feet grow so rapidly, I realize how I am also learning to walk in so many ways: creative projects, lezbo-romantic relationship, real friends, and physical health.

Giving my son's feet a helping hand

Like any good first-walker, I will take steps forward even if I am unsure how.  All the times I plan to fall.  This time with laughter though.  Right now a small tear exists in my heart that needs light sewing.  The mending thread will appear in my unflappable faith to take daily risks.  Tomorrow I begin a film class, for example.  And on my birthday I will celebrate love.  An energy that always fuels life wherever we dare take a few steps forward.  Pray for courageous feet.

Reward for a Hard Day's Play

When he woke up around 2 p.m. we began the adventure to spend some fun time with a 15 month old.  Even just a year from now I will be so glad that I have invested these hours in his happy state.  Today he was simply exuberant with joyful chatter throughout the entire day.  Through serendipity we ended up in the bathroom where a drawer handle was loose enough for him to wiggle.  I sat on the edge of the tub, showing him how to take the screw and handle apart from different sides of the drawer.  We spent the next hour–literally–figuring out all kinds of variations of mechanics.  I simply watched him figure the dynamics out.  Watching him so fascinated was fascinating to me.  Who says kids cannot focus?

Another example might be his forays into food.  The kid eats anything I ply him with.  Mind you he has his favorites for sure, yet he will try all varieties of treats.  Today he noshed on edamame for a while.  This helps because he can eat all types of fruit–strawberry, blueberry, banana and more–yet I am less consistent with the veggies.  Now I can dice up whatever I am eating, which today was pan friend garlic chicken, broccoli, mushroom, and wild rice.  He ate big chunks of everything.  Plus now he can spoon portions of food into his mouth with some dexterity.  And then again not.  All good since the bib is long enough to receive front, side, and other directional splatter.  Today felt relieving for me to see him grow so healthy every day.  I felt an emotional weight free for me, too.  A serene 24 hours, then, that I am grateful for.

Since I have brought my son home, many opportunities to shift into actual drama have arisen.  I suppose for me drama is that lonely choice to engage in emotional contact when the result is highly distorting to each life.  Mind you I do not judge for one second because how many years did I spend leaning into poor emotional choices?

The spiritual sleep of babes

Far too many for me to feel comfortable counting before you right now.  All the glass houses I have lived in will forever prevent me from casting stones.  Yet the main reason I have stayed clear of emotional uncertainty is for my son’s sake.  So far he only knows a very consistent parent.  No reason to jeopardize that trust, right?

Or will I?  Who do I trust?  How do I trust?  The question came up in therapy the other day.  I don’t trust many people because I find doing so a significant challenge.  Yet one change for real is that I trust myself.  This is new.  Most of my life has been jumping from one project to another.  What a surprise to see, then, that I have been plugging away at work that I truly enjoy and doing so for these last seven years–without a break.  I trust my work performance, for one.

And I trust my recovery.  I can easily see that when I begin to truly isolate or feel lonely that the world looks pretty bleak.  As a responsible parent, I avoid making decisions that leave our little family without enough support.  Bringing my son home has helped me change in this way–significantly.  At the end of day, sobriety from drugs and alcohol is simply learning how to ask for help when emotions start to overwhelm.  Ordinary folks who don’t use to avoid the emotional weight of life can often find these resources.  Mostly I trust my sobriety because absolutely no major lies are going on in my life right now.  Took me a while to work for this gift since I turn 47 years old on 2 February 2012; spent several decades failing to be honest with myself, so perhaps the reward is a long-time coming.

Which brings me to the art of failure and how I hope to practice it in 2012.  As an indulgent break from the day’s responsibility flow, I watched several snippets of Morgan Spurlock’s Yahoo sponsored “Failure Club.”  What a joy to watch vulnerable folks take a chance on their dream!  Absolutely lovely stuff to absorb.  The Chinese proverb advocates for opportunity in times of crisis.  And, yes, the glass seems half full to me especially when the liquid is beer and that recovery friend is not supposed to quaff one down.  Even the failure of relapse is a positive chance to change.  That is my promise to myself for 2012: state a creative dream that I have had for a long time and then fail at making the dream come true.  With me?

Because of this visual reward, I rolled over for real sleep around 2 in the morning.  By 7 a.m.  I had two bright friendly eyes and a wide Chesire cat grin bobbing a few inches before my face.  Darien had woken up.  Ouch.  Alright then let’s power this out and make a move to park the car somewhere better besides the sidewalk (done occasionally by all of us without ticketing).  Tucked carefully into his car seat, and me freshly out of my pajamas, at least, we made a beeline for West Portal Peet’s.

Taking advantage of the no-change-required holiday free parking, I climbed in the back seat with Darien to enjoy our coffee, milk bottle, and pumpkin ginger muffin that he gobbled up just fine.  Trouble is that he did not want to adjust to a sippy cup.  His howl can pierce the ears pretty good, so I practiced my Mr. Rogers approach to talking about feelings, yet the tears still gushed.  I alternated sippy cup with bottle to respect a super decent cup of coffee that needed some quiet space.  The compromise worked.  Probably the operative word of the day–compromise.  Take the following example.

My house hosts a diverse crowd right now: a young African American guy sweet as all hell especially around his white boyfriend, who spent the night for the first time, and a Bangladeshi grandmother, who has taught Darien the word Allah that he repeats around 20 times a day.  To give everyone a spacious morning, I brought Darien into our room to play on the floor for an hour or so.  Around 9 a.m. the door flings open and grandmother spurts out, “I know you angry.  I am sorry, sorry.”  Her English is broken at best.

She has some peculiar communicating patterns and one had irritated me pretty good earlier in the day when we both worked in the daycare at a Pacific Heights church.  Yes, I had been short in conversation with her.  We hashed out gently what had transpired.  I simply requested that she speak directly to me and not through side behavior, which I simply cannot do any more in my immediate life.  Yes, yes, we all need the veneer and I respect that.  I simply, however, cannot do the inchoate address at home.  When I asked her several times to speak directly to me and not through side behaviors, she seemed to understand.  We ended by wishing her a good day as she left shortly after.  Later in the evening when she returned we exchanged friendly chit chat, which is all we get and works just fine.

By 9 a.m. I had to merge into the living room and kitchen with my favorite rug rat.

Parallel poses by child and turtle

He immediately went to visit the boyfriends, trying to share a raw carrot I gave him to nibble.  Then showing off several orange slices that he plowed through without any impulse to share. He loves fresh oranges and would eat the peel, too, if given the chance.

For a couple hours he simply worked the house by traveling from room to room, making discoveries in each spot as he went.  Meanwhile I took a few phone calls, packed up two bags of clothes that don’t fit him any more, rummaged through extra kitchen stuff Grandma has brought in which we don’t have room for, and packed up toys that are more staid than helpful.  Finally, we took a stop for breakfast, which was an awesome flaxseed hot cereal I found in the cupboard as I try to clean everything out.  Spooned in with rich Greek yogurt, including all its original calories, Darien ate well.  As did I since I sprinkled my portion with the constant fresh organic blueberries I always ply the little one with.  The house was starting to have an organized sheen that thrilled me.

Challenge is that Darien’s nose has been running for a week now.  Parallel to nose drip is a pretty constant line of drool dropping from his mouth.  Somewhere I read that runny noses can accompany teething.  I will watch for a couple days then maybe call the pediatrician.  By now the napping hour had arrived around noon.  He didn’t want to sleep at all, yet I plopped him in his crib.  A minute or two of crying then silence.  Some days he easily naps and others I try the suggestion method.  Either one always works.

The instant he starts to nap I usually look at my to-do list firing off e-mails, making phone calls, stamping envelops, and meeting any responsibility for the day.  Yet I simply could not keep my eyes open.  Fifty minutes later I found myself snoozing peacefully on the living room sofa.  Once vertical again and easing into a cup of green tea, I took another hour to focus on paperwork until I heard the familiar post nap bouncing.  His crib mattress has some spring so he simply starts to jump up and down.  I hear him quickly enough.

But he harbored some resentment from the earlier nap episode.  We spent a cranky hour or so getting ready to go to the gym.  All movement is orchestrated in baby steps–pun intended.  He loves to play with keys, so I give him the house ones and he goes to the door.  Count ten minutes for this.  Once outside on the porch he can now walk steps pretty well if  I hold his hand.  Add another ten minutes here.  I parked a full block away.  We walked as any ordinary upright homo sapien would, yet for some reason we circled back and lurched forward for 20 minutes.  Many car doors were tried with our set of keys.  By 4 p.m. we were confidently on the road.  The was going on as unplanned.  I love no structure days.

I went to a local hardware store for a small Phillips to open up the back of a new Melissa & Doug music toy and put in batteries.  Again I flopped in the back seat to show him the new toy.  I new we had two more stops, so I worked offensively to stave off potential meltdowns.  The trick worked.  He played well with the toy while I sprinted into the Goodwill thrift store on Mission Street to drop off the clothes.  I buy most of Darien’s clothes here with pants and shirts running around $2 a pop.

Finally we arrive to our gym, the beautiful UCSF Bakar location.  I had run a negative narrative about why don’t I simply go to the gym a few blocks from our house for $30 bucks a month.  But every time I arrive to the UCSF gym I am so enchanted with the architecture that dances light everywhere, I remember why the $85 a month membership feels justified.  We shot straight up to the fourth floor.  Wandering in the hallway for a while, Darien finally spots the gym door open.  He moves on in where a full court five on five game is sprinting back and forth.  Darien tries to step right into the flow of traffic.

In his crawling days

We have some near misses while I try to guide him to the other parallel court where only a few stragglers shoot baskets.  I show off my jump shot and I must say he looks pretty impressed.  We goof around for another 20 minutes or so.  He can pass the ball by holding it over his head then watching it bounce to the other person.

We ride the elevator to the second floor where we can shower, but he decides to walk back up the stairs to the fourth floor again.  That is fine with me because all this exercise has dramatically shifted his mood from the whiny I-have-a-cold energy. Back in the elevator we go; this time I carry him straight to the family shower room.  We spoil ourselves to the warm water and plenty of sudsing since he sure gathers a clear layer of dust from the daily activities.  I give him the shower wand so he can learn how to wash himself.  A little suds of soap on his belly is easy for him to wash around.  Today he decided to practice the crab crawl everywhere.  All dressed and ready to go I pull out the warm bottle of milk (make it hot at home to cool over time) that he quaffs in a few seconds, no joke.  The stroller ride to the car is uneventful and navigating into the car seat goes smoothly, too, which it does eight out of ten times.  A separate post is required to describe those two special times.

For his birthday party, I asked friends to donate CDs they no longer listen to and we received around 20 good ones.  The staple for the car is a Kenny G album.  Sure, a notch up on the boring side, but works wonders to shift his energy into the slowness of the day.  He listens intently, holding his Linus blanket, the one that prompts him to put his thumb in his mouth, which he has done now.  Making it home, we tumble into the living room a little after 7 p.m.–his bedtime.  He finds four books to read, which is the limit.  We read for 20 minutes or so.  I have brought in one last bottle to sip on.  He makes good progress here.  Then I shut the door and pull the blinds down.

Now the room is cool and dark with just enough street light to not feel scary, I suppose.  I pick him up to sing a lullaby for a few minutes; his face tucks into his blue blanket slung over my shoulder.  I leap up on my bed which is wedged snugly against his crib to place him gently into the sleeping space.  He stretches out long and easy.  I have placed three clean super soft blankets to build warmth.  He flips around to sleep in the opposite direction.  I hop down to play a beautiful CD of classical violin and cello music.  Once the music is turned on, I whisper, “Good night. I love you,” while closing the door without latching it.  I turn off the hallway light.  He is asleep for the night without a single cry.  I so appreciate how he does that.  Immediately, I take to the living room sofa where I meditate for a minute or two to make the shift into adult time.

This day is a prototype of how I have spent the last eight months.  Today we were more housebound than usual because we often go to the park, library, or for a swim.  Choosing for one parent to stay home those first three years makes so much sense if the couple can organize finances to support this structure.  I suppose my challenge is that I work full-time to keep our little family flowing smoothly.  This just is what it is.  And I truly recognize how fast Darien’s first three years will fly by, so despite an underneath exhaustion, I find the time spent with him so energizing–if that doesn’t sound too contradictory. (I don’t dare narrate the work hours here.  Suffice to say that the evening hours are often long to complete teaching duties.)

What I perhaps do not describe well here is the constant chatter between him and I.  We often complete activities in separate rooms.  I constantly check on him, but I give him his space, too.  And about a dozen times throughout the day, I flop down on the floor, whether kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, or living room to discover what I can see at that eye level.

Connecting to yesterday’s post, I had several conversations with Darien about having permission to show emotion.  Of course, these talks are ridiculous, yes?  Yet I swear his eyes open just that millimeter wider with understanding.  He is simply a 14 month old little baby, right?  Funny though because when I provided him with a boring lecture about watching above his head for the table so he doesn’t have a surprise hurtful bump, he trotted off to play elsewhere–apparently practicing his imminent teenage pose of not listening.  And yet several stages later into the play afternoon, he imitated my pretend bump against the hard wood table and wagged his finger back and forth.  This is one example of nearly a dozen that we experience in any given free play day.  Go figure.

A brief word on food.  He has a simple $20 plastic Target seat with a snap on tray–one of the only new items I bought him.  Once in the chair I toss on to the tray cubed anything I can think of just to see what will pass mustard.  He loves Tillamook extra sharp cheddar cheese.  This is good for several mouthfuls.  All kinds of crackers go over well.  If he had his way completely he would survive on strawberries.  A runner up for favorite food is the almighty blueberry.  Bananas are also diced and placed on the tray.

He often cajoles me to open the fridge door then standing there he beckons me with a plaintive, “Egg? Egg?”–repeated over and over.  He watches me crack the egg into the bubbling olive oil, stirring a few times with a long wooden spatula.  One time at my Mom’s house when she tipped many kitchen utensils onto the living room floor for him to play with, he picked up the wooden spatula and said, ” Egg?”

Today I boiled carrots in water with several cloves of raw garlic; this “broth” I later put in the much-rejected sippy cup.  Despite his ambivalent feelings over the delivery system, he drank the entire bottle.  We had a real winner this afternoon with potato latkes from Trader Joe’s–eight small pancakes for $1.99.  He loved these and I predict this becomes a family staple in the near future.  In short, I try to share every food possible.  He is not shy and will make a drama face of no-way-Jose when required. Waiting in the fridge is a TJ polenta role spice with mushroom and onion.  We shall see.

Chock up another purposeful day to the grace of God.  I look forward to tomorrow.  More surprises await.

Last December returning to my parent’s home with my newborn son, I detected confusion.  Grounded mental clarity seemed absent during that visit; sure enough when I heard that my father would need surgery late in March the news did not surprise me.  God gave them a few moments together–Darien and my father.  Yet 2011 will remain the nexus in life for me where I began parenting one life while wishing another parental figure a peaceful final departure.

How startling death is.  At least the kind of prolonged uncertainty we experienced, hearing at least four times we would lose my Dad.  Hours later we would hear he had a decent fighting chance.  Modern Western medicine seemed to show our family more guessing gasps at positive health care than holistic direction.  We absolutely drowned in the surprises my father experienced in his healthcare.  At the end on a Friday evening around 7:30 p.m. a chaplain stood at the foot of his bed as we six human beings held hands speaking of spiritual support for that corporal goodbye moment.  Grabbing that peaceful dignity meant everything to me, and, from what we witnessed, to my father as well.  The experience is still too raw for me to dig deeper now, yet I am interested.  Something went awry.  Seriously so.  And I have questions.

His absence has created new dynamics in our remaining family.  I spent a week with my Mom, who, at 74, kept an amazing pace with Darien.  He runs, giggles, skips, churtles, falls, skids, walks, swims and somersaults.  None of these words are exaggerations.

Good news is that his naps are still very much happening.  Seems he uses them as vital rejuvenating siestas.  Plus he sleeps like clockwork from 7 p.m. to 6 a.m.  Not too long ago that he could only learn the world from looking up while horizontal on a blanket.

Joyful six month old

This New Year’s Day Sunday morning we joined a group of kids ranging from one year to six years old who played the chase game he so loves.  What fun in my heart to see him socialize.  Parenting puts you on that vulnerable edge to only wonder if somehow you are raising your kid well.  We can only hope.  One little girl couldn’t adjust to the childcare setting, crying intensely the entire time we held her for 20 minutes.  Crying infants get to Darien.  He walks right up to them and looks quizzical, concerned, and pained.  Today he offered this little girl a drooly chewed on spongy toy.  Nothing doing.

Yet this empathy he has, many would say, he is learning.  He knows that his needs are taken serious and understood.  As he is receiving empathy, he builds the muscle himself to shower on others.  In this case, a literal spit shower.  Still, my work with him, then, is to adjust to life’s emotional texture.  He is whippet smart for sure.  Little wonder I suppose after having played many diverse music types and reading to him from the Economist or New York Times since he was a few hours old.  My talking to him about the world has not quieted.  I explain everything to him in that calm Mr. Rogers approach.  He absorbs so much.  He has a few routine words: light, up, egg, and mama.  So, I worry not at all about his intellect.  Smarts will remain wily, adept, and alert in our house.  Humbly said, yes?

But the emotional nuance of life is how I can mother him best.  And how lucky that the parallel in my adult life is the emotional sobriety that develops in recovery.  As I continue to mature in life by working for a clean and sober daily life, this return to emotional health is so rewarding.  I can honestly say that I trust my feelings.  Running away now is not the impulse.  I can speak to the truth of moments as they feel themselves into my living experience.  In this way we recover ourselves, the whole person–heart, mind, and soul.  We earn the name recovery for sure.

So I watch my son.  I watch for his emotions.  I can help him.  Together we will learn to trust the world.  We will value others through kind awareness.  This work becomes the most selfless I can be.  I don’t want him to act, look, speak, or imitate me.  Parenting, for me, is not at all personal.  I didn’t squirt out some sperm or belly up for nine months and then stake claim to the name parent.  Instead, I have worked tremendously hard to earn my son’s trust.  I assume nothing.  I avoid the white hetero privilege that claims stake to winging it as a childcare strategy.  My hours with Darien are humbly focused, recognizing how short this early childhood development phase lasts.  I used to always mumble that the first five years are so important; now I absolutely see how the first year is so vital.

Perhaps this is why so many parents go back to work so early–a sixth sense that this small creature will actually get to know them emotionally.  Can be scary, for sure.  The converse is probably more true though that we judge the small bundle that first year as simply not being emotionally or intellectually present.  How untrue.  The nonspeaking baby intuits everything.  Or, at least, that is my humble experience.  Yet this is the swerve where I become preachy, so I will finish for today to say that I am damn lucky.  This year we called 2011 was a hell of an effort to work calmly and sanely for change in my life–even when resistance spiked.  Especially when resistance visited our home.  And now Darien and I can move into a healthy emotional space for our family.

At the end of each day, I suppose, we are only as strong as the prayers asking for spiritual guidance; this is our emotional support system.  Three cheers for 2012 and its adventures.

Only a few months ago, Darien was just a baby.

We spent this first part of the winter holiday on the Monterey Peninsula with family.  The house there is an enclave of relaxing times; how lucky for our little family of two that grandma lives in a town with one of the most beautiful coastal drives in California.  That sparkling blue winter crisp sky danced little elves of shimmering light off the ocean waves.  Simply an awesome three days of eating well, connecting with family, and watching my son learn to walk.

Almost tear up as I write this post.  He is starting to walk pretty consistently.  Just watching him stand from a sitting position on the floor is the most amazing sight.  We went through all the different first year phases together.  What crystal clear memories I have of watching him grow.  What makes me most happy is how alert he is to the world.  I would walk with him for hours at night wrapped up in the Moby Wrap, mumbling sleepily about the brilliant moon and stars.  And now as we make the way into our cozy little San Francisco bungalow, he always swings around to search for and find the moon.  We did it.

Sometimes around 9 p.m. I tell myself that I will take a short nap but then find myself waking up at 3 a.m., which happened last night.  I slept another hour then started the day at 4 a.m. Challenge is that the little one heard me around 5 a.m. and got up with me.  That took away the extra prep hour I had hoped for before going to work teaching English.  Aaaah, all of parenting is run on the operative word flexible.  Yet I arrived to work 20 minutes early, which is a milestone because I have had such challenges finding caregiver help.  Last Friday one woman who I know really well from church simply didn’t show up.  Yikes.  Even the current roomie, a Bangladeshi grandmother, went against a request I had in terms of sharing the space.  Did I mention that I have to relearn everything?  Setting boundaries is the number one relearning spot.

For now I simply accept her behavior, which is not to say I am a doormat;  I just need plan more proactively now for Darien’s future.  This first year has transformed me for good in the humility factor to see a human become conscious.  I am vulnerable and emotional every day as I live this experience called parenting.  Mothering my son reminds me of all the chances I too had as a child and also the missed spots too.  Good enough parenting is what I am for.  No amount of perfect parenting by me will change the absences of my childhood.  No need to carry that weight into the love I feel for my son.

Our small family of two has fun plans for the rest of the week, so life is good.  And this day flowed in an ordinary energy that I so welcome, leaving behind any traces of forced drama that had been visited upon our home.  Serenity is back.  Welcome home you.

And raising my son Darien means I need to listen for a three year plan.  These next two months are my fallow time.  Do I bring another child home?  Keep the same career?  Stay in San Francisco?  These are the core questions.  And once answers arrive then the follow-up details will need planning.  In one room in my house I have large white pieces of paper pinned to the wall where I can brainstorm at random.  If I stay quiet enough the writing will appear on the wall.

   

Darien at home with his pets Thelma and Louie.

Somehow I thought my single parent status would change this first year and still no.  Acceptance is the next step in the relationship area then.  Surprise, surprise to me I will raise Darien his first years by myself.  I kept guessing this would be different yet here I am and now I cannot begin a relationship for the iffy factor with someone totally new;  I won’t bring that sort of risk into our little family.  So the 2012 focus is on friends alone and the partner relationship will happen in the future–perhaps, maybe, or not.

How conscious life choices can become.  That’s different for a wayward imbiber like me.  Just the trust factor in consistent behavior is still so new.  But I can trust myself now and so I can plan a future too based on that confidence.  I sleep well at night and anticipate a joyful morning when I wake up every day.  Sure enough there he is all smiles and curious as to when we can start playing; most often by 6 a.m. we are sitting in the middle of all the toys on the living room floor.  This is a good life I am living now and the future changes will deepen that commitment to a life where my needs are met; what a goal to strive for given I have never lived in that state so I barely know what I am looking for.  I have to learn everything, a state of beginner’s mind that I so relish.  Stay tuned.

The other day in a sobriety meeting a single father confessed that he needed morphine to see colors and participate in the world.  He needed the hit to spend creative floor time with his four year old daughter.  I sat a few inches from his elbow which I almost lifted to punch himself out.  Yes, I have issues with high parenting.  His share probably distilled one of the more self-absorbed confessions I have heard.  How terminally unique that an addict believes his drug needs are so radically special they rise above a child’s.

How lucky my loaded days appear over as I continue to work earnestly for a life in recovery.  My son turned one year old on 21 October 2011.  I can see how much he loves and needs me.  We spend quality time because that is the tenor of my love for him.  This last year I worked far too much, which I do sometimes to stave off strong emotion.  Yet living in sobriety I can experience elevated emotion without fear or impulse.  That is new for this solo life.  The days no longer feel like they belong to me; flowing into the needs of the day means that I can act on altruism rather than self-absorption.

The shift helps me understand who I can and cannot have in my life.  A roommate just moved out yesterday who made my life very difficult and jeopardized my son’s safety.  How fascinating to watch someone suffer only to inflict this lack of healing on a mother and child.  Why?  Owning life’s pain is our ultimate path.  Not doing so keeps us childish willing to hurt at random to somehow feel better through cruelty.  My son had more maturity during these past months than this nearly thirty year old.  As luck would have it, I am no longer in that camp of hurting folks remaining immature in the pain.  Or creating drama to have an activity besides working on self, which is the only relevant job any of us will aspire to.  Sounds preachy for sure yet somebody’s welfare is at stake, so I will risk a short naggy run of prose.  Stay with me and forgive me.  More lively language next posting.  Be well.

My vulnerable factor simply flew way off the chart.  Loving another human for everything you are worth sure creates a sense of raw open risk.  Parenting is not so much for the feint of heart.  Luckily, I have a heart that deepens every day and so I welcome how intensely my son needs me 24/7.  The C word is now a living breathing part of this new life; I have made a Commitment to Darien.

And as this change simply occurs every day, I can slowly return more to my previous adult life.  The rush of focusing entirely on him has tempered.  A friend watches him on Wednesdays, and I even took a few hours to enjoy some “me time” the other day.  Usually I teach a shorter seminar at three hours or so then whip the Volvo around fast to snag him.  Last week I didn’t have a class in the afternoon and enjoyed a peppermint tea while browsing the Sunday New York Times.  Huh?  Seemed unlikely I would have that reading moment again.

Why? Because in the flow of working full-time and parenting full-time, I also lost a parent.  My father went wherever we go after that last breathe, the one he took on 11 July 2011.

Last week I drove to Monterey on Thursday and as we pulled up to the house a tall bulky deer stood ten feet or so from the car door.  He just stood there at 1:30 a.m. in the fog staring at me.  Even after I opened the car door and started moving around with Darien, he just stood there.  In my sense of the world, I would say that was my Dad.  He sauntered away once  he was content that Darien and I were snug with our belongings as we went inside the house to spend some time with my Mom.

So, this has been a year to begin and end lives while one continues to move steadily forward.  My father met Darien and thought he was a hoot–handsome and energetic.  Even at Stanford hospital when the medical peeps advised against it, I brought Darien in for my father to see him.  Every day is just so ephemeral.  While enjoying a burrito today with a good friend, I simply said that I find comfort in the simple pleasures of every day.  If a bus takes me out tomorrow, I will mumble that I was having a pretty good day so far as they haul me away.  Sounds bizarre yet what else?

I suppose that is the paradox behind commitment; we give the project everything we have as if this were the last chance.  And it is.  Tomorrow does not really exist.  And sometimes not taking any concrete action is just the support that Darien needs.  We often have chunks of the day just to play silly games at home.  In these non-orchestrated moments is where I can tell that we are building something.  Giving someone else your time is the biggest commitment to make.  After all, the amount is limited and can disappear in a minute.

Darien's Crib