#breesays

Where did my little boo learn to talk to plants? We take plant babies from Gramma Lita's massive yard, recently started propagating them in water. Nothing for the first couple of weeks. Then Des said, "Mama, let me hold them" - and he took the bulb in his hand, looked lovingly at that little would-be-could-be plant and spoke to it in a way that astonished me. "You are so beautiful" he said. "You are doing such a good job. I am so happy to see you." I died, they thrived.

Four nights ago we unwrapped a fragrant bath bomb and I said, "Mmm, rose" and he started serenading me, from the "wonderful roses" part of "Til There Was You" and who can even do that? I feel like if I want to sing something, even casually, I have to start from the top. He vocalizes the percussion part of songs. Chh chh chh. Probably not revolutionary, but something new for my brain.

Some of the moms who got a spot in TK are reporting back that one of their kids "goals" for the year is to count to 20. Oh. Des can count to 100, and in Spanish. The other day he taught me how to say "knees" in Spanish, which is when I found out he can sing "Head Shoulders Knees and Toes" in a second language. He remembers numbers really well, and has a good grasp of time. He can math way more at 4 years old than I could at like, 7 years old - and that's just because it's interesting to him, measurements and doubling things and how old was his friend Felix when he turned 2? Sometimes I just have to say, "That is a calculation I can't do on the fly, buddy."

He's growing his hair out long so he can make it curly, like his friend Vienna and his cousin Emerson. I wish he liked to read books together more, but maybe that will come later. It's OK if that's an interest we don't share. We make up new words until we're too tired, me channeling the IKEA catalog. Sometimes he says, "I have an idea - let's count to the highest number we know" to which I reply, "That does not sound like fun to mama, can we play a word game instead?" He also loves blowing up and popping balloons. Actually, he loves doing a lot of things with balloons - keepy uppy, birdy-flying, inflating then deflating, using them as stamps, talking about them on his imaginary YouTube channel...

He likes to eat seaweed snacks and will basically try any food at least once. He loves tomatoes, so much so that he will eat them like an apple. He steals my sushi and told me the pumpkin seeds needed "more paprika."

He makes funny observations. I took him to my work party recently and I told him Erica was in charge. When we looked back at photos from that night he asked, "Does Erica ever go home?" I said "Yes, of course, she has two kiddos of her own - why do you think that she doesn't?" He said, "Well, she's in charge."

My therapist is retiring at the end of the year, and then I won't have anyone to tell me what's healthy or adjusted anymore. I told her that sometimes Desmond says, "You know, Mama, I love Dada more than you." I respond: "That's OK, my love for you doesn't change." It doesn't hurt me, it makes me curious - what is he trying to accomplish? That non-judgemental curiosity they tried to summon from the depth of my cold being during the "can we save this marriage?" time - there it is! Therapist said: It's remarkable that he even vocalized this. It's called secure attachment.

For awhile I also wondered - does Des need therapy during this transition? He has asked why we don't live together anymore and I said, "not all families live together" - but all the families he knew of, did. So we got a couple books. Representation. Therapist said: Unless he is acting out, or it's disrupting, he is ok. Again, the fact that he's even asking these questions is GREAT. I do a value a good question-asker.

I'm still writing my book of essays and I've recently hit 38K words. I've considered publishing under a pseudonym, because I don't want to FIGHT about asexuality. I just want some previously unlearned people to know that it EXISTS. I publish most of my revelations and feelings about being Ace on my Medium. The blog that upset him was titled "Ace Week 2023" - and posted on Medium. I didn't have the time or mental capacity to react at the time. I just chose not to. Spiral, if you must - I will not add any fuel. But I did feel mad, when I unboxed that compartmentalization --

Sometimes I want to be kind and gentle and empathic because, wow we didn’t know anything, did we? There wasn’t the vocabulary for what I was experiencing. There were no alternate storylines to draw inspiration from. But sometimes I am furious, violated, underestimated. 

I've not been happy with how I look for a bit now, and finally came to the conclusion that doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results was... insanity.

On a Monday morning two weeks ago after I had assigned articles and edited blogs, I ran out to a gym I had frequented pre-pandemic. There was some math involved. The gym is a 6 minute drive from my place and the workouts are 45 minutes - adding a minute or two for parking, I could get this done in a tight lunch hour.

I've been doing Jillian Michaels workouts on my own for months now, but I don't push myself enough, I get distracted and gyms are more fun because the equipment is so varied. It's a grown up playground. Believe me, I have acquired a lot of my own playthings - bosu ball, walking pad, kettle bells, resistance bands - but I do better, try harder when someone else designs the workout. I do things outside my comfort zone, moves I even actively hate (bicycles, burpees). I LIKE it when I feel like I'm going to die but then the trainer gets on the bike next to me, gives me an elbow bump and I burn out for the next 30 seconds. I like hearing the weird club version of Panic! at the Disco and Sia and actually the same mix I learned a routine to when I taught a TurboKick class at AGE TWENTY.

This may change nothing. This may change everything. All I know is I paused all my clothing rentals because I just want to look and feel good in what I already have. I tried to embrace body positivity but I also want to be strong and live a long, healthy life. I want to feel alert and excited and I want those endorphins. Being athletic is part of my identity, even if I'm not GOOD at anything. Also have you ever hit an early workout and then just crashed out on the couch in the sun afterward? The kind of nap where your body temp just plummets and you are OUT? If I ever write a book about napping, this kind will be a highlight. Reminds me of high school cross country practice during the summer, except then I used to slice a watermelon in half a devour it before the nap took me. I think I know what my plans are for next week.

On Sundays, I've been hitting the farmers market on the way home from the gym. Normally, I hate that I have to walk SO FAR from my parking spot but if I'm already sweating, it's sort of like an extended cool down from the workout. Here's a truth: farmer's market food tastes better. I mostly shop at Trader Joe's (because cheapest) but the carrots, the tomatoes, the apples, the broccoli, the everything from the farmer's market just taste infinitely better.

Better better better.

I'm also having this new experience, having a kid who loves math and who just absorbs equations and concepts like they're elements. I've always found expressing myself through writing so easy, but because I never learned THE RULES, I never felt equipped to tutor. I know what sounds good, sounds right. Des is like the mathematical version of me. He can add, subtract, divide, multiply in the cloud above his little head. What a fucking wonder. Sometimes he even explains to me how he arrived at the solution, and it's not always the same method, the same path. Last week I showed him how to add by stacking numbers, and doing the carrying thing - he looked at me and said, Mama, I think you ARE really good at math. I'm not, but his math-enthusiasm is a bit like exposure therapy for my number anxiety.

I saved most of Desmond's newborn and baby clothes. Having a second child was never OFF the table, per se, until I declared my orientation. Even then, it might've been something we could "solve." Lots of table-related discussions were had as a baby Ace. What I thought was ACE-LITE. 

Tim cleaned out his storage unit these last couple weeks, which means all my Xmas decor is in the linen closet and I had SIX BOXES of baby clothes to sort through. My attachment to them was not sentimental, it was... IS about aesthetic. Is that cruel and empty? Is my heart supposed to twinge at the thought of giving my kid a sibling?

I mean, we're already out of bounds - I'm a sex-averse Ace who has a kid. Speaking of averse, that's the kind of reaction I've been having when people ask me if I'm going to date again. The thought of dating again repels me. Once Tim and I has decided not to "fix" me or "solve" the problem of my asexuality, I felt a huge weight lifted off of me: I don't have to do this anymore. I have crushes, I have squishes, I have people whose company I value more than most - and if I could guarantee that I had the freedom to define those relationships on my own terms, maybe I'd be more hopeful about it. But I have not been honest and it's VERY hard to be  authentic with the very apparent edges of what is "normal" pressing on you, on us. 

Some of the most perfect relationships I've had, by societal standards, have been unfinished. Incomplete. 

I don't usually blog about the mundane minutiae of my day to day life (unless you remember that Motherhood Minutes blog) but today was just... a lot. I think I need to unload it.

Last night the fireworks woke Desmond up (at 10pm) and he was basically unable to go back to sleep until 1am. Tim was angry about it. I was annoyed he was angry and also a little nauseous because when it was determined Des would "sleep" in our bed until the fireworks were done, I took an Advil PM.  It never took effect like it was supposed to, as I was alternating from big spoon on toddler bed to glider chair to kitchen for applesauce packets. When he wailed at 5AM I begged Tim to tap in. We all felt wrecked this morning. 

Our brand new downstairs neighbor knocked on our door at 8AM while Tim was taking Des to school. He asked if we could WALK SOFTER. In a very polite way, but they've only been there A NIGHT and it was 4th of July. I smiled and nodded and asked for specifics (he gave none) and then drafted an email to our landlords after he left because it's really concerning that they complained after ONE night. I've been a downstairs neighbor more than half my life, and I think we are very considerate. We never heard so much as a peep from the previous tenants. I understand where they're coming from because we lived below an AirBnB rental for 4 years but it also had me fuming because we're just living, man. We don't wear shoes in the house and I give Des as many balloons as his heart desires so that he doesn't bounce any balls indoors.

Tim was laid off from his FT job on Friday so my normally completely silent working morning was punctuated with business calls - cold calls - and I already hate phone calls in general but I was nervous for HIM. And him landing a good gig (yay) consequently meant that some of my plans for the rest of July were... now unstable. C'est la vie.

During dinner I got a call from my Stepmom. She never calls so I was  worried the instant her name popped up on my phone. Her sister died. Maru. Unexpectedly. Suddenly. I was so gutted. Maru was a part of our lives when we were little, she lived with my Dad and Lita when they first moved here from Mexico. She was so good with kids (us) that I remember insensitively asking my Dad once if he was sure he married the right sister. I remember leading "english class" for her and Lita and I think their brother Hector. All my memories of her are warm and comforting. Me watching her write letters to her friends and family in Mexico. She told us her American name was "Jenny" but she was definitely a Maru. Was. Fuck. It stabbed me right through the heart to hear my Stepmom cry. She said it was like a dream, not real. I wanted to run to OC and hug her. How completely tragic to learn your sister was taken away from you. It's not my tragedy but I still needed to know what happened. At least we know she didn't suffer. Rest in peace, Maru.

I'm reading a book called "How To Stop Time" by Matt Haig, and it's an interesting perspective for someone (me) who has been kind of distressing over how I'm going to read all the books I want to read write all the blogs I wanna write see all the things I wanna see hear all the music I wanna hear pet all the cats I wanna let watch Desmond grow and experience things and also write about THAT. I wanna travel I want to teach I want to nap on exotic beaches. We don't have enough time. 

I've been trying to appreciate situations for what they are and not what I want them to be. 

The other day after an activity-packed day, Desmond wanted to talk. It was past his bedtime. I asked, "What was your favorite thing about today?" He paused, then said, "This, mama."

When did I know? Really, really early compared to the "discovery" or "a-ha" stories I've read so far, which often cite puberty. I guess it was just before puberty, though, because it was 5th grade and we had to get permission slips signed by our parents in order to participate in Sex Ed. I took the slip to my mom and said "This is not information I need, please tell the teacher to excuse me." And she did. From what I recall I was sent to the library to read on my own while everyone else had LESSONS that week. There was a lot of tittering and flushing amongst my classmates. I was just flat out not curious. For some reason, I did have to attend in 6th grade. Maybe it wasn't optional? All I remember is an overheard projector and tuning out.

In 6th grade there was also some anonymous questionnaire being passed around. A slam book, I think it was called? One of the questions asked who you had a crush on. I wrote in "Mickey Mouse" because I didn't have any crushes. They never found out who wrote that.

The second clear indicator happened on the first day of junior high. My best friend's other best friend, who I did not particularly like, was in the quad buzzing with excitement before our classes started. She grabbed my upper arms and said "There are SO MANY BOYS IN THIS SCHOOL, BREEANN. Go AFTER some of them!" And I stared at her, blankly. Go after them for what?

I did have my first crush in 7th grade, and my first celebrity crush was Jonathan Taylor Thomas. I also like looking at the faces of James Franco and Tom Hardy. I am not immune to aesthetics.

I had my first kiss at 17, preceded by the thought - which I also definitely said out loud, "Guess I have to start somewhere."

This was not dissimilar to the first time I tried to have sex, with my first serious boyfriend, at age 25.

Why am I bringing this up now? Well, I stopped drinking for the most part. Sober September, Sober October. I think I drank... maybe 5 or 6 days total since September 1st? I've been reading QuitLit. Letting go of what does not serve me. Mostly because the day after drinking I feel like my Wellbutrin doesn't work. I feel sleepy and weepy. I had two drinks at a Mom's Night Out get together last night and here I am, sobbing and typing today. Of course, that's not the whole of it.

No drinking has provided me with a startling clarity. A stronger sense of identity. And - although I actually wrote a LiveJournal entry about this SIXTEEN years ago - I can say, with confidence - I am asexual.

Heteroromatic asexual. I experience romantic, aesthetic and intellectual attraction. And I need to come out because I am so, so tired.

I remember having this conversation with some close friends all those years ago, and having to defend myself. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it." Since then, I've had sex.I've always thought of it as a choice, though. An activity you choose to do, like yoga. Except I do yoga because I like how it makes me feel. I have sex to satisfy other people's needs. It has not, and has never been a biological or primal urge for me. I've had sex to say thank you and sex to add what felt like security to a monogamous relationship. I've had sex as a kindness, and sex because I like kissing and I like waking up next to someone I like or love - and that's what comes in the middle.

People will point to my antidepressants as the reason for my lack of sexual attraction - but all sex I had pre-antidepressants was painful, because I approached it as a cerebral choice, and did not consult my body on the matter. After anti-depressants, I could get my body to respond, to cooperate. And that is all I ever hope for. A lot of my willingness to have sex has been partnered with drinking. My harder drinking years directly correspond with my sexually active years. It not a matter of lowering inhibitions - it's that when I drink, I care less. I feel less. I remember less. In fact, drinking + Wellbutrin means my body often responds but my mind completely forgets. Brown outs. Black outs. Without drinking, I no longer have the luxury (?) of not feeling, of not remembering anymore.

I am married and in love. But I do not ever WANT to have sex. The idea never comes to me on its own. We have to change the language so I can stop lying to myself. Am I willing? When the conditions are right - absolutely, because I care deeply.

I used to write fiction. I stopped because I felt like my stories always fell short of that ultimate GET. I wrote about relationships, but they never had sex. Pop culture will tell you this story is incomplete.

In reading fiction lately I've been getting very angry. Actually even watching TV has been stoking this small fire inside of me. These scenes do not feel believable to me. They make me uncomfortable. And exhausted.

I also think this is why I've been quiet, and internally just kind of an asshole about birth control. It's NOT HARD to NOT have sex. Have I used birth control? Yes. (It made me crazy) Have I rallied for access to birth control? Not once. Just don't have sex or use a condom - it is very, very simple for me, someone who does not experience sexual attraction. I've had slip ups and had to take Plan B a few times. Every time I was drunk.

I've had some stone cold sober hookups, and by hookups I mean making out (no tongue, I'll gag) that were wonderful. I really like kissing. Spooning. But at a certain point in my adulthood - mostly my thirties, when I stopped waving my V-card in everyone's faces - sex became a given. A supposedly natural, good thing in all relationships. In most previous relationships, I stopped enjoying those other, non-sexual intimate acts because once you crossed that bridge, it seemed you could never go back. In my first two serious relationships, I developed physical ailments (eczema, hives) that created a REAL barrier to sexual activity.

It's happening again. Cold sores. My husband knows I find it almost impossible to have sex without kissing. Cold sores can last a week - or two. But I don't want OUT of this relationship. I love him, we have the cutest kid ever together. But the language, the perspective has to change for me to go on. I wrote this whole thing sobbing because I know there's the very real possibility that this is a deal breaker. It is for a lot of people. I get that.

Part of what makes THIS coming out so terrifying is I don't know anyone else who has done it. There's no celebrity role model. Most people will not even acknowledge that this orientation EXISTS. Why do it? Because maybe there is someone out there looking for it. Representation matters. Did I want to be the first person I know, of all my friends and family and friends of friends of friends? Absolutely not. But someone has to do it.

What do I want you to do with this information? Just acknowledge it. Maybe take the time to learn more about it. Open your mind a bit. Me, I want to not drink. I want to write fiction again. I want to work on my marriage in an authentic, not a performative way. I want to enjoy intimate acts without them automatically leading to sex. And I want to have sex to meet needs, without being expected to perform a certain way. I don't have any intrinsic sense of what to do, and I just really need to own up to that. I don't want to wait and see what ailments, what barriers my body will invent to create space for me. This is my truth. And I would like to live it.

Go ahead and go to Yasmin Benoit's TEDtalk

Does any mama who has trouble with numbers struggle with the developmental and milestone numericals beyond like, 13 months? We are approaching 17 months. If you don’t have kids you might think “what’s the big deal difference between ONE and TWO?” Um, worlds, my friend. Eating, learning, living, expressing—these are all crazy different from week to week in the toddler realm. Do you even Pinterest?   

This week I handed Des a wolf magnet and he said, “Awooo!” He also played along with the “open, close them” song a few times. He’s given me a few neck hugs. A couple times he even grabbed my face and made us BOOP nose to nose. I could’ve died right there, it was the cutest thing. Have you thought about when you’d be OK to die? No? Too much, too soon? Sometimes our interactions feel like a blooming. A whole life cycle. I live for him, I’d die for him—what nutso moods parenthood puts us through. 

Sunday morning, a week ago, his ceiling was raining on him. The unit above us had a plumbing issue. It was (is) clean water but we kind of knew the drill. Move everything OUT. So this week his crib has been stationed at the end of our bed, with a curtain separating it. The changing table is in front of my bookcase, the glider is wedged into the couch. We TRY to spend time outside, but a few days it hit 100 degrees. I got bit by three mosquitos at HIGH NOON. WTF. This evening we moved some furniture back, temporarily.   

We are doing OK, but we are nervous. Tim and I both work in live entertainment and by some miracle (probs my boss), I’ve survived two rounds of furloughs. Tim’s been on unemployment since March. He’s applied for jobs but we’ve also been kind of cautious since Des was in the hospital in February. Asthma? RSV and pneumonia. We lost our daycare spot a long time ago. We’re living in a new era, you know that, right? 

I’m kind of a lifer. I was at my second job ever (Parks and Rec) for six years. I moved up, I won an employee of the year award. I was at Buzznet for six years, too. Writer, editor, embedded blogger. I’ve been at Live Nation for more than eight years. My role has changed innumerable times since Joe recruited me. The live music industry is on shaky legs, and although I don’t want to leave the team I’ve been a part of for YEARS, it’s not about just me anymore. 

Man I’ve written some shitty cover letters in the last few weeks. I am not on my game. I am not a hustler. I don’t want to sell myself. I want to let my reputation precede me. I want to let my work speak for me-even though MOST of those websites don’t exist anymore. I’ve done things  I didn’t think I was qualified to do. Random things. Voice over. App copy. Live host. Producer. Researcher. Anyway. This is not a resume.

I’ve been so lucky. I think? And now it’s not about luck anymore. But I’m not out for blood and I never will be.   

I want to work within a world of words. To ask questions. To build new things. I’m not a buttoned-up, AP-adhering kind of ingenue. And probably too old to be an ingenue anyway. But I can read the room. I can WRITE the room. A challenge in front of me is building an online portfolio. What should live there? My reviews? My break up emails? I know who I am but, as Ed Yong, a very qualified journalist said—I contain multitudes.   

When I was pregnant, before I knew the sex, I did want a girl. I wanted to raise her to be strong and powerful and to love herself in a way I found impossible until my late twenties. Even if I was afraid. When I found out it was Desmond (almost Finn), a boy, I was worried about raising a decent human being. A gentlemen who could understand consent. Maybe “worried” isn’t the right word. But I never considered the things he WOULDN’T have to endure, even as a mixed-race person. Des is a quarter Chinese. That’s still not Black. White people are having to spend actual, genuine time coming to terms with how the Black experience is limiting, oppressing. And how we’re passively contributing to it, by not actively fighting against it.   

Say it with me now: Black Lives Matter. 

And MATTER, my friends, is the minimum.   

It’s a strange time. My energy is split between making/introducing food or developing activities for my one year old, working and researching and writing but trying to be sensitive to the social climate and absorbing all of this information; educating myself, trying to contribute to change. It’s no cake walk. And it’s not supposed to be. I unfriended people. I unfollowed people. I followed new people. I’m reading so fucking much. I feel desperate for fresh air and flowers but hell if I’m gonna erase the months I spent in quarantine for some fool in no mask outside what was supposed to be the Farmers Market to ruin it all by breathing on my baby who can’t wear a mask yet (he tears mine off my face so).

I had the hardest time interviewing a band this past week. For a few weeks, we’ve been talking about life in quarantine. BUT that is not the foremost conversation anymore! People are breaking quarantine to protest. It’s no longer ABOUT YOU and WHAT YOU’RE WORKING ON. I had some heavy hitting questions for them because who wouldn’t, at a time like this? But I never actually said it, never asked them to say it and we did this awkward fucking dance and I am ashamed. I kind of think they should be, too, given that they’re a band who pens lyrics about social issues. Or at least they did on their last album.   

I pushed a lot of interviews from last week into this one. So this week I have to grow some cajones. Yes, last Monday I sprouted stress hives because what business does a white girl have asking a bunch of white boys HOW THEY’RE FEELING during a BLACK LIVES MATTER movement? It’s not that I don’t want to have the conversations, it’s more that I don’t think you’ve had enough time to think about it. I don’t want to hear your knee-jerk reactions. Sit with it. Stew in it. This is steeped in history.

There’s not many books that affect me in a perspective-shifting way—at least not lately, and mostly that's my fault because since baby (and maybe even month before) I lean towards page-turning thrillers as opposed to… character rich novels? I’ve had no patience for a slow-build. For non-action. But I am always intrigued when any author can structure a book around sleep--Ottessa Moshfegh’s “My Year of Rest and Relaxation” comes to mind. So when Karen Thompson Walker’s “The Dreamers” ebook became available, I went for it. And now, in the after-world, all I want to do is consume all the other books that made this book come to be. But some of her references are to physics so I don’t think I’d last too long. But there is an ethics-based short story collection that I tried to screenshot before I realized Kindles do not do that. Another think I noticed is that I’m a bit more moved by books that are science-fiction but I DO NOT KNOW THAT until maybe the middle of the book. See: “Never Let Me Go” by Kazuo Ishiguro. 

I like the spiraling of information-seeking. It feels inspired, on fire. Anyway, “The Dreamers” is great and very thought provoking. I wanna talk about it.

ALSO: The ending of The Good Place. 

That was a good fucking show, you guys. It was funny but you didn’t feel like your IQ was being slowly siphoned out of your being just waiting for a POINT TO BE MADE. Looking at you, reality TV. I loved the integration of philosophy. My favorite class in college was Ethics, professor Cooney… but I just didn’t know where I could go with a love of philosophy. Another philosophy class I had was focused entirely on early politics. Pass.

It’s not that I’m lacking in moments that truly impact me—lord knows when you take your baby to the hospital it’s a crystal clear, hyper-aware moment. But maybe in the department of tangential art that makes you think… challenging thoughts in moments of comfort? 

I’m going to take a huge risk (?) here and confess that music meant more to me when I was younger because they had words, descriptions for moods and feelings that I didn’t. Not even words, necessarily. I’m sure plenty of you found resonance in Yeah Yeah Yeah’s “Cheated Hearts.” Site source, et al. I don’t think I’m jaded. I still like pop music. But I know what to say and how to say it, most of the time. I am not very often at a loss for words. It isn’t a shield for me, an explanation for me.

I hope something you’ve read or heard or listened to has dislodged all your puzzle pieces recently. It’s important to think, to be challenged.