Once babies start moving... and biting and screeching, I think that's when they become toddlers. I've been kind of dormant on here because I'm chasing this fucking adorable rugrat around. As she is running around more she's tuckering out more and naps more... it means Mom gets to paint. Here's a little sneak peak of what I'm working on. Shhhh. They're not finished. I'm fortunate to be part of a group showing this July at The Morris Burner Hostel. Alongside many other talented artists I will be painting my version? rendition? feeling baby centering around the theme of Medusa. I had forgotten about the show completely until a month ago when Jackie Dilworth reminded me of it--thank goodness.
Thank goodness for this show. Just.... thank thank thank goodness. Because of this show I am painting through some emotional baggage I've left bottled up for way too long. Our stories, Medusa and mine, much like this painting, entwine. You see, Medusa wasn't born vile. She was normal. Just a mortal Gorgon chillin. She was capable of death, capable of pain, and susceptible to life. She was a beautiful maiden. Medusa used to be a babe. She was so beautiful that Poseidon desired her... desired her so much that he raped her in the temple of Athena. Athena, pissed that her temple had been desecrated, cursed Medusa into being a hideous, snake hair'd monster who turned men to stone with her gaze. Athena cursed her and the world hunted her down for it. I had no idea of Medusa's lineage, her narrative, or her rape. I, too, have been assaulted in the temple of a goddess. I, too, have been punished for this assault by banishment and emotional scarlet letterhood. I, too, have paid a great price and have been contorted by the weight of action and repercussion. I, too, have an assaulter who roams free as the sea. I, too, have worn this face, this hair, this weight. I, too, have looked into the mirror of myself and seen it's hideousness as well as it's mortality. So I'm painting it. Well, I'm attempting to... Medusa and I are one in this freeing moment of self-realization. Caravaggio's Medusa has always been my favorite--androgynous, reactionary, revolted, and emptying. Her mouth agape, jaw locked in sound and rage and darkness. Caravaggio captured the exact moment where Medusa catches her own reflection, catches her own gaze, catches her own death. Through the creation of this painting, I'm allowing this incident to die. Through the three eyes of us, we see and recognize, we give in and succumb, and we will be reborn. So.... folks, I haven't been doodling. I haven't been lollygagging, futzing, or forgetting. I've been digging and digging and digging. I've been dreaming and letting go and rebuilding. I've been making something beautiful out of the present from the past. I've been recreating myself every time I lift a paint brush. I'll post a finished image when I'm through. It's a metaphor I use often... Wait, is it metaphor?? I'm no longer sure it is metaphor. Is it even a figure of speech? I don't mean it rhetorically. The high road is a path that I choose daily when it comes to my perspective on coparenting and dealing with FOB. It's a tangible visualization, I can smell the soil and hear the scrape of the rock under my feet. It started in a field. I felt like I had been dropped there after some sort of out of body experience or alien abduction. Dawn breaking over hills and solitude, it is just me and my body ready to work and keep working--from child labor to emotional labor to manual labor. Yeah. It's not a figure of speech. Aw, man. It has to do with morality? Catholic school just absolutely formed and ruined me on that at the same time. Fine. Let's do that one, too. OK. I think I've got the gist of that one. I mean, granted, in my existence (as with most humans I think), I have created a gray ground of moral ambiguity so I could sway between, learn from, and exist in right and wrong without hating myself or over loving myself. Like, that line between the black and white part of a yin yang? It's gray.
I guess the point of this post is this. I joke? confess? profess? declare? state? exist? in a place with coparenting where I feel like I build the high road on a daily basis. One little goddess shoulder Mallory says, "fuck that cocksucker he dumped you make him pay {insert maniacal, hurt laughter here} and other Little goddess shoulder Mallory says, ''think of the kid, think of forever, think and build... even if it's hard." And that's who I've tried to listen to for the past year. It's fucking hard. It's me after a year of building. I have a sunburn and my hands are no longer pretty. Water is running low but it looks like it's going to rain soon. I have one giant rock in each hand. Fingers clenched around each piece of earth, withered, broken, bloody, and nails bent. Feet underneath each fist exhausted, confused, vulnerable, holding the world upright. Moving forward continuously with the occasional stumble, building the road as you go means it's always behind you. More earth to move, more to labor. This birds eye view of these hands backed by a mind of thought.... wondering what it will do today. Will it take each rock and smash whatever (or whomever) is in the way to smithereens? Will it continue to build? Will there be an alarm that goes off before the bloodshed at least? Oh, the bloodshed.... it's a metaphor. The first thing I do when I find myself obligated-ly (I made that word up) baby free... is take 4 ibuprofen. It's good for the swelling and back aches that come along with lugging around a 19.5lb, 30 inch long Nugget of Love around. The Doc prescribed 800mg motrin for postpartum recovery and in my adrenaline haze of ''holy shit baby here'' sleep deprivation rush, I never filled it.
It'd be nice to have, is all. One pill to rule them all. I recommend a light self-medication of the same--whether it be weed or anti-inflammatory meds, it helps in the release of bodily tension everywhere. Marijuana is especially helpful in the shifting of mental gears for some. For me? It just makes me anxietal as FUCK. The next thing I like to do is start laundry. In the name of multitask, wash them sheets, girl. Those baby-weaning night sweats are upon us and they ain't pretty. They're chilly and hot at the same time with cold, clammy toes and bad hair. Don't forget to collect baby socks from every corner of the house and be sure to look under couch and chair. Oh, and bib collection. The really gnarly ones that have blueberry and yogurt all mashed into the fabric. And things that may or may not have touched poop are also very important to wash. Poop likes to hide. Poop has poop spores that float and attach... be thorough. After the laundry is sorted and domination of the machines is expressed, order is claimed.... run the bath. Run it hot. Think of all those showers you've taken in the last week with your Nugget. She gets the warm water droplets dribbled on her, not you. She gets the toys and the giggles. You... you just kind of crouch into a ball in the cold, half wet back of the shower awkwardly hovering like a security guard making sure things are safe and stay safe and safe. Add bubbles to that bath. The ones you bought for you nephew but you secretly love. Yeah, those ones. Not those intense bath bomb things that have glitter and odor and feel like overkill. The only chemical reaction I want to have happen in the tub is cognitive calm brain trance release. And bubbles. Mr. Bubble baby bubbles, actually. Grab that book you've been ''reading'' for over a year. The one that has nothing to do with parenting, self help, communication, child psychology, language and linguistics, things you can't afford, or cartoons. You know the one. Grab this book and open the blinds to let that winter sunshine in. Once you're in, don't forget to look down and see beauty. Remember how amazing the female body is and how our vaginas and lady organs are like re-built engines. Remember to thank your colon for finding it's parking spot again. Remember to thank your body for creating life. Massage your scars in every direction. Still. Always. Put your ears under the water and remember when we had two heartbeats, two separate pulses and one set of lungs. After the bath, pluck those fucking chin hairs. No one is going to tell you about them, so do your face homework. Put on your big girl panties. Don't forget your lashes/lipstick/whateverthefuckmakesyoufeelputtogetherandsexy Change over the laundry. Make a list of all the adulting you have to do:
And attack the day. Last August I was fortunate enough to create a phenomenal memory. My girl was there and my wonderful Mother was there and all these other wonderful Mothers and their little Petunias and Ashlee... and Flowers. Ha. Creator, artist, Mother, photographer, space holder, Ashlee Dean Wells passed through Reno on her amazing photography tour collecting, promoting, and working with Mothers for her 4th Trimester Bodies Project. Dean describes the purpose of her project as follows: The project exists because humans, particularly women, are judged too crudely on the way we look and are often told we don’t measure up. Because no real person can compete with the tools in Photoshop and glossy magazine covers. And because parenthood is sacred and should be celebrated. So basically holy shit this is amazing, right? How could I pass up an opportunity to participate in something so needed, so revolutionary, so powerful?? So community? So body positive? So necessary?? Ashlee herself is a fierce artist and delicious soul. Well spoken and sincere, she welcomed all participants of the day to sit in an circle and open up. Mothers of all walks were there, Mothers of all struggles, denominations, stories, and paths and they all had this wild thing called 'childbirth' in common. For those who can afford, the photos and time and session did cost an absolutely reasonable amount money. I applied for and was awarded a scholarship to participate. This alone blew my mind. The fact that there were gifted/donated spots in her photography session set aside for struggling Mothers.... endeared me right away to this woman and her art. Participants were allowed to bring along a fellow helper to help wrangle child as necessary so naturally I brought my Mom. Considering that without her love and support there would be no We, I thought it was fitting. Plus, she's my main Mama, my buddy, my rock--she's in this story as it's happened AND being written. So of course. Duh. And share we did, each person and partner was welcomed to tell the tale of how their Motherhood came to be and it was enlightening and powerful. Birthing trauma, infant loss, marital struggles, family issues--we all had our share of weight. We all have our share of disappointments and triumphs when it comes to upgrading into Motherhood and to be able to sit in a safe, loving, and open space and share and support was priceless. We all were struggling to fit in this new role of Mother emotionally and physically. And that's why we were there. To document, to prove, to witness, to see. To be photographed, to be remembered, to embrace and support. To love ourselves, love our bodies, and love our kiddos. I'm very grateful for the opportunity to be able to participate. The photos came out phenomenal. Keep an eye out for Ashlee and check her tour dates to see if she's coming to a city near you. Congratulations to her and Flowers on their newest addition xo Click around on her website and donate. When you’re a working artist, maternity leave doesn’t exist. Help a Mama out. Below are links to Ashlee's magic--have a look yourself:
There’s a park by my house where it happened.
A year ago, more already. Time flies when you don’t? can’t? won’t? look up. Across one busy road where traffic halts for a stroller and down a small hill to the geese, pavement and rock encircle a lake. A lake with a park where I remember playing in first grade. A lake where I remember releasing my brother's pet turtles in the 90s when my mom got sick of their stench. When I was sixteen, I was grounded for the summer and the only place I could run to was literally running around this mile stretch of lake and land. I never ran so much in my life—and me and my giant boobies and shin splints are not runners! Once or twice, I saw my mom cruising, creepin hella slow around the lake in her red suburban, making sure I was where I said I would be. Moms, amirite? There’s this little hillscape on the southwestern ish corner of the water where geese go to snack, crows to murder, and folks to contemplate both. Between sage brush and tree are metal benches, for view, for thought, and for privacy. The elderly feed critters, take rest, and birds seem to go out of their way to shit on these benches. It was here last November where it happened. I had gotten here early to collect myself and reread the notes I’d tried to memorize earlier. The ones about crucial conversations and listening with love and quieting defenses. I’d been lent this book and it resonated so deeply with me that I thought it was the answer to all our problems.... which at that moment, was me. All me. I had gotten there early to smoke a cigarette. Okay, fine, two. In secrecy and shame. I made my way over to the green bench, the one facing north, the one half shaded and chilly. I waited and rehearsed, imagined, and planned. I waited openly, with eagerness, with child and with faith. It was cold and we were both wearing Carhartt's, but only I showed up to do work. He arrived with his decision on his face. This relationship was over and launched to its end like a torpedo and I didn’t even get to turn my key. It felt like the most major of decisions in the whole entire world had been made without me. I don’t think I cried until I got back to the car... I didn’t stop crying until the year ended. I had to avoid this bomb sight of a lake bench for some time after that. Take an alternative route, avert my eyes. I remember regretting having agreed to meet him there, this sacred, historical lake to me. After I stopped crying, and the pills began to kick in (and I would leave my house), I would let? make? myself walk the path around the water most every day. As I would approach the hillscape to the bench I would look and I would see and I would remember. Sometimes I would cry, sometimes I would be angry, sometimes I would turn the music up. I would just glare at that bench and wonder and replay. The bench became an icon I fixated upon... I dreaded its eye contact and yet it fueled me. It’s now November again and the city has been kind enough to pay special attention to that patch of land. The bushes have been trimmed out, leaves collected, weeds pulled, and wouldn’t you know... benches utterly rearranged? replaced? reset? I couldn’t tell you which one was which or where that one is. It’s just no longer there. There’s no green, metal reminder facing north, half shaded and chilly anymore. I walk there now with our daughter. Sometimes she sleeps, sometimes she coos at the birds, and often people stop us to tell me how beautiful she is. Especially the old people...always the old people. I’ve walked that circle more times than I can count to my life. I’ve walked that circle most of those times in the last year. I’ve walked to breathe and think, I’ve walked to isolate and stew, I’ve walked alone and with friends. I’ve walked to sweat and shrink. Nugget and I just finished a Saturday stroll come to mention it and I’ve lost all the baby weight and then some. I feel great. Renewed. I feel lighter and less heavy, like a great many weights have been lifted. Insert cliche “dropped dead weight of 180 lb boyfriend” line here. Come on, 2019. I am ready for ya. ![]() I just spent a few hours at the Nevada Museum of Art. I drive or pedal by their front of the building design sign and giggle read. I always want to post a picture of it to DDOI. I end up on the doorstep of the museum when I need somewhere to be and when I am uncomfortable inside my own skin. I look at the art and get so angry that it's so talented, so well put together, so beautiful that I end up leaving inspired to do. I read the blurbs and make notes of my own, take pictures of things that move me in an effort to remember the impact. I dance and wiggle in front of each installation and presentation. Today Ani DiFranco accompanied me because I need(ed) her and she's always there for me. I put her in my ears and let her words tell me it's okay to cry, to be angry, to dance, to feel, and to fight. Together we spent much time on the third and fourth floor. We spent a lot of time with the Annie Brigman exhibit and the put together exhibit Laid Bare in the Landscape by the Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation. The strength of art, the creative drive, the moodiness of landscape and humanity and the inter-respectful reflection of one onto the other, the dichotomy of being human and woman, the freedom of nature, the wildness of the land, the voice of the nude figure, the power of isolation, the need for portrait, the manipulation of materials, the understatement of femininity--all these things and so so so much more were on display. It made me cry. Yes, Mallory goes to museums and cries. Often. I've cried three times in the last 24 hours. -in the jeep outside the courthouse -at the computer being gifted -face to face with creative expression bearing witness My crying comes from being a glass that's too full. Like, it's not a conscious choice, it just happens in reaction to too much liquid in my skin. Like, I've been holding too many saturating emotions and thoughts inside my flesh and form that my body glass starts to drown, and it all has to come spilling outside my body... and sweating... sweating just isn't enough. All the feelings I've swallowed and the spit I've withstood are all compounding into the biggest glass of ''hafta cry soon'' and I kind of just hope I'm sober and aware enough to catch all the feelings as they come pouring out in violent, wet purge. It's like barfing a river or water rainbow and I only become slightly familiar with it as it all flees and exits my body. And after it's over. After I'm emptied and the wet turns to mist turns to air and dry and I'm left only pruned and dried on the inside. There's room for something now. There's space for the rest of me to breathe and for a moment I feel relief. Like, my spine can expand and the weight of everything eases up slightly so I can throw my shoulders back, I can touch my toes, I can reach into the air and exhale. There's room for something now. In my time in personal therapy, in my time in the classroom with kids, in my time as a grief counselor, and in my time as an aunt, friend, and stranger, I've learned how to ''hold space'' for people. ![]() I've "held space " for children and family, for strangers and people... people I don't respect or like. No one teaches you how to ''hold space'' for yourself. How to bring your entire presence to yourself. How to walk along with yourself without judgment, while sharing my journey to an unknown destination. I've never been completely willing to end up wherever I needed to go. And here I have this LO. This tiny bodied, massive energy of light that I ushered unto this plane through the portal of my body and... she needs a strong me. She needs a Mom with two working wings, with security... and she needs tangible. She needs and deserves. All this crying and all this not painting. I feel like I've shrunk and I'm just a speck of what I used to be. I have no idea how I'm supposed to do this. How am I supposed to do this? I feel like everyone else is living life like it has written directions on paper and to me that feels like... some sort of game I wasn't constructed to be able to play. I can't see the pickup stix under all the stix. This game of Twister is in color and I'm color blind. I'd rather use the plastic as a cape anyway. Red light, green light and I have my earbuds in. Red Rover and no one wants to hold my hand. I’ve been having a hard time on the inside lately. All the different split up parts of me can’t agree. Or maybe it has nothing to do with agreement, but if feels like everybody’s trying to talk at once and I don’t know which voice to listen to. My life feels like one big sequence of conflicts. Here's a conflict: I’m sick and tired of seeing FOB. I see him four or five times a week, text him every day, first thing in the morning and last thing at night. He feels like the only person I can really share all of Nugget with. You know, cuz he's the other half of her. He is also the last person I want to share anything with. It’s been about a year since he and I were dating and in (what I thought was?) love. Facebook likes to remind me of memories I’d rather forget but can’t avoid. It’s a really weird feeling being so utterly heartbroken over the memory of an expectation. He never was what I imagined him to be, and we never were exactly what I thought we were. I need space and time but have to be around him. Here's a conflict: His family is in town. All of them. His sisters, niece, nephew, Mother. I’ve been a really really good sport about exposing Nugget to this family. Encouraging it actually. They're very nice people, don't get me wrong. It's just that... I had to sit in his apartment yesterday for the first time since he dumped me. {{{And yes, remember, he dumped me.}}} And I haven’t sat in the apartment since the last time I was there when all I could do was sob and wail and question. When I was shattered and forced out. Not that long ago... when I was so pregnant and alone. I can't be in those rooms anymore. I don't know how not to be for Nugget's sake. So to be sitting there with my four-month-old baby with the enemy and all of his support system... it hurt. I felt like I was being tested--not just emotionally, but literally being tested. Every diaper I changed, his sister and Mother watched like a hawk. Or at least I felt like they did... My fingers fumbled. I felt like I was cracking under weight of judgement and eyes. These are just the feelings I have with others. They don’t even begin to touch the feelings I have myself about myself.... about who I am now or who I am as a Mother... or who I was but I am now. There are so many voices shooting off inside me from different parts of me that I’d love to get control of. Maiden to Mother to Crone. Alone. Here's a conflict: maybe I need to pump up the Prozac dosage? Maybe I need more pill to feel more me? Maybe that would just be bottling everything up further? Can breastfeeding take more pill? Can Dotty? Will I ever create again on these drugs? Here's a conflict: My Mother hates him. Can't stand him. Can't take what he's done to her daughter and granddaughter, so we live in moments of utter secrecy and silence in regard to him. The air fills with tension. I censor what I say or what has happened. I am careful to emote. I think of her feelings before my own. I tip toe where I sleep. Here's a conflict: still haven't spoken to my sister. Still abiding by her desire and proclamation to leave her and her family "the fuck alone." Still don't feel guilty about it. Still totally happy with the decision--and when I talk about it with other people, they try to convince me otherwise. Maybe that's the problem? Thinking of Nugget's feelings before my own.... Nugget's and my Mom's and FOB's and whoever else I'm in the room with. All go before mine. As a courtesy, as a recovering Catholic, as a human. I've always jumbled up my feelings, my future, my worth, my goals, my heart, my brain... with whomever I'm entangled with--lover or friend. And here I've gone and made another human I'm so connected with for eternity... without backing up the structure of myself completely and I feel lost as her leader and protector. Here's a conflict: Feeling lost while not going anywhere. Wow.
Making time for me is hard. Making time for you is hard. Making time for anything other than boob and baby is hard. I mean, as I sit here and type this... my magnificent nails are clickety clicking off the keys because they've had all this time to grow and not be nubbed down by blogging and keyboard. You have to rearrange your survival program every week. It's like you have to bake an entirely new pie and divvy up all the slices completely differently every time you need to do something. Last week's pie was consumed by Nugget's vaccines and a make-up shower party sip and see thing--both of which took incredible mental and physical preparation. Every morning of the week I was up by five preparing one thing or another--one pie for organizing, one pie for cleaning, one pie for moving furniture, one pie for time with her Dad, one pie for shopping for supplies, one pie for research... A lot of pies. It's really easy to neglect the pie for me. The one that brushes her teeth... once a day if she's blessed, every other day if she's lucky... and definitely when the teeth sweaters start to rub together. That sweet self-care pie that showers, shaves, makeups, eats, socializes, creates, and sleeps. It's a mythical pie. Doesn't exist. Yet. Still working on the recipe. I think it involves asking for help and sharing--both of which I'm terrible at when it comes to most things, especially Nugget. She has recently allowed me to sleep in longer increments because we've begun co-sleeping. I haven't given up on the crib by any means. I don't want her sleeping in my bed when she's older than a couple months (fingers crossed), but it sure beats sleeping sitting up... or in a chair. Sidenote: I'm done shaming myself for co-sleeping. People act like parents who co-sleep want to murder their babies in the bed, like we don't understand the risks, like we're doing everything all wrong. To that, I kindly say--fuck off. Thanks but no thanks. Not sorry, not sorry. Worry about something else for the sake of humankind and leave us to rest, thankyouverymuch. We sleep from about 10pm to 6am, waking up twice to feed and handle her night shits. I've begun dreaming again... which is nice and also awful. I guess it's good because it means I'm getting deeper sleep, but it also means my subconscious has presented its own pie. I dream that he and I are still together, but usually down the dreamland narrative twist he abandons me, betrays me, ignores me--basically breaks my heart again. It repeats literally like a broken record and feels eerily similar to real life except for the sensation of knowing/expecting the outcome of sadness. If that makes sense? My dream self knew this pie was coming... and seems to want to say 'I told you so.' Almost every night and nap he makes an appearance, casually showing up and curving the content of whatever might be happening to dramatic feelings not to be ignored. This pie tastes like shit and leaves my eyes wet and mouth dry when I wake up. I don't know how to stop it. I guess it will stop itself in time. I live and breathe for this baby. I sacrifice my comfort for her happiness. I do it all day, all night, all the time. Dream time and sleeping is the very last thing of my own and I.... I just.... wish it could really be all mine. I wish it would protect me. I wish my subconscious would cast him the fuck out and be somewhere I can dream about flying and sex again. Sans him. For good. |
AuthorMallory Kate is a blogger, artist, single mom and funny girl outta Nevada. |
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