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Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Mind Over Matter: The Birth of a Mother
The title of this site comes from the word M.O.M., which stands
for Mind Over Matter. There are a million discomforts and problems and annoying little situations that instantly make you
a Mom. It's your ability or inability to deal with them, during which time your lesson becomes exactly that. I'm constantly
struggling with the concept that if you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter. No matter what it is.
For me, summertime marks the onset of my mind-over-matterhood. More specifically,
it was an incident that made me wish I could disappear into a puff of smoke.
Guy (my husband) and I went to the beach one beautiful, pregnant day
in August. I didn't feel great, but I wasn't going to let a little nausea ruin an otherwise perfect summer day. I consumed
a healthy version of PB&J on the one-mile trek in the heat from the parking lot to the beach. When we reached the beach,
I still felt sick. Worse, in fact.
All of our friends there knew I was pregnant and asked how I was feeling
and did I know what I was having and had I chosen any names and did I start a college fund and on and on. A few people
even said, "You don’t look so good." I thought I might be over-heated and in need of a cooling swim. It’s not unusual to get
hot while you’re on the rollercoaster from Hell called pregnancy because there is absolutely no breeze. Anyway, as soon as
my bloated little toes touched the water the fierce little alien within began his hormonal happy dance until I was sure I
would pass out.
Then the worst thing imaginable hit me like a brick to the head. I was going
to have explosive diarrhea. It was at least half a mile to the bathroom, so I imagined running into the water. I could almost
hear the "Chariots of Fire" theme song as I envisioned pushing people out of the way in slow motion and jumping into the water.
Then I imagined swimming out past all the other swimmers holding my crap long enough to uncork into the waves. Then I imagined
body surfing in my own shit. Then I imagined other people body surfing in my shit and tracing it to me.
That scenario didn’t even end well in my fantasy, so I grabbed Guy's hand,
giving him that special look that says, I'm about to shit my pants. With great panic I said, "We have to
go NOW!"
As we began running off the beach, someone yelled, "We’ll watch your stuff."
I didn't care. All I could concentrate on was holding back a river of crap. Pregnant alien rollercoaster from Hell crap. My
dignity was like a mirage as I blurted out statements like, "I won’t make it.... Help me.... Ouch, it hurts.... Oh God!...
I can’t hold it anymore.... I can’t!... It’s gonna come out.... It’s coming out.... It’s out."
Guy ran to get the car leaving me behind as I finally chose to give up the
fight and squat on the beach, directly onto the burning hot sand. I prayed no one could see me. I was in such a state
of panic and fury that I didn’t even think to bury my sacred crap so no one would accidentally step in it. Instead, I continued
running like a deer from a hunter.
Graveyard Shift
It is almost midnight. The kids went to bed late tonight. Sometimes I feel bad putting them to bed in daylight hours,
even if it is their usual bedtime. I remember looking out the window of our second floor apartment in a two-family house
in Orange, NJ, seeing other kids playing, while I was supposed to be snoozing. I felt like I must be missing out on something.
Well, not now.
Now, I lust after sleep and dive into it every night, knowing I'll soon wake before I'm ready. But if I went to bed early
every night, when would I work? I used to laugh at myself because I didn't like to go to bed at night or get up in the morning. Since
becoming a mother five years ago, I've struggled like never before for balance: to keep house, keep the kids happy and
maintain my sanity. For whatever reason, work is my sanity. It's the only thing that is all mine, something no one else has
control over or can manipulate quite like I can. So, I hold it dear and save it for the night.
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My name is Yolanda Navarra Fleming. I am a 37-year-old writer, mother, wife,
musician, dreamer, monster, creator, destroyer, humorist, lover, and so much more.
Consider this a virtual sliver of my mind, a visit to my experiences of late,
my thoughts, work and concerns as they exist in my corner of reality.
For years, I've kept journals to record whatever was taking me over at
the moment (i.e. poetry, short stories, rants, recipes, etc.). This year, I stopped because I've grown tired of
creating, thinking and yes, even ranting, in isolation. Now, I'm ready to share.
So let me begin to unravel portions of my work, some framenting at this
very moment, others new and fresh, to demonstrate where I've been and perhaps even where I'm headed.
Eventually, I'd love others to contribute on a quarterly basis. No limits. No
expectations. Whatever strikes the fancy and enlightens the heart will do. Until then, enjoy me as I have enjoyed you.
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| "Hats," pastel by Tova Navarra |
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"DeepSong," painting by Tova Navarra
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What's Inside...
Fall 2006
FEATURE:
Massage Your Baby
SPOTLIGHT:
Growing Up On Canvas:
Tova Navarra
FASHION:
Red Hot Red Bank
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| Photo by Tova Navarra (Yolanda, Vinnie and Julia |
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