2016

This is the year my baby was born.

Everything is connected to that: I quit my job, became a full-time artist. Let go of a lot of things. Learned to make do with very little sleep, accepted that I will probably never get all the things done that I want to get done. I pushed my body to the furthest physical extreme possible and I am okay. I learned about pain. I fell in deeper love with my husband, learned more about intimacy and partnership. Bought a house. Made that house a home. Made new friends. Friendships I already had became closer and deeper. My body changed. My mind changed. Everything changed.

I am 31-years-old.

I’m anxious about where things are going politically in our country, and doing my best to make revolution in my own small ways. I’m recognizing that these problems have been here a long time, and we are all responsible for making them better. I am a feminist now more than ever.

I am trying to be better. But also kinder to myself and knowing that where I am, who I am, is enough, is good, is wonderful in fact.

I am trying to say “sorry” less.

I am cooking more.

If something scares me I am doing it anyway.

I am ignoring parenting books/articles.

I am grieving.

I am reminding myself how to live with uncertainty, how to be open, how to let the light in.

 

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my house is me and i am it

1075395_953829920068_303375294_o.jpg This photo is from August 1, 2013, the first night Greg and I spent in our apartment on Hoxsey Street. Today we are officially moved out, and moved into our first house.

That apartment was the first place we lived together. It’s where we lived when we got engaged. It’s where we spent our wedding weekend with several guests staying over in every nook and cranny– one of the best weekends of my life. It’s where we grew our family by adding two kittens, and also where we learned our family would be growing even more with the addition of a human baby. The first home Giles ever had. The first place I lived in that my mom never saw.

 

I never thought I’d buy a house. From my first night in New York City at age eighteen I knew I’d be an apartment gal for life, always renting, always ready to be on the move, not having to fix things like plumbing, calling the electric company when the pilot light went out.

Greg convinced me a house was the right move, and I started to understand why it might be nice. Rent money just disappears, this is an investment. More space for cats and babies. A yard. Painting the walls any crazy color I want. Putting more of ourselves into our space.

Now all our stuff is here, in our house. The walls are painted. Greg is hard at work on remodeling projects. The neighborhood is full of kids and quiet and crickets and an ice cream truck that comes around.

unnamed.jpg My mom’s paintings are hung. I hope she’s here, in the brightly colored walls and skeletons and songs and food we will eventually cook once the kitchen is done.

In both of these photos I am wearing the same pair of choo-choo overalls, that once belonged to my mom, now cutoff into shorts.

My house is me and I am it. My house is where I like to be and it looks like all my dreams.
~ Mr. Plumbean (The Big Orange Splot)