In lieu of an email to my MIL*.

I was chatting with a friend on Facebook, and she asked when the family and I were coming back to the States. It’s a FAQ, and I would’ve stuck to my usual “When I’m done with school” response, but since I met her as a friend of Rob’s family, I decided to elaborate.

“I’ll be back with the munchkin in about 3 1/2 years, but Rob will be there in February.”

“Yeah, I heard he’s coming back. Why?”

To which I gave my standard “Cuz he needs to start bringing home some bacon! LOL” response.

There were LOL’s all around, and then she dropped a small bomb: “Oh good. We were all worried things weren’t going well for you guys.”

This is where I take a detour into All About Me Land. See, I’d assumed that someone in Rob’s fam read this blog and took it upon themselves to update everyone on the fact that we’re A-Okay. And that was wrong – me assuming shit, I mean. Okay, so I link to posts pretty frequently on Facebook, and members of his family read the links and comment on them. That doesn’t mean they get that we’re like every other family starting out, finding our way, and figuring it out… I guess… Right? Right?

I don’t know how to feel about it all, to be honest. I’m not sure what I wish was the case, or what exactly gives people the impression that our non-marriage is crumbling. I just know that I don’t like his family thinking that we’re pulling each other’s hair out and screaming like banshees up in this house. Or… worse?

I reassured the family friend that things are going well, but there was still a heavy pang in my stomach. Mostly because, well, like practically every. Filipino. family, Rob’s fam rolls deep and talks a lot. And I just don’t want our little trio being talked about as “being in trouble.” Not when they’re on the other side of the world, Rob’s notorious at being a bad communicator, and they don’t know a thing about how we live. There’s no way for me to show them that we’re happy and functional and loving. And the fact that I feel the need to show that we’re happy and functional and loving to his family? I’m not sure what that means. They’ve always been kind and generous and accepting of me, and they were over the moon when Riley came onto the scene. It’s just… something. about. them… or. me?

I don’t know.

It’s just something.

A feeling of distrust. Or apprehension. Or fear, maybe? It’s something, and I’m not sure what it is, and that makes the negativity grow to gigantic proportions.

*****

Mostly, when I email Rob’s mom, it’s to complain about Rob. Regardless of the emotional seepage staining my emails, her replies are never long. Mostly, she’ll say something like, “I’ll talk to him. You guys be good to each other.”

Some would say it’s stupid and pointless that I email her at all, and “Well of course they think you guys are fighting like cats and dogs! It’s all you ever tell his mom about!”

Only, it’s not. I’ve written her exactly two emails that were all sunshine happy, and whenever we talk on Skype, I mention that things are going really well. And complaining to Rob’s mom has been the little nudge necessary to bring me, Rob, and his mom closer together.

Mostly, I guess, I bitch to her about her son because she’s the only other woman in the world who gets what it means to love Rob so much that it hurts. She’s the only one who gets how his facts are really half-truths and how his truths sound like lies even when they’re actual truths.

She knows how lazy he is, and also how he has the drive, charisma, and ability to do/get/be anything he wants. She’s the only one who knows those sides of him even remotely like I know those sides of him, and if it wasn’t for the not-so-great things Rob tells me about her from time to time, I think our relationship would be uncomplicated and completely stellar. (As of now, it’s very complicated and completely stellar.)

I want to tell her that I’m so in love with her son and grandson, and so honored to be part of their family, and so happy with how things have turned out. I want her to know that her son is doing all he can to be a good father and partner, and that I’m doing the best job I can as a mom and partner, and that we’re making this work.

And, really, when I sit back and think about it all, maybe that’s what I’ve been worrying about this whole time. Not Rob’s family’s opinion, but his mom’s. Maybe becoming a mom has allowed me to glimpse the difficulties of raising a son, and I’m seeing things through her eyes and hoping to assuage the fears and worries that she must have.

It’s tough being a woman who’s bringing up a boy. I know. But I want her to know: She’s a good mom.  She raised her son well. Things will be all right.

*Okay, so Rob and I aren’t married. Whatever. I call his mom “Mom”; plus, he and I have been dating for five years, playing house for three of those five years, and have a baby. Nuff said.

Hodgepodge: Counting my blessings, and what goes up may go higher.

Things I’ve been doing that are paying off:

1. Scheduling time to write. Every morning for the last month or so, the first thing I’ve done when I start writing  is blog. I decided to do it that way to clear the cobwebs, purge myself of any subconscious issues, and empty myself of the run-off, so that when I’m ready to really write, I get only the good stuff. Now I’ve reached a stage where I can tackle fiction-writing straight from the get-go, and it feels fluid and natural.
2. Practicing guitar and singing. Mistress Mom Fact #958: I used to front a band called Ruben’s Daughter. It was a stereotypical band experience: I dated the guitarist; we had a mad and passionate affair that can only be described as winding; then when things stalled with our band, he upped and left for Cali and later died of a drug overdose. It’s one of the stages of my past that is so different from my present experience, a slight tinge of disbelief coats my tongue whenever I talk about it. Anyway, I used to have a kick-ass singing voice, and lately I’ve been learning guitar and trying to pick up the pieces of my smoke-stricken voice. And just when all this is happening, the band’s only fan one of our fans found me on Facebook and messaged me. “I know I’m really late on this one, but have you heard of Kings of Leon?” she asked. “I swear, the second I listened to their album, I thought of you and Ruben’s Daughter.” I’m thinking about putting away funds to record a few of our old tracks and maybe even pen a couple new ones, even though truth told, I read some of my old lyrics and physically shuddered. God, I was young then! [Says the 25-year old.]
3. Job hunt. The thing about finding a telecommuting job is that not only are they hard to come by, but finding a decently paying one is crazy-difficult. I mean, not only are there a zillion and one people applying to the same position, but really, what’s to stop someone from just not paying you? Luckily, I’ve found a handful of places that are the real-deal and *enter trumpet* I’ve had my first big cumulative pay day. Here’s hoping this is steady and reliable work, and that the things that Rob has in the works (that have been paying off already!) continue to do well, too.
4. Exercising. Remember when I said that I wanted to re-sculpt my body, and that I was willing to try stuffing my face in order to achieve that end? Yeah, that wasn’t such a great idea. My gut and ass ballooned, and my boobs didn’t. (Boo! Yay! Boo!) The really awesome thing about working out, though? It put me back in touch with my body, which was really hard for this yoga aficionado after giving birth. Something about running three miles in the blazing tropical sun makes me feel like G.I. Jane, though, and I gotta admit, going all boot-camp on my own ass fulfills a long-held fantasy of mine.
5. Keeping in touch with my parents and my in-laws. I’ve had a really rocky relationship with my folks, but no matter what, they’ve supported me. They’ve never questioned my decisions and have always respected me as an individual, and I’m getting to think that it was my judgmental mentality that really fucked things up in the first place. Now that I’ve gotten to my judgment-free happy place, all of that has lifted, and oh-em-gee, I’d forgotten how funny and wonderful my folks are. Rob’s parents are a different bag altogether, which I hear is the norm when learning to deal with (might as well be) in-laws. I keep in touch with his mom’s side of the family via Facebook and email his mom frequently. There’s so much about Rob that can be explained by talking to his mom, and I love that just as much as I’m perplexed by it. His dad and I have always had a really great relationship, and I love Rob’s little sisters (half-sisters, via his pops) like my own. Thinking about all of this gives me the warm and fuzzies.
6. Keeping in touch with my friends. I have a lot of friends. Got that? Not acquaintances. Not people I only know via social networking sites. Not friends of convenience. Actual friends. The kind that will bail me out of jail at 2 a.m. even though they have to get up for work in two hours and their kid has the chicken pox and holy fuck, what was I doing getting into a fight with a group of thuggettes on the train anyway? My friends pretty much span the whole spectrum of varied and awesome. They are corporate lawyers and slam poets, bartenders and military moms, party-hoppers and fashionistas, etc., and holy crackwhore, it is hard keeping up with what’s going on in all of their lives. Somehow, though, I’ve managed to do it, and the feelings of being immensely adored by such amazing individuals and being able to immensely adore them are sometimes more than I can stand.
7. Bonding with my extended family. Something happened when I became a mom. All of a sudden, I felt an incredible urge to connect with everyone who might have a chromosome or two in common with me. It’s been a hard-won and completely worthwhile experience, with lots of set-backs and drama thrown in for good measure, and I recently exchanged emails with folks on my mom’s side and had a coffee-cum-martini-fest with a few cousins on my dad’s side that confirms my suspicions: awesome runs in my family.
8. Bonding with my brother. He and I joke that he’s my first kid. After all, if you ask him who he was raised by, he inevitably answers with my name – even though I’m only five years older than him. Watching him make the same mistakes that I made was really tough for me. Every time he fell down, I felt the overwhelming inclination to run to his side, coo at him and dust off his knees. But I caught myself. Stayed on the sidelines. Watched him pick himself up, dust himself off, learn better for the next time around. It was heart-wrenching and completely frustrating, but now that I’ve found my cool, I’m dealing a lot better with it. We understand each other in a way that is so amazing, it compels me to make sure Riley has multiple siblings because surely this kind of love can only grow exponentially with size.
9. Making it work with Rob. There are times when I’m sure things just can’t work out between us, and then something happens to reaffirm my belief in Rob and our relationship. It’s not just the fact that we have a baby together; truthfully, Riley in and of himself doesn’t justify staying with Rob. It’s the random texts to tell me about something only I would understand. It’s texting me little poems about how much he misses me. It’s emails with obscure music videos and being able to vibe about the most seemingly unimportant tangents. It’s taking the time and energy to work through our misunderstandings (and excusing my short fuse when I ultimately get frustrated and angry). We come from such different lives and experiences. We see things in such different ways. We talk such different languages. And with our well-meaning parents whispering in our ears, it’s hard to avoid getting suckered by a Jedi mind trick. And yet, somehow, in each other we find home. Fuck, we’re lucky.
10. Being a mom. I watched Riley chase our housekeeper as his nanny held his hands and he kicked his feet with the power of a tiny stallion. Later that evening, as he practiced standing on the couch, he bent down to kiss me, then got up again, then bent down to kiss me again, again and again, making me absolutely surge electric with all that is good in the world. Then he repeated the same action, except instead of kissing me, he held his face in a way that suggested, “Mommy, my turn! Kiss me!” And of course I did. Again and again and again. Eight months old, and his love fills me with an intensity I never thought possible.

Rereading this list gives me the feeling of being stuffed by a really delicious holiday meal. Pure wonder how all of it is possible! *content sigh* It’s 12:45 a.m. Now off to edit fiction…

“If I’m not overwhelmed with cooking, cleaning and child-rearing, I don’t feel like a *real mom*.”

I wrote that as a Facebook status, then took it down three minutes later. That’s how long it took for me to get over that particular sentiment.

I’m sure I’m not the only mom who’s ever felt that way, and 180 seconds after the thought entered my brain, I was thinking: That’s just silly. Being overwhelmed has nothing to do with being a real mom, or even a good one (whatever the fuck those mean in the first place). Damn all of these judgmental pricks. Damn all of the media hype about moms being too busy to cut their hair or buy a decent pair of heels. Just because I have time to do both, does it mean that I’m not doing a good job? (And for that matter, just because I’m able to run around while wearing 3-inch heels, and I like doing so, does that make me less of a feminist?)

Nope. Of course one doesn’t have to do with the other, just like the facts that I feel free to smoke; my wardrobe choices are singled out as “questionable” (tank tops, V-necks, shorts, skirts, tight jeans, high heels, platforms, etc.); the neighbors see Riley with his nanny more than they see him with me – those have nothing to do with my mothering skills, either. But people think they do. And that fact is something that I’ve simply learned to ignore. Truth: generalizations and stereotypes are unavoidable, but that doesn’t mean you have to try to fit them.

It’s become second nature to not become fazed by other peoples’ criticisms, expectations, or opinions. When someone voices their thoughts about me, I coolly drag on the conversation for however long I’m comfortable, then change the topic. Fact is – and I don’t mean to sound like a superior bitch  – it doesn’t matter. I’m not saying that I’m perfect, and I’ll definitely engage in intelligent discussion/debate, but at the end of the day, more often than not, my perspective won’t be moved. Because, ya know what? Me and my life might sound crazy to you, but believe it or not, I’ve thought long and hard about the shit I’ve done before I’ve done it, and I’m damn proud of the road I’ve traveled and the person I’ve become.

Along with this renewed sense of calm and confidence is a definite identification with social liberalism, which to me basically means “I may not get you, but I respect and appreciate you and whatever it is that you’re about – up until you molest a kid/rape someone/etc.”

Social liberalism, to me, means a suspension of judgment [up until a point; see above]. It means not having double standards. It means that when you say you’re okay with a lifestyle, you’re really okay with it. Not any of this, “It’s okay to be [insert profession/sexual preference/race/ethnicity/nationality/age/etc.] just as long as you’re not [a person of social status/my loved one/romantically involved with my loved one/etc.].” Point blank: If you say you’re okay with people being gay, but you have a problem with your kid being gay, then you’re not really okay with gay people in the first place. You’re faking it – most likely because it fits in with the ideals that you’d like to espouse – but you really see being gay as inferior, and that just ain’t cool.

I identify with people who are offbeat, unusual, misunderstood, and queer (sexually and just plain strange). I’ve battled my own demons, taken paths that were right for me, and fought for acceptance, respect, and legitimacy – and I deserve all of the acceptance, respect and legitimacy that I’ve gained. For every part about me that soothes the majority’s worries about my identity, there are a million other parts of me that make the average Joe raise a judgmental eyebrow. And although I will play to the sympathizers, I will also acknowledge that that’s what they are: I appreciate their kindness and empathy exactly because this isn’t their fight, and they’ve chosen to take up arms. Thank you, sympathizers. But also: Be weary of claiming possession of this fight because it isn’t really yours. You may only help where permission is granted.

And if you choose not to heed my words, that’s fine, too. Because, really, what the fuck do I know? Keep on pushing, and you’ll eventually find a niche that fits your groove. Just because it ain’t my niche doesn’t mean it’s necessarily wrong. Even if I think it is…

Maybe this is inner peace or freedom or simply not giving a fuck. All I know is, it works for me. My competitive streak has disappeared. Now I just feel… complete. Like a force of nature. A force to be reckoned with. A force that’s completely blessed. I’ve come to the conclusion that I may never know the *right* answers, but I know which ones are definitely *wrong* for me, and that’s all I really need to know. I’ll grant you the respect to go about living the best way you know how; I’ll never look down my nose at you or expect you to do anything than what you’ve promised; I’ll engage in heated discussions with you and will be quick to apologize if I come off as offensive in any way; I’ll be honest with you – and I’ll even try to be honest with myself. And all I ask of you is the same.

How much does it cost to be a good mom?

“I know it’s hard and it looks impossible,” Claire* said when she found out I was pregnant, “but everything will turn out right.”

When the words hit the air, I immediately agreed and yet rebelled against her sentiments. I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from exposing my biggest fear: that I wasn’t affluent enough to be worthy of motherhood. It was a doubt that only made itself known when my hormones reached critical mass, and it easily subsided after Rob calmed me down. But still, it was there, crouched between my mother’s knack for shopping and hording and my father’s materialistic bravado. Any second, I feared, it would bite me in the ass.

I looked at her, a 28 year old mom to a ‘tween. She’d been a teenage mom. She knew all about hardships and needing faith and worrying about money.

And yet.

She was so confident. Not just in me and my dormant maternal abilities, but in motherhood itself, in the power of loving someone more than you’d ever thought possible, in higher powers set in place to make things right, in humanity, and in life. Despite (or because of?) all she’d seen, she held on to a naive optimism that seemed too Hallmark card for me to take stock in. I craved the comfort of cold, hard facts. I wanted a fat paycheck arriving in my bank account every other week. I wanted to afford every pair of obscenely-priced jeans and every state-of-the-art video game console that my son would grow up to deserve. I wanted something more than financial security; I wanted financial superiority.

“The money part,” she said, eyeing me with an air of been-there-done-that, “that’s what you worry about.”

I nodded and winced, all the while suppressing a biting remark.

“Believe me when I say, you find a way to get the money you need when you have a child to take care of.”

I looked away. “Sure, I’ll have enough to get by,” I’d wanted to say. “But is that enough?” Instead, I let my mind cloud over with plans for my baby shower, and I let out a heavy sigh.

*****

I’d anticipated the gift since the moment Sully* had told me about it. When I opened it at my baby shower (along with the several other boxes of gifts that she so generously gave us), I felt giddy in a way that only good quality merch can make you feel. And maybe it was because I’d planned on being a Johnson’s & Johnson’s mom (out of sheer convenience and familiarity), or because I swore up and down I wouldn’t follow baby trends, or because I was afraid that going organic would mean that I’d somehow betray a part of my own childhood, but I felt hip and naughty for loving the gift.

Yeah, that’s right. Throw in a negligee with that head-to-toe wash, and I would’ve felt damn sexy.

Seriously though, a part of me  felt guilty for accepting such an expensive gift. I felt overwhelmed with Sully’s generosity, yet allowed only my appreciation to show.

And show it did. My appreciation beamed out of my pores like sunshine, and shot out of my fingers and toes. It wasn’t just that my friend was generous, it was that all of my friends and family were amazingly supportive and generous: despite the facts that times were tough, that some of them had either lost their jobs or were in danger of losing their jobs, that the prospects for making money were slim, and that they had bills to pay, they still made me and my family a priority. They showed us love. So. Much. Love. (I have framed cards of congratulations to prove it. And they make me cry every time I read them.)

We ended up receiving every possible baby necessity as a gift. An amazing crib, an adorable stroller, oodles and oodles of toys and clothes, a one-year membership to an organic diaper delivery service, bathtub and products, several breast pumps, our dream playpen, bottles and bottle equipment – the whole nine yards and then some. (Seriously, you should’ve seen Rob and I when we opened the baby wipe warmer. We were confuzzled because we didn’t realize such a thing existed.) We didn’t need to buy anything for Riley until he started eating solids. No bullshit. Read that again and feel the amazement creeping in.

We are fucking fortunate to have such fabulous friends and family.

*****

Despite all of my gripes, the truth is, my parents did a good job with me and my brother. They kept us safe, healthy, and happy, and they took care of us the best way they knew how. Never mind that that meant working around the clock to buy us the latest jeans and video games, and that we hardly saw them except during dinner. Never mind that my brother has never had a sentimental or meaningful conversation with either of our parents. Never mind that a lot of what our parents taught us about life, love, and money matters was ill-advised and wrong. Their intentions were good. They did their best. That’s all that any parent can really do.

I love my parents and I appreciate all they’ve done for us, but when I decided to become a mom, I knew one thing for certain: I would spend as much time as possible with my kids. If that meant working less hours so that I could take them to museums or parks, then so be it. If that meant sleeping less so that we could spend more time together, or carving time out of my yoga routine or writer’s circle, then so be it. If that meant forgoing social time, then so be it. I gladly make sacrifices so that my child knows me, and doesn’t just know of me. I know that in no time at all, he’ll have his own social life, his own classes, and his own romantic relationships, and before that happens, I want to create a legacy that is not limited to shopping trips, restaurants, and outlet excursions.

Those are my priorities. I believe that quality time between members of a family matters more than the money said family might have for, say, going to Disney World or owning luxury vehicles. Just as long as there’s a cushion of savings, everything’s all right.

Should I feel guilty for wanting a close-knit family instead of wanting to give my kids every imaginable extravagance?

*****

There is a conversation I had with Marjorie* right before I left New York City. She was driving her BMW from her Midtown penthouse apartment to her mom’s house in Queens. We hadn’t spoken in many months and there was a lot to catch up on. I’d missed her engagement and wedding while in my own whirlwind of life-altering events. Apparently, I’d missed her social climbing, too, and happily listened as she described the huge rock she sported on her left ring finger.

We talked about pleasantries and mutual friends, then having nothing left to add to our conversation, I turned to an old conversational stand-by. “Are you and your hubby planning on joining us in the p-‘hood?”

“No,” she’d quickly answered. “We’re waiting to save more money.”

I shrugged even though she couldn’t see me, and answered, “Oh, okay. Good for you guys.”

Hurriedly she added, “It’s not enough, ya know?” Her voice was a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s always more that a kid wants. I didn’t grow up with a lot, so I want to make sure that my kids have everything.”

Is it really that simple?, I wondered. Is everything defined in material terms? Is there a compromise between the two? How are people who have their roots firmly planted in the lower- or middle-classes supposed to navigate through the parental minefield of haves and have-mores?

*****

Ten years ago, I was 15 years old and in the Philippines, and as I walked with my aunts down the street, a woman came up and greeted us. My aunts explained that I’m their balikbayan pamangkin (niece from the States), and the woman commented on how pretty I was. I thanked her, and the next thing she asked was, “Are you interested in adopting a baby?”

I didn’t know what she meant. I had never heard the Tagalog word for adopt, and I was confused. It’s not like we were in her living room and she’d offered us lemonade. We were in the street and she’d offered me a baby.

My aunts laughed and explained that no, I was their 15-year old niece. I had lots of time to be making my own babies.

The subject of adoption has creeped up yet again into my life, and it’s forced me to think about how easy it is to adopt in the Philippines. People here literally give their kids away. For the most part, there is no legal paperwork involved. There is little exchange of money, except if the adoptive parents agree to pay for a mother’s prenatal care. It’s just part of the culture. Some parents simply can’t afford children. There is no abortion. There are no foster programs. But there are affluent individuals and there are orphanages. To many parents, the former seems like a better choice.

*****

I read this article, and it made me wonder yet again about the cost of parenthood. What is best for a child? Can anyone ever really know, definitively and truly, the answer to that question? Is it subjective? Is money really the answer? Or is there more? And if money isn’t the answer, why do we plan so much before having kids?

What goes up…

More conclusions from letter-writing

I screamed at Riley. I feel like I’m a huge failure as a mom because I did that. I haven’t been able to sleep since then, and I keep telling myself that he’s only four months old, he probably won’t remember it, I was overworked and not sleeping well to begin with, it’s only my imagination that now he doesn’t seem to smile as much. I don’t know… I was just so tired and lonely and frustrated. The house was a mess, there was no food in the house, none of my laundry was clean, I was fighting with my brother, I had homework and schoolwork up my ass, and the maid and nanny were on an extended vacation. I hadn’t slept or eaten or showered, and he just wouldn’t stop crying. He was screaming so I started screaming, and that made him scream louder which directed my attention to him and before I know it-

It’s inexcusable, I know. I swear he looks at me with fiery hate now. I cry and ask his forgiveness. And I wonder just how insane I am, asking forgiveness from a four-month old. I look at all the photos I’ve taken of him: he looks so confident, serene, and happy. I pray to God I didn’t fuck that all up with one scream. I hope all the negativity is just part of my trumped-up emotions. I hope that all the child psychology articles are right, and babies don’t have long-term memory until they’re at least six months old…. God, parenthood is hard.

I knew that, but I hadn’t experienced it till that day.

This is what I’m up to:

I’m doing freelance writing for money, and I’m working on pet projects that are supposedly gonna earn money in the upcoming year. I’m on deadline for those writing gigs; plus school takes up soooo much time, with 7 classes and having to keep a high average in order to qualify for academic scholarship (which I really want to do for money reasons, as well as pride reasons and “it will look good on a CV”); plus keeping a healthy relationship with Rob and friends and family that are in the States while building relationships with my family and potential friends in the Philippines; and of course being a domestic diva (5 people in the household – including the nanny and maid, who I have to treat like “nieces” because of the culture and despite the fact that the nanny is old enough to be my mother – and 6 dogs!)… I’m pretty overwhelmed. I de-stress by blogging and reading and planning the future.

No joke: I fantasize about all the money I’ll make as an RN and Rob will make as an RN, and the fact that we are thisclose to already having 3 houses in our names, and our “real life” which will start when we catch up in NYC, and are able to do lots of traveling and working at glamorous jobs (writer for me, physicist for him) and have more genius, beautiful children.

How sad! How predictable I have become! How common!

I smoke all the time now, and I exercise until my bones ache. I think I’m punishing myself for screaming at Riley. I think I want some kind of absolution. Or maybe I need problems in order to function at a high level. Or maybe I just really, really need therapy. For the first time in my life, I’m really trying to be as close to “perfect” as I can possibly be, and I realize that I’m fitting the profile of a potential food disorder case. I’m high-strung, a perfectionist, easily upset by mistakes and flaws that I find in myself. I’m working so hard to achieve so much, and if I feel like any part of it is less than awesome, I buckle down, resist sleep and food, and sigh because at least I’ll be thinner and can fit into more clothes.

I tell myself this is all just a phase. Rob will get here (maybe as soon as February!), we’ll keep house, we’ll go to school, we’ll build a life free of instigating from all of our parents, and things will work. I tell myself that this is what I’ve been waiting for my entire life: a chance to write, reset my priorities, plan the future, earn degrees affordably, raise a beautiful child… I tell myself all of this, but I’m so wrapped up in performing, in acting, in being as close to perfect as possible that I don’t know what’s what anymore. I’m not sure who I am or what is real or how I’m supposed to get a hold of myself. I pray that I’ll wake up one morning and feel normal again. But right now, I just feel quick, moving, functioning at the speed of light, feeling and thinking and producing at the rate of a million breaths a second. And I say that it’s about time. Compared to how I was in NYC, I am now so productive, so good at fulfilling my potential, so active and full of momentum. Compared to how I am now, I was stagnant, static and inert. Now I’m learning science, how to be a nurse, new languages, how to be a mom, how to be a partner, how to be a daughter, how to be a sister – these are all things I feel like I thought I knew, but I’m realizing that I was always too self-involved to really know anything at all.

*sigh*

This is long. My head hurts. I should try to sleep. I’m supposed to see my nephews tomorrow, and I’m not sure how much posturing I’ll have to do. They’re sweet and respectful to me, and part of me assumes it’s only because I’m American and they think I’m rich…

Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I don’t know how to be happy. It sure feels like it. Here I am, in the best possible situation – writing a storm (and getting paid for some of it!), living it up on a tropical island, away from my crazy parents, with my gorgeous baby and (most of the time) awesome brother, and with hired help… And I want to write “with the love of a good man”, but I’m not sure right now if “love” or “good man” apply, and I don’t know if I’m fixated on disproving either/both because a hidden truth is gnawing at me or because I’m feeling a general malaise and needing to accuse something as the culprit.

I just know that happiness is new to me, and I don’t know how to handle it, and I don’t know if I’m able to fully achieve it. Like I wrote on Facebook recently, “life is so sweet, it’s giving me toothaches. I have to chew on some grit to fill in the cavities.” Maybe I’m not meant to go through life all fluffy and light. Maybe heavy and dark suits me.

Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your time. LOL Let me know how you’re doing. Also, let me know: Am I going crazy? What’s this I’m feeling?

I was killing time on Facebook…

And looked through Rob’s friends so I could add some to my proof of popularity friends list, and a thought occurred to me: jealousy has never been a problem with us.

I thought about my other relationships – like the one that lasted seven years (on and off), and the very short but very poignant one that abruptly ended around the same time I met Rob – and it dawned on me that I’d always been quick to feel inferior to other women. Maybe it was because I grew up with a dad that always cheated on my mom, so I saw other women as competition. Maybe it was because, in my house, there was an unspoken rivalry between my mother and I for my father’s attention (which he provoked). Maybe it was because I was a victim of the “ugly duckling complex.” Maybe I just like feeling fiery. Whatever the reason, I vividly recall accusations flying through windows, out of doorways, into telephones; my screaming, his screaming (no matter who “he” was), our mutual suspicion and paranoia and general immaturity…

And I remember the suspected “other women”, all of them runway models in their own right, strutting down New York City streets like they belonged on Parisian catwalks, darkened eyes, full lips, and bodies that belonged to women named Naomi and Cindy and Christy and Elle and Stephanie and Linda and Claudia. This was my competition.

I killed time on Facebook, thinking about the future, realizing that if Rob really moved here in a few months and we managed to live together on the other side of the world, my entire life would be planned out. We’d get married, have more kids, become nurses while pursuing our dream careers, travel, buy real estate, be boring old people with exciting stories to tell from our younger years. And none of that jealousy would be there. All of that intensity, the need for white-hot arguments about insignificant others, the torturous pangs of envy that we could fling like arrows at each other, the haughty angst and hot make-up sex – none of it would be as it was before, with those other men.

Now we argue about the banal and the mundane: not just who did what and why, but also are we right for each other? Does the fact that we don’t see eye to eye about the most fundamental of issues mean that we’ll eventually get tired of having to settle for not understanding each other? Is our relationship worthy of the rest of our lives? Are any relationships worthy? What if we do this, follow our guts, seize the moment, promise to love, protect, cherish, respect, and obey each other, and then realize that it was all because of a momentary blip of confusion, or of inexact emotion, or of misplaced affection? We argue because I have doubts, because I have complaints, because I have desires that I fear will never be fulfilled because Rob is Rob and I am attaching myself to him, ball and chain.

But then again, something tells me I’ll always feel this way. No matter who I promise myself to. No matter how perfect he is for me, on paper, in real life, or where it counts. I’ll always have doubts. Because love has never been easy for me, and relationships have always been temporary. Because I don’t know how to be happy. Because I’m not sure about the important abstractions: love, trust, and loyalty. They are all colors bleeding into their opposites, too closely related to their antitheses to mean anything definitive or real.

At least I know I’ll never be jealous of any of Rob’s friends. He’s related to all the attractive ones.

My Last Post From Facebook

For the past – hmm… how long has it been? – six or seven months, I think, I’ve been putting up posts on Facebook in lieu of (or before) putting them up here. I’ve been pretty prudent about separating certain topics between Facebook (where all of my friends are RL) and here (where most of my friends aren’t RL). Por ejemplo: Even though every relationship has ups and downs, and I’ve been particularly vocal about my ups and downs with Rob, in respect for Rob, I don’t talk about that on Facebook since we know people in common. And since I don’t have internet access from home, whenever I have something really light and happy to talk about and some way to share it with the internet, it’s usually Facebook that reads it.

I realize that it’s a sense of impending danger that’s kept me from mixing my two worlds of the internet. I mean, do I really want my might-as-well-be-in-laws (Hi, there!) reading about my time as a dominatrix? Do I want my family (Kamusta!) to read about my sex life? Do I want my future employers and soon-to-be staff and faculty in the Philippines finding out about how retarded I’ve been in my job history? (Full disclosure: I was once so stupid/immature/confused that I convinced my employers they were paying me when in fact I was working FOR FREE. Long story.) Ya know what? I kinda do want people to know this about me.

Maybe it’s a generational thing, and I just feel like I should – like I’m ENTITLED – to show off my strangeness. Maybe I’m just an emotional exhibitionist, point blank. Maybe, given the possibility of amazing embarrassment, all I do is shrug my shoulders and go, “Meh. It could be worse.” Maybe.

Whatever the reason, I’m taking the self-imposed rules about what I can blog about, and I’m changing them. In the name of full disclosure and fearlessness, I’m keeping up posts that will probably anger my loved ones. I hope that people realize, however, that what’s here (and on my previous two blogs) is really the progress of my maturity and understanding of life. I don’t mean any harm, and I’m truly sorry if you find me offensive. I don’t mean to be hurtful, but I do mean to be honest. And the only way to do that is to show off the parts of me that may contradict or challenge each other.

So, yeah: Welcome, friends and family, to my blog. If you’re squeamish or have a tendency of getting all up in a huff over things you read on Facebook, please turn away now. Otherwise, happy reading. The following is something you’ve probably read already, but it’s not really for you. It’s for my other friends and family, the people that I’ve never met in person, but whose words and feelings portray worlds and perspectives that illuminate my life just as much as those of any person with whom I’ve spent in-person time. Thanks for reading. Everyone, play nice.

*****

Right now, I’m about four weeks away from being a mom, 12 weeks away from moving to the Philippines, and 13 weeks from starting nursing school. I’ve been with the love of my life for four years and we have a plan for the rest of our lives. I’ve gone to therapy and worked out practically every issue I’ve ever had. Money’s tight right now, but I’m sure that the economy will pick up steam and me and mine will be doing better than ever. In the meantime, Rob, Riley, and I have everything we need and most of the material things that we want.

I guess, if you had to sum up my present thought, it’s this: I can honestly say that I’ve never been happier than I am right now and that I fully expect things to get even better.

***
My looming future has eclipsed so much of the past. Now, when I look back on things, I feel disassociated from a lot of what’s happened. I know that I spent a good deal of my life being very promiscuous and enjoying the hell out of it, but I can’t quite remember what it was like (nor can I imagine wanting to do that now). I know I’ve spent many a night in the ER after late nights doing only-God-knows-what, but the feeling of danger and heightened sense of excitement that used to accompany those nights have gone extinct. And maybe it’s the pregnancy, but sometimes I can’t even remember specific episodes from my life, i.e., my first client as a dominatrix, getting my tattoo, hitchhiking in Virginia, etc.; it’s at times like those that I’m thankful I’ve either written down accounts of what’s happened or I have people in my life who can recall for me the details.

I guess that last part is the point of this note: the fact that memories come and go, and the only real proof of them ever happening in the first place are the people who experienced them with you. I turn 25 in October, and I’m realizing that for every friend who can remember me barreling down a rain-soaked freeway at 115 mph, there’s another friend with whom I’ve lost contact.

Pragmatically, I know that this is just what happens as time goes by: memories fade, people lose touch with each other, proof of your wild and crazy pre-child existence seems less and less believable. But before that happens, I figured I’d reach out to people who might feel slighted by time and circumstance, people I haven’t talked to in a while, people who probably have no idea that life for me is on the highest upswing imaginable.

Maybe one of us meant to lose touch with the other, or maybe it happened on its own. Maybe we left things on a good note, or a bad note, or no note at all. Maybe there’s a lot of water – or even acid and sharks – under our bridge. No matter how or why we lost touch, I just want you to know: I’ve got no bad feelings and I wish you the best.

Get the Fuck Out of My Life, You Unsupportive Asshole

NOTE: Kosta asked that I delete this post. I won’t do that, but I will remove his full name and pic from it. If he can’t deal with the world knowing his true colors, then there’s obviously more weighing on his mind than little old me.

Kosta

Add as Friend

January 17 at 7:41pm

Report Message

Maria, why are you having a baby?

 

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

January 17 at 8:08pm

Because I’m ready to be a mom.

 

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

January 17 at 8:12pm

To be honest, I’m kind of offended that you felt the need to ask.

 

Kosta

Add as Friend

January 17 at 10:17pm

Report Message

Because you’re ready to be a mom? Is there a guy ready to be a dad? And how do you know that your child is ready to be born into your current situation? You were just asking me the other day for money for your parent’s mortgage. Do you have money saved up to care for your child? Do you have a steady job that’s secure even if you have to take maternity leave? Are you prepared, mentally, physically, financially, etc. for the burden of carrying, and then raising a child? I’m offended that you’re offended that I’m not the only one of your fucking retarded friends not congratulating you on your facebook wall. This isn’t a fucking joke – you’re bringing another life into this world and you’re just a kid yourself whether you want to admit it or not. I know that all sounds harsh but apparently someone needs to give you a wake up call. I’m sorry I couldn’t speak to you under better circumstances and in a cheerier tone but that’s just how it came out. You know I’ll always be here for you but fuck.

 

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

January 18 at 12:08pm

Kosta,

There’s a good chance that I’m reaching; we haven’t spoken on a regular basis for quite some time, and the part of you that I “know” is the part that thinks the way I think (when I’m not bombarded with hormones LOL). You see, Kosta, I love you for so many reasons, and one of those reasons has always been because we’ve been able to communicate on a level that is very rare to find. Maybe I’m aggrandizing the past, but I’ve always thought that our minds work in very similar ways, and for that reason alone there’s been a mutual respect between us.

Perhaps it’s too much to ask for that mutual respect since so much time and experience has passed in our lives without regular communication; perhaps we’ve just drifted too far along, in different directions, to recognize a reason to respect one another. But it was that respect that I’d assumed would stop you from accusing me of recklessness. It was that mutual acknowledgment of sound minds that I’d thought would show you that I’m a capable, logical, and intelligent human being. It was that faith in each others’ autonomy and responsibility that I thought would save us from such an awkward conversation.

You asked me why I want to have this baby, and perhaps I was wrong in doing so, but I took it as a question loaded with accusations. The mere positing of that question screams judgment, and what good is judgment supposed to do? Am I suddenly to “come to my senses” and realize that I need to change my plans? Don’t you think that I’ve taken into consideration every question you posed, and more that you didn’t think of? Don’t you think I know what I’m getting myself into?

I appreciate your concern. I really do. And I feel like we’ve been friends for so long that political correctness shouldn’t play a part in our relationship. Still, I have to wonder, where’s that mutual respect that I hold in such high regard? What have I done to make you think so lowly of me, to believe that I would rush into a life-changing decision? Why can’t you – a generally congenial individual – simply wish me congratulations?

Maria

 

Kosta

Add as Friend

January 26 at 10:03pm

Report Message

Maria,

Let me start by apologizing for not replying sooner – I had my first anatomy practical today and it demanded my full attention for about the last week. Let’s start.

Your first paragraph: ditto – very well said.

2nd: I agree that we have drifted from each other but not that we could ever drift past the point of reconciliation and recalibration of our personalities. My questioning your logic and autonomy simply stems from the fact that given the information that I have about your life (which I concede will always fall short regarding your life as you live it), I would not have made the same decision you did. We differ and so it must be the case that at some point, one of us will be proven wrong and the other right. And in establishing this dichotomy, I can’t imagine how I would be the wrong one given even the little that I’m aware of. You have your autonomy and I have mine, and so I made a decision and voiced my opinion regarding it.

3rd: You weren’t wrong in sensing accusations behind my question. I was full of them when I wrote it and so they must have somehow seeped into that single sentence where you detected them (see my paragraph 1 response). I’m not sure at this point however that you do know what you’re getting yourself into. Let’s take this as an opportunity to get caught and you can tell me.

4th: We’ll address all of that, including the congratulations later. If you want to do an old friend a favor, please elaborate on your thoughts regarding your pregnancy. I’d love to hear from you anyway.

Kosta

 

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

Today at 9:33am

Hey Kosta,

I had a feeling that you were going to say exactly this, and that’s why I took so long to read this message. Your superiority complex is annoying unappreciated, and unwarranted. I’ve always known that you’re full of yourself, but I never thought you were capable of being such a prick.

I wish you well in your endeavors. Please don’t try to contact me.

Maria

So Maybe I Have a Little Bit of a Superiority Complex

One of my good friends is in a relationship that I know nothing about.

We’ve been growing apart for some time, but it still feels like a slap on the wrist. Wasn’t I important enough to call once in a while? To text? To email? If not about her new relationship, about her job, her mom, her life? Six months ago we hung out all the time, went to yoga together, complained about men, etc. I was the only person who didn’t bail on her birthday plans. And now… I feel hurt. Rejected. Officially cast into the “Them” pile. That’s what the world is divided into, ya know: Uses and Thems. The inner circle and the audience. The people you fight for and the people you fight against.  There are no in-betweens.

I know full well that it takes very little to go from gossiping with someone to being gossiped about. That all of our actions seperate and distinguish us from each other. That, especially in your 20s, it’s common to revamp and replenish your social circle as much as you do your fashion accessories. But it doesn’t matter if it is normal. It still sucks.

The fact is, I can feel my life changing. I’m no longer a great ball of potential, waiting for the next big thing to happen to me. My life is happening. It’s going somewhere real, worthy and tangible, and not just spinning in the world of hypotheticals. Most of my friends aren’t with it quite yet, and the ones that are actively working aren’t necessarily working towards goals that I find worthy. I can feel them falling onto the wayside while I continue on my journey-

Listen to me! I’m being a total bigot, I know. It’s just that, with this newfound solidity, I’m aware that some people, some lifestyles, and some perspectives just aren’t welcome in my immediate vicinity. I just don’t want to deal with them.

Por ejemplo: I no longer have the will to deal with rude people, obnoxious people, fake people, or liars. And if these rude/obnoxious/fake/lying people are conservative Republicans? Forget about it! In the past, I would chalk up these characters to “good fodder for my writing.” But after dealing with these types for so long – all in the vain of making my experiences more colorful and therefore bettering my writing – I’m so over it. I just want to be surrounded by good, substantial, and mature people who have similar values to my own. I don’t want to continuously have to prove myself and the value of my choices. I don’t want to always have to cut people down by showing them the error of their ways-

There I go again! *laugh*

I swear I don’t mean to sound like such an elitist prick. But there comes a time in each person’s life when they have to take responsibility for their choices, stake claim on their future, and say, “This is what I’m about. Fuck you if you don’t like it!” I’m taking that “Fuck you!” part pretty literally.

NOTE: I spoke to the friend whose Facebook relationship status sent me into a tizzy, and she’s not actually in a relationship. She just feels better declaring that she’s taken.

Well, then. Color me quick to judge.