Yellowstone is filled with motorcycles: the majestic scenery and winding roads form ideal conditions for such travel. I love seeing them everywhere I go. They remind me of my dad, and of a vision I once had of myself. I have long imagined myself riding one, but haven’t yet found the nerve. The closest I’ve come to piloting such a vehicle was taking my friend’s new moped around the block, but I have often been found riding on the back. I remember my mom telling me that when I was a baby, she and my dad would put me between them on the motorcycle. I don’t think he owned his Harley then, but maybe an old Kawasaki. (Then again, maybe I imagined this altogether, but it’s a happy, if unsafe, image).

One summer when I was 19, I rode on the back of my friend Joel’s (pronounced Jo-el’s) bike along the coast of Lake Michigan. This famous Chicago strip of road is known to locals as L.S.D., and as chance would have it, Jo and I had just ingested L.S.D. of a different kind.

Why my 19-year-old brain thought it was wise to mount a machine driven by a man on drugs, I’ll never know. My only defense (a poor one) is to say that we weren’t going that far, and we weren’t that high (yet). It was my friend Josh’s birthday and we were headed to his house to surprise him with a hit of his own. This was long before the demons of adulthood and prescription drugs would grab him.

The last time I saw Josh was 10 years later (we hadn’t kept in touch). It was our high school reunion. We got into some kind of argument and I got into a car accident. (I don’t remember either very well.) That was the last time I touched alcohol, and a few months later he was dead. It was never clear if it was an accident, or an overdose, or a suicide. The motive was vague but the mechanism was clear: pills, pills, legally prescribed pills. One day he just didn’t wake up.

(If my own daughter ever chooses to experiment with psychedelics, may it please be somewhere safe, somewhere beautiful, somewhere still. Further, I pray pray pray that she never touches the bad drugs. You know the ones: meth, crack, heroin, and pills. It is not so difficult to fear needles, and strange liquids simmered in dirty spoons, but all those colorful little tic-tacs seem so safe—after all, they come from doctors. So may she please be especially wary of those.)

All these bad associations not withstanding, or rather, taken into account, Lakeshore Drive that summer—as seen from the back of a motorcycle and enhanced by the onset of hallucinogens—was breathtaking. The drugs had just begun to take hold. Our pupils—like saucers—were seeing greater detail; taking in an unnatural levels of light; observing the world in euphoric, high-contrast Technicolor, but the images and ideas had not yet begun to dance.

Joel said, “Nico, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Feeling so pure of heart and so sure, I replied, matter-of-factly, “An artist.” I wasn’t an artist yet, but in that moment I felt certain that someday I would be. “Everyone wants to be an artist,” he said. “What do you really want to be?” I can’t remember if I responded at all.

The same weekend I got into that car accident—a minor one involving only me, a sign, and my boyfriend’s car; but one significant enough to change my life—Rafal was taking an immersive weekend course to gain his motorcycle license. I believe the fact that he had both an outlet for his anger and a source of deep delight that weekend is partly why he did not leave me.

Nearly two years into our abstinence from alcohol, Rafal fixed up our neighbor’s bike. Her Honda Rebel had been sitting in the back yard collecting rust, and Rafal—ever the handyman—got it up and running again. Once again, I found myself on the back of a motorcycle, this time on the winding back roads of SIU campus, along the edges of the Shawnee Forest. This time, attached to someone I love, I felt the trees and the moon forgiving me. I felt the past becoming the past. I felt bathed by the wind and made new. Rafal was about to leave for the summer, but our connection was electric. Weeks later, with Rafal en route to Yellowstone alone, a little blue plus sign would appear.

We will probably never hold her between us on a motorcycle. But I like pretending that we will.

For the first time, I am beginning to see the show in my head, as a thing in three dimensions.

I see pull-down charts. Handmade pull-down charts, in the style of Der Vorfuhreffekt (of course). One with a list: “Things You Should Know About Me.” Others with hand-drawn pictures depicting me in different locations or as backdrops for different scenes: post office, home, forest. In an ideal world, one to use as an actual slide projection screen.

(How I am going to create what I see with no studio, no budget, no babysitter, no director is another question entirely, and one for another day.)

***

It has suddenly hit me that it’s almost August, and that many people will begin leaving the park—both tourists and workers—in order to go back to school. “Summer,” as it is defined largely by academic calendars and not planetary ones, is nearly over. The end of the peak season here in Yellowstone is hot on my heels.

I am filled with the impending realization that my show will not be finished in time; certainly not fully realized or fully staged. Thus, I am riding the waves between not letting myself give in to feelings of impossibility and fears of inadequacy (an inability to see how I could pull it all off), and the gracious understanding that sometimes these things need more time.

I worked on Sideshow for far longer than I have been working on this new nameless show, and I think that is part of what made it so strong: my thoughts had time to ruminate, to gestate, to connect. (Though I do endeavor to stop comparing this one to that at every turn. Different projects are, by nature, different.)

***

I wrote a letter to the superintendent of the park asking for an artist residency. There is not an official program here, but, because of my “professional” status and the fact that I am already here, I was requesting an exception. Writing to the superintendent is roughly equivalent to writing to the dean of a university: I kind of always knew he would never write back. But sending out applications (of one kind or another) has always been part of my process. Articulating an intangible, and as yet non-existent, thing, as though it is a solid and sellable artistic product seems to be how I solidify my intentions. In this letter, I wrote:

“I am seeking the opportunity to share one such original work—based on my time here and exploring the biological, ecological, and historical legacies of the park—with the Yellowstone community. By investigating themes of motherhood; communication (both interspecies and via the USPS); and the tensions between danger and safety (or wilderness and cultivation), this performance aims to educate, entertain, and inspire.”

And now I return to this to review the assignment I have given myself:

I will talk about the biological, ecological, and historical legacies of Yellowstone.

My themes are motherhood, communication, and danger/safety.

I am ready for the big paper. It is time to start making charts.

***

I am sitting in the lobby of the Lake Hotel, in front of a large stone fireplace. The weather is cool today, in the 40s, and the warmth feels good. This lobby is substantial, sprawling, so wide that it makes the 20 ft ceiling seem squat. One wall is all picture windows facing the lake it is named for, and on such a blustery day, the choppy waves resemble unpolished gemstones.

This is my third trip to Lake Hotel, a 21 mile journey from my home that takes anywhere from 40 minutes to over an hour, but on my prior exhibitions I only made it as far as the Starbucks. Today I discovered this cherished lobby, where I imagine myself putting many words to the page.

There was a large swell of tourist energy this morning, but the wave has broken and slid back. I nursed and walked Lydia around this room of rugged opulence—the grand piano; the grandfather clock; the European women in warm, woven shawls—and now she sleeps against my chest.

For the rest of my life, I will cherish the feeling of her sleeping against me. Almost nothing has ever been as sweet.

***

There is a place in Grant Village called the Lakeshore Pavilion. It is a small, outdoor auditorium of sorts with benches, a stone back wall, and a long stone table where the “stage” sits. It was created for park rangers to deliver presentations to interested guests. It overlooks Yellowstone Lake. It seats maybe 25 people.

I walk the paved trails around the Grant Village Visitor Center (and this pavilion) with Lydia almost daily. I stop here and I pretend. I manifest. I imagine.

There must be a way to both honor the process and respect the deadline. Perhaps a staged reading? Perhaps.

One of the first days I worked at the post office, two bright-eyed twenty-somethings came in to drop off flyers for Employee Recreation Services, advertising some upcoming events. There are several different groups of employees here in Grant Village, who work for different companies, and with different housing assignments. The largest group is the Xanterra folk. Xanterra handles all of the concessions and hospitality services throughout the park: the lodges, hotels, restaurants, and campgrounds. They have dorms in every village, and generally employ college-aged kids from all over the US and abroad. Next is Delaware North who run the General Stores in each village, and this is primarily populated by retired people who just want to work part time and spend the summer in Yellowstone. Then there’s a small group called YPSS who run the service station. After that is the National Park Service: your Law Enforcement Rangers (LE’s), Interpretive Rangers (Interps), Resources Folk, and Maintenance Workers (Rafal falls under this last category and we live in the NPS housing area.) Then there is someone like me who works at the post office. This teeny tiny post office is what’s known as a “contract station,” which means that although we are a genuine United States Postal Service outpost, I am not directly employed by the Federal Government. (So, no, in case you were wondering, I am not receiving the mythical benefits bestowed upon your average postal worker. But I only work about 12 hours a week, I get to wear whatever I want—all tattoos and piercings exposed—and listen to Kruder and Dorfmeister while I do it. So I’m not complaining.) Instead, I am technically employed by Sidekick Contracting and I am one of two total employees. While the Employee Recreation events are open to all employees in Yellowstone, their office is located within the Xanterra dorm, and they serve mostly the Xanterra kids.

When they dropped off their flyers, the words TALENT SHOW stood out to me, bold and beautiful. I’d been looking for some way to connect with people—even as an NPS wife, I am not exactly dialed into a community—and I have a long history with talent shows.

Before I rafted the Grand Canyon, I was invited to perform in a homegrown talent show in a log cabin deep in Montana, put on by the people whom I’d never met (except for one: Kelso), but with whom I would be spending 30 days rafting. I performed The Great Smoke-Off by Shel Silverstein and won (both the talent show and their hearts). I carried this “No Talent Talent Show” tradition with me to Petit-Jean Performance Festival, which, as far as I know, is an institution that SIU still upholds (and was the genesis of my terrible alter-ego, Jacky Appleton, but that’s a whole other story). While we were in the Grand Canyon, Kelso and I wrote a rafting rap that we performed in my favorite talent show ever, and this rap became part of Sideshow (but only in the full-length version). I love me a good talent show. I thought this might be a way in.

The next time the Employee Rec kids came by, I casually asked if I would be able to participate, since I’m not technically affiliated with any of the major employment groups, and they affirmed with excitement.

My initial impulse was to perform The Great Smoke-Off again. I usually pull this baby out whenever an impromptu performance opportunity presents itself, because it’s a crowd pleaser, I can really sell it, it requires no props, it’s already memorized, and most importantly: it wins talent shows. The Great Smoke Off tells of the epic battle between Pearly Sweetcake—who can smoke ‘em faster than any dude can roll—and the Calistoga Kid—who can roll ‘em faster than any chick can smoke as they battle for the world title in Yankee Stadium. But drugs are R E A L L Y taboo here in the National Park, like downright scandalous, like you do not want to out yourself as someone who associates with, or, god forbid, approves of drug use. So that piece was out of the question.

I hemmed and hawed and procrastinated; and thought about using something new about Yellowstone, but nothing is really ready yet; and thought about doing something old from Sideshow, but I didn’t know if anyone would get it and worried about being too sexy; and I suddenly felt as though I had never written anything good ever and I thought about chickening out. But just a couple of days prior to the big event, the Employee Rec kids returned with more flyers. They were thrilled that I was thinking about being in the talent show and they brought a sheet for me to fill out with my bio and a bit of information about my piece. How could I say no? I jotted down my info and under talent I simply wrote “Storytelling.”

I texted Rafal about it and I also put it up to Facebook. Rafal, Gigi, Tracy, Ash, and others all said HULA-HOOP SCENE. So although I was nervous, I took the overwhelmingly unanimous suggestion. But rather than letting the hula hoop scene play without context, I fashioned an 11-minute piece with a bit from the opening, a few new lines, the hula-hoop scene (actually titled: Anna Louise: The Invocation), and some from the very end. I now present this piece to you:

***

Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve come here tonight to spin you a story. A tale that touches five generations: five daughters turned mothers across a matrilineal sequence. All five of these women chose the stage: out of love, out of necessity, in line with destiny. All five of these women rode rapids of shame: both female and poor, but fiercely independent, struggling to be both seen and remembered.

Within this story, I hold the sound of applause, the taste of adrenaline, the ever-changing smell of entertainment: those inextinguishable sensory snap shots that seduce even the most sensible of creatures. For beneath this tent, for this brief moment—as it is with every circus—the illustrious, the fantastic, and the synchronicitous will be our guide. So please, suspend your disbelief with me and enjoy the ride.

My great-great grandmother was a trapeze artist. Which means, as far back as I can tell, the women in my family have been performers. There is my great-great grandmother the circus performer, my great-grandmother the burlesque dancer, my grandmother who danced in Chicago’s jazz clubs, my mother who traveled with the carnival sideshow, and me. But not everyone in our family is proud of this lineage—it’s too sordid, too sexy, too symbolic of the lower class—and so, over time, much of this history has been lost.

According legend, my great-great-grandmother, Anna Louise Townsend, worked for Ringling Brothers before they merged with Barnum and Baily. In the narrative of my family, it is always stated exactly that way. In the patchy oral historical archive, the fact that she worked before the merger was significant and that lone fact was well preserved.

But based on the information I do have, Anna Louise would have worked for Ringling Bros. between 1904 and 1910. Ringling Bros. joined with Barnum & Baily Circus in 1907, but they were managed and toured separately until 1919. So she would have been working in the years leading up to and during the merger. It’s only natural that some things would have gotten lost.

And I did find one clue: one little scrap of information, the kind you latch onto, and magnify, and dream about. There was a famous dancing elephant by the name of Anna Louise. One has to wonder, where did the elephant get her name? [Beats Antique’s Roustabout begins]

I dreamed a dream of Anna Louise Townsend, supine atop the trapeze beam, arms outstretched, traveling. Imagining all her life would be. And I heard her. Breathing. Smiling so loud it could laugh.

Anna Louise rode the trapeze. But the breadcrumbs of legend stop there.

And then, I saw it: the story of Arthur Ringling. The blind greed that drove away his brother and led him into a bad business bargain. Arthur Ringling, scorned by the flame of P.T. Barnum and exiled by his lust for coin, fell into a sleep of his own.

The symmetry of her face appeared to him. Before the merger, before the fanfare. That siren of the trapeze. By 1906, Arthur rarely broke bread with the performers. But one autumn day with the moon in the sky he marched through the main floor. As her trapeze swung and the wind caught her hair she called out “Lord, please let me die on the back of adventure.”

Arthur Ringling, already an old man, felt his age settle into his bones. It was crazy, but he loved her. His lips to hers and adventure was found.

He woke with her name in his mouth, with her taste on his teeth and he called out, “Anna Louise!” But Anna Louise Townsend, now Anna Louise Baugh, was long gone.

With what feeble strength he maintained in his legs, he pulled himself to the stables. With what feeble authority he maintained in this place, in the dream he had constructed, he laid her name upon a baby elephant. So someone would never forget.

Anna Louise Baugh, already a widow, surrounded by children and grandchildren, one brisk Chicago evening, whispered, as she filled out the 1940 census questionnaire, “Lord, please let me die on the back of adventure.”

And as if to answer, her granddaughter, still a child, fell into a sleep of her own. She saw her tap shoes and the jazz clubs where she would rouge her knees. Dorothy Delores was adventure incarnate.

And my grandmother, raised by her grandmother, saw herself raising me. She awoke from her slumber, broke open a cardboard box., and on the day of the 1940 census, she danced. She executed her first shuffle-hop-step with such proficiency; the sight would have delighted Arthur Ringling. [music ends]

In truth, there was no Arthur Ringling. Charles Edward Ringling and John Nicholas Ringling were the actual brothers in questions. And they bought the circus from Barnum, not the other way around.

Anna Louise the elephant was imported from Zimbabwe by Frank Thompson of Bradenton, Florida. She was purchased by Tom Demry, who trained her for the circus. Tom Demry and Anna Louise continue to perform today.

But still, I can’t help but wonder, where did they come up with that Elephant’s name?

In this complicated world of ours, there is so much to be ashamed of. There are so many ways to not feel like enough. But lucky for you and lucky for me the rules of mundanity do not apply here. For beneath this tent and for this brief moment, as it is with every circus, there is more than enough passion to go around. For it is not pride that counteracts shame; pride is just another magic trick of the ego. Instead it is passion that mixes with shame in the mysterious alchemy towards self-love.

In the twisted tale you weave through your life, the life of your family, the life of your art I give you permission to not be good enough, for who is, for what kind of monster could be.

And who am I to give such permission? Just a magician, just a friend, just a fifth-generation performance artist making peace with my class and my past.

You can feel it can’t you? My magic? My permission? The depth of my passion and love? It is contagious, it is unlimited, it is enough. Thank you.

***

I did not win the Grant Village talent show. I came in 3^rd behind a salsa dancing duo (1^st) and a violinist (2^nd), who were all deserving of their awards. The salsa dancers and violin player went on to the park-wide show the next day.

There was a problem with my bluetooth speaker and my audio was too quiet: it was audible, but the balance wasn’t right. And it is a difficult thing to lose your audience, to grab their attention, hold for a bit, and then slowly feel some of it dissipate. It is hard to keep giving it your all as you’re hyperaware of their burgeoning disregard, but it is such good practice to keep pushing. I kept thinking about Amanda Palmer, about how her work as a street performer gave her, in her words, “balls of steel,” and taught her that she didn’t need everyone to like her. She only needed a few people to fuel the whole endeavor. And I didn’t let all of them slip. A good handful of the audience stayed with me, eyes wide and on the edges of their seats. So I continued to perform for everyone, considering it a gift, especially for those who wanted to receive it. And the judges were among the handful, bad audio or not.

In the days since the talent show, people have talked to me about it at the post office. Compliments, conversations about performance art, and connections have emerged, and that was always the point. As a part of the bio the MC read from to introduce me, I included the fact that I am writing a new piece about Yellowstone and that I hope to perform here in Grant before the end of the season. When he read this aloud, the audience cheered, and just this morning, a customer at the post office asked me how the writing was going. I provided a gift—my art, my vulnerability—and small seeds are beginning to grow.

Everything is slower here. Everything is different with Lydia on my hip. But I am committing words to the page, little by little by little, and making connections the same way.

I am reassured that, no matter what, my art will persevere. Namaste and Fuck Shame.

Yesterday, Rafal and I both had the day off. We did not need to drive to town for groceries, there were no pressing car repairs, and nothing much that we needed to do. Also, it was pouring down rain.

Before we moved here, I thought I would relish our trips to town. “Town,” by the way, refers either to Jackson, Wyoming (known colloquially as Jackson Hole) or Cody, Wyoming (founded and named after Buffalo Bill Cody), which are each about a two-hour drive in different directions. I also assumed that of the two options, I would much prefer the bourgeois ski village to the rodeo town, but (as I’m fond of repeating) life is full of surprises. It turns out that while I enjoy the fancy coffees and larger selection of health food options in Jackson, I’ve got a little love affair with the town founded by Buffalo Bill—a man who became (at one point, at least in legend) the most famous person in the world by way of a traveling road show—with its honest-to-goodness cowboy flair and less expensive groceries. But even more surprisingly, either town is second banana to a day at home in the park with my family.

Typically, a “day at home” means hiking, but yesterday was a steady rain. We had already watched all of our Netflix DVDs and every DVD we have been able to beg, borrow, or steal from Rafal’s co-workers (we’ve been here for seven weeks without internet). So we needed to get creative.

We started the day early (as if Lydia gives us a choice) and packed up the car. Then we headed out through the south gate of the park and into the National Forest. We’d been told about a rugged road (more of a trail, really, but for cars) that takes you to Grassy Lake (oh, such nostalgia for Carbondale), and if you stay on it, this road actually takes you all the way to a small town in Idaho. We spent a great couple of hours sloshing through the mud in our Nissan Pathfinder (product placement) through the beautiful mountain rain. Lydia fell asleep and I made a blanket wreath to product her little melon from bopping around too much.

But even after all that, we were back in our apartment by 1:00pm with nothing to do. So we suited up in our rain jackets, and set off to investigate all of the laundry rooms in the NPS housing areas. These are often used as places to store communal games, books, or movies (though the pickings are notoriously slim). We found Taboo and a weird Australian variation of Sorry called Sorry Spin. And really, it was worth it just to see Lydia in her rain coat.

The rest of the day was spent playing cards; our own made up two-person version of Taboo; and what we call “Guess Who,” (not to be confused with the board game) where one player thinks of a person, and the other player asks a series of yes-or-no questions until they figure out who it is (Is this 20 questions? We definitely don’t cut the questions off at 20. So maybe this is like Unlimited Questions, but we just call it Guess Who). Rafal and I ended up staying up in bed giggling and trying to stump each other with Guess Who’s until way after Ms. L fell asleep. What seemed doomed to be a boring day of cabin fever was actually the most fun we’d had in some time.

When I went in to work the following morning, I discovered that our Netflix DVDs had arrived a day earlier than anticipated after all, but I am so grateful that we were not sucked into Breaking Bad and instead spent the whole day making each other laugh.

[Note: this actually occurred just before the 4th of July] Way up here at 8000 feet, it hasn’t felt like summer. Beyond just the deliciously brisk weather, my whole world has been turned upside down, so I haven’t been able to decipher what day it is, let alone what month, finding myself shocked when I encounter the calendar, like, “It’s already June? I don’t remember May or April at all.” (For the record, I know it’s July now.)

But yesterday, oh boy! Summer came at me hard, with sunny open arms and a cool blue embrace. Every campground, hotel, and lodge is full to capacity in the park this weekend for the 4^th of July, and a sense of holiday spirit is swelling. Rafal, baby, and I took the beautiful drive north, up past Old Faithful, and turned off onto the Firehole River scenic drive. (On the way there we saw lots of bison and elk, and only encountered a tiny bit of traffic). We were told that the swimming hole on this route would be packed, but we went anyway! Because it was finally hot outside and we just needed to jump in a river!

The swimming hole was grand! Packed with the perfect level of family vacation energy as moms and dads and cousins and grandmas jumped and splashed and played in the river, where hot spring water mixes with ice cold snow melt to create a chilly but comfortable swim spot. It made us feel like we were on vacation too, and it felt really, really good.

And Lydia loved the water, by the way. Plus, we look really good in sun hats.

Although it is certainly exacerbated by social media (especially for a FB junkie like me), the impulse to put one’s best face forward is not new. Rather, I find this drive to be a deeply human one. I often find myself thinking that it is useless to complain (when it comes to the mundane minutia, not the big picture political stuff), as it tends to magnify my problems, reinscribe the icky feelings, and obscure the things that are good. I am sometimes so accustomed to putting on a happy face, that I don’t effectively process my negative emotions. Instead, I find myself singing the same old refrain: “Everything is good. No, everything is great. I’m so resilient and resourceful, how could I be anything but happy all the time?”

Of course, sometimes it is very healthy and effective to highlight the good stuff, but the thing about negative emotions (particularly unacknowledged ones) is that they are resilient and resourceful. They do find expression, but often in far less honest and productive ways. In my experience, they behave like barnacles, attaching themselves to whatever insignificant nuisance is ready-to-hand, and next thing I know, I am making passive aggressive comments about dirty dishes or blowing up over dirty diapers.

In my more careful moments, I stop and ask myself, “Why am I so angry about something so stupid? What needs of mine are not being met?” And I backtrack, and I reflect, until I realize, “Gosh, I’m really lonely. I think I’ve been lonely for weeks.”

So I think what I need is a good ol’ fashioned bitch-fest. I need to get all my negative thoughts and feelings out on the table, not to solve them, necessarily, but just to process them: to unearth them and let them find voice for their own sake (not laminated onto whatever domestic things is bugging me), so that I can cultivate self-empathy and move on with my day.

But this . . . is hard for me. I feel shy, embarrassed even, compelled to reassure everyone, before I even begin, that I’m fine. There’s plenty of good stuff, too. But you guys know that, right? So let’s get started.

(1) I’m lonely (unmet need for connection)

As referenced above, it wasn’t until I had the chance to hang out with some really good friends of mine a couple of weeks ago that I realized I was lonely. I guess hanging out with a five-month old doesn’t fulfill my need for adult interaction. And, to be honest, I haven’t put any effort into making friends, and I haven’t been the best at keeping in touch with my old ones.

(2) I need a babysitter (unmet need for independence)

Gosh, I love that sweet baby, but my goodness do I need a break. Sure, Rafal gives me a little time to myself when he gets home from work, but he works 10 hours a day, so naturally, he’s pretty tired. And the two of us haven’t spent a moment alone in months.

(3) The baby still doesn’t sleep (unmet need for rest)

I really do mean that we haven’t spent one moment alone, because we are still struggling through this so-called “four month sleep regression,” which means short micro-naps, frequent night wakings, and a deep desire—on Lydia’s part—to be held all the time.

(4) I’m jealous of people who’s babies do sleep (see above unmet need for rest)

When I talk to other friends with babies and they tell me about their sleep patterns, I could just about burst into tears. What could I do if she took a not one, but TWO, two-hour naps a day? How would I feel if I could sleep six, seven, or eight hours a night? What am I doing wrong? I really don’t want to let her “cry it out.”

(5) Wolves and bison and bears, oh my! (unmet needs for safety and entertainment)

I live in one of the most beautiful places in the world, but I end up staying cooped up a lot of the time because its just too dangerous to go hiking alone with a little bambino.

(6) Also, the goddamn mosquitoes (unmet need for comfort)

I swear I am not overreacting. I’m talking about swarms of these mf-ers. Two days ago, I took L for a walk in our neighborhood (not in the deep woods), for maybe twenty minutes, and both of us were wearing baby-approved bug spray. And we both came home covered in bites. And what’s even worse is that they hang out by our door and sneak into the house whenever we come and go, so at any given time, there are up to 20 mosquitoes inside. And they hide! And they bite us in our sleep! The other day, Lydia woke up with SEVEN bites on the side of her face. Now that’s just cold, even for a mosquito.

(7) I still weigh 35 lbs. more than I did when I got pregnant (unmet need for self-love)

And the seemingly unavoidable cocktail of bears, bugs, sleep regression, and joint problems (see below) are making it very, very hard for me to work out on the reg.

(8) My joint problems are exacerbated by the elevation (unmet need for comfort)

Swollen knees, sore shoulders, achy hips: just, you know, living my life. And no chiropractors or massage therapists within two hours. (But who would watch the baby while I got a massage anyway.)

(9) I don’t have wifi (unmet needs for connection and entertainment)

DAMMIT DO I MISS THE INTERNET. I REALLY REALLY DO.

Just to post this very blog, I had to type it all out ahead of time, then get out of bed at 6am to tether to my phone, and wait upwards to twenty minutes for the gd thing to post. And between the hours of 9am and 9pm, just forget about it. I can’t even check Facebook on my phone during those times. I mean, we signed up for Netflix DVD delivery, if that puts it into perspective for you guys. The struggle is real.

(10) I have Julia Graham syndrome (unmet need for creative fulfillment)

Any Parenthood fans out there? You know how Julia’s husband Joel supported her and stayed home with their daughter, Sydney, for nine years? But then everything completely went to shit when Julia couldn’t return the favor for three months? OK, yeah. To be fair, we didn’t have a kiddo, and Rafal never “stayed home,” but he did live in a small town that offered him zero career opportunities and worked jobs he sometimes hated for seven years so I could go to graduate school for something I loved. Now I’ve been a stay-at-home parent for just a little over a month, while he is thriving at a job that he adores. I, however, am having mad job envy and I am itching to get back to my own career, despite the fact that I made a commitment (on my own, not pushed by Rafal) to put his career needs first and stay home with Lydia for “a couple of years, at least.”

(11) I am disappointed in myself for being upset about everything listed above (unmet need for self-love)

When I read this list, I see myself as shallow, selfish, and weak. But that’s the point, I guess. We are all sometimes shallow, and selfish, and less than strong. But at least by acknowledging these parts of myself, I can own up to them. And can see them for what the are: just parts of a bigger picture that will pass, if I allow them to run their course, and not shove them down and ignore them.

With all of that said, I am going to resist the urge to compose a second list of everything wonderful around me. I am going to let all of this sit and just be what it is: a list of things that suck right now, some of which may change, and some of which I just have to get use to. In the spirit of Bataille, I am going to let the low be the low. And that is going to have to be OK.

It was a wild ride.

From May 9 to May 24 was another one of our whirlwind, three-week long escapades that seemed impossible on paper, but somehow transpired none-the-less. Here’s how it went down:

On May 9, Rafal, Lydia, and I drove 300 miles to Chicago to see family and deposit our beloved kitty, Cosmo, in his new (temporary) home with my in-laws. For the following few days, we did the Chicago-shuffle from my dad’s, to my mom’s, to Raf’s folks so all the grandparents could see and hug Lydia before the big journey west. Then on May 13, we drove back down south (with two grandmas in tow) and spent the next two days frantically preparing to throw a backyard wedding. May 16 was the big day, and on that morning at graduation, I was officially hooded with my Ph.D.

That afternoon, I married my best friend (again).

[image coming soon]

But there was no time to rest after that, for we only had a few days to give away most of our stuff, pack up what was left, clean our whole house, and set off. We departed southern Illinois with full hearts on May 21, and arrived in our new home–Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming–on Sunday, May 24.

From a life of energized frenzy, to one of slow intention. We have been here for just over a week. It is lovely and calm and dangerous and unbelievable. It feels good to be home.

I gave the baby formula and the sky didn’t collapse.

Yesterday morning I gave her a 2-ounce bottle. She liked it just fine and it seemed to agree with her.

I did it just because I wanted to try it. I wanted to know if it was even an option for us. I wanted to feel as though her sole survival did not depend upon my body and my body alone.

So you may now revoke my EBF card.

I pumped immediately after feeding her the formula, and I got just shy of 5 ounces. I fed her this pumped milk before bed and she slept for 8 hours straight.

So this morning, I posted on a breastfeeding support forum looking for some resources for safe supplementing. I don’t know when I will be giving her formula again, but I’d like to read up on my options. However, without saying anything to me, the administrators of the forum deleted my post.

I wasn’t sure what happened, so I wrote to them. Sure enough, it had been removed.

They said it was the policy of their forum to never encourage the use of formula, and I guess I can see where they are coming from. But at the same time, would it have been so hard to communicate that to me openly? Or maybe even–gasp!–tell me a better place to seek this information?

I don’t want to dog on this forum. I really really don’t want to throw shade on this forum. They are an amazing resource and I respect what they are doing. I know their hearts are in the right place.

But man, it pissed me off that they deleted that post without even telling me. It really felt like I was being shamed into exclusively breastfeeding. It made it feel like breastfeeding was all or nothing. It made it seem like a cult. I have no interest in being shamed or indoctrinated. I just want to know my options so that I can best preserve both my baby’s health and my sanity.

So I gave her one tiny little bottle of formula yesterday and the world did not end. Right now, knowing that is enough.