From Hair to There

January 2013

For as long as I can remember

my hair has always been 

a prized possession

and an indicator 

of my emotional state.

When I was little 

it hung down to my waist

and my Grandma Maggie would

sit me down every afternoon 

to comb and curl 

and fasten with giant elastic ponytail holders.

The unwieldy holders 

with the big colorful balls

that would regularly snap from around my hair,

hit her knuckles 

and squeeze an "Ay!!!!"

from under her breath.

I'd sit with my drying curls in my hands

and watch "Facts of Life"

before going to play GI Joe

with my cousin Kevin.

My mom kept my hair long

and treated it with 

the most expensive shampoos and conditioners.

A luxury I didn't truly appreciate

until decades later 

when I lived on my own

and could only afford Suave.

The first time my dad took me to get a haircut

I told the girl I wanted it to my shoulders.

My dad begrudgingly gave in

wholly regretting it later 

when my mom met us at the door

with tears and shrieks
and

"Oh my god you're HAIR!!!!!"

I was 11
and it was my first rebellion.

At 14 I dyed it burgundy
with an ancient box of Clairol

and she grounded me for a month,

and when I was a senior in high school

and the cheer coach quit
at the beginning of the year,

I felt angry and abandoned

and like I needed a new identity.

So I cut off a foot and a half of hair

and said goodbye to my cheer ponytail

forever.

The summer before college,

in love with Paul but feeling

like my skin didn't fit,

I left the Newport beach house

my friend's parents rented every summer,

walked to a local salon

and paid $100 to cut it all off.

My poor boyfriend
wondered what had happened to me.

As the years have worn on

it's been every length

and every color.

Long and short and in between.

Dec. 2009 - My favorite 3 year old girl is also in this picture

Jet black and sassy.

February 2006 - mine and my BFF's best hair day ever

A reddish Louis Brooks interpretation.

 

Summer 2011 - Ugh with the cigs

I am secretly addicted

to cutting my own bangs in the mirror

at midnight 

with fabric scissors

and having to get them fixed 

by a professional

when the sun rises

the next day.

With both babies

the mixture of hormones and prenatals

made for long luxurious locks,

but without fail I would come 

to take shears out on myself

when months later
I couldn't make sense of anything

let alone what to do with long hair.

The last time I dramatically cut my hair

James was 10 months old

and my relationship with his father

was a mess of knots.

I wanted to cut away the past,

the energy,

the memories of some pretty tough years.

For months I had pleaded with my girlfriend Renee to chop it,

but believing it only to be a case of the baby insanity,

she refused.

Finally after months of my relentless insistence,

she caved and cut my bra band length hair into a pixie.

March 2009 - That baby face is killig me

It's been growing for almost 4 years

and I can't remember the last time I dyed it.

I'm sprouting grays

and sometimes I fantasize

about doing something crazy

with the cut and color,

but truly the desire is not there.

Sometimes I think it's because now I'm boring

(which I kind of am)

but also I think it may be because I'm content.

Two Roads to the Same Spot

I met Paul at our Senior Luau

in September of 1999.

I was 16 years old  and had a crush on another guy

but I still remember meeting him that night

and thinking that given his 6'5" stature

and my love of high heels
he'd be the perfect prom date.

By February of 2000 we were a couple.

High school sweethearts in a big way;

first loves and everythings.

Sitting next to one another

on the bench seats of his '83 Caprice Classic.

And we went to Prom

and he left for college

and it was la la la la love.

Prom 2000

But like most good, sweet,
and innocent things

it came to an end.

Because I needed fixing

and he tried but he couldn't.

Because I needed loving

and he tried but it wasn't enough.

Because I was a bottomless pit

convinced an 18 year old boy

could solve all my emptiness

and he tried but he finally gave up

when he knew I'd drown us both.

And it was sad and I was devastated.

And we tried to keep dancing

and stay friends

but it was too painful.

And our lives had become too different

and I threw myself into a lifestyle

that had no place for him.

And I sunk myself in a counterfeit place

where I could forget about him and he moved on.
He chose his own path in his own wood

and we didn't speak for about a year.

Until we did.

Until I found myself
wounded from my life and so very lost

and needing to speak to someone who knew

who I was before I was what I had become.

And he answered the call and he came,

because that is who he has always been.

And because sadness and loneliness

and being 20 is super confusing

and fraught with impulse and irresponsibility

I found myself pregnant.

And we had two different ideas

about what needed to happen

and I felt alone

and resentful

and angry

and rejected.

And it was so hard

and it was so painful

and I crucified him

in thought and action

to myself and to anyone who would listen

because the wound was so deep.

And it took me a million years

times a million years

to realize that I hadn't been the only one

having an experience.

That he had had plans and ideas too

and now they were changed.

And in April 2004
our beautiful boy was born and Paul was there.

 

And that baby came home to furniture

his dad had put together.

And the first time Lucas was sick,

Paul drove him around in his Suburban until 6am
 because the noise lulled him to sleep.

And we weren't together

but we managed to be parents.

We did birthday parties and doctors appointments.

Picked schools and insurance.

And it was still hard and it was still complicated

and we made mistakes aplenty

but we limped along.

Limped off into separate personal lives;

mine which lead to another child 4 years later

and his into his own story to tell.

And anyone who knows me can tell you

that I really never stopped loving him. 

And it was years of hating instead of hurting

and stabbing each other in the back and in the front.

And if you ask him,

(which I have)

he stopped loving me for a very long time.

Always the more logical one,

he had closed the door and moved on,

placing me comfortably in the category of "Lucas' Mom"

and getting on with his own life.

And so we traveled for years,

each on their own path

but still in the same forest.

Peeking out every so often

to make sure the other was still safe,

even when we weren't meaning to.

And I don't know what happened

but suddenly we were back in front of one another.

Totally different but still the same.

And we circled one another suspiciously for months

and it was still painful

and it was still complicated

and there was still baggage.

And I kept saying, "Come on!"

and he kept saying, "Hold on!",

and there was a lot of "Slow down!"

and "What do you want?!?!"

until one day

there wasn't.

Until one day we must have said,

"The hell with it!"

and got on with giving each other a chance.

Buried old hurts and old selves

and got on with a new history.

This last year has not been perfect

and it has not been painful.

We've stayed out of the highs and the lows

and remained pretty much camped out

in Quiet No Drama Land.

Even in the rough patches and the growth spurts

we've managed to behave like grown-ups most of the time.

I think I only stamped away twice

which I'm pretty sure is a record.

I cannot describe the precious gift it has been

to love someone in a new way.

To burn it all down and rebuild it,

to be with someone whose worst

you've already seen

and bring out the best in one another.

Turns out those two roads led to the same spot.

I didn't know

it could be this sweet.

A Parallel

My Jiminy Cricket

Hello ye neglected blog!

A million things and hours in traffic,

Halloween party planning and throwing,

tae kwon do belt testing,

Cub scout joining,

no internet having

and old laptop owning.

All that and more

and you'll understand

why it is I can't always get
to this spot right here.

This place to stop and collect my thoughts.

I live 27 years in 24 hours
and I make dinner and check homework
and read Harry Potter before bed
and kiss my boyfriend as we pass each other
in opposite directions
on the way in or out of the house.

I fill my mom role
and my employee role
and my girlfriend role
and sometimes it all just smears together
and I cross my fingers and hope for the best.

Sometimes who I am as Christina
crashes and burns
into who I am
as my boys' mommy.

Tonight Lucas looked me dead in the eye
and told me he was disappointed in me.

"I can't believe you're still smoking."

And I am.

I do.

After years and years of trying to stop
I haven't been able to stay stopped
and my kid is not ok with it.

Earlier this year I promised I would quit.

And I did.

And I had.

Until a few months ago when
I found myself back at the start.

I never smoke around my children
but he's on to me.

Looking in my hiding spots,
calling me out on what I thought were
"top secret, kids in bed, late night" smokes.

My son is learning about drugs at Red Ribbon Week
and he knows cigarettes cause cancer
and tonight he said,

"Mom...I don't want you to die."

And he meant it.

And it killed me.

And I told him what he said is important,
and that I'm not going anywhere,
and that I know smoking is terrible
and want to quit but it's not that easy.

That I'm not
not quitting
because I don't understand
or care about his feelings.

That I love him so much
and I'm sorry he feels this way
and I want to make it better.

And then...
I snuck my cigarettes out of my glove box when he wasn't looking.

Because
IT'S NOT THAT EASY.

Every so often I'll sense
an obvious collision between my identity as a mother
and that of my 29 year old self.

Tonight was one of them.

When it happens,
it leaves my stomach in flips.

Last month we finally
signed Lucas up for Cub Scouts,
and the night of his first den meeting
I read an article about a 16 year old boy
being denied his Eagle Scout award
because he's gay.

And boom...confliction.

I don't know the right or wrong of it.

Where I end and they begin.

The magical formula
of maintaining autonomy
whilst mothering two children.

The grace necessary
to endure my sons' faces
as their mother's veil of perfection
begins to shift.

Knowing it will eventually fall.

On Marriage

Calm down

no one's getting married any time soon,

let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Had I gotten married at any point in my 20s

it would have been solely because

I wanted to throw a party.

I wanted a wedding

not a marriage.

The idea of forever and ever

was colored by a fantasy pen;

all pretty dresses and flowers

and presents.

Lots of presents.

I finally broke the news to my mom

that the time for elaborate plans

and insanity has come to a close.

If anyone decides to put a ring on it,

it'll be in a backyard

or a forest.

I would say that up until recently

I had no idea of what a relationship was made of

let alone a marriage.

No clue about a partnership

or maturity

or unselfishness.

Me: Party of 1

all day every day.

When I got pregnant with James

his dad made a half-hearted proposal

while I sat on his lap at my kitchen table.

"So...do you want to?"

"Yeah.  I guess."

I spent the next two weeks 

researching elopement

and the Santa Barbara courthouse

and finally decided 

that I just couldn't do it 

without my parents.

And so the idea was tabled until we imploded

and never got back there again.

He didn't want to marry me.

I wanted to marry him,

but only to save face.

Like somehow if I was married

you wouldn't see that I had gotten pregnant accidentally.

Again.

Or that I was in a failing relationship

and it was unraveling 

and I felt like a fraud.

I think about how sure I was that I wanted

to be married to my first love

at the ripe ol' age of 18.

It makes me laugh.

How positive I was that everyone was crazy

when they said 

we'd be completely different people in our 20s

and 30s and so on.

I know a few couples who make it look really easy.

And I also know a few divorcees.

I have nothing but admiration for my friends

who took the leap young,

but I feel pretty far from it at present.

It's seems that the happier I am in my relationship

the less I feel a drive to validate it to others and myself.

Because I see now that all this time

I only saw marriage as a way to show the outside world

that I was loved and worthy

and I don't have to do that right now.

Because I have the blessing of contentment

and it is 

PRICELESS.

And it's way better

than that ridiculous Robbins Bros. ring I picked out

two lifetimes ago.

A Weekend with Giants

We left at 7am on Friday.

2 cars packed with people I love

and camping gear

and snacks

and a book I never cracked.

Off to Sequoia where I had never been,

where my cell phone was worthless,

and died an hour in so I don't have pictures.

Where you have to put all of your food and smell good stuff

in a metal locker.

Because there are bears.

I drove up and Paul only reprimanded me once for my revving.

We made it in 5 and half hours and it was beautiful

and we set up camp 

and stopped by a lodge to call the other car

and pick up some wood.

"Have you seen any bears lately?"

I asked this partially expecting the kid behind the counter

to say no.

"Nope, not here. *pause* But they've been around Stony Creek."

(aka our campsite)

"What'd they do?"

As I nervously smiled and glanced over at Paul

who thought this was hilarious.

"Oh rip up a tent and mess with someone's trailer."

The kid was being very nonchalant.

"Yeah *nervous laugh...sigh...nervous laugh* but no one was in it right?"

"Oh no...the guy was in it.  Turned out he'd been BBQing all night

and went to bed in his clothes."

Needless to say

 I OCD'd all weekend about food smells

and food out 

and scrubbing Lucas down 

with unscented baby wipes.

I may or may not have choked 

on my beating heart Friday night

waking Paul in tears 

because I was convinced

every pine needle falling from every tree

and every twig snapping

was a black bear coming to eat us.

Saturday the two of us woke before dawn

and headed for a spot called "Lost Grove".

We moved Lucas to Paul's mom's tent

and took his uncle along with us.

We drove in the dark to an unmarked spot,

walked down a dark, sparse trail

to quiet peace of heaven amongst the 

trees and moss and woodpeckers.

I went for a walk and Paul took pictures.

We came back and made bacon and pancakes

and my coffee had grounds in it but I didn't care.

We spent the day,

7 of us in one car,

walking and climbing

and laughing

loving the weather

which was a stifling 73 degrees.

Apparently Los Angeles nearly died in the sweltering heat while we were gone.

We came home and made bacon wrapped hot dogs

and I secretly wondered if the bacon smell would attract the bears

and then we had s'mores and I drank hot tea

and for the second night in a row

Paul read Sherlock Holmes to Lucas and I

until we fell asleep.

On the last day we made breakfast and broke camp

and the other car left for home

and Paul and I drove for 7 hours through Kings Canyon.

It was beautiful and peaceful

and I don't know how and when we got so good together

but 

we are so good together.

We made it home Sunday night and unpacked

and washed dishes

and made a replacement list for the supplies.

We took hot showers

and my hair still kind of smelled like smoke

and we went to bed

and I didn't have to be afraid of bears.

We retire the camping gear until spring.

Sad face times infinity.

Friday Fotos on Monday and Life in General

Paul is quizzing Lucas

on subtraction flash cards

as I type.

They are getting frustrated with each other

and it is hard not to intervene.

There is chocolate chocolate chip 

banana bread in the oven.

James is with his dad until 6pm

and I miss him on quiet, lazy days

when I bake and am totally relaxed.

I wish he was here

to stir and eat and be kissed.

All last week I felt like this video...

Talking Heads - Once in a Lifetime

I think I was a gypsy

in a past life. 

It would explain why

sometimes when life is 

really, super good

or really, super hard,

I feel like the roots that ground me

are also strangling me.

A good friend and fellow blogger

wrote last week about "keeping it real"

and I totally understood.

Because so often times 

we of the digital age 

are inclined to share 

a sanitized version of our real lives.

The good days,

the pretty Instagrams,

the laughter and the love and the joy.

Today I can write about the past 2 weeks

because I am no longer in the midst 

of the past 2 weeks.

The truth is sometimes

it's really hard to be a mom.

I have one child who is constant energy and opinions

and another who is a crier;

and sometimes I don't like them very much.

The truth is I am in a relationship

with a really great guy,

and I love him and it is so god damn good,

and good and great

are not synonyms for perfect.

The truth is I bear the scars of every non-great guy from before,

and my head is loud and it doesn't always say nice things

and sometimes I have to fight myself

not to burn it all down.

The truth is I suffer from depression

and other forms of soul sickness

and sometimes for no reason at all

I wake up and I am painfully

uncomfortable.

It used to be that if I felt like I was feeling recently,

that I brought everyone else into the ring with me.

I am so glad that that is no longer the case.

I am so glad that I'm not immobilized.

I'm so glad I still managed to do all of this:

Work...

on a boat...

on a beautiful day...

and not throw up.

Spend a Saturday morning...

...finger painting with all three of my favorite guys.

Find moments of sweetness...

...and humor...

...and love...

...and more humor...

...and ice cream.

 Pool parties...

...and being thrown never getting old.

Photo booths...

...and night swimming.

Time for warm bread.

Note to Self

Huntington Beach. 7:39 pm.

Today you are 29 years

and 7 months old.

This morning

you woke up as

the middle spoon between

Paul and Lucas.

You made them breakfast

and the berry salad was delicious

because it's late August

and all berries are delicious.

Last night you were driving in traffic

and became randomly inspired

to have a bonfire.

You came home from work

and asked Paul how spontaneous he was feeling

and he was feeling spontaneous enough.

You got to the beach right after sunset

and there was just enough light

to run to the water

and take one picture

of your almost 3rd grader.

My heart stops.

You made s'mores

with Reeses Peanut Butter Cups

and relaxed by the fire

and it was perfect.

You came home

and everyone went to bed

still smelling of smoke

but that was ok

because you were happy.

You laid down

and read Harry Potter

while Paul fell asleep

wrapped around you.

You just got off of the phone

with James' preschool.

He starts September 10th.

The other day you realized

that his voice sounds like your baby

but his words are of a big boy.

Summer is winding down

and your favorite time of the year

is on its way.

You're 29 and 7 months old

and

you have the life

you've always wanted.