I don’t think that the tarot has anything to do with predicting the future – but it is useful when you’re trying to figure out the present. I think of it as a form of therapy, not as a form of fortune-telling. Different spreads usually suit different people, and I do all of my readings in essay form via e-mail these days. I find that useful. If you’re interested, drop me a line in the comments section here (be sure to include your real e-mail address in the form) and I’ll get in touch over the next few days. I accept PayPal.

The nights are starry in an insane, Van Gogh-sort of way. The sea is a dense oil painting. Waiters say that all of the jobs are here – and in Athens, “but who the hell wants to go to Athens?” The clouds come down and fit on top of the mountains like hats, and then they dip into the valleys, and turn the sun overhead into a ghost. “Greece is like a mirror. It makes you suffer. Then you learn.”

It was because of the film festival that I didn’t find it strange when a beautiful woman drinking coffee from a disposable cup parked it next to me on a bench and said, “You are not Turkish. Can I ask where you’re really from?” I half expected it to be another trick of the sort they pull on tourists and other strangers, but she was just bored, and wanted to chat. Much like the people who came to the screenings of “Katya, Vitya, Dima,” she complained about the harshness of life in the city and the harshness of life in general. She did it in such a way that it made me want to solve all socio-economic and political problems for her. We stared at the water for a long time – her sipping her coffee, me tanning my legs. She complimented the legs and then went on her way. And then Alexey came and took me by the hand and lead me to eat fish in Karaköy.

Also, it was in this town that I remembered how much one just needs to be alone in a bath every once in a while. And when I say “alone,” I really mean “with John Fowles.”

We’re in town for the 2012 TRT Documentary Awards. “Katya, Vitya, Dima” is in the international competition. It’s a very rare and wonderful experience, to have the lights go up, see the faces of the people, and realize that they have totally understood you.

Smartass in baseball hat: “It’s what God decided.”

A lady called me and said she wanted to talk to me about childbirth and motherhood, because she saw an article I wrote about it earlier. It seemed cool in principle, of course, but the entire thing will have gone down a whole lot better if the lady in question maintained a tangible link to reality.

First of all, “why did you want to have a child?” is kind of a weird question to ask – because there’s no single explanation, really, and because wanting to have a child is like… wanting to have a child. It’s very hard to compare this desire to any other desire. I suppose some people may disagree, but as I was answering a personal question, directed at me and me alone, there was only one straight answer I could give: “we wanted it because we wanted it.” I included my husband in the response, because having Lev was a joint decision.

Now perhaps this may not be the most elaborate answer, but even so – that’s not a reason to get mad at me. Because that’s what this lady did. She got mad. Now, I work as a journalist, I realize that every once in a while, you’ll call someone up, expect to hear one thing, and get another. It happens all the time – and there is no reason to get mad. Even if you’re writing a piece with a very specific bent – you can’t get mad at your source for not giving you something that you want. If sources just went around giving people what they wanted all of the time, the entire journalistic profession would be meaningless. The whole point of journalism, good journalism, that is, is exploration. That’s what I believe.

So I was surprised to hear the anger in her voice, but didn’t quite hang up, because I was curious as to where it was all going. She then asked me questions about my professional life and my creative work (I work as a journalist in the English-language media, and write plays in Russian, for the sake of context) – which seemed reasonable. But what happened next is that she tried to get me to agree with the following statement: “Giving birth to a child is just like writing a play.”

Um, what? Hell no it ain’t!

“But these are both creative acts,” she said. Well, of course, sure, in one way, they are. But producing a play isn’t going to land me in mortal danger should I be SOL when it comes to finding a good hospital. I don’t scream and writhe in agony as I sit there typing, trying to make a festival deadline – though that would be hilarious to do in the middle of a crowded coffee shop, I suppose (well, roughly for 30 seconds or so anyway. Before they kick me out). Writing a play doesn’t involve putting the lives of two people – mother and baby – on the line. I mean, Jesus Christ. I realize that making a surface comparison is perfectly alright, but this lady was really pressuring me to admit that there really is no substantial difference.

But fine, whatever, I disagreed, time to move on, I guess. Then she asks me, in a really pissed off kind of voice (by that point, I really stopped hoping that there was some sort of miscommunication going on), if I believe that childbirth and “generally becoming a mother” (her phrase) is “somehow a unique experience.”

Um. Well. How do I put this gently? Yes?!

So then she went on about how “offensive” this is to someone who will never give birth to a child. Which is… I’m sorry, but no.

I firmly believe that the definition of motherhood should be broad. There are a lot of people who become mothers without the physical act of giving birth to anyone. That’s just fact.

But the physical side of it – conceiving, carrying, giving birth, breast-feeding (assuming you do that) – well, that’s pretty damn unique, and there’s nothing “offensive” about saying that. These physiological processes are not abstractions. I understand that sometimes people want them to be – for the sake of an ideological paradigm, usually – but that want doesn’t change anything.

When I think about the year 2011, I think to myself, “We had a baby, my husband shot his first movie, I wrote my first big play.” So obviously, I do think of these things as life-changing experiences, and I put them in a row. I think that’s normal, I think a lot of people do that. What I’m not going to do is say that these experiences are one in the same.

“I suppose you think that no woman’s life is complete without a baby,” my interviewer then said. Um, no? I think that these matters are very individual. I’ve seen people genuinely suffer when told, for example, that they will be unable to bear a child. I know some women who have a lot of mixed feelings about their past abortions – for example, it’s not unusual to hear that a woman may have kept her pregnancy, had she been better off financially (and I wish to God that we didn’t live in a crazy, polarized world, where such women become political footballs, completely stripped of their dignity and used as pawns in a ridiculous debate about outlawing choice). I know a couple of older women who will say that they regret that they never met “the one” – and by “the one” they will mean a partner they would have wanted to raise a child with. But that knowledge doesn’t clash with the fact that some of my friends are happily childfree, plenty of older people I know are happily childfree (so that old chestnut about childfree folks “living to regret it” really does not apply) and that, in general, some people have no interest in going through with this huge physiological process OR with adoption or whatever, and that’s fine. That’s normal.

I really hate the fact that nobody is allowed to experience complex emotions about parenthood in general. For example – I love my son and consider him to be the best thing to have ever happened to me. Does this mean that I never have doubts about motherhood? Hell no. I’m not a robot. I didn’t just download the “happy mommy” program to my hard drive and press install. I’m a person. I have doubts and fears. Some of my friends who have made the decision to not have kids also have doubts and fears. That’s normal. It’s what people go through. No amount of ideology is going to change this fact.

My interviewer didn’t agree. Not that she’d let me explain any of this, of course. Instead, she raised her goddamn voice at me, and started lecturing me about the statistics on domestic violence in Russia. It took me a while to understand that she was implying that my husband must have beaten or intimidated me into becoming a parent. I hung up soon after, but I’d like to make the obvious point here: nobody gets to talk that way too me. In the immortal words of Danny Glover, I’m too old for this shit.  That’s the other “unique” thing about being a parent, I suppose – it ages you in seen and unseen ways and makes you less willing to put up with other people’s crap.

On his walk. Which isn't really a walk, since he's not technically walking yet.

Since I haven’t yet figured out how to tackle the interview I recently gave (not the Forbes one, let’s just say that this was for an ostensibly feminist publication for now), or what to make of it, really.

Daddy bought Lev a wheel that lights up and makes music. When I’m not with the two of them, I’m busy writing about death. I’m staying in character, I guess.

The physiological aspects of traditional motherhood – gestating a person, giving birth to them, and then likely going on to nourish them with your body for some time – are pretty damn unique experiences. And there is a reason why people who have had these experiences tend to bond over them the way soldiers do.

But mommyhood, whether biological or otherwise, also affects different people differently. It has a tendency to change people – but in different ways. Some people become mothers – and, as a result, grow intellectually and spiritually and what have you. But motherhood can also expose your fundamental weaknesses and character flaws, and leave you face-to-face with your own shortcomings. Because it is physically and emotionally taxing, because it limits your lifestyle in some very basic ways, it can slough away at your illusions and whatever comfortable mythology you have built up around yourself in your years on earth. When you’re taking care of someone very small and vulnerable, and yet very demanding, you learn a lot about yourself, and not all of that knowledge will be comforting.

You’ll find that you have a lot of work to do on yourself – and not a whole lot of time and energy to do it.

Of course, every once in a while, you also go to the pool:

At the pool, you hand the baby to the husband (who, being a stereotypical husband, loves playtime), and reflect (haw haw) by the water for a bit.

How has motherhood changed me? Well, it has changed my body. It has rewired my brain – and honed my reflexes. It has rewritten something fundamental inside of me, some great big block of code that comprises that entity known as the soul. It has made me more attuned to suffering and injustice – behind every murder victim or every person illegally convicted in a corrupt court, I see someone’s small child, some little smiling face. It has made me more aware of the terror of nature, and the terror of fate, and yet less helpless somehow, because I have a dependent, I cannot crap out. It has made me more aggressive – something I would normally welcome, except that keeping my aggression in check is important when I go home in the evenings, and close the front door, and am alone with my family. The power I now possess must be used wisely, or else it can destroy my relationships.

I take more responsibility and yet live more dangerously. Or that’s how I feel, anyway.

A childless (not to be confused with childfree – that’s not how she identifies herself) friend recently admitted that she was “scared” of me or “scared to end up like [me]” – she wasn’t sure which. I think those feelings are normal. At 25, when I first started longing for a child, I would have been scared of my future self too. She’s got bigger boobs that don’t fit into any of her old clothes, a leaner wallet and a meaner attitude. She can sing “Old McDonald Had a Farm” with a straight face.

The grass is green again. Little boys wear hoods with ears.

As designed by the lovely Elena Shalkina, who is an artist and filmmaker here in Moscow.

The movie is up for an award in Istanbul next month – in the international category at the TRT Documentary Awards. Alexey and I are really excited to be included in this competition. We’re planning on being in Istanbul in the first week of May for the festival.

Annnnnnd here’s a two-in-one trailer that festival organizers have made available on YouTube:

You know, I’ve been trying really hard to find the right words as to how this movie should be described – and then someone at a party one night just said the following film: “It’s an art house flick – Rural Russia-style.” And that’s a very good – and succinct – way of saying what I’ve wanted to say about it for a while. There’s a tremendous amount of beauty and sadness portrayed here, in very unexpected ways, I would argue, and I’m happy and proud that I’ve been a part of this project (although to be perfectly honest, when my husband says, “We are so doing this” – it’s impossible to say no).