Grab a Fork, This Life is Great.

a slice of life
 
"So this weekend, we've got...anything going on? Friday? Date night?"
"Yes, date night, actually it's our anniversary."
"Oh, right. I remembered that earlier this week. Sorry.
"I'm not mad. I made a reservation."

that's it. that's what our marriage looks like, a lot of the time; and it doesn't look romantic, or dramatic, or sentimental, but it is real.

Tranche de vie-- heh, our life sounds better in French.

Whatever language it's in, most pieces of this cake of our life have a big fat rose in the frosting, or some frosting, or at least the cake is baked through most of the way. It's got some flavor. It's worth trying another bite of this 16-year-old cake.

a few bites I've loved:

• Saying, "Yes" to your proposal of "Will you marinate me?"
• Sitting on the rooftop in the fog of San Francisco, taunting the future as we walked with no railings, giddy with youth and libations from the Blue Light.
• Seeing your super-grinning face at the altar 16 years ago, as our pastor quoted Dante, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."
• Eating Chinese food three nights in a row in Paris, and ending each night at that funky little bar with all of the Ex-pats and the star fruit.
• Spending the day at the Santa Cruz boardwalk after we signed the papers on our house. 
• When I told you that the contractions, "just weren't that impressive." and you said, "I bet you're going to wish you hadn't said that."
• Holding hands in the little room where the parents talked about life while our children were in early intervention playgroup on the other side of the glass. Wishing we didn't fit in...fitting in just fine. 
• Watching you build the most awesome pop-up camper so we wouldn't need to wake up the entire cabin in Montana... and sleeping in that cool camper when there were only three of us squished together, cozy and laughing.
• Snorkeling next to giant sea creatures in Turtle Bay.
• The time when you backed a fully-loaded trailer into a storage unit with only two inches clearance on each side while twenty people watched you maneuver.
• Nervously anticipating, then seeing the ultrasound of that little dancing-hula babyGirl.  
• When you held me while I cried a little longer when the man came to the door to paint the numbers on the curb.
• Thinking we were trapped between a steep clover-shaped freeway exit and a too-low over pass in an RV with two children.
• All the times you wrestle with "all of those children" or any of the other stray kids who like to use you as a climbing wall. 
• Every Wednesday Music in the Park, and every date night, and any night you try to whisk me out of the house. 
• Seeing you laugh so hard I thought you might die while playing Cards Against Humanity.
• Any time you ever wear the Big Red Plaid Coat. It generally means we are happy and cold and with family.
• Friday night at the Lake House, side by side in those awesome chairs with you playing YouTube DJ. Extra love for the nights that our kid comes out of her room to tell us to keep it down.
• When you finally told me last year that you really never, ever, want cheese on your sandwich. 

and every other moment when I stop and look around and think, "This is a great life."

Because it is. No matter how you slice it.

I love you hubbins. Safe travels to you. Perhaps we can leave Chicago out of our anniversary next year, or at least be there together.

Motherhood and the Scientific Method

My Mother's day began with pancakes, and coffee, and champagne, and strawberries...followed by a short nap. When I had been properly feted, Lucy said she really wanted to do "fun stuff," so we turned the day towards our children, and what adventure would make every one happy.

To the lake shore! Jake played in the sand, Descartes lounged in the shade, and Lucy and I set about to make a sandcastle. It's one of my favorite things we do together, even though it wrecks my hands, leaving them dried out and cracked every time. 

On our trip home later that afternoon I dug through the console of the car and found lotion to slather on. I rubbed in the moisture, and discovered a few age spots that have appeared. Actually, as if I hadn't seen them in years, all of the scars that I have, seemed to stand out on my hands; a burn from grabbing dinner at the wrong angle from the oven, while shooing away a dog and a kid from the open door. And there, on my left hand is an odd 90-degree-angled scar: two lines, each less than ¼ inch long. They came from my son's perfectly square tooth. He was two, and that was his only way to tell me that he wanted nothing to do with my art project. (Ironically, I was trying to encourage him to paint Mother's Day note cards for each of his grandmothers.) My hands are keeping track of all of my parenting.

I think Motherhood is like a great scientific experiment. 

When we begin we have a hypothesis of what we think might happen, who we will be, what our children will be like, how we will teach and discipline, and love and care for our kids. Then it begins, and what follows is a series of trials, endless trials. This mothering lab runs 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

And every time we think we know where the data is going, when we think we've cornered the answers, and can make predictions, the children grow, life changes, we change.  At the end of each trial, if there is a pause longer than a breath, we review the data, check for patterns, then we try to make better decisions about what to do in the next go 'round.

Sometimes, a few times, it all makes sense: you have a clear expectation of what will occur, and things play out in exactly that way: I will carry my baby, and that baby will be healthy and enter the world without any struggle. More often, you begin a day expecting one thing and get another, different, but wonderful thing... Silly Putty, Play Doh, and potato chips were each happy, unexpected surprises.

Other times it looks like nothing you expected, with no books to guide us because we are outside of the norms, and we are stuck on how exactly to Mother. At a loss, we seek counsel from other researchers. But it seems that no one has this motherhood thing down, no one has figured out the one way to perfectly parent children.

Honestly, there are days when the entire lab seems ready to blow, when I have little tolerance for the details, when there are too many moving parts to keep track of it all; moments when all of the slides smash to the floor, and it's all you can do to find a place to stand while you bleed. Loving this much means that your child's struggles can tear at you, and leave you sleepless, and wrought. Being undone can feel more familiar than having it all together.

Of course there are breakthroughs-- moments of clarity. Moments when you stand back and you can see that the work, this life, your family, has taken on its own cadence, and there is a peace in watching your children move on their own, safely, happily, greeting the world with kindness. You have presented a part of your data set and perhaps you get to know, briefly, that your work is good, that you are on track.

I'm just another phase in this trial, and my work is made easier because of those who have done this before me. I thank all of the women from whom I have learned, all of the women who pushed the boundaries for what being a woman and being a mother means. I am grateful for the enduring support of my peers, and the advice from my elders.

When I find myself alone with my thoughts at the end of the day, I ask,

Did I give to my children more than I took?

Did I endeavor to show patience when my grace was running low?

Did I love so deeply that my children feel it, even as they create their own space in the world, apart from me?

Did I break their falls just enough so that they bruised, but did not break, even though my heart ached with every moment they struggled?

Did I put my hands into the sand without reservation, and play with the earth alongside her little fingers?

Did I listen to, and honor, my son's voice even when no one else can hear a word?

Did I help them learn to choose the right thing, even when it does not benefit us; to choose to be kind, though it could be easier to be callous?

***

I am rarely satisfied with how I finish a day, especially when it comes to my work as a mother, but I am learning, that in this grand experiment I will often fail myself, and my kids, sometimes spectacularly. I do know that they are worth every trial, and when it is all written down in the end, the conclusions in the lab report of my life, I can only hope that I have continued to move the line on what it means to parent, and that somehow I've created some beauty in this world by helping shape my children.

Last Night in the Very Late Early Morning

It's late.

I've tried all the remedies to sleep, but my mind is so filled this time of year, it's hard to imagine it will slow down.

Instead of sleepy,  I fall in to nostalgia, which is possibly the worst category; it's worse than plain sadness or melancholy, or insomnia. I think nostalgia is a purgatory for people who have a solid sense of recall and an ability to  include all of their senses when they remember.

It conjures up almost every place I've been-by smell, and vision, and emotion. The night is instantly filled with forty one years of life, instead of whatever became of this day.

I certainly relive all of the most recent moments that have happened when my feet were a little cold, when Christmas was around the corner, or upon us, but more likely my mind wanders back to 8, and 12, 19, and 22, to when I was a bride-to be, and days of new-motherhood.

I remember learning to ski with my "Unka Danke" (because that is what we called my mother's brother; we always had so many reasons to thank him). He pushed me down into the soft snow and taught me to get up on my own, then fed me soup from a thermos, and taught me how to open a beer. I never feared falling after that trip. Eight years old, and I mostly knew what you should always figure out: what is the the worst thing that can happen? Prepare for that, and everything else will be cake. Doomsday prepper in the making? Perhaps, but we have "go bags" for almost every part of our life. He gave me love and direction with no strings attached. His pragmatics dictated that he gave me distinct praise for my abilities and accomplishments- I always knew where I stood. I didn't know how rare his adjudication was until much later in life. And he treated me as an equal who just had yet to learn, never basing my identity on my age or gender.

When I am sleepy, and there is a chill in the house, I can remember being asked by my parents to help with my brother's gigantic Lego gifts that were from "Santa" because my parents had lost the patience to complete whatever Millennium Falcon or aircraft carrier was laying about in thousands of pieces (or maybe they knew how much I loved Legos, even though they were never my gift?). I spent hours on those December 24ths putting together set after set, and I was always in charge of the stickers.

I can remember that I slipped the neat bow off of the silver gift box (in the middle of the night) to see if my parents had purchased the right purse, so I would have the proper face of appropriate joy upon opening the gift, just in case they had gotten it wrong. I wanted to be disappointed alone so I wouldn't make them sad. (But they got it right!)

I remember lying, something I truly strive every single day not to do, to my parents for at least half of December one year, about who broke the foil-covered chocolate ornaments on the tree and ate part of each ball.  I took the blame so my little brother would not get in trouble...as if my parents really cared. He ate so many of the chocolate balls that no one paid attention to all of the candy canes I pocketed each morning.

On this chilly night, I have a strong feeling, mixed with a  solid haze about the years where I was still living with my parents, split between them since they had divorced. I remember the realization that I really had two sets of parents. There was a dinner when my not-yet-step sisters talked on about going skiing with friends and I wanted so badly to be a part of their world, yet unbeknownst to me, at my other house, I had a new ski jacket, boots and skis waiting for me under the tree. I was a pretty lucky kid.

That was a year when I knew that things had broken, but not forever. I knew my brother and I would never suffer the ill fates that some of my friends had: angry, sad parents, changing schools. With so many parents who really loved us, how could we possibly fail? It's been confirmed in my head, after all of the stories I've heard, just how great we had it, how lucky all of my siblings from both sides are to have so many, many, parents who love them. I say now that I have six parents: the ones I came with, the ones I gained, and the ones I married into. We have that many people loving us, caring about our future, and our children's future. I've got extras looking out for me and the ones I love.

When it is this cold and  I can't sleep, I can remember starting college, and there were so many new-to-me-religions. I was invited to go to Beverly Hills with my Jewish friends, and I craved the solid, persistent, unequivocal religion they experienced. They had family and religion and culture and education all tied-in-to-one thing. It made me understand Catholics better, and Buddhists, and Hindus, and Muslims. It made being a protestant seem bland, or undecided; I church hopped. I only knew I was not a Unitarian.

I can remember, on a cold day like today sitting in the 1st Congregational Church in Berkeley, with my very kind boyfriend trying to figure out how to be a critical thinker and a Christian in one fell swoop, something he had perfected, an armor he wore without shame or arrogance. The church was clapboard and painted buttercup yellow inside, and the pews were smooth; the coffee was weak, but it was served with a smile. None of those things were a good fit for me, not the boy or the little yellow church.

I can remember racing home for the holidays, the acrid smell of tobacco in the car as my best freshman-year friend and I traveled down I-5. Thirty-eight degrees, windows open, pretending that cigarettes and 87 mph in a two door Toyota Corona couldn't shave a moment off our lives. My dad told me I should wait a bit to call him the next time I drove down, because he could do math, and knew that we never should have arrived that quickly.

In this sleeplessness, I feel the physical ache of working at the Big Blue Logo Box store I ran way back when, as the store manager. Looking at my watch (!) 4:45 pm on December 24, knowing that it would take me an hour to get to the airport, and my flight left at 6:10 pm. I remember thinking that the only place to be for Christmas was somewhere in Orange County, where the sun is shining, the grass is green, the orange and palm trees sway. I can remember the joy of exiting the plane wearing the most awesome all-wool sweater skirt and jacket with a black bowler hat and the most precious Mary Jane character shoes, with dark black tights, and realizing that upon disembarkation, I looked like someone heading to Annie Hall's funeral.

The cold, the not-sleepiness, makes me remember the nights I spent poring over books and charts trying to figure out who I would be, and the timeline it should follow. I thought my security, my future, my lifetime happiness, was most strongly knotted to marriage, which would bring me children, and a spouse, which would, in turn, garner praise from my parents. And I had hoped I would find satisfaction for myself, because for whatever shortcomings I have, I always thought my children will be better than I will ever be. I thought my awareness of my weaknesses would somehow give them strength. At the time, with all of my education and desire to succeed in the business world, I really thought I had only two tasks to get right: be married to good man, and be a good mom.

But even now on this sleepless winter night, I can feel the anxiety of trying to be the right person, the right girlfriend. I can feel the needs-to-be written-about experience of my underwear, every piece of of lacy bit I couldn't afford, falling out of my suitcase and down the airport luggage carousal, a ten foot drop, waiting to be swept up into the arms, of what I thought at the time, was going to be my father-in-law. I can remember, as my nose chilled and my cheeks pinked to a hue unknown at makeup counters, thinking that perhaps, I had just become a story in some other family's life.

Numbed hands and toes, I remember declaring my love for Descartes as snow fell around us, feeling warm in what what was surely a blizzard. I remember the longest drive home that day in the windy Jeep.

I remember the cold fog at Fort Tejon on December 26th, 1996, when my now-husband, unwittingly admitted me into his life forever by asking me to marry him, and smell of the oranges we bought miles later at a roadside stand. I wore a yellow sweater that was donated last year by accident. The sky was so very blue that day.

And I practically relive the nausea of being in a fold-out bed in my sister-law's house, suffering from the worst food poisoning. I lay dying in their front room praying the world would end because my body was dissolving from the inside out, knowing that if I had not already been engaged, my groans alone would have heralded the end of my relationship.

The cold reminds me of how warm my children's little bodies are when they crawl into my bed in the morning, making my bed a tumble of  joy I didn't know could be so very big and heart-fulfilling. I think of Descartes' giant 'Lumber man' jacket that he purchased in the middle of August in Montana, making it the best off-season purchase ever. I think of ice fishing, calculating whether my child was bigger than the holes we cut in the ice.

So many memories, so little sleep.

It's Thursday and I'm in Love

It's our 15th wedding anniversary today, and sitting here in this beautiful hotel room in Chicago, I can't help but think that I am the luckiest girl in the world to have my particular spouse... who is back in California minding after our home, our children, and his work.

I knew when I said yes to come to BlogHer this year, that my desire to be a part of the conference would put us apart on our anniversary, and though I asked Descartes if it was okay that I spend our family dollars for me to attend, I wasn't at all troubled by the fact that we would miss being together on the actual day of our anniversary.

And maybe that's why we are still a whole and functioning marriage after all these years? Maybe being able to roll with it,  maybe that's how we will make it another 35 years after this, and perhaps meet the milestone that his parents just passed. And maybe we will make it several more years after that if there is enough good fortune for us to have each other then too.

I am respectful of milestones; they march us through time, and help us take note of how much has been accomplished, how much there is yet to be done, but I have learned over these years, of marriage and parenting, that it is more important that I mark each morning with thankfulness for a full house of health, for a roof over our heads, for milk in the fridge, and to be at peace each night with the comfort of knowing the head that lies next to mine spins its wheels with how to care for me, and our family, as much as it seeks rest from having put those plans into action.

Our marriage isn't balanced on one day a year with red roses and champagne, though I will probably drink some today anyway. If we held it all up for one day a year to be thankful, to show our love, to announce to the world how great our life is together, I doubt we'd have made it this far. Relying on one day to sustain you for 364 more is asking too much of one dinner date. And flowers cut from their vine don't last more than a week, so what then of the other 51? I told him from the beginning, I would rather you love me every day, than try to make up for it once a year.

I didn't worry about being gone for our anniversary because I know how much he loves me on any given Tuesday, or Thursday, or last week. He shows it in the way he calls on his way home from work, a gentle reminder that it may be nearing the dinner hour if I haven't yet thought about what to feed the masses. I can hear it in his messages to me, in the notes about jobs he thinks I might like, or places we should visit together, and in the swift reply, "Yes!" when we ask him to meet us at the park.

He puts away the ladder, the paint brush, the hammer, the duct tape, the everything-I-left-out, without berating me for walking away from an unfinished project, always giving me the benefit of the doubt, that something more urgent must have come up.

He let's me, be me, as loud and brassy as I often am, even as I am trying to be a little less dramatic.  He draws out my humor and sets the stage for me, because he knows how I love to make people laugh.

We have inside jokes too complicated to explain, and share a dark humor, having waded through the piles of life we could not have anticipated. He accepts my need to plan for the worst, and for however often he has expected me to 'suck it up,' he has always held me when I needed it. He expects me to be strong, but knows when to put his hand at my back, and whisper, "Let's get you out of here." He chooses me to be a part of his adventures, and he fills our life with plenty of them.

He does the right thing, every time. Every. Time. And he is a good man--he is trustworthy, kind, and I've never met a child who didn't like him...and babies know about these things. He even eats leftovers.

He is a cornerstone.

I cannot predict our future; the possibilities ahead seem just as implausible as where we have been, but I know that I am thrilled to see his face when he walks through the door each evening, and melt when he wrestles our children amid a pile of pillows. I look forward to date night like it's the first  time he's ever asked me out, and savor the feeling of being seated beside him in the car, undecided about where to go or what to do--As long as I am with him, everything else is going to work out just fine. It's true. Just watch.

It's more than I thought I'd have. For every young vision I had of my future, this part, my marriage, this man, it's more than I thought I'd have. More depth, more laughter, more big ideas, more feelings... it's more fun than I imagined.


Cheers to you my precious husband. Cheers to us, and what we've built and sustained. May we have so many more years together that we forget each other's names.

You can just call me "dear," and hold my hand.

You're my back bone.
You're my cornerstone.
You're my crutch when my legs stop moving.
You're my head start.
You're my rugged heart.

...

And long after you're gone, gone, gone.
I'll love you long after you're gone, gone, gone.  

Phillip Phillips - Gone Gone Gone -  Live NY PS 22

In the Making

myGirl at about 6 months

She's seven. Seven. and I can't imagine that she is already seven and that she is only seven because she is both my little baby, in a pink onsie covered in a Sock Monkey print, and she is this spunky, punky, vivacious, perfectly wonderful being, who is wholly a person apart from me.

Her sense of humor is sharp, but not mean-spirited, and so often perfectly timed that I wonder if I might hear the roar of a live, studio-audience behind me. Sometimes I can't even laugh because I am so surprised by her wit, and so proud that she is carrying on the family desire to make others smile. And, honestly, I love that I can tease her, because that is my natural state, and it makes parenting her easier.

She has learned to find humor when she could be very sad, or irritated, or exasperated. When her older brother walks fully-clothed, and shoed through her freshly filled blow-up pool, tracking mud and dribbling rocks, she admonishes her brother for getting his good shoes wet, not for ruining her swim party. When it was discovered that 19 of 20 fish in her tank had died overnight (another post entirely), she looked like she was going to cry, then pointed to the last fish, and said in a low voice, "Mur-dur-er. Murderer!" She stomps her feet when she doesn't get what she wants, and begins to whine with a tone that tears at my eardrums, then stops, centers herself, and drawing her hand from face to chest calls, "Aaaand SCENE!" and thanks her audience.

She loves dolls, well, as of right now she loves dolls, and while I do not understand it, because it is so unlike how I played as a child, I am trying to appreciate it because I know it will go away, just as her round baby face has already begun to turn oval. Her taste in entertainment has her singing songs beyond her years with lyrics that her precious head automatically makes into child-like phrases, and she devours new trends, encouraging our car filled with little girls on the way to wherever, crying out, "Tonight is the night, we’ll fight 'til it’s over..." and lifting up her arms they all sing, "So we put our hands up like the ceiling can’t hold us. Like the ceiling can’t hold us!"

She is grateful most of the time, polite when she is away from us. She cares enough to be dressed appropriately for the event, but can let it go and run out the door without wondering what people will think. She has a sense of fashion that exudes confidence, she wears camo and pink like she invented them both, and was undaunted by a cast she wore for six weeks this year.

She's sensitive, and is deeply moved by precious babies, perceived oppression, and the idea of loss; her pain in having her best friend move to the other side of the planet was palpable to anyone who witnessed her talking about it.

She meows sometimes, a little bit like how a friend of mine says "woof," which worries me some, but only because I am not fond of cats. She loves to cuddle up each morning, and still finds it amusing to hide in our bed, and surprise her dad waiting under the covers if she can sneak in while he leaves the room. She loves the drama of "the big reveal" of almost anything, and applauds others' efforts even when she wanted something else to happen.

She understands that where we put our time and our money shapes who we are, knows the names of the states in alphabetical order, and, as much as I can't stand it, still requests to watch America's Funniest Home Videos. Her thirst for media is rarely quenched, and her brain has trouble shutting off at night. Somehow she can still be soothed by my voice, singing softly in the dark; it humbles me.

She likes to know what information is fact, and which is opinion before deciding anything, which sometimes wears her out. and she carries too much sometimes, chasing issues that are not problems for her to solve. But she is made of the best parts of us, and in her unbroken, seamless state, she remains filled with a persevering light.

 ***

Happy birthday babyGirl. You are my best favorite.

I Resolve to...

To honor number 7 on my list below, here are a few of my resolutions a full month and a half into the year. I figure I just finished packing away the Christmas decorations, so I am right on schedule.

New Year's Resolutions:

1. Don't hold myself to anything I write below, but at least try to do a few things.
2. Clean out the refrigerator once a week.
3. Use up the amazing selection of cans and jars of things that fill my pantry.
4. Be thankful I have full pantry.
5. Use kinder words when I am frustrated with my daughter.
6. Use kinder words when I am frustrated with myself.
7. Get over myself and just hit "publish."
8. Stop taking everyone's hand-me-down things, unless I actually have a need for the item. 
9. Cull the books. They are multiplying.
10. More water. 
11. Call the fence guy.
12. Kiss more often.
13. Close the laptop sometimes.
14. Throw it away, give it away, or put it away.
15. Work with my son on using a fork.
16. Wear my body confidently, without fear of judgement.
17. Drink more tea.
18. Call my mother before she sends the email asking if I am alive.
19. Get passports for the kids, and make a plan for an adventure.
20. Take more pictures, because so many good things are going to happen and I want to remember it all.

On Our Anniversary

You were a little boy when I met you, I know that now. With your black hair and shiny hazel eyes, you were young, we were so young, but you had already been through so many things that I thought you were very mature and just had a little boy face. I thought I was all grown up with my speedy car and running my own store, and living on my own never having gone back home after college.

I'm glad that you came home after school or I never would have found you. I am so thankful that California felt like home to you so that you came back to your family. I fell in love with your family first, you know that. Your Mom and Dad and how they loved you and your sisters, and the obvious way that you were a family who fought for each other and supported each other even on grumpy or tough days. You were so respectful of your parents, and they trusted your judgement and your choices; it never seemed like you needed to prove anything to them.

It wasn't hard to fall in love with you, but I'm glad that we were friends first and that I told you all of the stories that I never would have told some boyfriend. You know every twist and bad turn I have taken in my life, and you never let go of my hand when I told you those stories. You have always been a good listener, and able to withhold judgement, or at least you appear to be able to do those things, and maybe that's just as important. You see what is good in someone even as they reveal their failings. You see an individual's best intentions, and give so much room for people to succeed.

I liked waking up this morning and once again finding you there on our bed with too many pillows. After all of these years, no one has ever slept on the couch, or left, or run away, and with all of the frustration we've been through, and some sadness, and worry, and strain, my mind always goes to the wonderful things we've seen and done together, and can only hazily remember the disagreements. Maybe that's how I want to remember things, but mostly I think that's how it is. We are on this path together, and any of those harder times just gave us a better sense of direction for our future.

I trust you. You have so much integrity that I know it has put you at a disadvantage sometimes, but I am so thankful that time has not taken that away from you. Cynical, pragmatic, we've been though those months, but it is with great anticipation that I watch our life unfold before us. Even as we have watched relationships around us sour, or dissolve, or break apart in rocky crumbles, there has always been something that we have... we like each other.

I like you, and your humor, and your clickety-fast mind, and your strong hands. I love you as my husband, and treasure you as a father to our children, who have your same twinkly eyes.

Thank you for another year together. I would choose you again, and again.

I choose you now. I love you. Happy anniversary sweet man.

Where Are you Going My Little One?

My daughter, my baby, turned six yesterday.

She is beautiful and kind and quick and loves to curl up sweetly in my arms to start the morning. Each day I am equal parts terrified and delighted to be her mother. I know I will mess up a lot. I have already expected so much from such a small person, but she rises to the occasion, and I suppose, ultimately, so have I. She makes me rethink my inner core and calibrates my moral compass like no one else I know... except perhaps her brother.

And she loves her brother so much. She cares for him, she cares about him, and she cares about his future and the futures of his friends and classmates. Though she is always aware, and works hard to support his needs, she gives him only enough room to provide for disability, and after that she bickers with him as any other sibling pair might do. They fight over blankets in the car on road trips, and she saves half of almost anything good she has so he can have some when she gets home. The natural and easy way she accepts differences by not bothering to mention them unless she doesn't understand something, makes me have hope for her generation that there will be more tolerance in every way. She doesn't stare, she says "Hello."

She loves to drive in her Daddy's car, begging him to take off the roof of the Jeep, and sings along with the cranked up music, asking him to take the long way. She picks up jingles from television, and sings them too, with a rock star voice.. .who knew that the insurance commercials could sound so powerful? And when she's watching tv, she understands marketing, thinks that little girls should look like little girls, and not minitature grown ups, and knows to say "Can you add this cool toy to my list?" instead of flat-out asking for it.

She's not boring. She can carry a conversation, and knows who the president is, and about reproductive rights, the importance of voting, and with her proclamation: "You should be able to love who you want to." it's clear she supports equal rights for all when it comes to marriage, raising children, and living life. She has a crush on the boy who has long wavy brown hair, but has some thoughts about living with us for a long time. She's not yet sure she wants children when she grows up, and has thought about going to University locally (ahem, that would be Stanfurd). Her only thoughts on "leaving us" are to get a cool house with her brother to help him out.

She can be counted on. When there are times I urgently need her assistance with something because I don't always have enough arms to keep everyone safe, she makes it clear that every talk we've ever had is stored in her head, and she remains calm and helps exactly as she has been taught to. She always locks the gate behind her.

She is too much, over affectionate, loud, bouncy, "on fire"...she is a cross between Tigger, and me, I suppose, with a dash of initial reserve that is just enough to remind me that she is my husband's child too. She mostly puts all of her energy to good use, and though I wonder who she is when I'm not around, when we got a note sent home from her after-school care it included an award:

For being wise beyond your years, listening to others, and seeking not only to be understood but to also understand others.

I am trying to remember that she will only be this small now, and she is already taller every day. When she lies down in the tub, her hair streaming out like a mermaid, I can't help but notice that her feet touch the other end, and in another month or two she will need to bend her legs to to try to get that calm of peaceful floating. We'll need to find another place where she can feel light like that, because I want her to carry that feeling with her as she grows up and has more responsibilities.

*******

My precious girl, I love you more than all the leaves on all trees that 

have ever been and ever will be, and then I love you more. 

You are my best-favorite.

Happy Birthday.

My Funny Valentines

Valentine's day is filled with chocolates and roses and lots of those horrid balloons and white stuffed bears that only come out in February. We do none of these things. My daughter saw a balloon with a cat on it recently and said, "Let me guess Mom, you double-hate that one."

Descartes brought home some yummy stinky cheese and delicious bread. I usually make him a heart-shaped meatloaf (since I think he fell in love with my meatloaf before he fell in love with me), but this year I opted for Banh Mi one of my new favorite foods because what's not to love about these flavor-filled, flexible sandwiches? A new tradition is born.

We finished Lucy's valentine's cards just before bed last night...I felt guilty that I did not make cake pops, stick lollies to hand-made cards or shape hearts from doilies. She had no sense of this, being perfectly satisfied to give Phineas and Ferb, and Disney Princess cards to her kindergarten friends. Her teacher gave her a Disney princess card, as did half the class. Phew. And she didn't mind that her extra-special card to once certain boy in her class did not get her an extra-special card in return.

I went to Jake's Valentine's day party at Wunderskool. I had great intentions to make a special blah blah blah for each of the children in his class, and something even lovelier for each of the professionals who guarantee my child's health, happiness and safety while encouraging him to learn every day. I decided to show up instead. He saw me as I was walking in the parking lot and headed for the gate to greet me.

I love the look my kids get when they see me across the room, slightly unsure of how long I've been standing there. They grow so fast these days it can take me awhile to find them in their circles of friends and teachers, and they both have darker hair than I imagine they have when they are apart from me. When they see me, there is a smile that spreads across their face, and it fills me up, makes me whole again. Lucy generally calls my name as if she has just greeted a dear friend from college she hasn't seen in years, and Jake will touch my arm with one finger, tracing the space between the radius and ulna.

Jake took my hand and held it later in class while we were waiting for some treats. He took my hand and lifted it to his mouth and kept it there against his lips. Of course I was chatting away with the aides in the class, teasing Jake and his friends, so it took me a moment to register that he was kissing me, kissing my hand. I thanked him for the very nice kiss and he put his arm around me and pulled me in laughing. It's nice to have those moments with him, especially because he is eleven, and there aren't that many more years when he is going to want to hold his mom's hand at all.

Mothering: It's Never as Easy as It Looks

I actually never thought mothering would be easy. I thought I would have a hard time getting pregnant (I didn't), and when I was pregnant, I worried a lot about having a child with special needs (I did).

I knew, from having been a precocious child (that's precocious, not precious!) that children could have smart-mouths and not sleep well. And from my teenage years, I recognized that children turn into young adults sooner than you think and might even sneak out of their parents' home, spend their 17th birthday across the border, and they might even water-down the creme de menthe in the liquor cabinet without their parents even knowing.

But I did think, for example, that my children would listen to me, and actually do something very, very close to what I asked, within a time frame that looked like they were following my directions. As much as I talked back and asked why, I am fairly certain that I did follow instructions, or at least I went to my room to be grounded. I thought there would be a lot more museums and going to the opera, and learning needlepoint, more library visits, trips to the beach and fishing, and I find myself pausing, in the face of things I don't like, or are hard, or not fun, and I ponder if I am being a good enough mom.

"If you are wondering if you are a good mom, you are, because bad moms never wonder." 

That's my line to other moms. To my sister, to my friends, to strangers. I can say that to lots of other women, and comfort them when they feel like they are faltering, I know what good parenting looks like, and even when we make mistakes, it's mostly the trying hard that counts in parenting.

But it's harder than I thought it would be; much harder, and I can't always be settled with my own advice. I feel like I have not met their needs on most days, that I have been selfish. I lie awake thinking I didn't try hard enough, or that I used an unkind voice when I could have taken a breath.  And I worry that my chances to "make up" are slipping away; Lucy will be five in a month and Jake is ten and half.

What I did not expect, what you can't see from the outside, is the gnawing inside that I would never, ever feel like I had done enough for my children. Is that what being a mother is? To have those thoughts of each child's temperature and stomach content and to constantly be discerning the cleanliness level of both their teeth and clothing. I am concerned about the radio, television, books and words that are on display in my home and in my car. I worry about how they are treating their friends, and which children are they befriending? And how are they communicating with others when I am not around to intuit their every need? Every choice I make considers their very existence.

It seems so much easier for other moms. They naturally make plans for spring break that include the science museum and a trip to the beach. They stop by the library on their way home from dance class. They enroll their children in violin lessons, piano lessons, and drum circles, and plan sleepover parties for six.  Maybe I make it harder on myself because I have such amazing friends, and every thing each of them do, seems so fantastic that I want to do all of those things, even if those activities are coming from three or four or five moms, and not just one. It may be unrealistic, but not undesirable.

I would love to have a day when I knew that I had done my best, and that was the best that could be done.

*****

There are some other things that are so much easier than I imagined, so much better, warmer, brighter, meaningful and important. I hesitate to call them out because I don't want to mock them, or make light of their gravity, but they are mostly the things I never knew about at all before I became their mother.

Missing my first-born when an emergency surgery kept me from him when he was only 30 days old. The ache I felt in that hospital room without him was the most unbearable pain I could ever imagine, no wound or slice, or broken bone can compare to that hollow that could only be filled by that tiny boy. And the wholeness and lightness I felt when I held him again was like no other joy I had ever had.

My daughter asks me to sing her to sleep so she can 'hear me in her dreams' and holds my hand in the car while I am driving so we can be close before she leaves me for the day. My son has friends at school, and has developed meaningful relationships all on his own using his great sense of humor and his joi de vivre.

I never could have guessed how wonderful it would be to sleep next to my babies, or how watching them sleep could make me weep

...and I didn't know how easy it would be to fall in love, so deeply, so permanently, and so completely.

Thank you to my husband and my children for helping to shape so much of who I am. And to all of the women who support me, pave the way, comfort me and praise me, I am forever grateful.

****

This post was an editor's pick today at OpenSalon.com

A (prim) Rose by any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet

Sixteen years ago today, that guy, who is now my husband, gave me a little wooden box with four little pots. Each pot had a little primrose in it.

He was dating my roommate, and brought her a beautiful bouquet of flowers, and his handsome smile and his invitation to dinner, but somehow in the midst of being a great boyfriend, he remembered me, the lonely roommate who, I think had just stopped dating the guy who would eventually be the best man at our wedding. Life was so simple then.

It was a very sweet of him. So sweet that after they left, I randomly, plucked three flowers from the plants and pressed them into the largest book I had at the time, "The Riverside Shakespeare," which is a ginormous book of works.

I had never pressed a flower in my life, and for some reason, I plucked those flowers and pressed them in the middle of Antony and Cleopatra which is sort of a strange love story. It's too bad I didn't choose Taming of the Shrew, or Romeo and Juliet because it might make the story better, but our story's not bad. I've never pressed a flower since that night.

I've wondered many times why I chose to save that memory. I thought he was a nice guy, and even at 25 it was obvious that he was a good guy-that he would be "grow up" to be a good man, and as it turns out, a great father as well. Did I know, even then, that we'd be here, nearly 13 years of marriage later?

What is it that makes us stick? What makes any marriage stay together? Perhaps it's facing adversity together and coming out on the other side-not that we're done facing challenges, Lucy is only 4! And I know we're still figuring out how to support each other, because what I need to "feel okay" is different than what my husband needs.  I've recognized that it might be unreasonable to expect my spouse to be my everything, which is why I cherish my relationships with my sister, my moms, my girlfriends, and my online community. My husband and I laugh a lot; we share a dark humor. We have a few secrets together, which may be surprising to some because I do tend to share quite a bit. Maybe this is something: I really like my husband. If we weren't married I would still want to know him, hang out with him, and probably still choose him as someone on my island (do you ever play that game?). He's very smart, and says nice things about me to other people, and we parent the same way without really trying. We have finally figured out that date night is a very smart thing to do on a very regular basis, and without much complaint, he eats everything I cook even if it's terrible. and he's handsome. I am a very lucky woman.

Happy Valentine's Day sweet man.

and thank you again to my roommate for finding such a great guy; I can never thank you enough.

Whose Life is This Anyway?

He did not put any cake on me because he is a very nice man.

I'll admit, I thought being married would be easier.

In this day and age I thought that gender boundaries would have been quashed. I thought, that since I had clearly married the most romantic and kind man in the world that the sparks that flew in the beginning would be only the base for the fire of our life and that the sweet man I chose would never have a mean thing to say. I thought I would always, and in every way find him charming.

I knew we were better together than separate, and that once together we would be unstoppable in our careers, our travels and our desire to have adventure and novelty. Upon meeting us, I was certain I would continue to hear from new friends what an amazing couple we were.

And having found such an amazing guy from such a solid family,  it never occurred to me that parenting would be anything but joy and pride, with the brilliant little offspring we would create. Our children would be perfect, and well-mannered, and their successes would only bring Descartes and I closer and closer together. Our family would be a vision of success, and happiness. Our parents would be so proud.

yes, I DO have red hair in these photos

I thought I would always be a loving and caring wife, who thrilled at pleasing my spouse.  I thought I was perfectly suited to being married to this man, and when we smiled at each other throughout the entire ceremony I truly thought I would always be that happy. The optimism that surrounded us like a rosy bubble of delight could never be burst, and the people we added to our life would only be more successful and wonderful than we are.

 *******

Our life is so very different than I imagined, and yet we are so much better than those people I thought we would be. Our marriage is so much more real, and raw, and I love my husband so much more deeply than I ever thought I would.

And we are much better together than apart; Descartes and I know each other now. After 12 years we really do know each other, but thankfully we are still learning too; what it looks like to truly support someone in their life and career, how to care for each other when we are both in despair. What we have learned is that we travel well, and we're not scared of really anything when we are together.  Between the two of us, with his strength and my map reading skills, we can get out of almost anything, or into anything, like this cross-country adventure we are almost done planning.

We like each other too. Even when we don't get along, we are good roommates, except for the dishes, which apparently no one wants to do, and we continue to negotiate after 14 years of living together.  I genuinely like my husband, a lot. I think he's funny and smart, and handsome. And the way he builds things, and knows things is amazing to me. Just this morning, he 'hacked' a camera, breaking in somehow and changing lines of code so it would do what we want it to do-- the only obstacle he faced was our four year old daughter sitting on his head.

1998

I'm not as 'nice' as I used to be. I don't think I was ever nice actually. I think I've always had a dark sense of humor and a bit of a snarky streak, but I used to have more optimism. I used to track fewer things, so it was easier for me to remember what is actually important. And I'm sure I am not easy to live with because I demand that you read my mind and prioritize life in the exact same way I do.  I think I am more demanding, but perhaps that happens to many people as they age and know better what they want from life. Descartes is a patient man, tolerant of my drama, but he's figured out how to bust me out of my perseverations, and move our family on to better things.

2010

Parenting has done more to strengthen this marriage than just about anything else. Holding hands during a sonogram while we wait to see if Lucy was growing with all of her parts in the right places, holding each other in a parking lot when we got Jake's first batch of diagnosis from the first official place, helping each other through 52 days of Jake not sleeping, taking turns swinging him or driving, trying to not to yell at each other or our child. Many couples have a few months, maybe a year of disturbed sleep patterns, then they can look back and laugh. We have a life where hard things happen often, but we have learned not to wait to laugh; or at least we try. I think many big, sad things are behind us, and as much as I am rather pragmatic these days, I think I may be coming out of my pessimistic days. Descartes has just been waiting for me, patiently, ever the realist with the ability to take stock, reassess and move on.

I know that my life would be different had I chosen someone else to marry, if someone else had chosen me, but I am so glad Descartes and I chose each other, and that we have this life. I know it's not all perfect. But I think our parents are still proud of us, and I'm pretty sure Jake and Lucy will grow up to be decent human beings under our watch, so at least we know we've maintained one small piece of continuity in this world.

****

I love you my precious husband. 

Thank you so much for another year of life, this wonderful life with you. 

xoxo, 

me

p.s. please consider this your anniversary card. I was not able to get to the store.

Jack Handy by Jennyalice

Tonight I talked for a very long time with my dear friend DB (Descartes did too.. which is impressive because Descartes probably doesn't even know where the phone hangs up in the house he uses it so infrequently). DB is in a place few of us ever thought she would be. She's probably going down the path to being a "divorcee". Phew. Wow. 

So a whole new chapter of life, and so we talked through what it means to be this "new person". Actually we talked a lot about deciding who exactly we are in this life, any life. I am trying to be the same person wherever I am, with the same moral code, a similar disposition; dynamic but stable. Somehow I want to recognize that I am this person now because of all that I have encountered; the fabric of my life makes me who I am but doesn't dictate my future entirely. I know  I am not going to wake up and be someone new, and neither is she, but I can make changes, make choices.

While we were talking she said please just email me some of these things we've been talking about. They don't encompass our entire conversation, nor is it my new mantra, but here are my "Jack Handy" thoughts for the evening

I am trying to be a woman first who has a husband and children. I need to be me first. I need to figure out what it means to walk a mile in my own shoes. If I do not know who I am  I cannot effectively be much to anyone else, not my spouse or my children. 

I spend time with people I respect and admire. I want to cultivate relationships with those people who have attributes which I want to emulate. I do not waste my time with people or in places that do not add to my heart or spirit. I start fresh every morning. I wash my regrets away at night when I wash my face.

I do my best. 

I choose the right thing whenever I possibly can. 

I love.

Another Small Victory Thursday Morning

Thursday morning
Jake is not going to school because he has bad butt.
A Hot Mama is registering him for Camp.. thank you thank you Mama B, Mother of 37,461 kids!

Jake and Lucy are running around the top floor of the house drinking sippy cups of milk.

Jake finishes his and drops it on the floor.

"Jake please put your cup on the counter."

and then

"If you want more milk, please give your cup to mom."

I pull the milk out of the *new* fridge.

Jake kicks the cup to me.
In the past I would have accepted this as his attempt to follow directions.

"If you want more milk you need to put your cup on the counter. You need to hand your cup to mom."

Jake picks up his cup and comes to the breakfast counter and lets the cup roll out of his hand towards me.
this is as close as Jake gets to following these kind of directions which require intimate touch

"Jake, if you want more milk you need to hand your cup to mom."

Jake picks up his cup, steps a foot towards me and puts the cup in my hand.

He put the cup in my hand.

Jake has never actually handed any one any thing ever.

He will drop it close by, he will kick it to your feet, he will nudge it towards you, but never in the hand.

and he did it. and i cried.. and I gave him his milk, and gave him a big hug and thanked him for following directions and being a good listener. He smiled and made happy noises and ran away (with his cup of milk!).

I went downstairs and woke up Descartes.

and to my great delight he was excited too, and knew exactly what I was talking about, which is, I suppose, a great testament to our marriage and our parenting that we are in the same place.. that we both knew how special this moment was.

Descartes came upstairs and gave Jake a big hug and told him that he was very proud of him and Jake leaned into Descartes and smiled.

September 20th, 2007

Jake followed directions.

Jake handed me the cup.

Small victories.

Kisses

Lucy gives kisses now.. freely.. to her dolls.. to pictures of babies in books, to her mom, and dad..

and to her big brother Jake... who holds very, very still so she can get him.

i am the luckiest mom in the whole world

ugh. get selling

So I think I may hate eBay. I know it is hard to imagine, but I was thinking today that I have almost an entire room's worth of items that I think I should sell on eBay. What happened to a plain old garage sale? What happened to donating it to charity. I wonder if donations of quality items has decreased as the popularity of eBay has risen.

Another Moment of Great Love

This passage is from Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
In the final momentsof his life, Juvenal Urbino (who fell while trying to capture his parrot from a tree.) looks into the eyes of Fermina Daza his true love of so many years.

He recognized her despite the uproar, through his tears of unrepeatable sorrow at dying without her, and he looked at her for the last and final time with eyes more luminous, more grief-stricken, more grateful than she had ever seen them in half a century of a shared life, and he managed to say to her with his last breath:

“Only God knows how much I loved you.”

A Moment of Great Love

Memorable Quotes from "Grey's Anatomy" As We Know It (2006)
"Grey's Anatomy"
As We Know It (2006)

In my opinion this is one of the greatest love scenes I have ever watched...or read for that matter. Love is in the detail of things, the minutia. At the end of the day, at the end of our life, we remember moments.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dr. Meredith Grey: Hey.
Dr. Derek Shepherd: Hey. You almost died today.
Dr. Meredith Grey: Yeah, I almost died today.

[Derek is at a loss for words and starts heading to the door]

Dr. Meredith Grey: I can't, I can't remember our last kiss. All I could think about was, "I'm going to die today and I can't remember our last kiss," which is pathetic. But the last time we were together and happy, I... want to be able remember that, and I can't Derek. I can't remember.
Dr. Derek Shepherd: I'm glad you didn't die today.

[Starts to leave but stops]

Dr. Derek Shepherd: It was a Thursday morning, you were wearing that ratty little 'Dartmouth' T-shirt you look so good in, the one with the hole at the back of the neck. You'd just washed your hair and you smelled like some kind of... flower. I was running late for surgery. You said you were going to see me later, and you leaned to me, put your hand on my chest and you kissed me. Soft. It was quick. Kind of like a habit. You know, like we'd do it everyday for the rest of our lives. And you went back to reading the newspaper and I went to work. That was the last time we kissed.

[Derek starts to leave]

Dr. Meredith Grey: Lavender. My hair smelled like lavender... from my conditioner.
Dr. Derek Shepherd: Lavender. Huh.

[Smiles then leaves]