How I am Blessed

There is a tiny head resting in the center of my chest, breathing sweet milky mists in gurgles and sighs. And every day is brimming with joy. So much that the laughter, if strung together, would stretch for days and weeks. Maybe months, until it became foggy and faint, and we wouldn't know what it was for anymore, nor care. Deep, tickly breaths on the back of my neck at night; the kind that feel like they could have and should have been there every night since forever. And a sense that every day, simply waking up amounts to one step a little bit further into Happily Ever After.

Motherhood and the Decimation of an Angst-hole

My son, Charles Anthony Pumilia, was born on Tuesday, January fourth at 5:52 PM. Just as I suspected he would, he arrived in an undramatic fashion after just seven hours of active labor. He was perfect.

I thought that, upon getting the little guy settled in at home, I would immediately rush to my sketch book, notebooks, and even to this blog to commemorate and fawn over him in a "creative" fashion. As it turns out, I have yet to touch a sketching pencil, and aside from facebook updates, this is the first I have written about him.

This is partially due to the fact that the old "Caring for an infant is a full time job," axiom is completely true. I spend at least eight hours a day just nursing. Add to that diaper changes, baths, cuddles, and wardrobe changes, and my time is pretty well spoken for.

Still, I have quiet moments like this one where I could sit down and paint a picture or write a poem. I often choose instead to just watch the baby. I find him to be completely enthralling.

Having created something so completely unlike anything I ever created before has kept me in the moment. Art and writing require a sort of mental check out; a break from reality during which one must retreat into her own head and fish out the bits that need removal, massaging, or grooming before smearing them across a page with an eye towards either entertainment or self-therapy. Now, watching my child's facial expressions while he sleeps is endlessly entertaining and snuggles from him provide unmatched therapy.

I have always known that my creative impulses, and thus the work I have done in various artistic fields, stem largely from holes or gaps I felt in myself. I will almost certainly never again produce as much poetry as I did during a stretch of time in 2003 and 2004. In six or seven months I filled five, five subject spiral notebooks to the brim with verse, much of which has been deemed "good" by various readers, and a small percentage of which has been published.

The cause for such a rush of creation during that time period was a desperate search for a teenage identity coupled with a fair amount of angst and some mind-enhancing activities. My periodic unhappiness and instability needed an outlet, and thus I bled onto a page, rather than down a sink drain as some other "arty types" choose to do.

In the spring of 2005, while I was in my second term at Tulane and certainly at my most nihilistic, I wrote over 200 pages of a single spaced, 10 pt. novel in less than two months. It was almost definitely my most emotionally tumultuous phase, and it resulted in a manic flurry of word vomit in the form of a dark and melancholy monologue that will never be finished for various reasons.

The point I am trying to make is that I have always used creation as an emotional outlet, which is not unusual. Perhaps unfortunately, that means that as I have gotten older, happier, and more stable, my desire and need to create has diminished. By the time I got pregnant, I had only a very tiny angst-hole in my soul left to fill.

Now, I am filling that hole in the simplest of ways. Rather than absorbing my energy into myself, I am bouncing it off my little one to be consumed by the ethos. I am filling my hole by staring into the tiniest, steel-blue eyes and singing "You Are My Sunshine" on repeat. By kissing little foot arches and tickling minute ribs. By waking up in the middle of the night to petite whimpers that sound remarkably like Nicki Minaj's entire catalog of work. And I can't feel any holes anymore.

I have been told by numerous individuals who make their living in various artistic fields that the arts need not be an escape from pain and unrest. That Elliot Smith and Vincent Van Gogh are the exception and not the norm. These people claim to project positive feelings into their art. They hope that their work can inspire and entertain on its own. It need not be laden with hard-wrestled traces of their demons in order to have worth.

I never really believed any of that. I thought it was a grown-up line used to mask the unchecked adolescent torment that all artists must still possess. However, I might be changing my mind. I have a tiny, tiny, perfect face peering at me out of a fish-themed bouncy chair right now, and its vaguely simian expression is making my heart swell a bit. Maybe, if I can find a way to massage this love onto canvas and paper in the place of the formerly smeared pain, I can create something beautiful.

If not, it isn't really a big deal. My most beautiful creation is right in front of me, and I am pretty sure he is hungry again.

Lessons Learned from "Edward Scissorhands"

1. All of Suburbia is a hell populated by manipulative, base, and cowardly people who lack any creativity at all.

2. Suburban women, in particular, are only motivated by spite, sex, or a strange belief in the constant presence of Satan.

3. Social norms and etiquette are significantly less important than poetry (even limericks)and love.

4. There are people in this world who are attractive enough to make gineys tingle even when covered in a pancake-like pallor and rocking a Robert Smith hairdo, sunken eyes, and awkward suspenders.

5. Gaining a hundred pounds or so of muscle will greatly change your typecast, even if you were in "Breakfast Club".

6. "Ambrosia Salad" is a euphemism for sex.

7. Trimming bushes into unique shapes is a highly valued skill in this world, as is creating asymmetrical hair styles.

8. It doesn't matter if the object of a girl's affection is truly human as long as she is embracing an opportunity to relieve her teenage angst.

9. Suburban teenagers seek revenge most often through intricate schemes involving fake burglary and outright betrayal.

10. Snow is always the result of the creation of very large ice sculptures atop a high hill.

10 Things I LOVE about Pregnancy

At 35 weeks pregnant, I have to admit that I am starting to get anxious for the end of this experience. It has gotten to the point where I am uncomfortable sitting in one position for too long, my feet tingle when I stand for any length of time, and I take more bathroom breaks than a drunk old man. Still, I have, for the most part, really enjoyed this pregnancy.

You hear a lot about the pitfalls of gestation: morning sickness, heart burn, difficulty sleeping, etc. Not only have I had very few negative physical effects in the past eight months, but I have a much longer list of things that I have genuinely loved about being pregnant. Here are a few:

1. The fingernails
I was never one to spend a lot of time or energy thinking about the everyday health or appearance of my fingernails until I became pregnant, and they started growing like weeds. I swear pregnant fingernails, especially during the first two trimesters, are made from some brilliant, alien substance. They are long, strong, and beautiful. They are extremely difficult to break, but if one does snap off, it will grow back the next day, looking as lovely as ever.

This may seem like a small thing, but it is quite comforting. While the rest of your body is changing and, to some extent, betraying you, it is nice to have ten little allies at the ends of your fingers. The quickness with which they grow also provides an excuse for frequent maintenance and regular manicures; a wonderful way to take some time to yourself and feel pampered and pretty during pregnancy.

2. Reading aloud
When my developing baby's ears supposedly became able to recognize and distinguish voices at 23 weeks gestation, I began reading the Harry Potter series aloud to my belly. At first, I felt a little bit crazy reading to a seemingly empty room, but as I got into the habit, I discovered that it was something I genuinely enjoyed. We are now almost half way through the last book of the series, The Deathly Hallows, which means that I have read some 3,500 pages to my baby before I have even met him. I have found that this ritual makes me feel bonded and motherly towards my baby, and often he moves around and makes me aware of his presence while I read. Which brings me to...

3. Having a constant companion in my belly
Ever since I felt the first fluttering or "quickening" sensations in my belly a few months ago, my unborn baby's movements and kicks have become increasingly more frequent and strong. This might be my favorite part about the whole experience. While it is a sort of strange and foreign feeling at first, it is something that I became very quickly attached to. Before long after feeling the first movements, I was able to distinguish different body parts as they poked out of my belly. Now, when the baby kicks, I can poke him back and feel him respond in kind. It is like having a playmate always with me, and it is wonderful.

4. Sleeping in
No matter how much you sleep when you are pregnant, no one will ever call you lazy or judge you. This is a wonderful thing.

5. People telling me I look phenomenal
People don't generally expect pregnant women to be a fit size two, or to wear full make up all the time, or to rock high heels. Therefore, when a preggo ventures into public looking fairly decent, people are quite impressed.

I have to admit that at this point, I am starting to feel sort of gross. I am ready to go back to my old body and feel genuinely attractive again. However, up until a couple weeks ago, I was still feeling really content with my pregnant body. People constantly told me how beautiful I looked, even when I was kind of icky or had dirty hair. I think this is partially a consequence of lowered expectations for the pregnant set, and partially a result of what I have termed "pregnancy goggles", which focus observers' energy on a big, round belly and full, ample, baby feeding boobies while distracting from things like eye bags, thunder thighs, and *shudder* armpit fat.

6. Nice women
It isn't a secret that it is often difficult for women to immediately feel warm towards other women upon meeting them. Pregnancy changes this. Women see a pregnant lady and think a) This girl is probably not going to sleep with my bf/husband b)I can identify with that, and c) Awwww babies!

The combination of a,b,and c above creates the kind of friendly, warm, immediately accepting women that I have never known before. And they are everywhere! The drugstore check out lady, the other women in waiting rooms in doctors' offices, chicks on the street; they all want to know when I am due, what sex the baby is, and if they can touch my belly. Many don't even ask about the touching thing; they just go for it, because what is more unifying and communal than a new life?

7. The doctor
I have heard some pregnant women complain about the seemingly constant doctor's visits associated with growing a tiny person, but I have really enjoyed mine. For one thing, until I became pregnant, I had not seen a doctor for an overall check-up since before leaving for college in 2004. So, just hearing that I am in good health was a relief. Then, getting ultrasounds, hearing my baby's heartbeat every couple weeks, and learning about his development became things that I really looked forward to. These days, I have weekly doctor's visits and fetal monitoring, all of which increase the excitement of knowing that he is almost here!

8.The presents
Our baby shower was overwhelming, with more gifts than I have ever received at one time in my life. I was so thankful that so many people cared about me and Tony and our baby and wanted to be a part of the process. Then, packages began arriving in the mail with such frequency that it was strange to have a day when a delivery man did not ring the door bell. Unwrapping adorable baby clothes and toys never gets old, and it makes me feel truly loved by my friends and family.

9.Being sober all the time
I came to college in New Orleans partially because I was ready to party. It is no secret that I loved going out and having some drinks. I worked in a bar for quite a while and genuinely loved the Nola bar life style. Still, I was honestly beginning to tire of the whole thing when I got pregnant. The past several months have been a time for me to grow up, mature, and put that period of my life behind me, and being sober for a while is the best way to do that. There are obvious health benefits for myself and my baby associated with not drinking, but I find other benefits as well. I think more rationally when I have not had a drink for a while than when I am going out many times a week. I am also much more emotionally stable now than I was when I was partying all the time, and I am pregnant, so that is saying a lot!

10. Thinking of myself more and more as a mom
I have always know that I wanted to be a mother, but nobody can tell anyone else how it really feels. As my pregnancy has progressed, I have begun to feel closer and closer to my baby. I have definitely become very attached to him while carrying him, and I feel almost like an actual "mom" at this point. I can envision myself years down the road, with young children, acting like a real mother and loving my family unconditionally, and I like what I see.

Sexy Fake Lady Cops Make Me Sad This Year(Halloween Edition)

Several months ago, I wrote a blog entry about pregnant body image, in which I discussed my fondness for my new, curvier figure. I figure now, with hot, young women running around everywhere in barely-there Halloween costumes, is as good a time as any to talk about the flip side of that issue.

I am finding myself to be much more jealous of all the girls in skanky Halloween garb this year than I would have ever expected. However, it is not a simple form of jealousy. It is not that I want to be out in the clubs with my midriff bared, ass cheeks making frequent appearances, drinking with strangers. That is something I haven't really embraced with gusto since 2006 or '07(see picture). I also don't think it has to do with the fact that my husband is spending his nights this Halloween weekend working at the Boot, which is arguably ground zero for way hot, mostly naked college chicks, although I don't think that is helping.

I think my feelings this weekend are stemming more from the fact that my body has completely robbed me of my ability to look sexy. I know that it is doing something amazing, and most of the time I love my big, round belly. I tolerate my gigantic thighs and giggling butt without more than a passing thought, most days. I have certainly not been consumed with worrying about regaining my figure or anything depressing like that. Overall, I think most people would say my disposition about all of pregnancy's physical effects has been overwhelmingly sunny.

But now there are these goddam women everywhere wearing practically nothing. And the fact is that my body in thigh highs and the miniest of "themed" mini dresses would, at the moment, inspire more laughs than swoons.

For me, sexuality and sexiness were things that came into play in various human interactions on a daily basis from the time I reached puberty. I suspect that this is true for most women my age. It is not something we consciously think about, but female sexuality is an extremly powerful thing. Just ask any man, anywhere, ever. So, the inabilty to be, or at least feel, "sexy" is an unfamiliar and frustrating experience, especially at 24 years old.

So, I suppose when it comes down to it, I am not truly "jealous" of all the scantily-clad women who are out celebrating tonight. They are probably going to be cold later on, and they will definitely have hangovers tomorrow. I am, however, envious of the way they clearly feel, like they can conquer any bar line, and therefore the world, with the sheer power of their young, trim bodies. I miss feeling that way, if I am being honest.

I would imagine that every woman who has ever been pregnant has felt this way from time to time. The fact is that a body that is almost done growing a baby sometimes feels like it is more for the baby than for its true owner. And that is ok. I love my son more than I can say. I like pushing back when he kicks my belly and feeling him respond. I like thinking about holding him in two months, hearing him say "mama" a few months later, and watching him take his first steps before we know it. All of these things are worth a few days of glaring at every "sexy traffic director" I see.

But don't expect me to stop glaring. It may be childish; it may be hypocritical, seeing as there isn't much I enjoy more than R-rated dress up. But it is what it is. And I am too tired from growing a CHILD here, people, to control every emotional impulse I have. My slutty Halloween days are almost certainly over, but that doesn't mean I won't be feeling that "conquer the world" sexiness soon. Because I am going to be sexy again before you know it.... Right?

Dreaming of a Fat Christmas

I heard "White Christmas" playing over the sound system in a store today, and it made me unbearably excited. Don't get me wrong; I know it's obscenely early for Christmas music. This year, though, I have legitimate reasons to get giddy at the thought of the approaching holidays.

I am the kind of person who always becomes excited when the Christmas trees appear like magic in the malls. The incessant cycles of the same old Christmas carols in public places don't bother me. I sing the girl parts of "Baby It's Cold Outside" literally every time I hear it, regardless of where I may be located at the time. Something about "Christmas Joy" is just very real to me; always has been. I guess it has to do with the bubbling anticipation of Christmas morning that is built into American children from birth.

This year, I have already begun dealing with a constant bubbling anticipation, but it cannot be blamed on Christmas's approach. My son's due date just happens to be December 29th, adding a whole lot of excitement and intrigue to the holiday season. It's like waiting for a hundred Christmas mornings, and it is constant.

In a lot of ways, waiting for a baby is like waiting for Santa. Whereas children never know what Santa Clause may bring in his sack, I don't know what our baby will bring in his appearance, his personality, or his temperament. I can make educated guesses based on my own and my fiance's traits, much like a child can safely assume that Santa received her list of wishes and acted obligingly. Still, kids never really know until they unwrap their gifts under the tree, and I will not know until I complete what I presume will be a short and relatively painless labor and birth.

So forgive me if, this year, I nearly pee with excitement the first time I hear "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas", or see a house decorated for the holidays, or smell baking gingerbread and hot chocolate. The normal indicators of Christmas's approach all seem like big signs saying "YOUR BABY IS ALMOST HERE!!" to my crazy, pregnant brain.

I'm just glad I am not in Maryland, where I grew up, and where the first snow flurries of the year always put me into an orgiastic, Christmastastic frenzy. This year I would likely run out into the snow, barefoot, belly out, and chase the snowflakes, wild eyed, while screaming "It's beginning to look a lot like BABIES!" into the night. And no one wants to witness that, not even Saint Nick.

Blaming the Economy for the Failure of Marriage, and Why I Do So

I have been thinking today about the institution of Marriage and its state of crisis in America. I have also been thinking about "I Love Lucy" and Robert B. Reich's new book, Aftershock: The Next Economy and America's Future. This convergence of cognition has led me to believe that there may be some blame to place on the economy when trying to determine what happened to the sacred institution of marriage in this great nation.

First, let me say that I think an argument based purely on a supposed "decline of values" for why so many marriages fail is cheap, easy, and aimed by older people at the youth. It is, in a word, bullshit. Family structures have changed so much since our grandparents were married that to even make a comparison between their marriages and ours is frankly ridiculous. This is where "I Love Lucy" comes in.

There is an episode of "Lucy" where Ricky and Fred accuse Lucy and Ethel of essentially sitting around all day and spending all of the boys' hard earned money. The women, of course, respond that making a living isn't much compared to trying to run a household. The four agree to trade places, with the women getting jobs at a candy factory and the men staying home and doing household chores and cooking. Predictably, the women cannot cut it in the workplace and the men are possibly even more hopeless in the home. Hilarity ensues.

"I Love Lucy" was, of course, a comedy, but it was based very strongly in truth. In the fifties, men were not taught to cook or clean or take care of themselves. Women seldom ventured into the workplace, at least not with the goal of developing a career. At this point in American history, the institution of marriage was vitally important to the survival of adults. Men made money to support women, and women made sure that men ate and had clean clothing to wear to work.

A lot of people would argue that this gender inequality made life unhappy and unfair for women, which is probably true. Women were incapable of fending for themselves should their marriage go wrong, and many became trapped in bad, abusive, or unhappy situations. However, I would argue that the 1950's marriage arrangement bred a kind of love between married men and women that we do not see as much these days. The recognition that one cannot survive without another person fosters unconditional love; that is why children inherently love their parents. In Lucy and Ricky's marriage, Lucy played mother to Ricky and Ricky brought home the bacon and issued scoldings like a father does. And they loved each other unquestioningly for it.

Rob B. Reich's short book, Aftershock: The Future Economy and America's Future is a brief, poignant discussion of the current economic situation in the West, and what America can do to improve while moving forward. His main point, briefly, is that the American middle and working classes are being squeezed too hard economically and are unable to buy things and stimulate the economy. He argues that for decades, the median wage for working men has not risen in order to keep up with inflation. As a result, more and more women have been forced into the workplace in order to support families. In addition, both men and women have begun having to work overtime in order to get by. As a result, families suffer.

I'm not arguing that women should not have careers. Women who want careers should go out and grab them with both hands. I am arguing that women who are forced into the workplace in order to support their families with limited skills tend to be unhappy women. I would also argue that men are happier coming home to warm dinners than coming home to wives drained and bitchy from their terrible jobs. (Not to mention the fact that it is probably nice for children to see their parents from time to time.)

Reich says that in order to heal the American economy, we need to make sure the middle class is provided with opportunities to earn and keep the money they need to purchase things and invest in the economy. I say we need to do the same things in order to heal the American institution of Marriage. We need to have a system that allows for Lucys and Rickys, especially when young children are involved. If not, we need to stop putting so much pressure on the idea of marriage to begin with. It is quite possible that it is outdated, not because of my generation's (and my parents generation's) abominable value systems, but because traditional gender roles that made marriage necessary and reciprocal aren't allowed to exist anymore.

But that's a conversation for another time.