I'm Latvian, but my kids are not

A few years ago, probably when B and Z were 5 and 7 and V was just little, there came a day, a moment, when it just hit me. "I can't do this anymore."
This was trying to communicate with my kids in Latvian.  Trying to pass on the cultural heritage with which I was raised. I would talk to them in Latvian again and again, only to have them respond with confused looks and annoyed comments about, "I don't know what you're saying, mama!"
The details of the moment are beyond me now, but the feeling that I had at that moment was one of being broken.  It was a feeling of failing.  It was a loss.  It was giving up. 
I fought with myself- what was more important?  A language, or being able to build a relationship?  A language, or communication? A language, or a bond?
I chose the latter.  In every case, I chose the latter. 
But, there is no denying that it was stacked against us from the get-go.  From living in a place where the language wouldn't be useable, to not being around even family that would use the language, and most importantly, it not being the language of our couple- the odds were never in our favor. 
Part of me wants to weep, another part wants to rage, another part just looks on feeling like a failure.
There is hope, I suppose.  We'll move back to the States and be near more people who speak Latvian.  We might send the kids to summer camp in Latvian.  Maybe even Latvian school.  There is a chance that they might still pick it back up- a good possibility even- but we all know that the ease with which they could have learned the language as toddlers has been lost.  This was stolen from them by circumstance, by fearful adults lacking understanding, by my personal inability to just keep going.  *sigh* It's a massive loss.
Growing up, I never identified as American. I just didn't feel it.  This was because I was being raised Latvian in the USA.  Our home language was Latvian, we went to Latvian school on Saturdays, we went to Latvian camp in the summers- all the way through high school.  Spending all that time being Latvian took effort, and it took me away from other experiences that might have made me feel more American.  We never really celebrated the 4th of July, not really, because we were always already at Latvian camp.  I didn't connect to American holidays, because mostly, we had Latvian versions or Latvian ways to celebrate.  Heck, even my favorite American holiday- Thanksgiving- was taken over for years by Latvian time because ALJAs Kongress happened then.  Our food was Latvian, especially at holidays and celebrations.  Most of my lifelong friends are Latvian, the way one would expect of a second generation. 
But when my son needed to present a cultural lunch, he shocked me by demanding to bring in hotdogs as an American delicacy. What?  He didn't even mention anything Latvian.  I mean, on the one hand, thank goodness I didn't have to make piragi.  I could have done it, but it wouldn't have been easy! And it would have been EXPENSIVE.  Whew.  But it's weird when your experience is so different than that of your children.  My kids have 2 passport countries, and neither of them is Latvia. 

So I find myself, admitting, sometimes through tears, that I am Latvian, but my kids are not. 

It was hair, and then it was gone

Yeah, super cheesy headline on this one.  But here's what happened.

My little brother grew a mustache. He'd never really had facial hair before, mostly because his biology didn't really lend itself to such things.  But suddenly, at 37, after 3 weeks in the woods, he had the beginnings of one, and he went for it. 

When I first saw it, especially with mustaches NOT being a thing right now, I was shocked.  Well, maybe surprised.  It was unexpected for sure.  And, I'll admit, I commented on it.  I said, "Whoah! What's on your face?"  He didn't like that question.  In fact, he straight up told me I was rude. 

He wore the mustache for about a month, I think, growing into it more every day, and then suddenly, it was gone.  By the time it was suddenly gone, I had really gotten used to it.  I liked it.  He had worn it on a trip to Italy, where it being a nice cool spring, he was dressed in nice jeans, dapper long sleeve shirts, sweaters, and that mustache.  The whole look worked really nicely actually. 

Behind the scenes, he was experiencing something that he wasn't used to. People kept commenting on his mustache again and again.  Saying things like, "I don't know if I approve of this." 

Basically, a month into the awesome mustache, it was gone.  He was sick of it, he was sick of the comments, and he had the choice to shave that baby off.  And so it was gone.

The cool thing is, he learned from this experience.  What it opened up to him is the world of unsolicited comments on his body.

He even called me out on it.  Because I was guilty.  I had commented.  I had said I wasn't sure if I liked it.  I didn't know how I felt about it. 

What right did I have to feel any way about it at all??

He pointed out that I am constantly saying, "it's my body, my business, not for you to comment on!" This is true.  And internally I thought, "yeah, but, it's different." But it's not so different.  It's his body.  It's his presentation to the world. And it is his choice.

What feels different in it to me,  is the choice.  The bodies we are born into are not a choice.  We cannot control our height, our shape, our colors, our features, nor the way our bodies tend to carry weight. 

Man, that's hard to write.  Did I really just say that we can't control our weight?  Aaaaaah.  Diet culture is so fricking deeply ingrained.  Even my own brain wants to scream back at me, "you can control this!  Your weight is a choice!"   But, can I? Have I ever been able to?  If I *could* control it, would I be choosing what I have right now?

Science is now showing us that upwards of 95% of intentional weight loss efforts fail, and are generally followed by a reciprocal weight gain.  This is science.  It's not laziness, it's not value, it's not morality.  Intentional weight loss fails.   And in the few cases that it succeeds, it is often accompanied by habits that can be classified as anorexia or orthorexia, and frequently, unhealthy exercise habits. 

I get questions ALL THE TIME- are you pregnant?  (And when I say no, my ever forthright students ask, "well then, why is your belly so big?") The looks I get suck as much as the questions.  It sucks to walk around feeling watched, knowing people are wondering, waiting to hear that I'm pregnant again.  I'm not.  This baby bump is what it is.  A constant reminder that I grew four larger than average babies in my shorter than average body.   But after the interactions with the public, there is more... trying to dress a round body that society says is only worthy if it's actually square.  So all the clothes are made for squares.  Nothing fits right.  Nothing flatters.  And when you face a closet, on the daily, full of clothes that are kind of uncomfortable, whew, that wears on a person. And then... even at my relatively not extreme size, some spaces are hard to get through, seats are tight, aisles are too narrow. I don't WANT to imagine how difficult it is for people in bodies larger than mine, because, I honestly don't know if I could handle it. 

In the news recently, Nike was getting shamed for condoning being fat.  *headdesk*  What Nike did, was to make some workout clothes that might actually fit a larger section of the population and then display it in a store.  They said, "Oh hey, our sizes don't work for like, the majority of the population.  Let's make some bigger sizes."  And then, "Oh yeah, now we have a wider range of sizes, let's put them on display so people know they exist and can see what they might look like on a body that looks like theirs."  Applause, Nike.  Huge applause.  That is THE RIGHT THING TO DO.

But PEOPLE, people who apparently think the world should revolve around them, say that Nike, by making clothes for people who EXIST, is condoning them.  Good God, there is nothing to condone or not.  These are real people.  Real people who want to run, and lift, and CrossFit, and yoga.  Real people who might just want to wear their yoga pants to fucking Target like the rest of you. 

What this continues to come back to, is the fact that people believe they have a right to comment on other people's bodies.  Whether it's their mustache or their body fat, everyone wants to comment.  People apparently feel like they are owed something- like they are entitled to have the world around them conform to their aesthetic ideals. Where did this idea come from?  And then beyond that, when the world at large doesn't conform to our ideals, it is our right to comment on it?  No.  No.  No.

During a conversation with friends, I was reminded that this goes so deep, that, even though I am a constant fighter for body positivity and bodily autonomy and respect, even though these things matter to me deeply, it was still my first reaction to comment on my brother's face.  I have not yet escaped the culture that groomed me. 

This whole topic is so multifaceted and huge, I am not doing it a shred of justice. And I'm not going to be able to, so I'll just stop. 

Just please, if you read this, remember, we are all our own people.  Our bodies serve us, and we make some choices about how they appear in the world. But mostly, when you see someone, just greet them.  Just say hello.  And step back from the need to validate or justify their appearance to them or yourself.  You don't know what they're going through, what their choices mean to them, or why and how they have come to the place that they are. Maybe you'll have your own chance to learn about how awful it feels to have constant comments on your body like my brother did- but honestly, I hope it doesn't take that.     

Rest in peace

This morning, I awoke to news that my grandfather had passed away.  The text came from my mom, as it was her father, via facebook messenger. I had an immediate sense of loss. Something was lost.  Gone. But it passed.

See, the thing is, I wasn’t close with my grandfather.  Growing up, we saw him now and then. Sometimes years went by when we didn’t see him.  And at other times we saw him relatively frequently. In the last 15 years, since I have lived abroad, I have seen him perhaps a handful of times.  At Benita’s naming ceremony, when my little brother got married the first time, at Christmas once when Benita and Zintis were young. I don’t think he ever met Vilnis, and certainly not Johans. Which means it had been at least 3 years, perhaps closer to 4, since I had seen him. Time flies when life gets busy.

He was the last of that generation on both sides of my immediate family.  All of my grandparents are now passed on. That is something remarkable. It’s not every day a generation comes to an end. He is survived by his wife, known to us as Duda, a lovely woman who’s been around my whole life, but not my blood grandmother.

My grandmother, his ex-wife, passed away just over a year ago.  I also hadn’t seen her in many, many years. Benita was about to turn 1 the last time we saw her.  I was able to travel home for her memorial- things lined up schedule-wise, and I felt pulled to be there.  

I learned a lot about my grandmother at her memorial.  She didn’t want a big funeral, so we kept it short and sweet.  A few people said some words- anyone who wanted to actually. They shared memories, told stories, shared laughs.  It was a really nice way to remember her. During the memorial, I stood back and listened, and felt a deep, deep sadness at having missed out.  My path in life had taken me away from her. She lived far away from where I generally traveled when I returned to the States. I didn’t know her.  I found out during that memorial, that apparently she and I had a lot in common. We both loved to cook, shop, be indoors (instead of the great outdoors).  We both enjoyed the finer things in life. Eggs Benedict was both of our favorite breakfast. She was a collector of dinnerware, place settings, Christmas ornaments, and clothing and jewelry.  I am a collector of baby carriers, nail polish, makeup and coffee cups. We both enjoyed a very well stocked kitchen- both in terms of food and tools.

It turns out, I found out, my grandma might have been someone with whom I would have gotten along. But I wasn’t there to find out.  

I won’t be able to travel to my grandfather’s services, and I am not drawn to be there either.  I am at peace wishing him peace from here. I have offered my support to my mom if she needs it from me, and I have sent my love to Duda.      

Mostly, the thing that keeps bubbling up over this last year of loss, is what it means to stay in touch with family.  I realize that my relationship with my grandparents was highly influenced by my parents' relationship with their parents.  And now that I am an adult child myself, I realize what a complex thing it is to be an adult child and to have that relationship with your parent.

I want my kids to have their grandparents in their lives.  I will do my best to allow them access to those relationships- but relationships are, and always have been, a two-way street.  Grandparents have to make an effort to connect with grandkids as well.

Not all grandparents are equal.  Not all grandparents are out of the movies.  Sweet little old men and women with white hair who bake cookies and read stories.  Nope, in fact, my kids don’t have anyone by that description. My kids’ grandparents have varying levels of gray in their hair, super varying cooking and baking abilities, and very, very different amounts of patience for their grandkids’ antics.  Some have lots, some have little. They are human.

And what I have come to see, what I have come to uncover because of my personal, inward journey, is that my parents are the children of broken people.  People who lived through and survived things that broke them. People who lived with realities they never desired, realities they didn’t dream. People who were torn from their homes, forced to new lands, dealt cards for a game they didn’t want to play.  They made it through, they healed some of the breaks, but there was a cost. There was a big cost. It cost them personally, which in turn cost their children, which, has also, in turn, cost us, their children's children.

Pain, suffering, hurt and grief can be passed on generationally.  Bad habits, parenting mistakes, and all the ways we never meant to do things- they can all be passed on.  And, of course, all of these things can be healed as well. My parents both work on healing in their own way. I am also working on it.  None of us is permanently broken. We all have the ability to heal- but there must be willingness. The willingness to heal seems to be a generational thing too. As in... older generations, those still living, sometimes don't see the point in getting into it all. The attitude seems to be something along the lines of, "yes, these things happened, they were terrible, they shouldn't be talked about, it won't change anything, move on."

I whole-heartedly disagree. And I challenge anyone who thinks the best thing to do is to take all the bad things that have happened in their life and stuff them down and keep them hidden forever, to ask others, anyone near and dear to them, whether or not it's obvious that they are doing so. I pretty much guarantee that your hidden hurts are not as hidden as you think they are. You're not fooling anyone, except maybe yourself.

This is all why I'm still in therapy, still working on healing stuff. It's ongoing work to try to actually be able to move past the things that happened in your life. Because life is full of shitty things that happen. And if you don't know how to heal or transform the stuff that has deeply affected you, it stays with you, ongoingly affecting everything, whether you want it to or not. Which is why I don't try to hide it. I mean, you don't have to throw your stuff all over the place- but you don't have to pretend that life hasn't happened to you.

I have to bring this back to the beginning and say that, my grandparents were not the willing types. They weren't able to heal the stuff that happened to them. They didn't like to talk about the things that happened to them. And that is what it is. And so, what I wish for them, in the afterlife, is to be in a place, where their hearts are freed from the experiences and memories that plagued them. To be able to face, forgive and move on from the pain.

I don't know how to end this... my grandfather passed away. A man I didn't have much of a relationship with. My grandmother passed away and I wished I had known her better. My grandparents went through really tough times in their lives. They didn't deal with a lot of it, and that had an impact on their kids, and their kids' kids, and the relationships we all had/have with each other.

When you're no longer normal

I don't want to apologize for where I'm at- but, I do hate that I'm still here.  That is, I'm not *still* HERE.  I am in a wholly new place, a long off different place than I was years ago- BUT, I still struggle with food, my body, my worth and all the ways in which these things tie together.  I'm 38 years old, and I still struggle.  I don't think I ever would have guessed as a younger person that these things would still be issues for me at this age.  But they are.

Here's the thing.  These issues are deep.  Sometimes they feel like just really big personal failures.  Other times they feel like issues stemming directly from so many ways in which the world failed me.  Some days I feel responsible, other days I want to shirk it all.  And on the good days, I know that I am the only one who can choose to make any difference now, so what's my next step?

The next step is the thing I've been thinking about a lot lately.  And I had a great conversation with a friend about it recently.  Friend and I have been ships passing in the night for a few weeks, so when we finally got together, we had lots to say and not that much time to say it all in.  She shared about all the cool stuff happening in her life, and then,  I shared what's been going on for me.  Most notably, I am still trying to adjust to being back at work with such a young baby at home.  I am trying to adjust to being the mother of 4 children.  I am trying to adjust to doing all of this without my mom.  I am not feeling successful a lot of the time.  In fact, it often feels like a losing battle.  And when I start feeling this way, there is this automated app inside of me that tries to helpfully distract me from the real issues by making it all about my body size/shape/weight.  Of course, it's not really helpful, but, my brain hasn't gotten that far yet, so this keeps happening. The good thing is that I at least recognize that app.  I just can't quite disable it yet.  Would love to uninstall and clear up some space.  (Ok, going too far with this app metaphor...)

So I was talking to Friend.  I said how, I'm struggling with all this adjusting I'm doing, and it's making me worry about losing weight or wanting to lose weight.  And then the hard thing is that, while losing weight won't change my worth, it could improve other things, and would not be a bad thing.  There is excess weight to be lost. And especially now that I am done bearing children, there is forward motion to be had.  This body is coming back to me- for the last nearly 10 years it has been at the mercy of others- but soon it will be mine again, for me, mine alone to use as I would like.

Recap, there is weight to be lost.  But I don't NEED to lose weight.  Losing weight won't make me a better teacher, mother, wife or friend.  Losing weight won't make me a better person, or help me adjust to all my new roles any better.  Losing weight will change the way I look- *maybe* the way I feel.  Losing weight will not bring happiness that is not already there.

So next steps.  What do I do?  How do I get there?  And this is where it gets tricky... when you're no longer normal.

You see, I have a lot of years of food misuse behind me.  Food abuse.  Eating for the wrong reasons.  Or, eating to extremes.  Or using food as a tactic or tool.

There is this indulgent side to me.  When life gets hard, this little indulgent voice says, "hey, you deserve that."  A LOT of times, starting from when I was very young "that" was food.  I learned to eat so I could get a temporary high from the feel-good of nice food, the comfort of a full belly, the distraction from whatever else was going on.  Distressing feelings set aside, it's time to eat! Sometimes, depending on how big the feelings were, it took a lot of food.  And the more I did this over the years, the harder it became to notice when I was actually hungry, or actually full, because, when you're always eating for the wrong reasons, you lose touch with these natural instincts. Damn.

I'm no longer normal when it comes to eating.  Sometimes I can eat what feels like a normal amount, or for a normal reason- because I'm hungry.  But I often question- is this really a normal amount?  Should I be hungry again?  Am I really hungry?  Am I eating more than I need?

Back to that conversation with Friend.  You know what was so nice about it?  She was able to relate.  Not with food though.  So she actually couldn't offer any advice.  But she KNEW NOT TO OFFER ANY ADVICE, because of her own situation.  You see, she struggles with alcohol.  She enjoys it, but, has trouble stopping.  What she has found is that it's hard for her to drink in moderation.  It's all or nothing.  I might have a glass of wine while making dinner, and maybe one more with dinner- but she'll finish the bottle.  I might have a happy hour drink with friends- she ends up out until 2am when happy hour turns into a night out.  She ends up emotional and distressed, arguing with people she loves because alcohol has control of her.

I can't really relate to all that, because, I know if I drink more than a certain amount, I won't be able to take care of my kids, I'll feel sick, I'll be tired, etc... so I don't do it.  I only really enjoy the first 2 glasses of anything anyway- maybe 3.  4 and we're in trouble.  So mostly, I don't do it.  I just stop.  But she can't do that.

She can't do that, in the same way, that I can't just eat a bit less, or just cut out certain foods, or, just eat a little bit of something.  And she doesn't really get why I can't just not put more food in my face, just like I don't really get why she can't just not drink another drink.  AND YET, we both get it perfectly, because, although the substance is different, for both of us, it's something we're no longer normal with.  We can't deal with the issue the way a normal eater or casual alcohol user would.  Because that is no longer us.

All that to say- I'm not sure what my next step is.  I don't know where I should try to go, which direction would be the best use of my time and energy at the moment. But what I do know is that this is a journey... and the road I'm on might be a bit longer and a bit windier than someone else's road.  I do believe that the road leads somewhere better.  That I can hope for a brighter future, where there is less struggle.  But, how long it takes me to get there, and just how much work I will have to put in to get there... who can say, but it'll probably be a bit more than normal.           

Meet Johans Martins

This is almost my favorite baby noise ever. Almost.  My actual favorite is the one he makes after sneezing, but so far I haven't been able to capture it on video.  I will try.   Because I don't want to lose these memories.  I mean, I'll never forget, but, I know in time, it will be harder to hear the sound in my head, and soon he will grow out of making it.  Johans Martins, 2 months and 8 days old. 

This is us... forever

My mom was just here for a month.  On Saturday night I took her to the airport, and just before she was headed into security she said to me, "Your family is entering a new phase now.  This is it.  You are you- for the next 80 years!"

What she is referring to is the fact that now that Johans has been born and completed our family, this is it.  This is us.  This is us not just today, but, for a long time to come!  

Mom is right.  This is big.  

First of all, it's big for me, as the person responsible for growing all new members of our family. Every time I had a baby, of course, I was interested in trying to get back in shape, but, there was always this voice in my head which said, "Hey, what's the point, you're just gonna get pregnant again!"  But, not anymore! This time, this is it!  I have about 18 months until I turn 40.  There is time... but it's time to DO SOMETHING for sure! 

And of course, when I say DO SOMETHING, I mean things like, honor the journey my body has been on. Feed it delicious, nutritious food.  Move it in all the ways that make me happy- right now it's Pilates, and hopefully, relatively soon it will be weights and cardio again because while I enjoy Pilates, weights make me giddy.  I want to lift some heavy shit!  This body is a machine- and right now the machine has been through 9 years of tough work.  It needs some love and attention for sure.  

Our children are now all here.  They have each other.  Beni will never have a biological sister- though I can only wish for her to grow to find sisterhood among her peers like I have with mine.  She is the big sister to three brothers.  She and Zintis, though they would never admit it, are still best friends, and I hope that continues forever.  The little boys will have each other.  And ultimately they will all have each other.  Beni will be in university before Johans enters high school, so who knows what their relationship will be like over the long run.  Perhaps it will make them closer, perhaps the opposite.  

As a mother, I can only sit and wonder about who they will become.  Who will have children first?  Who will have children at all? The paths they will take are certainly not predestined.  If I had to take a stab at it now- I would say Beni will take a predictably responsible path.  She may end up doing something with animals, like becoming a vet.  She already says she wants kids, so I hope she finds someone with whom to make that happen, as raising kids in a partnership is definitely easier. Zintis will, I think, do something wild.  He may take a more alternative path.  He loves numbers and math, and has a unique way of thinking when it comes to them- but he won't become an accountant.  If he uses his love of maths in the future it will be in an artistic way, or some wild crazy way that makes him a billionaire.  That would be cool.  Vilnis, if anyone will, will grow to be like his father.  Either his wildness will take him into actual sports, or, he'll follow directly in dad's footsteps and become a PE teacher.  But he'll have to get all that energy out somehow.  Or maybe he'll follow in his godfather's footsteps and be an outdoorsman.  I could see that.  He'll be giving us all heart attacks climbing cliff faces without any kind of safety measures or something.  And Johans, well, it's really too early to tell just yet.  But whatever he does, my guess is that it will be a serious job to which he brings joy.  Because so far, he is my most serious baby yet, but then, given a reason to smile (like a diaper change) he is just all smiles and giggles.  He'll make people smile, that is for sure. 

Anyway, that's all a mother's crazy predictions, and I wouldn't put money on any of them.  These kids will grow up to be ordinary humans, each extraordinary in their own way.  

This year, Joel and I will celebrate our 10 year wedding anniversary.  10 years!  It hardly seems possible it was that long ago until we look at our soon to be 9-year-old daughter. :)  In any case, now that we're done baby-making, we still have to get through baby-raising of course- no small feat- but, certainly, it will mark a new phase in our relationship as well.  Within two years, I will no longer have a baby at home, within 3-4 years I will no longer have a nursling.  It won't be too long until we're no longer tied down to small children that need us ALL THE TIME.  We'll still have 4 kids, and I know they will always need us, and I know the demands will change over time- Beni is already giving us a preview of the shitshow the teen years might be- but, it will be different than a tiny baby who literally needs your body to survive.  Who knows what will open up for us, and what we will have to sort through as a couple.  But, I am pretty clear there will be some stuff to sort through.  Focusing on babies for 9 years takes a toll on a relationship.  It changes people.  And Joel and I will have to find our new connection.  The focus shifts for us- from growing to establishing.  Like, before, our family was being added to all the time.  Now, we're all here and it's about establishing who we are as a family.  

I wanted another girl.  We have 1 girl and 3 boys.  Of course, we do.  That was meant to be the way it is.  Johans was meant for our family.  His sweet little smile is the perfect launching point into the future.  Because this is us.            

Does anyone even write blogs anymore?

I mean, really.

The thing is, I need to. 

I need to write.

I need to put words together and get them out of my head. 

Sometimes they make sense, sometimes they are measured and sure and thought out.  Other times they are a rant- fast and violent and aggressive and possibly something I'll regret later.  Sometimes its just loving on my kids or my husband.

Well. 

Whatever it is.  I need to get these words out. I need to use my time and my energy to do writing.  And since I'm not writing anything else, I'll write a blog. 

I'm back. 

Watch this space.