Zen Mama, Zen Baby

This weekend, the Papa and I watched How to Cook Your Life, an endearing documentary about a zen monk chef in the Bay Area. It’s a slow, entertaining and totally inspiring little film – no frills or action – and it’s exactly what I’ve been craving.

The pack-a-punch bit of wisdom I took away from the film was this advice: when you chop carrots, chop carrots. When you peel the potatoes, peel the potatoes…. And so on. Be. Here. Now. Simple, right? Obvious, right?

Not really.

So I took this zen tidbit to heart since I've been thinking about being in the moment a lot lately. I’ve also been reading Everyday Blessings which is proving to be a great philosophical read about the value we place on mindful parenting and how to be a more conscious and present parent to an ever-changing and dynamic little bean. And let's face it, this world we live in can be pretty stinkin' crazed at times. So yeah, the zen message of being present in every moment, even the mundane moments that can seem so numbingly tedious after a long day, is appealing to my often frenetic self.

After mulling over the whole “Peel the carrots” mode, I was able to pull off a pretty darn zen meal prep yesterday morning. Stella and I enjoyed a lovely and peaceful breakfast of yogurt and blueberries. She sat on the counter as I thoughtfully and quietly prepared our meal, and I focused on the now, repeating silly words like “yogurt for my babe, yogurt for my babe.” It felt a bit goofy, but it also felt kinda good.

The Papa handled lunch while I took a much needed break, so I was actually quite eager to try again for dinner. Again, Stella happily took her spot on the counter and munched on a bowl of grapes. Good stuff. I made it through the garlic – “Chopping garlic. Chopping garlic.” – and then was started the veggie sauté – “Gorgeous greens. Gorgeous greens.”

And then, suddenly and harshly, the reality of everyone else’s now took over. Stella suddenly became ravenous and surly, a small army of ants descended upon our kitchen (right below my feet) and the phone rang clamorously.

Hmmm. So much for zen.

I know this sounds silly, but I felt kind of defeated. I really wanted this to work. But, as always, I’d applied my perfectionist focus and determination on even the most zen of tasks. The Papa could tell I was bummed and helped me chuckle about it, and we teamed up to simply deliver calories to hungry bellies.

And then we really started chuckling because Stella stole the show (once again) by essentially becoming a little zen Buddha incarnate. Like countless other 22 month olds, she felt the need to repeat everything she said and felt about five zillion times as we sat around the dinner table. “Beans. Beans. Beans. Beans. Beans. Beans. Beans.” “Cool down.” “Cool down.” “Cool down.” “Cool down.” “Cool down.” “Cool down.” “Cool down.” “Yummy.” “Yummy.” “Yummy.” “Yummy.” “Yummy.” “Yummy.”

In the moment indeed.

I suppose the lesson here is that being in the now means allowing for our previous notions of now to explode into a million little disorganized pieces of chaos. And it means that any notion we may have of controlling the moment is utterly and ridiculously laughable. And, of course, I’m now very aware of the teaching Stella has to offer me as she is most definitely the most centered and live-in-the-moment person I’ve ever encountered. So I still think this practice of being more present as I tackle the seemingly tedious tasks of motherhood is a good one. Because as I’ve heard nearly every parent say, this whole kid gig moves way too fast. And I would hate to miss out on some of the joys just because I failed to see the beauty of what it means to steam carrots for Stella or fold her unimaginably cute pants atop a massive pile of laundry.

All this reminds me of an interview I once saw with a mom who said she nearly lost her mind with the mundane tasks of running a house – laundry, dishes, cooking, grocery shopping, etc. She was educated and worldly and found herself totally perplexed as to how she ended up living as an unpaid scullery maid in her own home. But she found salvation one day realizing the very simple but powerful truth that sometimes folding your child’s laundry or shopping for fresh veggies for the week is really just another way of saying “I love you.” Sure, reading to your kid, playing make-believe or literally cuddling in the wee hours of the morning are all more glamorous forms of adoration and affection. But it all adds up to a bigger picture. And whether we like it or not, sweeping up those endless messes or chopping up veggies that might end up on the floor of the car contributes to a family’s sense of well-being and stability.

So I’m going to keep at it, this Zen Mama thing. I think I’ll dial it back a bit to loosen the reigns on my acutely honed I-have-to-do-it-well-to-make-it-worthwhile instinct. But I feel like I’m actually at a place in my life where I’m ready to feel the now. Maybe it’s because I’m not willing to chug along this motherhood path with a bad attitude. Or maybe it’s because I’m more open than I've ever been to the notion of a spiritual life. Or maybe – and I have a hunch this is the key – it’s because my now is more sweet and delicious than it’s ever been.

Having It All

A few days ago I had a lovely chat with my dear friend, Alex, from Ransacked Goods. Over the course of an hour, we covered everything from pre-school dilemmas to family challenges to creative fulfillment. And while we actually live somewhat different lives – she’s an amazing mama who works full time and I’m an amazing mama who stays at home – we’re able to come together on so many issues as far as our kids go. And I like to think we help inform one another of the many different ways of navigating this whole motherhood gig. In any case, Alex helps me understand and empathize with the struggles specific to working moms. And putting myself in someone else’s shoes, at least imaginatively, is honestly one of my favorite pastimes.

But I digress. One of our conversation veins got me thinking. As graduates of the same intensely rigorous and prestigious all-girls high school, we were frequently told as bright and bold teenagers that we could achieve anything and everything we pursued. We could cure cancer and promote world peace, all while exuding confidence, poise and intelligence. And I think this message rocks. Actually, I think it rocks most of the time. I think a caveat is in order, one that informs young women – or anyone really – that we can, in fact, achieve anything we pursue as long as we understand the value of patience. I think we can have it all – I really do believe this – but I’m not sure it can happen all at once. Or rather, I’m not sure it can happen all at once for everyone.

I think I find this original message inspiring yet problematic because families were sort of left out of this equation of Having It All. Maybe it was just me, but I didn’t ever really hear “you can raise a conscious and loving family” amidst all the cheering for careers and cultural do-goodery. In fact, the notion of raising a family as a career wasn’t really acknowledged at all. But that’s just the reality of modern day feminism and I get that. Before we can accept all modes of being, we often have to reject the modes of being that previously felt confining or obligatory. Fair enough.

But this conversation, like all my conversations with Alex, helped me hone in on the bigger issue. I actually love my job as a stay-at-home mom. And yes, I very earnestly consider it a job. While helping an almost-two year old figure out how to express her emotions clearly and healthily or basically acting as a house manager for my little family unit may not seem creative or glamorous to others, I find it to be quite fulfilling and inspiring. And I know that there are incredible moms out there, much like Alex, who do this and work outside the home. And my hat will forever and ever and ever be off to them. I admire and celebrate their tenacity amidst the most challenging balancing acts I’ve ever seen. But I think my own little juggling act is impressive too.

I think my core frustration stems from the fact that at least two to three times a week I’m asked when I’m heading back to work. I know people don’t intend to be rude at all, but the underlying implication to this question is quite troublesome to me. Because I actually feel like I am doing good work right now. And just like the wonderful moms I know who choose to work to fulfill their creative needs (or have to work to fulfill their family’s financial needs), I have chosen to stay at home with my peanut because I find this work to be incredibly creative and fulfilling.

I do plan on returning to my work as a teacher. And I look forward to that. But not just yet. And yes, my main gripe here is with myself. I don't want to crumble into a defensive position here. It's not other people's fault that our culture pits women against other women over issues that could actually help unify us if given the chance. So why do I let this kind of thing bother me? Why do I care what other people think? Personally, I don’t really care. I know I’m doing the right thing for me and my family. And I recognize that when people slam or belittle me, it often has more to do with their hang-ups than with me. My discomfort is a more theoretical sense of disappointment with the tension that often occurs between working and stay-at-home moms. Alex told me that she frequently feels judged by stay-at-home moms and I know I’ve felt judged by working moms. And ladies, who wins with that equation? I’m sorry to pull a Pollyanna, but I genuinely have no judgment about what other families choose (or have to choose) as far as work and parenting goes because A) we’re all doing our best, B) I’ve seen plenty of good and bad parenting on both sides of the fence, and C) it’s usually none of my darn business. I suppose it’s part of my job to keep on spreading the good vibes when it comes to all kinds of mamas. I think we all rock. And I think that as long as we’re doing what’s right for us as individuals and as members of our individual families, we’re showing our children what it means to be self-aware and deliberate in our lives. Isn’t that a good thing?

As for having it all, I know I will have it all. I actually sort of feel like I already have it all. I am reminded nearly every hour of every day of how fortunate I am and, more importantly, of what a fabulous life I’ve created for myself with my career, my friends and my little family. I suppose I’ve been able to come to this spot in my life – a spot where I’m not stressed by what comes next or what I should be doing – because I’ve shifted my idea of Having It All into bite size chunks. And while some may peek into my life and think I’m merely nibbling on the big piece of pie that is my life, I know in my heart of hearts that I’m actually gorging myself on the best part – for me – so far.

Life Lines

I’ve never been one for strong female friendships. Since I was a small kid, I always had a lot of friends but really only one or two close girlfriends I could count on. And this tendency has followed me into adulthood. I like spending time with just little ol’ me (and now the wee peanut) and have been burned by gal pals a few too many times to readily dive into female friendships. And at the end of the day, I always prefer to spend time with the Papa over anyone else on this lovely planet. So I’m open but cautious as a friend, patiently taking my time getting to know other women and find a balance between opening and protecting my heart.

But things have shifted a bit now that I’m a mama. While I still only have a small handful of female friends, I find those bonds and connections invaluable now that I’m navigating motherhood and, frankly, just life in general as a thirty-something. This small group of women have become my support system, my sounding board and my reality check. They are, in short, my lifelines. And oh how I am thankful for this new phase of life.

There’s Alex, of course, my dearest and oldest friend. Alex has stood by me through bad bangs and addiction as well as every joyous milestone in my life since seventh grade. And I can’t imagine going through this mama gig without her. There ain’t nothing like the shorthand of emotional reality checks an old friend provides. One word or a subtle reference to the past, and we have each other pegged and realigned. ‘Cause there’s no fooling an old friend. And hallelujah for that.

And then there’s Lena – dear Lena – my daily reminder that I’m not alone in this crazy ride. We keep each other sane when sanity seems beyond distant. She’s the one I call when I need someone to tell me I’m not a bad mom. And she’s the one who reassures me I’m not alone when I have days when I’m shamefully not bewitched by my peanut who I normally find so bewitching. We take turns feeling vulnerable and fried, buoying up the other so that at least one of us is afloat at any given moment and helping one another laugh through the bliss and the crud. And I literally have days when I live for that little dose of laughter.

Oh, and Kami. Kami kills me. She kills me because she’s a lot like me. And sometimes we all need a mirror to see how funny and smart and right-on we really are. Here’s an example: Kami called me frantically at seven months pregnant and hysterically left the following message: “Oh my god, Katherine, I just ate a hot dog. Oh my god. Do you think I’ve hurt the baby? I think I’ve hurt the baby. What do you think? Call me back.” Yup, this is a mama who shares my level of panic about putting sunscreen on Stella or eating a stinkin’ hot dog. She’s honest and genuine and one of the most loyal friends I’ve ever had in my life.

Goodness. I haven’t even touched upon the inspiration and comfort I glean from family members. Of course, if I start writing about my own mom or my sister, I’ll most like degenerate into a teary mess of sappy nostalgia. And I think I’ll save that for later. I also have countless neighbors and friends with older children who serve as beacons for the future, providing glimpses of the fun (and not-so-fun) to come and modeling some pretty spectacular parenting overall. But really, looking at this “list” of dear friends – women who tell me the truth as they see it and do so with a compassionate humor Mother Theresa would whole-heartedly endorse – makes me feel utterly overwhelmed with gratitude.

And what's funny is that we don't all necessarily agree on all things mama. But I sort of like that. The fact that we share the core parenting values of nurturing love but sometimes approach or manifest those values from different angles means we negate the opportunity for competition or judgment. And since I think we all hold ridiculously unattainable standards for ourselves as it is, I'm thankful that my ladies stand by with a healthy dose of judgement-free compassion.

Mostly, I’m simply grateful for the opportunity to finally reach the stage in my life where I feel comfortable and safe enough to share my strengths and weaknesses with these fabulous mamas and to know that I, in turn, also offer them comfort and solace as well. I revel in how strong and capable we all are, even in our most broken-down mama moments, and this brings me immense relief. For in the reflection these friendships provide, I see that I will, in fact, be able to show Stella the powerful connection between women in this life. And that means so much to my previously burned heart. So thank you, friends, for being sound and hilarious women who help me let go of the shrew cattiness and immobilizing insecurity of the past and gently and lovingly nudge me toward my better self as a friend, as a mama, as a wife and as a woman.

Watching Fear

I love this photo. It could be a throwaway from a long weekend getaway, but it means something to me. Seeing Stella compare her bear paw stamp with Mama and Papa, checking carefully to see that we are, in fact, a family of strong and powerful bears, demonstrates that while Stella is an intensely bright, verbal and sassy little sprite, she is still a tiny little peanut who is just starting to process what it means to live in this crazy big world.

And the world is bigger now that Stella is approaching two. People are bigger. Experiences feel bigger. And emotions are most definitely bigger.

And my goodness, it’s so devastatingly heartbreaking to watch Stella experience fear. Actually, I should be more explicit. It’s tough to watch her feel fear about things like strangers or new environments or the dark. But I sort of get all that intuitively. In fact, I expect those fears to some degree. She’s a tiny peanut, and strangers and new places can feel overwhelming. I get it. But watching her experience fear about things that are not classically scary – namely her own body – is excruciating. Out of respect for Stella and her future self, I’ll remain vague. But I will share – because I frankly need to as Stella’s mama in the now – that Stella is going through a pretty normal stage where her own strong and beautiful body doesn’t feel super safe. Yeah, it’s all normal and developmentally acceptable, but it’s unsettling nonetheless.

I don’t know. Perhaps we’re starting to hone in on a potty training window (or whatever newfangled name they have for it now) or maybe this wee one just has a really modest sense of self. Whatever the reason, she’s struggling and her struggles have taken the form of fear.

And it’s breaking my heart.

The good thing is that I now know enough as a parent that this phase will pass. When I step back a bit, I see that Stella is a confident and courageous kid who readily dives into a world she already recognizes as beautiful and fascinating. I suppose that’s partly why this has been so tough for me and the Papa; it’s tough to watch someone with such natural bravado crumble with anxiety. It’s not like we expect her to rationally tackle fear before she’s even two. I guess… well, I guess it just sucks to watch as the bad of the world's good-and-bad slips into her consciousness.

Lately, I’ve been reading and talking about toddlers and fear. And I have to admit that it’s been totally frustrating. While everyone has been perfectly lovely and genuine with their suggestions and support, nothing seems to be helping much. Of course, that’s when I realize that my sole job right now is to love Stella fiercely and obviously so that she sees, hears, feels and just simply knows my presence as her guardian is unwaveringly constant, even when – or especially when – she feels unlovable or scary herself. From petulant tantrums to sweet cuddles, my role is to love her passionately and show her how capable and strong she truly is amidst the stable and uncertain.

I’m gathering that fear is a natural and innate part of parenting. I’m happy to say that I’m not often gripped by fear myself. Sure, I have moments like any other parent when I find myself imagining the unimaginable. But I always force my way out of those, because what purpose do they serve? But I honestly think I’d rather be riddled with fear myself than watch Stella run her tiny self through the gauntlet. Mamas love their kids endlessly. And even in our most fatigued and weary meltdown moments, we want them to be safe, and we want them to feel safe. It’s really quite simple.

And if stamping our hands with a bear paw print for the next six hundred and fifty three days means Stella will feel strong and capable, then this mama is buying a barrel of ink pads.

I still have no real answers other than these: breathing deeply really does help diffuse my tension in those cruddy, crappy moments, our fabulous moments far outweigh the crummy moments, this tough phase will pass like all other tough phases, countless other hurdles stand before us as parents and, yet again, all I can do is love my daughter with unabashed and gentle openness. And while these answers don’t really do much for “solving” the tedious details of our little but significant-to-us problems, they do nudge me back from the eye of the storm and remind me of the grander schemes of love and patience that serve as guiding beacons on this ridiculously intense ride as a parent. And that, in and of itself, genuinely helps.

Riled Up

As I was taking some time for myself this morning, checking in on some of my favorite blogs, I found that my dear friend and fellow Über Thoughtful Mama had written a delightfully helpful and super right-on post about kids’ books, specifically books that capture the strength, intelligence and ingenuity of girls. Okay, maybe it as more about how this world seriously lacks good stories told from female perspectives. (Yes, it's an old story that unfortunately still rings true.) But in typical fashion, my pal vented appropriately and then got her hands dirty, providing an insightful and productive critique and - and this is the part I love - a direction forward. Don't you love that? Yes, indeedy. Rather than essentially repeat exactly what she wrote – since she nailed it dead-on – I urge y’all to hop over to her fabulous site and read for yourself.

Needless to say, I revel in this kind of banter. Yup, I’m riled up and ready for a good hunt. My brilliant friend included a list of books she’s found recently that give strong girls a voice; it’s a fabulous list. And it’s motivated me to A) run to my library this afternoon to check these out for my book-hungry Stella, B) do some more serious research on my own to find more books like these and C) pick through our growing catalogue of rockin’ girls books and share what we’ve found. The funny thing is that I can actually think of a ton of empowering and engaging stories about girls and young women for when Stella is a bit older, but it’s not so easy during this toddler stage. So I’m truly thankful for my friend’s list and am adding to it with yet another list of fabulous books that specifically focus on how and why girls are rad and, as my friend eloquently articulated, simply showcase a story from a girl’s perspective.

We love these Stella books. They totally remind me of old Peanuts cartoons but are told from a girl’s perspective. Stella and her little brother Sam are not only sweet, clever and ridiculously creative, they’re always hanging out in the woods and exploring nature. My sister-in-law gave three of these to us for Stella’s first birthday, and we LOVE them.

I am usually a bit wary of celebrity-driven books. Honestly, I dig Madonna on the dance floor but her children’s books are a bit lacking for my taste. That said, I love this book. Jamie Lee Curtis captures the quirkiness of kids and why they should, in fact, feel good about themselves at ALL times. And she splits the book between a girl and a boy with total fairness.

The Papa and I love this book because the child could be either a girl or boy. And it’s just so sweet. It’s a quiet story about learning to be comfortable with nature, and I love that the child is spending time outside, at night, with her or his Papa. It’s really lovely.

This one is super popular, and we love it. Sure, it delves into how petty and cruel girls can be, but it also shows how being unique trumps conformity. I can tell Stella doesn’t really get all of that yet, but I figure it can’t hurt to start a bit early, right.

Stella and I really love this book. It’s a Native American tale that focuses on how a little girl in her tribe basically saves her community from ruin by communicating with and listening to the spirits of nature. She not only embarks on an exciting adventure, but she single-handedly heals deep wounds with her compassion and intelligence.

Now That I'm a Mom I Can...

...Put a child’s hair in a ponytail while walking around the entire house and setting up a play date on the phone.

...Allow myself to feel compassionate toward everyone… even the putz who flicks me the bird because I drive the speed limit.

...Temper my judgments of others. As long as you’re not hitting or hurting anyone, I give ya a wide berth.

...Embrace the supposed imperfections of my body with a different attitude. If this body can carry and birth a beautiful child, this body can do anything.

...Deliver an Oscar-worthy performance of attentive happiness and domestic bliss on those days when I really feel like my life is stuck on an endless cycle of laundry, dishes, laundry, dishes, laundry, dishes...

...Fix three dinners for the same child in one night, all within the course of fifteen minutes.

...Ignore the mess and chaos of my house. Laundry can wait. Dishes can wait. Sharing tea with Stella, a toy elephant and a naked baby doll can't.

...Understand that there are always many sides to one story and that everyone, including those psycho parents I see screaming at their kids for no good reason at all, is simply doing their best.

...Gaze for hours on end at another human being, our gorgeous girl.

...Cut to the chase and communicate more honestly. There ain’t a whole lot of time for bull anymore. And hallelujah for that.

...Talk about bodies with total candor. The moment I realized I was walking around the birth center buck naked and didn’t care one hugely pregnant bit, I realized that a shell is just that, a shell. And a body is really just a body.

...Pee on the toilet while reading a story to a toddler curled up on my lap.

...Keep a straight face when my one year old moves from topic to topic, mentioning in one breath how “La la mountain big hike Grandpa” and then gracefully and seamlessly sliding into the next breath where Papa has a “penis” and is “naked” in the “bathtub.”

...Discuss the most serious of topics – marital strife, world politics, war, depression – while chasing a toddler through a maze of slides, climbing walls and swings.

...Absolutely and fairly justify not hanging out with friends who don’t make me or my family feel good. (See no bull comment above.)

Oh, I’m afraid this list would be endless if I continue. As I type, I recognize that much of these new abilities are really just skills I used to carry latently but have now honed. Of course, I’m incredibly aware that you don’t have to be a parent to experience or master the things on this list. (Well, maybe the in-motion ponytail and the three dinners in fifteen minutes…. Who knows?) Being a mama or papa isn’t the only experience in life that necessitates or prompts growth. But it sure is a biggie. And it’s the ride I’m on at the moment, so recording all this affords me a well-deserved chuckle.

I’m eager to hear from others about the humorous and maybe not-so-humorous things that you can do or feel or understand now that you’re a parent or now that you’ve shifted gears or, simply, now that you’ve opened your eyes or heart in a new fashion. A co-worker once told me that before having a child, he felt like he was living in a two dimensional world. Having a son catapulted him into a three (and sometimes four) dimensional mode seeing the world. And as I skim this list, I marvel at the gifts these small but momentous shifts allow and how the shift from two to three dimensional thinking is simply a slow and gentle widening of my heart.

A Genuine Bunny

My sister is amazing.

She's not flashy and she ain't got bling. But she's one of the most gentle, genuine hearts I've ever encountered in my life.

And yes, she strikes a mean Easter Bunny pose.

There are so many things I could say about my sister - like how she doesn't have a mean bone in her body or how she's genuine and authentic at all times or how she possesses the patience and gentle demeanor of a Nepali monk.

But right now, as I'm steeped in (fairly) new motherhood, attempting to define myself (and redefine and redefine and redefine...) within that constantly evolving role, I must say she's by far one of the most gifted and loving mamas I know.

Sure, she's my sister. I have to say that, right? Actually, no. I don't. Not everyone we love or know is great at what they do. I know plenty of folks who frankly should have thought twice about taking that job or having a kid. That's harsh but true. But that doesn't apply to my sister.

Like everything she's pursued, her choice to be a mother, and a stellar one at that, has been both thoughtful and deliberate.

I know she's had tough days with her two beautiful teenage daughters, and I know it's been ages since she dealt with the ins and outs of toddlers. But I've been studying, you see. And I've seen my sister evolve from an exuberant and gentle mama of crawlers to an engaging mama of tree climbers to a loving and firm mama of teenagers. And she does it all with a gentle calm that is often so foreign to me that I must summon her awesome mama aura in order to help remind me of how to be the mama I want to be.

And the proof is often in the pudding, right? My sister's daughters are two of the most grounded and confident girls I know. They're navigating the often wonky seas of adolescence with such finesse and poise that I can't help but want to shout my sister's name from the rooftops (and take some serious notes, right?).

Oh, and she's done all this while also pursuing her own education and career as an educator. She flat out amazes me.

At this point, I can actually feel my sister's blush from hundreds of miles away. And I can hear her balking at the idea of taking credit for just being present and conscious in the presence of two wonderful girls. Because, of course, she's humble to boot. And I can't mention her grand and impressive talent as a mama without acknowledging that she had the foresight and wherewithal to pick a partner in life who is not only a stunning father but who supports and encourages her in her dreams.

So I'll stop. Okay? I'll stop. But I had to gush. She's my big sister, after all, and I couldn't imagine my life - as both a woman and now as a mama - without her loving and wise guidance.

And if she wears that bunny suit for the rest of our Easters, I will die a happy woman. Yes, I will.

Branded

Stella wakes with one word – Mama. In the morning, as she wakes from her nap and as she struggles in the middle of the night to find the light switch or snuggle more closely with her beloved cuddle, she mutters Mama. She saws it tenderly. She says it lovingly. She says it frantically. She says it longingly. She says it repeatedly. Mama. Mama. Mama.

I can’t say that I mind. Sure, there are moments when Stella’s clinginess proves to be challenging to say the least, and her occasional 3am pleas for Mama fail to rouse me with, um, joy. But mostly, when I hear that word upon her waking, whether it’s drizzly and soggy outside or crisp and bright, I feel my heart swell.

Of course, I never flinch when she asks for the Papa. If truth be told, I’m warmed and bewitched and tickled by Stella’s love for her Papa. Watching the two of them is, well, better than freshly baked bread and butter. It’s delicious and fabulous and, yes, sexy.

Stella has woken a handful of times asking for others, once for my mother and once for the Papa’s mother. And it’s honestly thrown me off kilter completely. I absolutely want to foster a strong and meaningful bond between Stella and her grandmothers. It’s a bond I never really fulfilled in my own life, so I enjoy watching her delight in that special connection, for sure.

But if I’m totally honest, the primal mama bear in me felt downright slighted on these two occasions. I, of course, hid it well, smiling and laughing as I fetched her with fresh stories of each of her wonderful grandmas. But what am I, Stella? Chopped Mama? I suppose this silliness on my part stems from the often raw and repressed feeling of servitude mamas experience when working tirelessly to create loving, engaging and safe environments for their children without fanfare or fuss. But that’s sort of immature, right? Because I know that Stella appreciates that I’m the one workin’ with her day in and day out. I’m her safety net and her comfort in all moments of panic or fear, and I’m usually the first person she looks to when she’s totally jazzed or excited. And I actually want her to feel connected and bonded to her amazing community of family and friends. So I can dismiss that part of the equation quickly. No need to announce my entitlement with this kid; the rewards and joys are clear. But I must admit that it’s more difficult to quell my feelings of pure mama bear possessiveness. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I found myself silently screaming, “She’s mine! She’s mine! Seriously, she’s mine!” when she uttered names other than my own.

Oh, how selfish and senseless. But oh, how truly real and powerful.

Because naturally, I feel branded by Stella’s calls for me. And it hasn’t been a gentle searing of tender care. Rather, it’s been a violent branding of my heart, the kind that rips me open and leaves me vulnerable and raw. But I honestly can’t imagine life without this branding. At times I feel a bit thrashed by the enormity of this kind of love – this branding – because, after all, being somebody's mama is undoubtedly the most important and massive responsibility I'll ever hold. But I also feel like its thrust me into a better, bigger and more open version of myself. So this branding – this love, this strength, this compassion, this patience – is a gift Stella bestows upon me with every sweet and sassy summoning.

Tiny Boots: Thoughts As I Return Home from the Store

The path to our humble home.

I've always hated these plants. In fact, I hate this pathway. Maybe this will be the year I dig everything up. Man, the lawn looks terrible. Ugh.

Add it to the list.

Lord. Have these steps always been this shabby? Is it embarrassing that we still haven't sanded and refinished that darn front door after eight years? Do people notice these things? Do our neighbors hate us?

This is when a minor panic sets in to my well-intentioned but slightly neurotic heart. The To Do list grows exponentially by the minute and I just don't know where we'll find the time, the money and the energy to do everything we want. It's all so overwhelming. It's all so daunting. It's all so never ending.

Oh.

Tiny boots.

The rest of that stuff is so stupid.

New Faves

Over the last ten days I've developed an oh-so-attractive Lauren Bacall alto unfortunately accompanied by a not-so-attractive three-packs-a-day hack. While the hack stems from a gnarly - yes, gnarly - cold, the Bacall side of things stems from the tremendous amount of reading aloud that's taken place in our house recently. As I've said before, Stella loves books. She will literally drop anything and everything at the suggestion of a story, so it wasn't a bit surprising that all she wanted to do during our super duper crummy sick week was be held and read to. I can't say I blame her.

We read through just about every book we own, but I've discovered real value to books that are visually packed. Stella enjoys impressively long stories which is a bit unusual at this age, but she's also starting to really take in the aesthetics of illustrations. We've been reading the books below for some time now, but she really took to them on a whole new level last week, delving into the rich depth and complexity of each picture. And I must say, as a weary and sniffly mama, it was a fabulous shift for me as well. It was so much fun just perusing each page with my peanut, sometimes pointing out funny or interesting bits and sometimes just silently taking it all in. Don't you remember just losing yourself in certain pictures and stories as a kid? Even now, when I open Tikki Tikki Tembo or Paddington Bear, I'm immediately and magically transported to childhood and become lost in worlds of total fascination and awe. Pure heaven.

None of these books are new, per se, but they have made our life richer and fuller. Enjoy.

This is, by far, the best alphabet book we own. Sure, nobody can beat "Four fluffy feathers on a fiffer feffer fef," but this one doesn't even try. It's visually packed and rhythmically engaging; the opportunity for exploration and discovery are endless. Love it, love it, love it.

SouleMama turned me on to this one and I must say it's my very favorite children's book we own. I swear it's written for mamas just as much as for kids. The rhymes and story are fun and engaging, but the images of this full family's house are amazing. Watching the family and house evolve as each member grows into their own culinary peccadillos is mesmerizing.

And this one is just plain hilarious. It's my favorite number book since it doesn't talk down to kids. Sure, Stella is only twenty months, but she's a smartie. And we're way past counting little duckies in a row. This is witty, smart and totally hilarious. Each picture has me rolling and there's tons of hidden puzzles and goofiness hidden in the background. And for anyone who has an older child a bit reticent about diving into numbers and math, this would be a great source for showing them other creative ways of using numbers. Who knew the number fifteen could be used as a pair of tweezers?

So as a mama of a babe who requests a story about, hmmm, fifteen million times a day, these smart, beautiful and clever books are a welcome addition to our collection. I'll earn my Lauren Bacall stripes with pride reading such fabulous works of art and hope this short list is helpful. Happy reading.

(Oh, and hey - I'd love to hear what y'all are reading to your peanuts. We love suggestions and are starting to head to the library more and more, so bring on your faves!)

Notes from the Infirmary

We’ve been slammed this week by a wicked cold. Stella and I have coughed and hacked enough for all of Rhode Island, and we’re just now feeling like we might be slightly human by the end of the weekend.

I have learned a few things this week that are worthy of stuffed-up celebration. The bright side of the story is that I am no longer panicking over every rise and dip of Stella’s fevers. I know I’ll never like that she’s feverish. But I now know to simply ride out the day (or week) in our pajamas and let the little one punk out on my shoulder.

Oh, and I now fully embrace my status as a woman who stuffs her tissues into her sleeve. Sister O’Dea, wherever you are, you may have given me the brutally administered gifts of grammatical and literary prowess in high school, but you also unknowingly bestowed up on me the subtle (and slightly disgusting) gift of the tissue-sleeve-tuck. I’m simultaneously grossed out and amused by this.

This week also helped me conquer my fear of letting Stella watch a DVD. No, we’re not watching Jaws quite yet (or ever?) and we’re not really into television (don’t have it) or movies with kids (don’t need it), but we did enjoy several installments of our beloved bear video. And it’s funny, because Stella seems to understand this disc only appears when she’s feeling crummy. She schlepped her feverish little body onto the couch, hunkered down and meekly pointed at the bears, ducks, moose and whatchyamacallits that slowly ambled by the camera to goofy but lovably catchy tunes. A rest for one wet rag or a baby, and a rest for one wet rag of a mama.

Oh, and did I mention that in the course of about an hour earlier this week, I totally lost my cool, snapped at Stella, completely fell apart, sobbed about ruining my sweet girl for all eternity and then realized – through the help of a dear friend and my sweet, sweet husband - that even good moms lose their cool. Even good moms snap. And even good moms feel like crap when there’s no time or room to feel like crap. All in a day’s work, right? What a job. What a life.

The final silver (yet painful) lining is that I’ve realized I need to finally write about food. Yes, food. I’ve been avoiding writing about the topic of food, mothering and my own history since it’s been done, it’s a topic impossible to tackle in one sitting and it’s frankly a bit terrifying for me. But that’s all a bunch of hooey when it comes to the reality of raising a child – a girl no less – in a home where my own issues with food, past and present, don’t get in the way of my beautiful babe’s health, body image and sense of self. Seeing myself struggle unreasonably this week as Stella lost all her appetite and subsisted for three days on a half a cup of bunny crackers and a few sips of water was telling. And if I’m honest, this struggle has accompanied me on this mama journey since the day Stella was born and found latching on so challenging. Hell, it's been with me since I was a wee babe myself. So I guess I’ll dive in. Or rather, I need to dive in. I have no idea what will come of this observation, and I have no idea if what emerges will be too raw (or raw enough?) for this site, but it feels necessary and important.

So once this snoogy fog lifts, I’ll be back in full form. Oh, how I miss clarity, energy and healthy. But really, a good ol’ smack to the immune system makes you appreciate the good life, don’t it? Wash those hands, my peeps, (Wash’em!), and may you all enjoy good health.

Having Happiness

I stumbled upon this fabulous tea set the other day and couldn’t resist. Stella is just now starting to enter a more imaginative phase, and we’ve been feeding each other make-believe cookies and tea at night after bath with the Papa and the cats. So a tea set seemed in order. And while there are countless beautifully painted porcelain sets, my wee one’s tendency to drop (or shall we say huck?) precious items for fun prompted me to look for a wooden set. Non-toxic? Check. Durable? Check. Super cute? Check.

What groovy Mama could pass up a set of wooden tea bags to help her babe perfect the art of steeping. Too stinkin’ adorable.

But this tea set didn’t arrive without any struggle. I felt really good about treating Stella to a new toy. She’s an amazing kid, and she’s frankly outgrowing a lot of our toys at home right now. But I have to admit that any purchase over, well, three dollars produces a minor but significant inner battle for me. You see, the Papa and I strongly believe in fostering a sense of contentedness in the world that isn’t based on material possession. Simply put, we’re just not that into things. We totally appreciate the finer things in life, and we’ve filled our home with what we find aesthetically pleasing – art, books, books and more books, photos of the people and places we adore and a few knicky-knackys here and there that serve no purpose other than making us smile. So it’s not like we’re didactic minimalists, but we consciously make an effort to kick stuff out when we pull stuff in.

Oh, and did I mention that I’m sort of cheap too?

The gist is that we hold our possessions dearly and we hold our experiences even more dearly.

Buying stuff is cool, but we’re just very aware of the trap of buying for happiness. And this applies to how we approach parenthood as well. It’s all too easy to fall into a slight panic when I see other moms at the park with a new gadget or a new toy that just seems, well, so sexy. Yeah, sexy. I’ve literally started looking at sippy cups like some women look at lingerie. “If I buy that cup, my life will be easier, more fun and way prettier.” Hmmmm.

I know this isn’t new. Countless parents struggle with this conundrum everyday. How much is enough? What do we really need? What can we afford? When will this ever stop? And I’m not preaching here. Trust me. I spend my fair share of time at Target browsing the dangerously cute leggings for two year olds thinking, “I know Stella already has enough clothes for the next year, but three more pair of pants can’t hurt. They’re only $4.99 for goodness sake.” Rather than delving into issues of fair and equitable labor or environmental impact, I guess I’ll just say it’s downright overwhelming to parent in light of this constant barrage of apparent need.

In some ways, I suppose I’m looking for an of absolution of sorts – only to be granted by yours truly – for buying a silly little tea set rather than widdling my own out of recycled cedar from the tree we cut down last summer as we landscaped our backyard. That would have been cool, totally cool. But sometimes you gotta go with ease, and laying down twenty five greenbacks was about as easy as it comes. Of course, the battle I fought within myself as I bought the darn thing wasn’t exactly easy. The fact that I’m writing about it days later is more than telling. But the battle wasn’t entirely futile. It prompted a deeper reflection on my part that in turn caused me to forgive myself for buying thoughtfully deliberated stuff and for being part of a system I see as so trivial and distracting. Because sometimes buying stuff for your kid just feels good. A treat is a treat no matter how new or used it is.

But above all the cool gadgets and toys and doohickeys that seem so terribly tempting in those glamorous stores and catalogues, seeing my child delightfully dive into imaginative play is about as good as it gets. Actually, it’s blissful. And Stella seems to be entering that magical stage of embarking on worldly (and otherworldly) adventures with ordinary (and free!) household items like an old tissue box and a watering can. And in doing so, she reminds us, once again, of the importance of regularly taking stock of what makes us truly happy. It’s about time spent together; it’s about stories read; it’s about digging into the dirt with our bare hands; it’s about laughing and shouting as we wrestle and cuddle; it’s about chasing one another around the house when it’s pouring outside; it’s about watching one another and knowing what would make that person feel loved and special; most of all, it’s about connection and love.

Fashionista

Check out this number? Talk about fashion sense. Sarah Jessica Parker, watch out. Punky Brewster, eat your heart out. Stella’s in town, and she’s got it going on, girlfriend.

Stella is starting to assert her own desires as far as fashion goes, and the result is often a little hysterical. While she doesn’t insist on wearing these ensembles in public, I see that on our horizon. So watch out world, Stella’s got a groove comin’ on.

So here’s my small confession: I’m undeniably satisfying my long-dormant inner fashionista in how Stella dresses. And I’m going to milk it as long as possible. Because it's really quite fun making Stella look so spanky. We’re still able to dress her as funky and hip as we like, and I love seeing her strut around looking so unconsciously cool. But I know our days are numbered until Stella claims her stake in her own private Project Runway (see above) and starts picking out all her own clothes (seriously, did you see above?). After all, I’m a progressive and modern Mama who allows her beloved child the freedom to express herself freely and make choices that enable her to feel a sense of autonomy and agency.

Oh my. I really do buy all that woo woo parenting stuff, but yeesh. In light of that yeesh, I’m going to selfishly savor the eensy bit of control I have over this cutie patootie’s wardrobe for as long as I can.

So I guess the underlying gist of my confession is that I’m loving this wacky period because I really do have a bit of fear that Stella will eventually demand bright pink everything and princess doohickeys everywhere. I know, it’s a pretty darn small fear. And it really has more to do with my overly analytical, overly theoretical brain. Because if I’m rational about it, nobody ever died from wearing too much pink. Independence is totally attainable wearing rainbows and sparkles. And feminists are allowed to like unicorns. Right? (Of course, if any of you have any record to the contrary, please drop me a line. Evidence is always valuable in light of any stance. )

Actually, I don't really mind the foofy fluffy puffy crap girls often fall for. Sure, I was never one of those girls. But I do seem to remember adoring all things dress-up. Make-Believe and her lovely step-sister Dress-Up, in my humble opinion, should be mandatory activities for all children. Fortunately for us (and our creativity-stifling world) most kids seamlessly jump back and forth between reality and make-believe for many years without much prompting. Some of my fondest memories of childhood involve diving into the ginormous box of dress up clothes my mom placed in my closet. There was the spasm-inducing itchy bridesmaid dress from my aunt’s 1960’s wedding. (High lace collars with crimson taffeta may seem like a good idea at the time, but resist, Ladies. Resist.) And I think I logged an entire year dancing around my room in a homemade felt poodle skirt – complete with pink poodle and larger-than-Texas crinoline. And none of this includes my clandestine journeys into my mom’s closet where knee-high black heeled boots and beautifully textured hats beckoned me like sirens.

So yeah, I’ve enjoyed my share of fluffy girliness. And I’m actually enjoying a bit more of that as I grow up. Pink no longer signifies fragility to me. It’s just sorta pretty. I’m trying to resist all the black in my closet and embrace color and pattern and – gasp! – prettiness. After all, what we wear represents a lot about ourselves. I did, however, make the Papa make me promise that I wouldn’t become one of those mamas – bless their comfy hearts – who allows herself to keep wearing yoga pants in public for more than a few months after giving birth. It’s one thing to wear what’s comfortable when you're woo woo is still screamin', but a year later is really… well, it’s not where I wanted to be a year after giving birth. Oh, and God forbid I settle into the fashion complacency of the dreaded Mom Jeans. I’m not advocating Britney Spears low rises for everyone. But I don’t really want to be more pear-like than I have to be. Enough said.

Man, I sound so shallow. Anyone who knows me knows that they’ll most likely find me in a comfortable pair of (reasonably waisted) jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt. Occasionally, I dig out a cool sweater from beneath a gigantic pile of laundry, but it’s pretty ho-hum around here. Happily. So I guess that’s why I’m having so much fun with Stella’s wardrobe. We buy wisely and carefully and receive gifts graciously, fully embracing her wild colors and mismatched patterns. The three of us are diggin’ the Cindi Lauper-ness of it all and that’s what matters. Stella lives her life boldly, groovily and without an iota of self-consciousness, and oh how I love her for that. And oh how I'm inspired by that. And the crazy color combinations and the pairing of polka dots, stripes and flowers make perfect sense on her tiny little frame since they really just emphasize how spectacularly alive Stella is in this life.

Reasons

I love the Papa for many reasons. And instead of gushing cheekily about how much my partner rocks, I’ll simply relate two stories two illustrate just how lucky I am.

We’ve been having difficulty with early rising lately. Stella has decided that 4:45 or 5:15 is a respectable hour to awaken every morning. And by awaken, I mean she turns on her light and slowly builds to a stadium-worthy howl scream, “Mama!” Kurt Cobain would have been envious of this girl’s throaty growl.

Needless to say, I’ve explored all our options as far as helping encourage Stella to sleep in to at least 5:45 or 6:00am. (And I’ve realized, with that last statement, that my standards of what is acceptable or humane will never be the same after having a child.) And it’s gotten a bit better since the time change. But she’s still intent on waking early.

So the other night, I overheard the Papa and Stella as they were dressing for bed, and the Papa says this:

Okay, now Stella I want you to do me a favor. I want you to be kind to Mama tomorrow morning, and I want you to sleep in until at least 6am. Okay? I know you’re waking early because you’re really excited to be here, and I know you’re really psyched about telling Mama the new words you’ve learned, but let’s be kind. Okay?

So not only does he deftly (and sweetly) show me how much he cares for me, but he also allows me to see Stella’s early mornings from a different perspective. Damn straight, she’s excited to be here. This place rocks.

Enough said, right?

Reason 598 I married the right man.

And then yesterday, after I got home from the gym, and we were all gathering for dinner, Stella and the Papa told me about their walk in the chilly outdoors. Stella basically put on four layers of clothes that were truly hysterical – leggings, pantaloons, pajamas and her grape-like purple fleece snow suit. And then the Papa told me that she pushed her new bath baby doll around in her mini stroller during the walk. I looked into our entryway and saw the new baby all bundled up in the stroller with a blanket and hat. I smiled, thinking Stella had demanded that the baby be cozy. After all, the poor plastic babe is buck nekid underneath the blankey and hat. And we’ve been talking a lot about taking care of one another in our house. I felt pleased and smug that my sweet child possessed the empathy and wherewithal to swaddle and cozy up this cheap doll. What a gentle soul we have.

But no. Stella was the one who kept trying to remove the baby’s hat on their walk. The Papa, on the other hand, wouldn’t have it. He told me, with total conviction and seriousness, that he COULD NOT let a naked baby out in the cold without at least a blanket and hat. And this ain’t about modesty folks, this is about comfort. He simply found the notion of a cold or uncomfortable baby – even a plastic baby – unbearable.

Reason 632 I married the right man - a man who now holds enough compassion and concern in his heart for all the babes of the world, human and plastic alike.

Will You Just Stop It Already?

Here’s a dirty little secret for you – I’m a little pissed off that Stella keeps growing up.

I know this isn’t exactly a flattering thing to admit. But it’s true.

Don’t get me wrong, most parts of her development and growth are spectacular and gratifying to me. Almost every part of her amazes me. Actually, everything about her amazes me.

But the way she said “banana” to me the other day honestly pissed me off.

One of Stella’s first words was “banana.” But it wasn’t actually “banana.” And it wasn’t the typical kid-version, “nana.” She would point to a banana and say “balabalabaloo.” And like any good parent, I thought she was brilliant and genius and special. And it made us laugh. We’d be at the grocery store and she would proudly shout “balabalabaloo” to anyone and everyone who would listen.

But the other day, Stella looked at the bananas on the counter and clearly said, with great refinement and poise, “banana.”

After I animatedly praised her for telling her what she wanted and telling me so clearly, I felt this drastic dip in the pit of my stomach. My baby. My BABY! MY BABY!!!

Crap. I’m one of those moms now. I’m holding on too tightly.

Oh dear.

Everyday I feel honored and blessed to have a such a rockin’ front row seat for Stella’s leaps and bounds. But I have to admit to feeling a bit of sadness as I watch and marvel. She’s growing up. She’s getting smarter. And one day she’ll be all grown up and totally smarter than me and the Papa. And she won’t be my baby. (Well, she’ll always be my baby. But she won’t be a baby.) It’s a tough compromise, this parenting gig. While we spend endless amounts of energy helping prepare these babes for the world, providing a safe haven from all the physical, emotional and intellectual speed bumps they’ll encounter in life, they grow up. And that’s part of what’s so fulfilling about all this, but it’s also part of what’s so hard about it all. I’m realizing we don’t spend a whole lot of time preparing ourselves for all these speed bumps. I imagine most parents feel just as if not more wrecked by their children’s heartaches as the actual children. And whether our kids are two years old or twenty years old, we certainly don’t properly honor the challenge parents face as they allow their children to journey along their own path.

But if we’re good parents, we let them go. And as we let them go, we let go of our notions of who they were and who we think they should or could be. I have to remember what my mom has always said to me, as a young girl and now as a mother myself: our main job as parents, aside from loving the bujeezus out of our kids, is to allow them to fly for themselves. And letting them fly means they’ll do just that – fly. And we’re kidding ourselves if we think they’ll always fly close to home or fly a predictable path.

Or stay cute and compact forever. Bummer.

Of course, I’ve got a long way to go before my chick flies the coop. But this silly replacement of balabalabaloo with banana signals the slow shift that, in part, defines our relationship with our children. And this is when I remind myself that the Papa and I didn’t choose to have a child to create a static snapshot of family. We’re not raising Stella to essentially grow into us or to grow so that she satisfies us. However uncomfortable this can be, Stella is going to be different than we envision. She’ll make different choices, she’ll feel different feelings and she’ll most certainly react differently to the world than us. So instead of shouting “Will you just stop it already! Stop growing up so darned fast!” – which is exactly what I want to shout at times – I’m trying to sit back and enjoy this evolution that really isn’t mine. And if banana sounds better to her than balabalabaloo, so be it. Banana it is.

Besides, there’s always positives that balance – and undeniably outweigh – the negatives. This morning, Stella turned to me after our morning stories and gently said “Hug?” We hugged and I made contented peace with the fact that bananas are indeed accompanied by heart-busting loads of love.

A Sacred Hour

Last night, as I was rocking Stella after her goodnight story, I was suddenly struck by an intense wave of comfort stemming from my not-so-revolutionary realization that many of the mamas and papas I know right now were reading to or rocking their babes at the same moment. That wave multiplied exponentially when I thought about all the mamas and papas I don’t know who were also reading and rocking at the same moment.

What a powerful force, don’t you think? So many people giving and receiving love. Wow.

I’m starting to view the hour between seven and eight in the evening as sacred. The sarcastic and fried part of me sees this because I find myself anticipating life without a toddler on my hip as you-betch’ya-cookies-sista sacred. The reflective and thoughtful part of me sees this because it’s a time when we catch our breath collectively and come together after good and bad days, reminding one another of why we do what we do – to love each other as fiercely and clearly as we can.

My family once hosted a Russian man through our church. At our farewell gathering with all the visitors and all the host families, the man we hosted told the translator that despite the fact that we barely understood a word we said to one another, we were bonded for life as fellow human beings. He then said – in so many Russian words – “We need to send all the politicians and leaders to a faraway island and then we can get along simply – as fellow human beings.”

I know. I know. It’s much more complicated than that.

But it rings with some truth, doesn’t it? I think of this experience and this man’s words when I think of these shared moments of love and comfort. Life is complex and messy and challenging. Yes. But we are at the center of all our messes and our joys; if we harnessed the love that emanates from this sacred hour- this goodnight energy - I imagine the world would, in fact, be a different place.

And for the record, I will gladly wear a badge of naivete on this one. At this point I'll take naive over bitter any day.

Every night, as I lay Stella in her crib, I whisper in her ear “You are loved and cherished.” And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? To make sure, at the end of every day, our babes feel loved and cherished. But it's not just about her. This is one of those magical parenting moments where I receive just as much (if not more) as I give. There’s something incredibly healing about rocking my child to sleep or reading a goodnight story as a family. When I eavesdrop on Stella and the Papa as they chat and giggle their way to bath (and I swoon with love for both) and then watch Stella excitedly barge into the bathroom stark naked (and I swoon in awe of her confidence and bravado), the challenges of the day fade. If, for whatever reason, life between 6am and 7pm went pear-shaped, things simply feel better once 7pm hits. Does it feel so good because I know I’m “off duty” soon? Perhaps. It could also feel good because we are participating in something bigger than our little family, sacred moments of gentleness and love experienced across this magnificent planet. Ultimately, I think it feels good because despite the challenges of any given day, snuggling my loved ones in a quiet dark space reminds me of what we are to one another – beloved.

A Passing

A young friend passed away quite tragically last week. It was sudden and harsh. And it has sent my little family reeling.

We weren’t super close with this friend. We used to see him more often, with work friends and holiday gatherings. We shared several meals, competed in races together and swapped stories about adventures in early parenting. But even though we didn’t hang out often, we broke bread together occasionally and that means something to us. He was goofy and real and exuberant and to know that such a vibrant man is no longer here is impossible to fathom and painful to accept.

In response to this passing, the Papa and I have been reaching for one another more fiercely and saying things we know we should say more frequently. We talk about our friend’s beautiful wife and their two very small children often, usually breaking off mid-sentence because it is simply too hard to verbalize the empathy and sympathy we feel for them.

We’ve always been good at putting ourselves in others’ shoes. Compassion comes easy to both of us. But we’ve realized that Stella’s presence in our lives has completely restructured how we view and approach the world. The only way I can describe it is to say that my heart feels like it’s been ripped apart mercilessly since having Stella, only to be rebuilt with a more urgent and purposeful sense of love. I look at everyone – and I do mean EVERYONE – as someone else’s baby. I used to say that, but now I mean it. When you approach your daily life (or, for that matter, the world at large) with this perspective, the trickle-down effect is staggering. Curiosity and patience replace divisiveness, acceptance replaces judgment, love replaces bitterness. Simply put, our hearts are a whole lot more of everything: forgiving, open, giving, loving… it’s endless, really.

So witnessing this kind of tragedy, of course, has prompted us to feel and discuss the unimaginable. And it’s called into question all that is stable and known in our lives. As I’ve been trying to wrap my head around something that cannot be explained, I’ve found myself making lists. I have countless scraps of paper lying about right now, all expressing things I know and things I don’t know. Some of them beg for further depth and questioning. And some are raw and simple. None of them offer much in the way of solace. But in any case, some of these thoughts provide a tether to stability and sanity in a time when life frankly seems totally and completely unfair.

It’s funny. I thought I’d share my many realizations over the last week. But I find that I can’t. I just spent thirty minutes trying to list them all, and they frankly sound so trite. It seems a shame to mark such a vibrant and passionate life with observations so anecdotal. I guess if I were to sum it all up – which is trite and impossible in and of itself – I have learned, yet again, that I am fortunate beyond my understanding and that living as deliberately and passionately as possible is not only of benefit to our little family of three but is as fitting a tribute to our friend as any.

The Worst Roommate in the World

A friend once told me that kids are the worst roommates in the world.

Boy, was she right.

Over the course of twenty four hours, Stella proved my friend right. After waking the Papa and me at about 5:30 am (Example One) and demanding a forty five minute story session, she deftly swiped everything atop my bedside table – books, lotion, picture and glass of water – off and onto the floor (Example Two).

She then decided to take the garbage out of the waste bin in the bathroom and tried to put it in the bathtub. Filling things is fun, right? (Example Three) She did, however, redeem herself on this one since she then quickly morphed into her let-me-put-it-in-the-garbage-myself-or-I-will-throw-a-total-fit mood and cleaned a good bit of the mess herself.

She then needed her diaper changed. I’ll let this little example pass since, well, you know.

At breakfast, my sweet cherub decided to spill all her milk onto her tray and then attempted to feed her oatmeal to our cat Vinnie. (Example Five) Fast forward to that evening where Stella decided that throwing marinara sauce all over the floor would be a decidedly valid lesson in physics. (Example Ten – remember we’ve fast forwarded here.)

Oh, and I haven’t even mentioned the emotionally unpredictable nature of this wee roommate. On good days, a full belly and rested head gives us some wiggle room as far as emotional health. On bad days, I honestly feel like I live with Sybil. (Example… oh, forget it.) On those tough days, Stella does feel like a crummy roommate. I find myself walking away, muttering silently in my head “it’s a good thing you’re cute, buster.”

But this is the thing: it always feels totally worth it. The mess. The piles. The frenzy. The complete irrationality of her whole self. Don’t get me wrong – there are days when I have to sit myself down and explain why it’s all worth it, and there are other days when I’ve earnestly looked for the exit sign and a parachute. But I always find myself convinced by my little pep talks, and I find comfort knowing that my parachute takes the simple form of a Saturday afternoon to myself. More and more, I can hear a calm and stable voice in my head telling me that this super needy, messy and unpredictable stage is going to pass before I know it and that she’s not doing any of this crap to bug me. In fact, she pulls most of these shenanigans because she feels loved and supported enough to discover and explore freely in our little family.

So she’s not the ideal roommate. I know this for sure. And one of my goals as a Mama is to raise this child so that she eventually becomes a roommate someone jumps over mountains to adore and cherish (as we do now). And hey, I really do have to remind myself that she’s still better than many roommates I’ve had in life. She’s worlds better than the one lovely lass I shared space with in college who, after dropping out, moved into our coat closet and then had the nerve to complain about the rest of us making noise in the living room at two in the afternoon. That’s right – two in the afternoon. Oh, and did I mention she actually peed in my boyfriend’s cup because she just didn’t have the energy to walk to the bathroom. Yeah, Stella may color on the table and need a new outfit after a dramatic blowout, but she’s better than that. And she’s definitely cuter too.

The Groove

I cringe at cockiness. Arrogance, among a few other unseemly traits, is one of my pet peeves. I’m all for confidence, but cockiness irks me. So when I catch a whiff of my own brand of smug, I’m downright mortified. But I suppose my few moments of prideful boasting help keep my ego in check because those moments always always always lead to moments of great humility. (Did you read my recent post about my honorable Jiggle Bum Drum? Case in point.) If I’m lucky, those moments of humility lead to moments of clarity.

So I’ve been noticing over the last year and a half that I have an almost prophetic ability to anticipate when I will dip into Crappy Mama Mode. It’s not that I actually become a Crappy Mama. It’s that I feel like a Crappy Mama. Mamas and Papas, you see the difference and hence feel my pain, right? This woo woo intuition doesn’t stem from my deeply centered state of spiritual consciousness. I don’t tap into my inner yogi for guidance here. I simply trip over my own little arrogant speed bump and BAM! I’m thrown back into the grind. Let me explain.

Life runs in cycles. We live, we love, we laugh, we cry, we breathe – all in cycles. Sometimes life flows effortlessly with the livin’, lovin’ and laughin’ components falling into place in abundance and with ease. And sometimes life’s flow stutters and splurts along like Chris Farley in a tutu with even that simple art of breathing providing challenge and struggle. I don’t really have a name for the latter (other than “Ugh, I’m in that crappy zone again!”), but I often refer to the good stuff as The Groove. When I’ve hit The Groove as Stella’s Mama, I have infinite patience, respect and adoration for my peanut. I happily follow her from room to room carrying a bowl of steamed carrots because I totally get that it’s just too much to ask of her to sit still while eating. I read the same story over and over and over again and entertain the following exchange with amusement:

Stella: What’s that?

Mama: A Ladybug.

Stella: What’s that?

Mama: A Ladybug.

Stella: What’s that?

Mama: A Ladybug.

Stella: What’s that?

Mama: A Ladybug.

Stella: What’s that?

Mama: A Ladybug.

Stella: What’s that?

Mama: A Ladybug.

I love The Groove. I feel strong and capable, exuding confidence about my actions and decisions as one of those never-annoying-but-oddly-enlightened Mamas. Oh yeah, I love The Groove.

Maybe it was all the Shakespeare I read in high school, but I sense that whenever I experience a bit o’hubris, reality crashes down with a big ol’ body check to the ego. Comedic fodder? Totally. Painful drama? Absolutely.

But fair dues, really. I’m not one for martyrdom or painful struggle. I’m just starting to recognize the balance of it all. Whenever I feel I’m in the Groove, I soak it up for all it’s worth. And the moment I start to acknowledge – or God forbid I actually brag a little – about how I’m rockin’ some aspect of the Mama gig, I’m nudged not-so-gently back to reality with a crash course in How To Live Life Without Patience of Energy. I wonder if my journey through The Groove and Crappy Mama Mode allows me to learn two things: First, life is simply full of ups and downs. And you can sing "Que Sera Sera" only so much. When you’re up you’re up, and when you’re down you’re down. Second, I think my Mama highs are actually enhanced by my Mama lows. I have a fantastic spectrum of experience to draw from when I reflect upon my “performance” as Stella’s Mama. I know what it’s like to be the Rock Star Mama who remembers the binky, the blanky, diapers, a snack and an extra change of clothing as she heads out the door with an excited babe. I also know what it’s like to be That Mom who has to humbly admit to the outside world that she in fact loses her patience – in public no less – from time to time.

So is it all about balance? In part, I guess it is. I think it’s also about faith in a strange way. Once I acknowledge that I’m diggin’ life in The Groove, I have all but secured my future in Crappy Mama Mode for the next week. (If I acknowledge The Groove out loud, watch out. It’s like the heavens rain down a gigantic Jinx Coca Cola Ninety Nine upon my not-so-humble head.) But, more importantly – and this is where the faith comes in – whenever I’m steeped in Crappy Mama Mode, I occasionally remember that The Groove will return. This too shall pass. And oh, the comfort that prophesy brings. It helps me dredge up a semblance of compassionate patience and makes that journey around the house with a bowl of steamed carrots all the more bearable, dare I say humorous.

Dignity Be Gone: A Mother's Journey Toward Humility

For totally self-imposed reasons – a substantial remodel – our life has been a bit crazy lately. We’re all a bit spent, and the emotions are close to the surface between Stella, the Papa and me.

Yesterday was another long, long, long day. Stella decided not to nap at all after waking bright and early at 5am. She then awoke today, chipper as ever, before 5am. Needless to say, my first thoughts after hearing her cry “Mama” that early weren’t, “Oh, my beautiful, precious babe!”

I dragged my sorry sleepy buns (note these particular buns) out of bed, read a gargantuan pile of stories to an eager toddler, played blocks, puzzles, dollhouse and basket climbing (an official sport according to Stella) all before 6:30am.

As we were eating breakfast, I looked at Stella with not-as-fond-as-I’d-like eyes and said aloud, “Okay, buddy. We’re going to choose to have a good day. That’s just how it’s going to be today, so where’s Mama’s smile?” Stella played along and I felt a meager but noticeable life in spirits. Good enough.

At least we’re all healthy and safe, right?

Totally right.

Well, Stella didn’t really settle for simply seeing Mama’s forced and weary smile. She donned her entertainer hat this morning and kicked my hiney (again, note the hiney) for real. She aimed for deep, dramatic belly laughs. And boy, did she deliver.

As we were coloring, I happened to… well…. pass gas? Can I say that here? Oh goodness. I’m literally blushing as I type this. Oh well. I suppose it’s good for me to overcome my aversion to public conversations (or displays for that matter) about bodily functions. After all, life with kids doesn’t really allow for physical modesty (remember the tush… hang in there). Assuming that Stella would carry on coloring without much ado, I was quite shocked when she uttered her new word – fart. Yup. My sweet girl shouted at the top of her lungs “FART!” and proceeded to point at me as she jumped up and down with absolute glee.

Fabulous.

I guess I can’t really blame it on the cat anymore. Or Stella for that matter.

Okay, so my humility was tarnished at this point, but I felt okay as we headed upstairs for the bath. After getting out of the bathtub, I stood at the sink brushing my teeth in my bath towel. Well, towels drop. They drop quickly. And I was simply too busy and hurried to care. We’re comfortable with “being nekid” in this house, so no big deal.

Of course, that was before I felt a tiny hand gently slap my buns. And of course, that was before I then heard laughter from a tiny child who had gently slapped her mama’s buns. Yup, Stella felt powerfully compelled to walk over to my bare bum and give’er an ol’ slapperaroo. And I supposed the jiggles that ensued were simply too amusing to ignore. She couldn’t contain herself (and nor could I) and howled with laughter.

Fascinating and entertaining – that’s what I’m here for.

So after being called out on my… well, you remember… and having my backside serve as a jello-like drum for my daughter, I really couldn’t fight it anymore. Despite the chaos and despite our collective fatigue, we are having a silly and happy day today. We’re tired, sure, but we’re reveling in Stella’s new “skills” and celebrating how absurd this glorious life can be.

A Favorite Moment

We have stacks of books everywhere in our house – a mess I’ll never detest. And Stella has picked up on this whole book thing. She’s obsessed. At first, I honestly felt a little smug about the whole thing. As an English teacher and an obsessive reader myself, I was pretty darn proud of my little reader. But as she’s grown, her fascination with “stories” has grown more and more fierce. For a small toddler, she possesses an uncanny ability to sit and focus on stories for about an hour each morning. Each night, she and I pick out a batch of new stories for the next morning, and with each passing month, she’s interested in longer and more developed stories. She’s recently discovered my old Paddington Bear books which has me beyond tickled. But I guess I could say be careful what you wish for because I now crawl out of bed with a hoarse voice from all that reading.

You won’t catch me complaining though. This simple morning ritual is one of my favorite moments of the day. After snuggling in bed together (the Papa leaves for work before any sane human should ever wake) and saying good morning to the cats, Stella asks for stories. We cover our eyes with great dramatic effect as we turn on the bedside lamp, hunker down with cozy blankets and read, read and read. It doesn’t matter what mood I’m in when I hear her squawk “Mama” from her crib, reading with Stella in the morning aligns my Mama juju and helps remind me from the get go of what a sweet, genuine and curious girl I have.

Stella seems to revel in these morning moments and asks for shorter encore performances periodically through the day. Like most eighteen month olds, Stella is on the go go go all day long. She possesses an enviable amount of confidence and strength and she knows it. Life is full. But there are moments when I can tell she feels almost betrayed by her abundant energy. She needs to slow down, but she can’t quite figure out how to move from frenzied point A to chilled out point B. Reading allows her a path toward that calmer state. And I wonder if she lingers so unusually long during these morning reading jags because she subconsciously knows that she’s got a long and busy day ahead of her.

And of course, this reading gig isn't so bad for me either. The other day, Stella handed me yet another story to read. It was around 4:30 in the afternoon – the witching hour, help us all – and reading another story frankly sounded horrid. I was drained and tired of giving. And giving. And giving some more. And I was tired of hearing my own voice. Silly, but true. But like all the mamas out there, I put on a happy face and read on. Well, Pollyanna be proud! As I hit page six of the story, I realized I was engrossed and relaxed. Like Stella, I allowed myself to sink into the book and found myself transformed. As I turned the last page, I found myself wishing for Stella to utter that magic story word. "More?" These reading jags don't serve as a surefire cure all, but they do provide a tune up of sorts - an oil change if you like - and I'm realizing both Stella and I need these little mood tweaks as we navigate life together.

So my voice is a bit rough right now, and I will honestly admit that reading Chrysanthemum six times in one day is a bit much for my taste – it’s a fabulous tale, but c’mon – but I’m soaking this up for all it’s worth. This fascination will most likely shift – as things tend to do with all things toddler – but it’s wonderful while it lasts. And in the meantime I’ll speak hoarsely with pride, pop the kettle for a cup of tea and help my hungry peanut find another story to explore.

The Secret Life of Toys: Part Two

Meet Lenny.

Lenny is French. Lenny is handsome. Lenny is downright debonair.

Lenny found love early on in life. He was thrilled to be embraced by a gooey spastic girl named Stella. He was beyond ecstatic that she loved (chewing on) his nose; his mother always told him he’d find someone who would grow to appreciate his rather unique features. Stella and Lenny were inseparable. For two glorious weeks, Lenny truly felt he’d found his soul mate, his life partner, his amour.

And then Stella stopped cut her first tooth.

Lenny suddenly found himself alone. A lot. He would sit idly in Stella’s crib as she discovered the joys of sitting up and the sensual pleasures of… well, let’s just say less desirable creatures.

It was a long two weeks, and he’s never really been the same.

Now Lenny lives in a turtle.

That’s right, a turtle. Lenny lives with countless other castaways. He finds them all tolerable, but he must admit to an elitist sense of superiority of these types.

But there’s something about this Wanda girl. He has his eye on her. She likes the cinema and seems like a girl who knows how to love without reservation.

And she sort of jingles when she walks. Oooh la la indeed.

I'm So Totally Embarrassed

A wee sample of my bedside reading...

A fabulous parenting book (the only one, in fact, that I read these days)

Almost always on my bed stand. Stella's middle name is Scout for a reason.

The Papa, Stella and I adore this story. It's not a newbie, but it's a goodie.

I love books that focus on kids with their dads. I love watching Stella and the Papa read this together even more.


Wait a minute... how old am I?

So I was recently sucked into the fanatical world of Edward Cullen and friends. Yup. I, a thirty-two year old mama, got totally hooked on Twilight. It’s not a series I ever thought I’d like. It was written for teenage girls and I had a crazy irrational fear of vampires as a kid. So consider me surprised that I found myself staying up until the wee hours every night reading all four of these silly books and loving every crush-worthy minute of it.

Of course, the English teacher in me can’t help but filter at least some of the books through my Overly Analytical Lens. I, along with a billion other “older” readers, can’t help but wonder why this book grips young girls (and, ahem, other older female types) with such fervor. It’s not like it’s the best story ever written. The book is clever, for sure. And it’s hard to not feel swept up by the urgency of the mystery and romance. But it’s still pretty much a silly thriller wrapped up in a grandly cheesy love story.

And I can’t really decide whether or not the heroine is worship-worthy. Clever? Check. Feisty? Check. Stubborn? Check. But is she strong? I’m not sure.

In any case, it’s got me thinking about how I would present such a story to Stella. (Let me introduce you to my Mama Lens.) I wonder if I would want her to be swept up by such a romance. As the heroine in the novels even admits to the reader, epic romances are often so tacky and overly dramatic. And constantly being the target of some dangerous villain - ya know, wicked vampires and werewolves… the usual – is sort of, well, victim-y. And I’m not sure I like that. Actually, I know I don’t like it.

I really don’t want Stella growing up believing those ridiculously miscalculated Lifetime Movies for Her are accurate or attractive. I already have a hard enough time with Cinderella and Snow White.

So why did I become thoroughly wrapped up in this silly story? The rational part of my mind recognizes that I’m drawn to it because it’s exciting and fun and totally different from what I normally read. It’s also a complete fantasy that’s pretty fun to focus on as I cringe every morning listening to NPR’s latest reports about the war in Gaza. A necessary escape, indeed. But the irrational part of me is mesmerized by this vampire boy, Edward Cullen. I have absolutely no ego left when I say quite frankly that it would knock my socks off to be protected by this dangerously lovely dude. I could go on, but I’ll refrain. I would like to head into this week with a small shred of feminist dignity.

I will say that I really am conflicted about this inane nonsense. I wrestle with a desire to show Stella a world where women don’t need the protection of men – hot vampire men included – but also a desire to show her a world where fantasy and dreams matter. Those two worlds don’t always go hand in hand. After all, the desires of our fantasies and dreams don’t always align neatly (or at all) with the desires of our everyday beliefs. The Papa and I wish to show her that epic romances are in fact lived out daily between best friends as they navigate the fantastic and the mundane. And this normalcy, aka life without vampires, far outshines the giddy butterflies-in-my-stomach kind of love found in Fabio-covered paperbacks.

The books eventually redeem themselves by awarding the klutzy heroine with some badass superpowers of her own. Through intellectual grit and emotional strength, she ends up protecting herself just fine, thank you very much. But it’s still so, so, so silly. Silliness aside, I think I'm fine with Stella crushing on Edward Cullen and dreaming of epic love. That’s cool. I get it. I want her to aim high in terms of love. If high means eternal vampire love, so be it. She deserves to be adored, celebrated, revered and respected. And just because my cynicism has always made me suspicious of a dozen red roses doesn’t mean she shouldn’t embrace grand romantic gestures. (Because, if I’m honest, I totally dig a love note here and there.) I just require that she do some protectin’ herself and kick some serious vampire butt of her own. That’s all this mortal mama can ask for.