Team Summer

Minneapolis has been blessed with 80+ degree temps this entire past week. Therefore the Summer of Me remains in full effect, despite it being early October, and let me tell you: it is dreamy. It’s early October. In Minneapolis. Minnesota. And I am currently wearing a tank top, mini skirt, and flip flops. In this outfit, I sit on my stoop and read. And even then, with the whole tank top and the mini skirt thing, I get overheated in the sun. Slightly confusing to the circadian rhythm, but dreamy nonetheless.

Knowing that depressing cooler days are approaching, I have spent excess amounts of time outside. And I have been dizzy with gratefulness. I secretly fantasize that this heat is The Universe giving me a surprise, summery bonus. A sort of morale-booster to bring me back into focus and remind me that this unemployment phase might stretch out into the foreseeable future, but won’t be permanent. That I still lead a very, very charmed existence. That this has been my summer. MY summer. Highlights include:

Getting around. You’ll recall from a previous post, summer kicked off with my impromptu road trip to Denver. To find Crystal and her band on the last leg of their West Coast tour (go, Bruteheart!).

Considering I almost got sucked up into the sky during severe weather just outside Lincoln the night before (see Fig. B, below), this sign was balm for my anxious soul.

Fig. B: The Sky, in all its glorious anger. My life was spared this round, but just barely.

As has been my fortune since meeting Crystal, I went to Duluth a couple of times. 

And, as if that weren’t enough, we took a family mini-road trip (our first!) all the way up to lovely Grand Marais. If you’re into ocean-like freshwater lakes and seeing about one ZILLION stars at night, Grand Marais is your jam. Srsly. I stayed up well past everyone else the night we were there, developing a sincere appreciation for the term starstruck. I didn’t want to fall asleep.

Dear Grand Marais, we love you.

I also went camping. Yes, you heard me right: I camped! In a tent! Near real bugs! Sure, it probably qualifies as cheat-camping since I didn’t have to cook and porta-potties where on-site. But when friends of ours got married on a farm and invited guests to camp overnight, I took it as the perfect 1st-time camping experience a girl like me could ever wish for. The wedding was full of happy faces and loving hearts. We ate. Raised glasses to the newlyweds. There was a dance party with a crazy light show provided by Mother Nature herself. Friends sang around a bonfire. Then we slept in our tiny tent-city, woke up, and ate some more before driving home. FUN.

The surprise hit of the summer was, hands down, spending gobs of time with my kid. Surprise? you ask. Yes. Surprise. It had been years since the two of us got to spend any serious amount of time together.

 

A day spent at the beach and trying out Bread and Pickle at Lake Harriet. Yes.

It seems silly to say that, because, well, I’ve been Felix’s primary caregiver since he was born. It’s the truth. BUT, due to the circumstances at the time, I was, well, slightly checked out. I was trying to leave an unhealthy marriage. I was healing from post-delivery complications. I was flooded with emotion and fatigue. So while I would’ve wanted those first months and years to match up with the pictures I had in my head – writing and photographing frequent baby updates, visits from dear friends, cups of coffee with my mom and Abuela – I instead found myself in a totally different reality. Totally different. I’m not saying that your average new parents don’t find themselves emotional, fatigued, and far from what they’d daydreamed about before their child(ren) came home for the first time. No. This is my blog, so I’m talking from my own experience. And, at least at first, my life with Felix was a huge bummer.

Luckily – for me, for Felix – those disconnected days are long gone. I’ve come back into myself. I’ve worked hard to get here. Felix may not know this, but he snapped me out of it. I had to do the work, certainly. But he snapped me out…

…Which brings me full circle back to our best summer ever. After his summer day camp program was done in early August, we had three weeks of nothing but Mother-and-Son time until school was back in session. I started off unsure of myself. Nervous that we’d be clashing with or bored of each other within hours. And then, a few days into it, I opened up. I remembered that I am this kid’s Mom. That he is six years old. I thought: This is it, Fuentes! This is your time together. And just like that, The Summer of Me became The Summer of Me and Felix. Go, Team Summer.

If jumping into pools were a job, Felix would have already found his calling.

That moose is made of Legos. Thousands of Legos.

We went to the beach. We hit the DQ. We spent a frighteningly steep price tag to get into the Science Museum of Minnesota (but it was worth it!). We became fixtures at the kiddie pool across the street: me, on the hill with a bird’s eye view; and Felix, repeatedly throwing himself into the water until his lips turned blue (“Mama, when we get home can I take a hot shower? And then can I have a snack? And then can I watch cartoons?” Every. Day. Multiple times a day, in some cases.). We rode the LRT out to the Mall of America. We hooked up a few playdates. We went to the farmer’s market. And, after all of that, we climbed in the car with Crystal and took another family road trip (our first interstate!) to Indianapolis. I, the Girl Who Never Road Tripped, was on her 3rd one of the summer. Snap.

As I relive my highlights, I do so steeped in reality. I haven’t sugar-coated them. I fully recall being stressed out at the Science Museum as Felix ran ahead through the entire King Tut exhibit, obsessed with showing me a golden death mask. He nearly threw a fit when he didn’t get the Lego Minifigure guy he wanted at the Mall. And there was a challenging moment during our Indianapolis visit, which I will leave at that. Point being: I may be currently unemployed, but I have a huge job. I Parent. And this late summer, I got to be with Felix. I got to Mother him full time. I took advantage of the opportunity to reclaim a small slice of our first years together. I did some repair work. I didn’t stay checked out, forcing him to bypass a piece of his childhood. I learned/accepted that parenting Felix requires presence. And patience. And that I can do it. And that I am good at it. And all of that makes me tremble down to my toes.

Present parents everywhere: can I get an amen?

Felix (or, not Another Venessa)

Chances are if you know me, you know Felix. Or at least you know about him. And, since you know us both, you probably know that Felix is the doer to my thinker. The Aries Fire to my Virgo Earth. The kinetic to my quiescent. I spend a small part of each day puzzling over how I, Extroverted Introvert, had Felix, Introverted Extrovert.

This just about sums it up, right here.

My first mistake was to think I was giving birth to myself. I mean, what the frack was I thinking? Felix was Felix, not Another Venessa. (And, for the record, HALLELUJAH. The world doesn’t need Another Venessa. She is moody and frightfully transparent about it. She leaves caps half-screwed on their containers for you to discover in kitchen cupboards or the medicine cabinet. Do not even mention the possibility of there being a bug nearby. As a child she was the walking definition of shy and, according to her own mother, made adults in her life suggest things like modeling school or sleep away camp to “build character.” These examples, and many more, highlight why the world doesn’t need Another Venessa. Or, at the very least, why my house doesn’t.)

The flip side to that first mistake quickly turned into my second mistake: I was parenting Another Venessa. I was not parenting Felix. I tried to hold him close as an infant where he clearly preferred being swaddled as tightly as possible and left nearby in his bassinet. I wanted to read stacks of picture books where he wanted to endlessly jump in his doorway jumper. The one time we matched up in our early lives together was nap time, and oh man I LOVED it; but when he realized time spent napping could be time spent moving, that was the end of that. If anything Felix was learning how to be Venessa’s kid and, every afternoon around 1pm would say, Mama nap? Felix stay up. My response? I put on a DVD and took a nap, because *surprise!* parenting was hard work! And, I was doing it by myself! And, like I said, I was parenting the wrong way!

In the way only unresolved mistakes can break inspire a person, I began realizing that change needed to happen. I knew this would require a departure from my comfort zone; my happy place where bodies moved with control, voices spoke in turn and in volume levels appropriate to their surroundings, and most importantly emotions were managed like the wild herd of horses they were. I had to mourn the loss of not having the kind of child I’d hoped for, see the miraculously healthy and strong-willed child I had, and become the present parent my child needed me to be. In short: I had to snap out of it.

Felix has asked and continues to ask me to put my cherished daydream state on the shelf. He did it at age 3 1/2 when he told his Montessori preschool teacher he wished he had a gun to shoot her and the other kids with. He did it at age 4 1/2 when he calmly walked out of the kitchen with an 8-inch chef’s knife hidden behind his back. He did it just last week when he spit at a fellow summer day-camper…something he has a bit of a track record with. I, in turn, respond in ways I didn’t think I was capable of. I yell, proving that I can out-burn and manage the fires he sets. I grab him when a huge meltdown is in progress, so as to keep himself (and me) safe. Thanks to my mom – the kind of parent, I admit, I was trying in part to avoid becoming – I now use the threat of a wooden spoon in extreme cases. I cry about our struggles only when I know he’s not watching because I don’t want Felix to grow fearful that he is too big for me to fight for and love. I cry because, sometimes, I honestly feel like I don’t have any more parenting left in me. I feel like I will fail, or break, or give up.

Of course we have good moments. We are crazy about each other and laugh and actually cuddle (picture me, giddy). There are times where he says, Mama? I love you, almost TOO much. But this post isn’t focusing on good times. Those are easy. Those are my rewards.

If you know me, you know I’ve worked very hard to re-set myself as a parent; even going so far as to forgive myself for having been semi checked-out during our first years together. And I still work on it, through every challenge Felix explodes at my feet. Past each time he shatters my fragile mommy heart.

Family 101: A Primer For Those Of Us Living In 2011

I know: there are lots of opinions on what makes a Family. And I know: there are lots of people who will never accept anything else than A Man + His Wife + 2.5 Kids. And I get that, because my family is A Woman + A Woman + A Kid, I will never have lots of peoples’ acceptance. That said, it would be nice to at least share their societal privileges…

Oh, wait: I did back when I was able to legally marry the person I was in a partnership with. I did own straight privilege when my family was A Man + His Wife + A Kid. That privilege afforded me freedom from any challenge or question to my relationship, to my household. I did benefit from societal acceptance wherever I went because I wore a ring on my left hand and had an instantly understood and validated label to call my then partner: Husband. I had privilege as the straight wife to a straight husband, and I didn’t fully understand it until I left my marriage, came out as queer, and met Crystal. Pretty ironic, being a woman of color.

Being in a queer relationship and having a queer family sparks a whole mess of questions, like Why can Crystal perform straight marriage ceremonies, but can’t legally marry me if we were to choose marriage – if marriage is even an option for us in 2012? or What does it mean to live in the gayest city in the country if we can’t kiss in pubic or walk down the street with our friends like straight folks? The message my family and I receive on a daily basis is loud and clear: Your Family Doesn’t Count.

It’s exhausting. I get tired of the invisibility that comes from not fitting neatly into a heteronormative picture. There is extra work associated with walking along society’s margins. I would, for example, love to have a societally-recognized set of labels for my family. Not Partner, because it has a grey area that can leave folks safely assuming Crystal and I are business partners. Not Husband, for many reasons meriting its own blog post. As far as their relationship in greater society is concerned, Crystal is not Felix’s Mom. Not his Dad. Fortunately we don’t have to rely on these nonexistent labels with our friends or close family because we are, simply, Venessa and Crystal and Felix. But when we go to school conferences… When we talk to people at work or social functions… When we go out for dinner, or to the movies… We lack language. As a word person, I struggle with this.

Folks in our daily lives sometimes don’t instantly see us as a family. They need schooling. I’m positive some members of both our extended families don’t truly see our family. We’re lucky in that Crystal’s parents and my mom see us, and love us. But for those of you living this close to us who don’t truly see us: please open your eyes. You don’t have to hang out where we hang out. You don’t have to send us your annual holiday cards. But please, look: I am Venessa. I gave birth to Felix. I am in a romantic relationship with Crystal. Crystal is Felix’s parent. We have a dog. We share a home. We are a Family.

Me and My Family (nice face, Felix)

One Year Later…

It is one year later and this house still misses her. Felix still says, “I miss Abuelita, Mama.”

During those first weeks and months last summer, Felix said I miss Abuelita at least once daily. He led a toast to her every night at the dinner table. He was in mourning, and I was impressed with how gracefully he was doing it. This five year old was leading the nightly “To Abuelita!” toast? Sure, he usually followed it up with something like “I miss her because now I can never go get snack money from her ever again,” but that was his experience of her.

We visited her most every week. Every week she cooed and fussed over him, wrapped her tiny arms around him, and gave him two dollars to spend on junk food in the vending machines located one floor up from her assisted living room. Every week, Felix took his two dollars and though about what snack combo to get: Cheetos and Little Debbie cakes? Animal crackers and Potato Skins? Snacks purchased, we went back to her room and he sat on a a footstool next to me while I chatted with her. He got up, usually halfway through the salty snack, to get himself a glass of water from her bathroom. She always clapped her hands laughed at that, tickled at his self-sufficiency. If it was a jackpot week, Felix scored extra snacks that she saved for him in a plastic Easter basket…it even had that wispy green grass in it.

Every week she and I had the same conversation. She asked about my job, if I was doing okay. She marveled at how I balanced full time work with full time parenting. I reminded her how she raised four kids and, when their home in Bolivia had become too violent, moved them to a new life in Minneapolis. She left her abusive husband. That was in 1960. She was 46.

I wasn’t always ready for our weekly visits. I didn’t want to have the same conversation. I didn’t want to fish the two dollars out of her coin purse while she worried aloud about whether or not two dollars was enough for Felix. I didn’t want to walk those hallways and say hello to her neighbors, some of which I knew never got family visitors. Some weeks, I noticed a family had come to quietly clean out someone’s room. Other weeks, there would be a new sign on a door: “Welcome, Charlie, to Residence on Humboldt!” I didn’t like thinking about having to clean out her room. But then I did in the week following her death. I was the last person to clear the last of her stuff out, the last person to close her door and turn her keys into the office.

I am surprised one year later when I catch myself thinking, You should call Abuela this afternoon. I actually reached for my phone a few months ago. Then, I found myself really needing her after getting laid off…I just wanted to sit with her and hear her tell me how everything would be okay (Although it would have been a huge mistake telling her that. All she would have done was worry herself sick). She was my mom for a lot of my childhood. The world is not the same without her. Never will be.

Tonight Felix, my mom, and I are having dinner in Abuela’s honor. We’re going to her favorite restaurant, and I’m certain Felix will raise his juice glass and lead us in a toast. He doesn’t say I miss Abuelita as often, but when he does you can see the little bittersweet bruise in his eyes. And, he hasn’t followed up with a snack money-related lament in awhile. That’s love.

The Summer of Me

Okay. I was gone for a long time and now am back. I bet you thought I was all done with this blog thing. I thought so, too.

The last ten months have been, well, eventful. Let’s catch up, shall we? First of all, there was this:

"Mama, our little old car is broken."

A car crash. We weren’t badly hurt, but our little car was. We drive a new one now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then there was the whole ice and snow season:

Thanks to Crystal, Felix gets out of doors in the wintertime.

I’m still not a full convert, but Felix and Crystal did inspire me to bundle up and make nice with winter this year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then…Crystal and I made it to Paris:

Seine + Eiffel Tower in the distance = Me, swooning

On this particular day, we walked from the Sacré-Cœur to the Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile to the Eiffel Tower. 11 miles, people.

Notre Dame was, by far, my Parisian highlight. No, really.

It was late March and Paris was just creeping into bloom. A total dream for two winter-weary Minneapolitains.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Someone had his GOLDEN BIRTHDAY:

Felix wanted rainbow cupcakes. So Felix got 'em...and they were vegan and GF, too. Just sayin.

Turning 6 on the 6th of your birthday month only happens once. It was a good day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And it totally snowed on APRIL 19th:

Happy spring, everyone!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Felix graduated from kindergarten:

Can you tell I am proud?

He can easily read stuff like this now. Thanks, kindergarten!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I took an impromptu solo road trip to Denver to catch up with Crystal and her band BruteHeart on the last night of their West Coast tour:

I got caught in severe weather on the highway the night before. Turns out, a tornado 45 minutes west of here derailed a train.

A few hours away from my final destination...

BruteHeart played here. The sound was super-awesome and the folks were super-nice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And now we’re in the thickest part of summer, aka my favorite time of year:

If it's not raining, we are here daily. Thanks, Minneapolis Parks!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And that, basically, brings us current. Somewhere, in between the April snow and kindergarten graduation, I got laid off. Thus, the impromptu road trip. I was luckily in a position to leave town, so I took a symbolic space to continue clearing my head. I don’t know what my next career path will look like. I *almost* got my dream job but it would have involved leaving Minneapolis, and my little family needs to be here now.

So, this is turning out to be The Summer of Me. I probably won’t get one of these again, so I’m trying to see it as a positive. And it mostly is: I’m building up my professional network, helping talented friends on their photography and film projects, editing another talented friend’s poems, and I’m on the editorial board for The Acentos Review. I play frisbee with Felix (when Crystal, his first choice, isn’t around). I take Parker the dog to the River. Sometimes I get upset, and feel scared about not having insurance and not bringing in a paycheck. But I talk it out. I write. I feel better. I repeat.

As far as getting laid off goes, I’m lucky. I have a healthy kid, amazing community and family, and the full support from a partner. Not everyone in my situation, and today there are thousands of us in Minnesota, can probably say the same. So thanks. You know who you are.

Cumpleaños Feliz, Abuelita

So. Today would have been my Abuelita’s 96th birthday. (abuelita = grandmother in spanish) She died in July. My Abuelita was my mother for most of my childhood. She was my first language, Spanish. She was my first frame of what ‘A Lady’ should be. Her home is etched into my head – especially her kitchen – and her life’s story is the picture of proud strength.

Because of that, you now understand why today I’m out of sorts. Today is a a bitter/sweet mouthful. Tonight, to celebrate and miss my Abuela, I’m cooking a milanesa dinner for me, my mom, Felix, and Crystal.

Milanesa is basically a meat fillet pounded thin with breadcrumbs, dipped in egg, and then fried. My Abuela brought milanesa with her from La Paz, Bolivia when she moved to Minneapolis in 1960. She has fed it to me and my cousins all our lives. (my cousins have been mostly spread across the country for years, but i guarantee you that requesting a milanesa dinner was the first thing on anyone’s homecoming list. and, as long as she was able, my abuela was always thrilled to oblige.).

When I was little and a milanesa dinner was scheduled, my Abuela and I walked, holding hands, to the grocery store (the red owl: remember them?) for everything we’d need. After the Red Owl, we walked to the creek nearby our apartments in search of a milanesa rock. I took the search very seriously because this rock had to be the right shape, the right weight in the hand to pound out the milanesas. Once we found our rock we took it home, washed it, and then I’d blend into her kitchen’s background to watch her cook all afternoon.

It was a personal Best Day Ever when I was old enough to step out of the background and learn how to make my Abuela’s milanesa. There was another Best Day Ever when I made it by myself for her. Since then, I’ve made milanesa dinners for friends. Then Felix. Then Crystal. Each time I made it, I called my Abuela the next day to report. She was always so excited to hear, and fully took credit for the cook I was becoming. She had every right to.

Tonight I’ll make a milanesa dinner for the first time without being able to call my Abuela tomorrow to report. Felix will probably raise his juice glass, just like he has every night we’ve been together since she died, and say “Cheers to Abuelita!” My mom will get a little weepy. Crystal will look at me from across the table with her trademark calm. I will taste mouthfuls of bitter/sweet and feel a new year taking shape without my Abuela in it. And we’ll all get up tomorrow knowing she’s absolutely with us, taking shape with us while we keep going.

Venessa Hearts Powderhorn

I’m only three days into it, but so far I give 36 a double thumb’s up. Take the Birthday Actual, for example:

This was my view as we dug into Indian-spiced mini-donuts and a bacon beer brat.

1. A snack marathon at the Mill City Farmer’s Market. If you live in Minneapolis there is no reason for you to say you’ve never been. Please go.

2. A delivery of flowers.

That’s right. A friend who recently moved away to Chicago actually had this  delivered to my door. Like, she really did that. And she really made sure there were five of something in the bunch because she knows my favorite number is five. Snap.

3. The dreamiest dinner potluck party. Fact: I am a lemon, salt, and butter freak. I asked friends to get busy in their kitchens with that fact in mind and let me tell you. Bliss. We are still eating like royalty: Lemony, Bragg’s-kissed kale. Two batches of lemon risotto. Butter-packed chocolate chip cookies. Oven roasted, garlicky pumpkin with lemon, salt, and butter. Squash soup with lemon, salt, and butter. A beet and cauliflower salad with special salt that had a story of its own. A jar of preserved lemons to dig into weeks from now when I’m summer-deprived and want to simulate August on a plate.

I mean, there it is. That is what a birthday ought to be. Your people showing up for you, remembering you, centering an entire day around you. It’s time you got a birthday like this if you’ve never had one. Start with the three-ingredient potluck. Not to sound totally cheese-dog, but choose ingredients and friends from the heart and you will be amazed.

“What does this have to do with Powderhorn, Fuentes?” you ask. Nothing, except that I was just saying how much I’m into 36 so far. I had a great Birthday Actual, which luckily for me included great birthday presents. One, which has everything to do with Powderhorn = a ceramics class at the Powderhorn Park building, conveniently located across the street from my home. Yes, there is actually a ceramics studio in the public park building where kids play basketball or take dance classes. It’s where I go to vote. Powderhorn Park is the May Day Parade. It’s is where Felix’s four- and five-year old fingertips have shrivelled from splashing in the kiddie pool like a nut every hot summer second they could.

Yesterday while I walked the dog around the little lake-pond and watched another flock of this year’s grown geese take off, I had the thought that I love my neighborhood. More cheese-dog? Mayhaps. But I mean, look: On any given walk, I might see soccer games, birdwatchers, tennis matches, a birthday party, folks fishing or canoeing, a youth garden, playground kids chasing ice cream trucks, a huge prayer circle, football practice, Shakespeare productions, a weekend art fair, free community dinners, or (bestest of all) my own friends. Once I get over how lucky Felix is to have this as his backdrop, I slow down and let it sink in: this is my backdrop, too. Now Powderhorn is becoming my cold months clay studio, thanks to a group of sweet-hearted, generous friends. What better way to begin unwrapping a new year?

Man, I heart birthdays and my neighborhood.