Rock-a-Dee-Da

Zen Mama, Zen Baby

2009-06-01T14:47:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-29T15:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-22T14:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-08T15:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-26T11:48:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-04-20T14:51:00.000-07:00

...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

2009-04-14T15:24:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-07T14:55:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-02T16:12:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-27T15:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-27T14:54:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-20T15:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-18T20:07:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-13T15:16:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-03-10T19:33:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-06T14:14:00.000-08:00

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

2009-03-04T13:54:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-19T13:53:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-16T16:00:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-11T14:14:00.001-08:00

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

2009-02-08T13:16:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-04T14:17:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-01T17:45:00.000-08:00

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.

A Whole New World

2009-01-29T14:44:00.000-08:00

It’s a whole new world out there for girls. Sure, there are still some chuckle heads who believe women should live subserviently to men, but I really don’t have much time to ponder such numskulls. I’m too busy raising a kick ass girl.

I stumbled upon a fantastic source the other day that has me thinking about how to spread the word more effectively about all the amazing resources out there for our kids these days, specifically for our girls. While this blog is predominately a forum for my rambling mama musings – thank you for your patient interest! – I’m also interested in spreading the good word (and work) for girls. When I stumble upon a cool resource, I’ll pass it on. If any of y’all find something cool, please let us all know. Word of mouth is golden as far as this mothering gig goes, and I love tapping into the richness of what other people find helpful.

So the site I discovered happens to be a new interview Internet series called Smart Girls at the Party. It’s created and hosted by comedian Amy Poehler and her fabulous girlfriends. As Poehler describes, she and her feminist cohorts created the show as a forum for young girls to change the world just by being their fabulous selves. And let me tell you, it’s hilarious. Poehler interviews girls from ages eight to fourteen, and the conversations are both entertaining and enlightening. It’s awesome to see creative, spunky, smart young girls talk about things like feminism and yoga. It rocks. Enjoy, watch with your own girls and boys and pass it on.

Envy

2009-01-28T14:24:00.000-08:00

Every moment is an opportunity to tumble and play for Stella. Every moment is an opportunity to laugh, to discover, to learn, to love. This list, like Stella's potential, is endless.

Parents aren’t supposed to admit that they’re jealous of their children. Or at least mature, well adjusted parents aren’t supposed to. But I’m wondering if feelings of envy stem from a natural and evolutionary inevitability – we look to our children for inspiration and often look forward with a sense of hope. That hope is energizing indeed, but it can also remind us of what we are not.

So at eighteen months, Stella already has me beat on a few fronts. I only begrudge her one or two (wink wink), and thankfully they’re the minor and superficial ones. But that still doesn’t prevent me from gazing upon her with wonder and a bit of envy.

Of the important things, I envy Stella’s innocence. I know, it’s the obvious one. But it’s true. Stella never battles cynicism at this point. She accepts life as it is, and to her this life is wondrous and fresh. Each day is an opportunity for exploration and love. Throw in a cookie or a new story and life is out-and-out fabulous. She’s confident and proud exactly when she should be, and she’s cuddly and quiet exactly when she needs to be. She looks at her body with true wonder, focusing on what it can do rather than what it is not. She (hopefully) feels little shame about her blunders and stumbles, and forgives without the urge to hold a grudge. She is open to the kind of love and kinship that, if harnessed by world leaders, would change this planet instantaneously. On my good days, I try to emulate this openness. On my bad days, I watch and study. I envy her these traits and am working tirelessly to help her retain these qualities as she grows. That’s what good parenting is, right? Recognizing who your child truly is and helping them become their best version of that self.

As far as superficial stuff goes, there are just a few things I envy. Stella has the bangs I’ve always wanted. I’ve wrestled with a cowlick more powerful than Niagara Falls for my entire life and have been relegated to the entirely respectable but slightly dissatisfied community of brushed-to-the-side-bangers. Oh, and did I mention she has the most beautiful curls when it’s warm out. She’s totally unaware of how many haircuts I’ve botched in effort to achieve her just-out-of-bed look.

Okay, I wish I had as cute a tush as hers.

Aside from her hair and her hiney, there are admittedly a few things I would not trade Stella. Her life is a lot more challenging due to her minimal verbal skills. And of course, her needs and desires are absolutely overwhelming. This is not a good combination. When she wants to sit on the counter, she’s willing to thrash about on the floor to get there. I guess feeling her feelings so deeply is both desirable and undesirable. I wish we were all so honest with our emotions. But I also see where crazed and unchecked emotional outbreaks can lead. Oh, and she’s pretty short right now.

I’m actually glad I envy Stella a bit. It reminds me, yet again… and again… and again, that we are most definitely different people, and I have a whole lot to learn from her. The cool part is that I don’t resent her for any of this. While I envy her innocence, her joy, her killer bangs, I do so happily. I honestly delight in the ways Stella is better off than me. I suspect this is me creeping into a whole new level of selflessness as far as parenting. I think I now get it when parents of older children suffer through ice cold nights on bun-numbing stadium seats to watch their kids jump hurdles or score goals. And I think I can see myself sitting through hours of ridiculously painful piano recitals just to hear my little one give Für Elise her best. It’s not that parents particularly enjoy these actual activities – anyone who tries to convince me that children’s tap is an enjoyable form of entertainment is automatically denied any dinner invitation to my house – but they do enjoy that sense of pride and, yes, envy as they watch their child move more bravely or gracefully than they ever could. It’s evolution, really, and I am loving that I will always have the front seat reserved for me as Stella's mama.

File Under Self-Esteem

2009-01-23T15:15:00.000-08:00

I’ve only written one letter to a rock star in my life. Okay, so it was an e-mail . And she’s not exactly an über famous rock star. But it was a letter nonetheless, and she was important to a younger and star struck me.

What was super cool was this person unexpectedly wrote back. Go figure. There are gracious rock stars after all! She was appreciative and kind as she thanked me for my adoring note. The kicker came when she told me that she was going to keep my message in a special file she kept for bad days and planned to read it occasionally to remind her future self of the things she’s done right.

I need a file like this. Actually, I already have one, but it contains notes about my professional career as a teacher. I’m pleased to say it’s filled with sweet and heartfelt thanks for my commitment and compassion as a teacher, and I’ve peeked inside this file several times throughout my career for a little boost here and there. Students really are awesome.

But I think I need a new file, one regarding my life now as I tirelessly work in a profession that has been so rudely ill defined for me. As a stay-at-home mom (of a one year old, mind you), I hear many thank yous from my exuberantly appreciative husband, my supportive family and close friends. But I have to admit that I really crave a thank you from my more direct audience – Stella.

No matter how hard I wish, it’s not going to happen any time soon. Seeing as Stella is currently harnessing all her linguistic energy on the words “happy” and “helmet,” I suspect it will be a bit longer before she lays into an I-love-you-so-much-I-can’t-imagine-my-life-without-you monologue.

This whole need for a new file stems from a recent crummy day yesterday. My self-esteem plummeted for whatever reason, and I ended up feeling whooped and beaten. I put on the happiest face I could muster without being psychotically insincere, but it was a tough one. Fortunately, toddlers don’t really let you wallow in your own mud. So I was able to march through the motions of a normally happy and peaceful evening with the peanut.

As I was rocking Stella goodnight, I started feeling low again. I let go of my need to be calm and collected in front of her and let the unappreciated smallness creep in. And that’s when I had a totally cheesy movie scene moment that totally rocked my world. I simply looked down at Stella in my arms by the light of her obnoxious LED nightlight. She was glowing an eerily spectacular blue tone – skin perfect, lashes lush, lips cherubic – and that’s when I got my thank you.

See, I told you it was cheesy. But just looking at Stella slowly drifting to sleep in that soft blue glow and watching her drowsily wedge her frayed blanky up her left nostril was a thank you in and of itself. Because in that moment I saw her feel safe, warm and loved. And I knew that she knew it as well. Her obvious comfort in that moment demonstrated her gratitude.

I won’t lie. I can’t wait for handmade cards waiting for me by the tea kettle as I start gathering breakfasts. And I grow giddy thinking of all the ways Stella will tell us she’s happy as she grows. But this wordless exchange was good for now. And realizing I need to make the already substantial catalogue of thank yous in my life more readily available actually contributes to a little boost in the self-esteem department.

To Bink or Not To Bink

2009-01-21T14:56:00.000-08:00

This picture is not what it seems. I know it looks as though I’m gazing adoringly at my beautiful daughter. And I’ll admit that I always look at her with a more than healthy dose of affection. But I guarantee you that one of the dominant thoughts racing through my mind the moment this was taken was “God, I hate that bleepin’ binky!”

Yup. The pacifier. The plug. The bink. It brings comfort to my child, but it just plain irritates me to hell.

But I’ve been schooled. And I feel better. Thank heavens.

I’m taking a weekly parenting class with Stella right now and love the feedback I’m receiving from the teacher and the interaction with other moms and toddlers. Hilarity quickly ensues when you throw ten or more toddlers and their mamas together. It’s a bit messy and a little nuts, but Stella and I dig it.

I asked our teacher, Miss Francie (all teachers should be named Miss Francie, right?), what she thought of binkies, and she quickly explained her theories of age-appropriate comfort aids. It all made sense, and I felt totally convinced after her speech. Let her have it. It's harmless. It's okay.

Well, then binky it is.

We will continue binkin’ around here, and I’m going to try my darndest to let go of my irritation. While Stella may impress me with her precocious worldliness and adventurous spirit, she’s still just a peanut. And peanuts need comfort. Since I don’t really care that she sometimes needs to sleep with the light on, or drag her blanky around when we run errands or read a bazillion stories before we get out of bed in the morning, I suppose I shouldn’t really care if my wee one – and she is so wee – needs a little extra comfort by way of the bink. Comfort is comfort. So be it.

Can you tell I'm talking myself into being okay with all this? I know. I know. This is all so silly. There are much bigger fish to fry as far as parenting. A friend of mine has eighteen month old twins and another baby due in a matter of weeks. Unknowingly, she always provides me with a wise perspective. With her hands literally full, full, full, she doesn't seem to bother herself with the little worries like whether or not one of her boys relies heavily on the binky. If it helps make him feel safe and comfortable in this crazy world, he can have it. Again, this binky stuff is amateur hour compared the the potential worries that lie ahead. Before I know it, I’ll be fretting over issues like dating and driving. I suspect sleepless nights will take on a whole new meaning.

But oh, this control freak stuff is hard to give up, isn’t it? Because that's what this is really about. It's not about binkies; it's about control. It rears its head in the most unexpected and strange arenas. And for some stupid reason, Stella wanting her binky a lot these days is kick starting my instinct to render control while I really should be allowing her the sense of control (and comfort) she gains from that ridiculous plug.

I hate admitting that I'm having an absurd power struggle with a one year old about a piece of plastic. Ugh. It seems so trivial. But I’m determined – as any good control artist would be – to deal with this head on. We’ll live a binky-friendly life here in our house.

We’ll be downright binkerific if we have to be.

The Secret Life of Toys: Part One

2009-01-19T14:07:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine (with an incredibly insightful and hilarious blog of her own) recently wrote about a frightening toy given to her five year old for her birthday. This thing was unbearably grotesque. If it had been given to me at five, I would have completely freaked out and insisted that my parents throw it away. Better yet, I would have had them burn it before it turned all gremlin on us.

So as I chuckled and guffawed at this disgusting little toy, I realized that there’s a whole other world of toys that I’ve yet to explore. While we try to keep Stella’s toy chest full of playthings aesthetically and sonically bearable, there are still some quirky stories hiding beneath the surface. I’m sure of it.

I know I don’t have too much time on my hands. So I can only assume that I’m a bit batty, because taking on this new perspective – that of the secret life of toys – has been thoroughly entertaining and a little too engaging. Bear with me on this… I’ll try to keep it to only a week of posts. I’ll start with the simple story of a man and a woman.

Mama and Papa: A Love Story

Meet Mama and Papa.

(Stella immediately recognized Mama as me and claimed this fella as the Papa.

The resemblance is uncanny, isn't it? )

Oh well. I like to call them Doug and Sherry.

Doug and Sherry live in a suburban three story split level.

They have a roomy bathroom. (Sherry still regrets the all-purple theme. A bit much, for sure.)

And they have matching single beds (Isn’t that convenient!)

Doug is a dentist while Sherry works part time as a first grade teacher. They have a beautiful baby girl named Shaneequa. (Sherry gave birth right after teaching a thrilling unit on multiculturalism.)

Doug and Sherry entertain a lot.

They accept all kinds. (They voted for Obama.)

They love their neighbors, Tish and Demetri. (Although, if she's honest, Sherry is a bit jealous. Despite being a single mom, Tish always seems so put together. She bakes, sews and volunteers at the local food bank. On her bad days, Sherry doesn't really like Tish.)

Okay, I’m cracking myself up here. But not as much as Stella cracks me up when she plays with Doug, Sherry and their cohorts. It only took about a day for her to fully embrace the heterosexual paradigm of a mama, papa and baby. Sure, it’s what she knows in her own home, so it’s not a surprise at all that that’s what she would emulate. What has been surprising are the deeply passionate kisses Mama and Papa plant on one another when in Stella’s presence. Let me rephrase. Stella is pushin’ the sweet love when it comes to Doug and Sherry-. This is so funny to the Papa (the original Papa) and me because we weren’t aware up until now that Stella was really watching us as we displayed our affection for each other. After we stopped laughing, we kind of looked at each other with a bit of pride. While I’m not totally comfortable with my toddler slipping into potentially rigid ideologies of what a family should look like (I know, I’m probably over thinking this!), I’m VERY comfortable – elated actually – that she thinks of Mama and Papa (aka Doug and Sherry) as loving, affectionate and connected. That sure as hell beats an imaginary game of contentious shouting, right? It felt like a report card of sorts, and I think the Papa and I scored well.

Okay. Enough exposition. I apologize for possibly stealing thunder from Doug and Sherry. They really are a lovely couple.

Brad Pitt Is In My Kitchen

2009-01-14T14:19:00.000-08:00

Most teenagers believe someone is watching them. No, not in a stalker-ish kind of way. Just an I-assume-everyone-is-interested-in-what-I-do-say-and-think kind of way. Psychologists call it the Imaginary Audience, and it’s a belief that usually peters out by the time we hit our early twenties.

But does it have to?

I’m dying for an audience right now. The other day, I confessed to a dear friend that I sort of wish I still had that imaginary audience following me around right now. Of course, it’s not about what I look like at this point. Considering I’m still trying to figure out a way that striped knee highs, yoga pants and Danskos can appear fashionable and dignified, I’m not really interested in how an audience would interpret my outside self. (And whew, what a relief it is to be inching past that stage of life, isn’t it?) It’s more about having an audience keep me in check for my behavior, my actions.

I lost it last week with Stella, snapping at her sharply for a millisecond, and have had a really tough time recovering for some reason. Perhaps I’m struggling a little because of the ridiculously extreme rains that have hit the northwest. Maybe I’m just wallowing in the post-holiday, post-fabulous adventure blues. Or maybe I’m just totally tuckered out because my darling daughter keeps waking up at five in the morning. Whatever it is, I’m feeling the winter right now, and I’m doing everything I can to find some lightness and, more importantly, some patience as I parent a very precocious peanut.

So this is where the audience comes in. I realized recently that when I’ve been having a really crummy day and am about to lose it, I completely shift into Good Mama Mode when an outsider enters the picture. A friend. A family member. A complete stranger. Their mere presence allows me to center myself and find that more patient and gentle tone I prefer as Stella’s mama. Actually, I think allow is too kind a word. Their presence sort of forces all this. But I welcome the force, Obi Wan. Bring it on.

This audience wouldn’t stand in judgment of me as a mom. (I suspect I heap enough of that on myself for one set of shoulders.) They would, however, simply serve as a checks and balances of sort. They’d quietly and kindly remind me that I actually want to remain calm and collected despite the temptation to morph into Cruella de Vil.

The tough part is that I really love my alone time. Having an actual audience around all the time isn’t really all that appealing (or practical). Stella and the Papa have wormed their way so deeply and lovingly into my heart, that I consider their presence more than acceptable when it comes to alone time. I crave our time together. But Stella and Papa are just too darn familiar to serve as an audience. I know. I know. They, of all people, should be the ones who inspire me to be at my best as far as mothering. And for the most part, they do. But there are moments – right? – where they sort of necessitate the audience rather than serve as the audience. And by they I mean Stella when she’s steeped in her it’s-a-good-thing-you’re-cute self. Plus, I trust them so intimately, that I’ve been known to let my not so best self out of the closet when they’re around. A conundrum, right?

So the challenge is striking a balance between surrounding myself with a loving and supportive audience on those tough days but also figuring out how to recreate the effects of such an audience when it’s just me and the peanut. In writing this, I think I’m really making a request of myself, that my best self, the one who comes out when others are around, shine through when my good mama juju has flown out the window. And as I think about it, it all becomes a little exciting (and a little wonky), because think of all the possibilities as far as audience members. I can summon the pros like all those What To Expect and Sears folks. And I can summon all the amazing mothers in my life as well as all those characters from books and movies I’ve admired over the years. (I know Atticus Finch isn’t a mom, but he makes the cut as far as patience and integrity is concerned.) I’d, of course, have to invite Mother Theresa if I really wanted to get it right. And I’d reserve a seat for my dad’s mom since I really think we would have gotten on well as fellow moms. And if I want to have a little fun with this, I could really put on a show. I mean, really. What would be the harm in inviting a few extra folks to admire my refined and poised mothering? Say… Paul Newman. Perhaps Ewan McGregor is free. Oooh, how about Daniel Day-Lewis?

I know I’m hedging toward Wonks-ville here, but this suddenly seems more do-able, doesn’t it? Who said we’re not allowed to have fun with this self-improvement gig? Of course, if you’ve all written me off as a nutter at this point, fair dues. But at least I’ll be the calm and patient mama with Brad Pitt in my kitchen.

Save Handmade

2009-01-11T13:49:00.000-08:00

As a concerned parent, aware of the value of responsibly made non-toxic toys, I urge you to check this out. It’s alarming how a seemingly well-intentioned piece of legislation could literally wipe out any chance for success for responsible artists and toy companies. Three cheers for eliminating toxins in our kids’ toys, but let’s not totally squash already toxin-free crafters, artists and manufacturers in the process. Talk about a big ol’ duh!

Please take a moment to click on the above button, read the details and send a note to your congressperson. Thanks!

Little Sparks

2009-01-09T12:59:00.001-08:00

What sparks growth?

Is it love? Encouragement? Stability? Challenge? Reflection?

Is it riding the Papa’s shoulders past flames and a surf board?

Hmmm. I suspect it’s merely time (Can you tell I’ve been trying to find some sort of story or idea that would connect to this photo? I tell ya, it’s been tough. This is the best I can do… for now.)

The Papa and I have been eagerly awaiting Stella’s entrance into the world of language for some time now. Of course, she’s only seventeen months, so it’s not like it’s really fair of us to be so giddy with anticipation. She’s frankly right on target as far as her language and comprehension skills go. But it’s been one of those developmental milestones that has had me stewing inside.

I think this has something to do with the fact that I, admittedly, can be… hmmmm…. well. Let’s just say verbose is a kind word. Or, as my brother has been known to call it - diarrhea of the mouth. Yeah. Thanks for that. Actually, yeah. Thanks for that. Really. It’s not like I support crunching your own personal communication style for the sake of conformity. But I do think we could all reflect a bit now and then as to whether or not our little styles are workin’ for us. Mostly, I think I do okay. I speak my mind, but I’m learning more and more how to step back and remain quiet. Okay, not a lot. But a little.

And that’s where Stella comes in. I’ve been noticing that as I shut my well-intentioned English teacher trap, she has more room to explore. I still ask her lots of questions – simple ones, mind you – and engage her with a lot of conversation, but I’m giving her more time to “respond.” And it’s working. She’s starting to communicate with greater confidence and enthusiasm. She’s starting to collect words like treasured souvenirs, and I can tell she understands far more than I could ever imagine.

(Verbally, at least, she understands quite a bit, and we’ve now entered the deadly don’t-you-dare-laugh-as-she-says-“shit” parrot zone. Case in point: I casually mentioned to the Papa the other night that our dear friends’ nineteen month old now says “F$*! it!” all the time, and Stella quickly followed suit. Oops.)

But let me set something straight, I don’t think I really have anything to do with all this wonderful, amazing and captivating growth. All my worrying about how “normal” her development is hasn’t sparked any growth at all. It’s only given me a headache. If I do say so myself, we’ve set up a pretty stimulating learning environment for Stella in our humble home. But as I learn more and more about what makes kids tick, Stella deserves my utmost respect for being a dynamic and precocious peanut all on her own. My increased silence may in fact allow her a bit more linguistic wiggle room, and that’s great. I’ll take a pat on the back any day. Even so, it’s not the sole spark. While we’d like to think that we have something (okay, everything) to do with her brilliance and beauty, I think the Papa and I realize Stella is marching at her own pace. And it’s far more fun to sit back and relax as we watch her march and stomp and learn and play.

Of course, we can always hold onto the notion that this scene, this crazy experience, had something to do with her ability to say “potato,” right?

Perspective

2009-01-07T13:38:00.000-08:00

For me, blow dryers will always symbolize motherly love. That deep, unshakable nitty gritty mama bear love that swings you up sideways and smacks you silly when you first hold your babe. Yup, blow dryers.

I’ll explain in a moment.

Sleep has been a bit of a challenge in our house lately. After our big trip, Stella recovered beautifully, as she normally does. But then another round of teething hit, and all hell has broken loose. (Who knows why nobody ever prepares us for the fact that babies teeth for about, oh, three years straight. Why didn’t I know this?)

Granted, Stella is still sleeping fairly well. Considering she’s in a lot of pain, she’s coping like a champ. But part of how we deal with this whole situation is to rock and hold Stella a bit more than normal. I know, I know. According to a lot of experts, we’re supposed to be teaching Stella how to fall asleep on her own at this point. And really, she normally does. She’s one of the best sleepers I know – of babies and adults – and she usually dozes off with ease. But when my sweet girl is obviously hurtin’ and it’s my job to help her feel better, I’m gonna rock, by golly. Yes, sir.

So we’ve been rocking Stella a lot. I rock her before her naps, and I rock her before bed. And the Papa rocks her at night when she wakes all sweaty and sticky from a feverish teething battle. We’re a bit tired, but we’re also aware that this phase won’t last, and she’ll be back to her Super Sleeping Self in a matter of days.

And that’s what’s got me tickled (and ruminating on blow dryers). I have a perspective now that I didn’t have just one year ago. I have the awareness to know that all the tough stuff we go through as a family is essentially a phase. The tough stuff, thankfully, ends. The good stuff, thankfully, remains. Oh, how I wish I could have told myself this in those early first days, as Stella struggled to accept her new life outside my warm and cozy belly and as we coped with ridiculously little sleep and frayed patience. I wish I could have told myself that I would indeed get the hang of it all – the nursing, the sleeping, the soothing, the mothering – and I would eventually hit a groove and flow as a new mama. I wish I could have told myself that I would screw up, but Stella would still be okay. I wish I could have told myself to just relax a bit and just enjoy her smells and sounds.

The funny thing is that nobody could have told me it would get better. Actually, that’s not true. People told me all the time. I just didn’t believe them. Or maybe I just didn’t (or couldn’t) hear them. It’s not like we were living in a hell on earth. Despite feeling bone tired and emotionally wasted, we were also delightfully giddy about our new babe. But nobody can tell you how to feel. Or at least nobody can tell me how to feel. I’m a gotta-do-it-for-myself kinda girl, and my profoundest realizations usually stem from mucking around in the mess by myself. (I assume this is the case for most.)

So I was thinking about all this the other night as I was rocking Stella to sleep, affectionately looking forward to seeing myself evolve as a mama and gaining more and more of this kind of perspective. As I was listening to Stella breathe, I flashed to a memory of when she was about five weeks old, and we were still steeped in the exhausting frenzy of our new life. In this memory, I was rocking Stella in the same chair, in the same room, feeling a thousand times more exhausted as I am these days. Totally obliterated. And Stella just wouldn’t go to sleep, and she wouldn’t stop crying. After nursing her for nearly an hour, walking around the entire house, running the hair dryer as white noise, experimenting with different levels of darkness, singing everything from Hey Jude to Greensleeves and shushing her into oblivion, I was just about to lose it. And that’s when I pulled out all the stops. For some reason, in my completely wasted state, I came to the conclusion that Stella needed more darkness, more white noise, more movement and more shushing. That’s it. I just hadn’t found the right combination yet. This was going to work.

Go big or go home, friends. It worked. And it makes me laugh with great tenderness for myself as a loving, new mama that I sat in that rocking chair for another hour with a running blow dryer in an outstretched hand and a quilt draped over my head and the baby as I shushed and rocked, shushed and rocked.

I sort of look back at this version of myself and regard her as a little sister of sorts. Since I’m the youngest of four, I imagine this is what my siblings have often felt as they’ve seen me flail about in my own life. “Oh, look. Katherine’s figuring something out again. Poor, sweet dear.” But the thing is I look at this memory without pity or exasperation. I look at it with real tenderness for myself as a new mom. Because, if we’re all honest, I don’t think anyone knows what the hell they’re doing when they have their first child. It’s chaotic and exhausting and totally draining. But we all make it through somehow, sometimes with help and sometimes alone. And sometimes, we drag out the quilts and rockers and blow dryers to help us survive. This memory bolsters me right now since it’s not one of martyrdom or exhaustion. It’s a memory of the enormity of love that I felt for Stella during those first days. And it’s a reminder now of the ingenuity, creativity and goofiness necessary and inherent in this grand world of mothering.

Two Worlds

2009-01-05T12:54:00.000-08:00

Each day we were on the beach in Costa Rica, we would see people passing us with smiles on their faces as they watched our tiny girl playing in the sand and surf. If I do say so myself, she did look ridiculously cute. Even the hardest of hearts would be charmed by a wee one in a bathing suit and floppy hat on the beach, right?

But on one night in particular, we realized people were out and out laughing at our girl.

And they were right to do so. She was pretty darn funny. Stella spent nearly two hours walking up and down the beach, picking up dry sand and carefully placing it in the rolling waves. Head down, arms swinging, back and forth. She was on a mission.

Who knows what task Stella was undertaking that night. I have to believe that she was summoned by some outside source or, if you like, some higher power. Did the snails and mollusks summon her? Was the Grand Sand Deity beckoning her to join the Formidable Beach Brigade? Could Stella hear miniscule sand granules calling out, “Help us! Help us! We must return to the sea.”

Whatever her mission, she embraced it with an industry and dedication only paralleled by professional athletes or surgeons. She was in another world – a sand world – and any distraction we threw her way counted only a pittance in comparison to the important work she was undertaking. Returning the sand. Returning the sand. Hallelujah and Amen. Returning the sand.

I love these moments. The ones where I catch small glimpses into what might be going on in Stella’s mind. It seems that at seventeen months, Stella inhabits dual worlds. She lives in a world – our world – where things are as they appear. It’s fascinating, sure, but it’s also very simple. Constant. Stable. But she also lives in a world – a world often ignored or negated by us big people – where things don’t have to be as they appear. It’s unlimited, astounding and enticingly creative. It’s this world that I catch Stella in a lot more these days. A world where she can hold “conversations” with her dollhouse figures and build castles with a pile of blocks. A world where she can fly on top of mountains as her Papa carries her around the house. A world where Vinnie and Cooper, our beloved cats, surpass the role of pets and serve as deep and true companions. And it’s this world that allows her to spend nearly two hours walking back and forth on a beach, picking up the sand and offering it back to the sea.

The funny thing about all this is that the people walking on the beach, laughing at Stella’s fierce determination in a seemingly futile and nonsensical task, were probably eliciting the same response in the likes of Stella and other wee ones. I mean what’s so important about surfing or beach combing or reading? There was sand to be carried, sand to be cradled, sand to be saved. All of us big people are so busy and distracted trying to make sense of what’s right in front of us that we often miss what’s just beyond the surface, that other world that fascinates, engages and feeds our little ones. Amidst all that sand and amidst Stella’s immersion in that other world, I suspect the joke was really on all of us.

A New Year

2008-12-31T14:07:00.000-08:00

As I write this, Stella is napping after an unusually long and difficult night, and the Papa is crashed out upstairs with a fever. We're all pretty tuckered and are looking at an uneventful New Year's celebration this evening.

But I'm downright happy at the moment. Despite not exactly wanting to cuddle with my feverish fella and feeling a wee bit exhausted by my beautiful Miss CrankyPants, I'm feeling more than overwhelmed with gratitude for all that I have. 2008 was a rockin' good year. We faced a few challenges here and there, but we've hit a groove as a family that feels pretty darn good. We know what our needs and dreams are, and we've developed a comfortable and accessible rhythm for achieving both. With each passing month, Stella becomes more and more herself, showing us how fascinating and bawdy life really is. And with each passing month, the Papa and I grow more and more confident in our parenting shoes. Life is good, indeed.

I absentmindedly snapped the picture above recently. It was one of those photos I thought I'd toss once I saw how silly it was. I really love how this seemingly insignificant shot of Stella's wee toes, reaching and stretching, captures how we live our lives these days and where we're headed. It may sometimes feel like we're precariously perched atop a big ol' pile of What-If's and I-Don't-Know-What-I'm-Doing, but we're really just exploring and stretching.

While I guess I should have been telling Stella to sit down on her chair, I chose to take a brief moment to step back and document how insatiably brave and precocious she is. And I'm so glad I did. Not only did I walk away with a silly photo that makes me smile, but Stella was able to stretch a bit and inspired me in doing so. In those hopefully safe moments when Mama and Papa aren't looking, Stella often finds a new strength or feels a new sensation. I'm grateful for those moments - and for her active interest in pursuing those moments - and look forward to a new year of stolen stretches.

I'm not sure of all that will happen in 2009 - that's the fun of it, right? - but I do know that we'll keep reaching upward, balancing with the finesse we three can muster as we discover what comes next. Blessings abound, and I look ahead with a full and hopeful heart.

Summoning Courage

2008-12-29T13:03:00.000-08:00

I love this photo. Of all the pictures from our recent trip to Costa Rica, this one captures our experience as a family. A slow summoning of courage, of confidence, of bravado.

Stella didn’t really enjoy the beach when we first arrived in Costa Rica. Let me be a bit more clear – she hated the sight and feeling of any molecule of sand on any part of her body. I’m talkin’ full body freak out. She screamed and pointed and stood completely immobilized until one of us picked her up, dusted her off and held her closely while standing far above the sandy ground.

Okay, so on day one of this gripping fear, I looked at the Papa with a bit of concern. What’s this about? How are we going to handle a week of hanging out on the beach with a toddler who appears to be inching toward epileptic fits at the mere sight of sand? Oh boy.

But in classic chilled out fashion, the Papa just smiled and told me to relax and let Stella figure out what this beach thing is all about in her own time. And man, was he right. Thanks to Grandma’s gentle guidance and her contagiously happy cousins, Stella gradually started looking at the sand and ocean with fresh eyes. With each visit to the beach, she developed a greater sense of comfort with her new digs. She started feeling comfortable with sand on her feet. She began helping build sand castles and moats. And she eventually warmed up to standing in the ocean as the waves rolled in. By the end of the vacation, she was marching into the surf by herself – holding Mama and Papa’s hands is for little kids after all – and taking on the waves headfirst.

Just taking stock. Hmmm. This doesn't seem too bad.

Okay, that's comin' in fast and hard. Nope. Nope. Nope. Not gonna do it.

Wait a minute. That wasn't so bad. This is do-able. I've totally got it.

Bring it on, ocean baby. Bring it on.

More. More. More!

Stella’s slow progression (or shall we say obsession?) on the beach demonstrated exactly what we were going through emotionally as a family throughout our trip. Slowly, carefully, deliberately, we gathered more and more confidence and courage as a young family embarking on their maiden international voyage. Granted, a two week trip to a peaceful Costa Rican beach with extended family isn’t exactly extreme travel. It’s not like we were trekking the hills of Bhutan with a one year old and a yak. (Next year, perhaps?) But the mere acts of packing up all our gear, preparing for all potential roadblocks and simply getting ourselves on a plane with a toddler is no small feat. Throw in our irrational fear that the mosquito net over Stella’s portable crib would somehow prove defenseless to vicious malaria riddled mosquitoes, and you have two somewhat wobbly parents.

But we did it. And, of course, it all panned out beautifully. Stella flew like a champ, charming everyone on the plane, even doling out fist bumps to those sitting in aisle seats. And despite a few fragile moments during the first few days and a bit more reliance on the binky than we’d like, she took to world traveling like a pro. She seemed calm and engaged by the people she met, she avoided sunburn and bug bites completely and she developed a seriously joyful obsession with the ocean.

Watching Stella take to this experience, and reflecting on how the Papa and I felt so rejuvenated by taking this trip, I realize, yet again, the weighty importance of taking risks. We feel so blessed to be able to take these kinds of trips, especially in these times, but we also feel sorta kinda proud of ourselves for taking the leap. It's not like we're finding a cure for cancer here. We know that. But tackling our own little fears and concerns still matters. Staying home feels safe and stable. But for us, familiarity is seriously trumped by the confidence and wisdom gained by these kinds of adventures. Before Stella was born, the Papa and I undoubtedly ranked traveling as our absolute favorite past time. We’ve done a pretty good job of checking off a lot of our I-Wanna-See-That list. And while we probably won’t be heading to Katmandu any time soon and we are far from adopting a Brangelina lifestyle, we have realized that showing our wee Scout the world is one of our top priorities as parents.

(We also realize that it’s good to start off with bite-size trips. Rather than diving into an extreme adventure (see that Bhutan yak gig), we figured a relaxing and primarily stationary visit to a Costa Rican beach with family was the perfect re-entry into our previously worldly life. I know us. If we had set our sights on something more dramatic, we would never have done it. Not with a toddler. So we swallowed our pride and accepted an easier but just as glorious traveling path. And it paid off by way of a happy kid and two happy parents.)

We totally realize that Stella will most likely have no memory of Costa Rica. But we like to believe that she will remember a powerful and innate sense of adventure when she looks back on her childhood. This sense of worldly confidence, I hope, will follow her as she grows and matures so that when she finds herself tempted to book that flight to a faraway place, she recognizes that she possesses the strength and courage to do so.

Not Feelin' It

2008-12-24T08:47:00.000-08:00

I should feel crazed. I should feel nutty. I should be totally freaked out that I can’t find some of my Christmas presents.

But I’m not.

The shot above is where I am right now. Okay, so I’m not actually on the beach anymore. I'm talking about where my mind and heart are. In fact, I’m looking outside as I type this and marveling at the impressive snow bank in my backyard. We returned from Costa Rica three days ago, and while I’m happy the holidays are here, I’m having a hard time falling into my normal, slightly frantic holiday mode.

No complaints here. This is just completely foreign territory. A composed and calm holiday? Interesting. Very interesting.

I’m not sure if it’s the laid back Costa Rican pace that’s rubbed off on me (I can’t tell you how many Ticos literally told me “Relax. Don’t worry.”) or if it’s the foot of snow outside my window preventing me from running around like a crazed chicken for those totally unnecessary last minute holiday items. Maybe it’s because unlike last year – when our world still felt totally turned upside down as we struggled to keep up with the sleepless life of new parents – we feel pretty darn rested these days. Or maybe the fact that we’re lucky enough to have a job, a house and our health is what fuels this strange composure. Whatever the reason is, this new and unfamiliar calm is rockin’ my wool socks at the moment.

I’m confident that at some point today, I’ll experience a slight panic about my lack of preparedness (even though I am actually prepared) and the fact that I didn’t bake or cook some fantastically impressive dish for Christmas Eve dinner (even though nobody really cares what we eat as long as we eat together). For now though, I’m soaking up this cool and still sense of calm, reveling in the fact that this is the first time in my adult life that I’m actually coasting through the holidays with ease. This is what it’s supposed to be, right? A few days filled with friends and family simply enjoying one another, breaking bread together and reflecting on our blessings. While I would honestly give anything to be back on that warm beach, watching Stella and the Papa on the shore as I try yet again to fulfill my fantasy life as a surfer girl, I’m warmly comforted by this gentler experience of holiday celebration and am overwhelmed with gratitude. Thank you, Costa Rica. Thank you, family. Thank you, beloved friends. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Little Mirror

2008-12-05T19:16:00.000-08:00

Life has suddenly moved from leisurely and pleasant to crazed and crammed. As the holidays descend upon us and as we prepare for an international trip and a massive house project, I find myself feeling a bit more frazzled these days than I’d like. I’m managing to keep my cool for the most part because, after all, I feel so privileged to be able to do all this right now. But my mind is often racing and distracted. I am, however, focused enough to recognize that I have a wee audience through all this. Stella is the most powerful reminder of how crazy and silly I can become when dealing with outside stress.

As I was busy packing up dishes this morning, I noticed Stella babbling into her fake cell phone. She was walking around the circular floor plan, gabbing away, saying “Hi there” and “Bye Bye.” I had to grab my camera. After enjoying the moment, it hit me for the umpteenth time how impressionable my peanut is right now. Everything I do, from talking on the phone to brushing my teeth to greeting friends with warm hugs, is an example for her. How I behave is how she will behave. Of course, she’s her own person – hallelujah – but she is also the most absorbent sponge in the world right now. This ain’t groundbreaking news, and it ain’t rocket science, but it’s a valuable realization nonetheless.

And so I guess I’ve used the phone once or twice in Stella’s presence. Hmmm. Anyone who knows me will understand that I immediately started overanalyzing the potential dangers of Stella mimicking my phone use. Am I talking with friends too much? Am I not spending enough time with my daughter? Should I throw away the phone entirely? Do we really need electricity?

I realize the phone isn’t a problem. I really don’t use it much at all. Stella just thinks it’s fun to play with her phone just like Mama sometimes plays with her phone. So that’s not the issue. I think what is the issue is that I’m feeling totally maxed out lately as far as energy and time. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to accomplish everything. And of course, what I fear the most is that I’ll focus too much on getting things done and neglect my primary and most important job – just being with Stella.

Just mulling this stuff over in my head makes me realize that I’m still doing a pretty darn good job of creating a balance in our house. I think it’s tough to recognize that life ebbs and flows, and Stella is a part of that ebb and flow. There are times when our schedules are packed, and there are times when we are free to move slowly and leisurely. As long as the latter is the more normal and natural routine, I think our family will be okay. And so far, that has thankfully been the case. In fact, I actually wonder if living amongst the balance of these two modes is healthy for Stella. Life isn’t always calm and peaceful. Chaos hits sometimes. I want Stella to grow knowing that it’s normal to feel a bit rushed sometimes. As long as your goals of balance and health remain steadfast, life will indeed resume to a more ideal pace.

That said, I’m going to take a few weeks off of writing. We’re off to enjoy our first international trip with a child, so send us some love, my peeps. We’ll be sending you a ton.

Public Notice

2008-12-01T13:22:00.000-08:00

The moment Stella emerged from my womb - and all mamas will agree this is a ridiculously genteel version of birth - folks were asking me if we wanted another child. Seriously.

Well, sort of. I suppose folks waited a few hours. It seems like once you share a pregnant belly with the world, your life -and by life I mean career plans and sex life - are up for public discussion.

If only they'd wanted to touch my belly. I could handle that. I was prepared for that. I wasn't prepared for coworkers asking me about my ovaries.

My favorite example of this was when Stella was nearly a year old. I took her to the Papa's company barbecue where there were as many new babies as there were hot dogs. One of the Papa's coworker's husbands - catch that: coworker's husbands, not exactly a close confidant of mine - shouted across the picnic blankets, “Hey, Katherine, are you pregnant again? What's taking you so long?"

This is literally what ran through my head: A) What a dork. B) I finally understand what the word guffaw means.

I really did feel like yelling back, "No, but I'll have my ovulation flow chart on your desk tomorrow morning. ASAP."

What a dorky dork dorkus.

I know this is an extreme case. Most people know it's not exactly polite to loudly shout about someone else's reproductive plans. But I have noticed a strange trend in our culture where the more polite versions of this inquiry are acceptable.

I'm fully aware that I may be sounding a bit prudish on this one. And I assure you I'm the first to celebrate bellies and babies. I also think it's really up to the individual mama and papa to figure out what's comfortable for them as far as spilling the baby beans. I hold absolutely nothing against those who want to share early and openly. But I think my personal discomfort with all this is many layered. Firstly, I think it's only fair to let a woman focus on healing her woo woo before you start asking her when she's ready for another round. I also think it's quite presumptuous to assume that everyone wants more than one child. The list goes on.

Mostly, I think I'm just super protective of my own little family unit.

I recently took this photo of Stella at the park. In it, she's wearing a hat the Papa and I bought in Peru before we became pregnant. We walked into a restaurant in Cuzco not really sure if we wanted children at all, and we walked out knowing that we would soon try to get pregnant. This sounds so rash, but it wasn't. After ten years of being together, we'd slowly been dancing toward this point. We'd had many years where we felt completely satisfied with the notion of being just the two of us. It felt good and right. We'd also had many years where we felt totally sure that kids were in our future. It shifted as we shifted, and we really felt no hurry about it all. We were (and are) young and had plenty of time to do our thing.

A year passed, we got pregnant, and Stella arrived with great celebration. Life is grand. I look back at this progression and these stories and am touched by what they signify for me, the Papa and Stella: the warm intimacy of a new family.

But back to strangers asking me about my uterus...

We're not the kind of couple who publicly discussed getting pregnant in the first place. It's not like we're super private. We'd talked about it casually with some folks, but we really didn't feel the need to bring everyone in on the adventure. Once we were pregnant, I actually didn't want to tell anyone for a really long time. I knew that once we told people, it wouldn't be just ours anymore. And for a brief period of time, as I fought off comically disgusting bouts of morning sickness, it was ours. Stella was just ours, and we could laugh and smile and cry and freak out all on our own. Just the two (three) of us. Selfish? I guess. Amazing? Absolutely.

Of course, I openly talk with my mama friends and family about the prospect of having another child, and we're no longer coy about wanting another. We do and we will (if we're so blessed). But I must admit that when it comes down to the brass tacks of it all, I'll most likely want to do it the same way again. We'll quietly get to work, the Papa and me, and we'll tell our beloveds when we're ready. It's something I look forward to with great affection. We'll revel in our expanding brood, all four of us, and soak up that special quiet time before the happy hullabaloo hits.

Until then, I think I'll keep my calendar to myself, thank you very much. After all, there’s so much joy and hilarity to be had with surprises, right? Trust me, world. You'll know when a baby is a'comin'. My belly and my smile will tell all.

My First Babies

2008-11-30T13:58:00.000-08:00

My Cats were my babies until I had a baby.

Now before you run screaming from a post about cats, I assure you this has to do with more than just cats. It's about the deep and meaningful shifts of family life, the monumental realizations of conscious mothering, the metaphoric journey of.... okay, it's about cats. But I promise, there's a point.

Here's my first babe Cooper. While Coop and I have a complicated relationship – she frankly annoys the hell out of me at times – I hold her dear to my heart because she was the first critter I took on as my own as an adult. Despite how annoyingly needy (and drooly!) she can be, she is quite possibly the most beautiful cat I’ve ever laid eyes on. Cleopatra ain't got nothing on Coop's smoky eyes. And when I feel myself losing patience with our beautiful Tabby girl, I realize she is truly the Papa’s cat. The two of them have a love thing going on, and I’m happy to step aside and watch from afar.

As for Vinnie? Well, what can I say? He’s my man. Well, he’s my other man. I know I’ll elicit some raised eyebrows when I say this, but before Stella was born Vinnie and I shared an intimacy only akin to lovers. Now I know I’m probably not supposed to admit this, but I sort of felt like Vinnie, Brian and I were involved in some strange love triangle. (I mean, look at that face.... that come hither look... how could a girl resist such smoldering passion?) My little orange guy was the buddy I’d always wanted in a pet, and our immediate bond shocked even me. The Papa tolerated our kinship, but I could tell Vinnie was simply peeved that he had to share me with another being. He would join me for lunch, cuddle on my lap as I graded papers and nuzzled into my belly every night in bed. In fact, I swear he knew I was pregnant before the Papa. He wouldn’t leave my side, constantly laying across my belly in a new and fierce protective stance.

The thing is, I really felt a profound love for my cats before Stella was born. I still do. It’s just different now. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s changed, and it’s been tough to articulate. Sure, I’m now responsible for a whole other human who is pretty much entirely dependent on me for her survival. And yes, the cats need us to feed them and scoop their poop. But I really do suspect they’d survive just fine without me. Or, at least they want me to think that. My attention is definitely split, and the Papa and I have worked hard to make sure the furry family members feel loved and adored in light of the new biped in town. But again, it’s just not the same anymore.

I felt bad about this for the entire first year of Stella’s life. It deeply troubled me that these critters who didn’t ask for a new baby had to adjust so abruptly to life in the second string. It’s just been recently that I’ve wrapped my head around the fact that they’re doing just fine. In fact, I think Stella has ultimately been good for both of them. (Cooper, a previously psychopathically shy cat, has become strangely emboldened, and Vinnie now has a partner in crime in Stella.)

I know this might seem morbid, but I think the biggest difference is that I can actually rationalize Vinnie and Cooper’s ultimate demise. I mean, I know that they’re going to eventually die. It’s what you sign on for when you take on a pet. Your job is to love them as long as they’re with you and give them the best possible life. And they give a whole lot in return. But you know they’re going to kick it before you do, and it’s just part of the whole deal.

With Stella, I just assume that I won’t see the day that she dies.

God willing. God willing. God willing.

It’s a simple but momentous pact – the promise that I will outlive my children – and it keeps me going as a mother.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s going to be gut wrenchingly awful to let go of these dear family members. Just thinking about it makes me teary. But the thought of saying goodbye to Stella makes me more than teary. It literally causes me to lose my breath in the most immediate and instinctual sob I’ve ever known. It makes me queasy and blind and angry and desperate. It’s just not something I care to bear and hopefully, please please please, won’t have to.

It feels wrong to admit all this, but I can’t tell you how many new mamas I’ve talked to over the last year and a half who have expressed total frustration that they have to care for animals on top of their newborns and toddlers. What feels overwhelming becomes unbearable in those first few months. Fortunately, I feel like we’ve hit upon some balance in our home, and the cats are now back in the groove of our family circle. They seem happier, we feel happier and Stella enjoys the craziness of living with the furry ones. Despite our inevitable future farewells, I’m starting to revel again in the warm, cuddly, soft goodness of these kooky critters who, despite their ridiculously uncanny ability to puke at the worst moment possible, bring joy and humor to our lives with impressive flair.

Plus...

How can I deny the amazing, er, learning opportunities Stella experiences with cats in the house?

A Girl and Her Papa

2008-11-24T14:09:00.001-08:00

The other night reminded me of how grateful I am to have both Stella and the Papa in my life. More specifically, I swell with love whenever I see them together. Sure, the Papa rocks my socks most of the time. And Stella makes my heart swell just by breathing. But seeing the two of them together, loving on one another with such glee, literally makes me stand back in awe. They take my breath away.

As we were all hanging out in the kitchen preparing dinner, this is what I overheard…

The Papa: Whatch’ya up to, Stella?

Stella: Baroom barroom barroom. Dot gabba gabba doo.

The Papa: Really?

Stella: No.

The Papa: Hmmm. So whatch’ya doing now?

Stella: Babba doo sha dot shee.

The Papa: Well, thank you. Thanks so much. I like that.

This is when I turn around, already pretty amused, to find Stella putting bits of crunched up crackers into the hole in the Papa’s sock.

Enough said.

After dinner, the Papa and Stella headed outside for a quick moon walk. They do this often when it’s a clear night. I love seeing Stella grow more and more excited as she and Papa bundle up together. It’s like she’s totally shocked that she gets to go out one more time before bed.

The Papa decided to bring along his headlamp and camera to document their walk. These are what I found on the camera the next morning.

These photos make me giggle and fill me with intense gratitude. I have often said I really don’t know how single parents make it in this world. Not only must they carry the financial responsibility of their families, but they must foster and nurture the emotional well being of each and every family member (among countless other things). When I see and hear the Papa with Stella, I’m reminded of how deeply fortunate I am in life. And I’m also reminded of how lucky Stella is to have the first man in her life be a man with integrity, compassion and a precocious spirit. And oh how she deserves it all.

Happy Thanksgiving All. May your holiday be ripe with laughter and love amongst all your beloveds.

A Growing Girl

2008-11-24T14:09:00.000-08:00

Stella got her first haircut last week. Since she was born with a healthy head full of spiky black hair – where did that come from? – she’s grown quite the do over the last sixteen months. It’s been fascinating watching her hair change over time, shifting from jet black to almost whitish blonde. (When she was about five months old, someone earnestly asked me if I had frosted her hair. What an interesting question. Let’s pose that to CPS, shall we?)

But all good things come to a shaggy, rat’s nest of an end. We looked at Stella on Sunday morning and realized she looked like a cross between this and this. Not exactly perty. Plus, she is currently participating in the Feisty Pacific Northwest Toddlers Brigade (FPNTB) boycott of all pony tails and barrettes. So in favor of a smoother life all around, we decided to head down to the local salon for a trim.

Stella handled it all beautifully, smiling coyly at all the hairdressers. She may have even winked at the lady next to her getting her hair foiled. What a little flirt. We walked out with an adorable little bob and a few baby curls for her keepsake box.

I am so grateful for this whole experience – a seemingly silly little milestone in our lives – because it’s made me realize a few things as Stella's Mama.

Oh, that neck. Don’t you just want to serve it up with butter and tea? Oh.

I’ve been looking at this neck for the last few days with a new perspective. Sure, it’s gorgeous and fine. But it’s also the neck that carries my baby’s head and that actually means something.

Er, what? Did she just say she didn’t know what a neck was? Who is this nut and how was she allowed to bear a child?

Seriously, hang in there with me. I know that this is a strange realization. I guess the core of it is that seeing Stella’s neck look so accomplished and beautiful already, at only sixteen months, forces me to realize she will become so much more than my little girl.

She will shake her head with that neck. She will utter laughter and cries from within that neck. She will nuzzle into a love with that neck. She will possibly cradle a child up to that neck. And she will hold her head high – with confidence and bravado – with that neck.

So you see, this gorgeous and creamy neck carries more than just her growing, precocious mind right now. It carries the wonderfully rich weight of possibility.

And I am beyond grateful to stand witness to all her possibility. Thank you, wee one. Thank you.

The Wee Reader

2008-11-24T13:56:00.000-08:00

In light of Thanksgiving, I find myself thinking a lot about the gifts and blessings in my life and how grateful I am to be walking in my shoes. And in light of my last post, I'd like to brag a bit more about all the good stuff going on in my little corner. So here's my first toast to the gratitude gods.

The other day, I stepped away from Stella to make a cup of tea. When I returned, I found this.

Yup, that's my girl sitting in her block basket reading her books. Oh, how she makes me smile.

As an English teacher and lifelong reader, seeing Stella dive into books with such curiosity and passion warms my overly-weary-of-cheesy-sentimentality heart. Growing up, reading was my comfort and my passion. It's not like I was one of those tender hearted kids who only had books as friends, but I was known to stroll home as slowly as possible so I could walk and read another chapter of Anne of Green Gables.

Who knows if Stella's passion for all things bookish will continue. (I have a hunch it will since she's been on this kick since she was about three months old. As soon as she could hold her little bobble head up on her own, she wanted books propped everywhere.) All I know is I secretly dance a embarrassingly joyous jig inside every time I see her initiate anything to do with reading. On those days when I start to look for the escape hatch, if Stella comes to me with a book in her hands, I regain my mama cool, prop her on my lap and read until her heart is content.

If her interest dwindles, so be it. We'll find other ways of fostering her imagination. But for now, the dorky reader in me is jiggin' her little heart out.

A New Game

2008-11-21T13:27:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week, I encountered a mama who told me her daughter was “the easiest baby in the world.” She said she was a “delight.”

This comment made me pause. I smiled and thanked her for saying that. She looked at me curiously. I explained that up until that point, I'd really only heard other mamas focus on how tough their kids were or how tired they were as new mothers. I say all of this fully acknowledging that I've done this several times. Actually, my line is usually, "Stella is super great but busy busy busy." And I say it with a thoroughly exasperated look on my face.

It's made me wonder why so many of us mamas partake in this strange but pervasive contest. It seems like there's a game in our society of "Who's Got It Worse?" I see it everywhere, and I'm curious as to why I've participated. It's not like I want to live my life as a Pollyanna, ignoring the junk and pretending everything is peachy. I don't think I could pull that off even if I tried. But I do think there is some wisdom in living á la Doris Day. Life is hard. No string of pearls can mask the fact that this mothering gig is the hardest thing I've ever taken on in my life. But it seems like there's got to be happy medium between obnoxiously bragging about all your gifts in life and solely focusing on the crap. In fact, I know this happy medium exists. What I'd like to do is share the crummy moments with openness but focus on the rockin' moments with humility.

Yup, I'm calling for a revolution here. Why can't Mamas start braggin' a little about how amazing their kids are? We all know these kids are amazing, and it’s not obnoxious to think your kid is the smartest, sweetest, bestest kid in the world. It seems like we should admit this more often. Let’s ditch “Who’s Got It Worse?” and play “Who’s Rockin’ Out?”

So in the spirit of giving thanks, I plan on spending next week focusing on why my babe and my life rocks. Because I can’t resist drafting a list on the spot, here’s a short list for today.

(I highly recommend doing this, especially when you think you made a mistake in not naming your child Damien. Today was a particularly trying day since Stella has enough snot running out of her nose to quell a forest fire. She is fussy, exhausted and totally whooped. Jotting down this list - or at least thinking about it - saved my tired Mama butt from losing my cool (and mind) as she thrashed about in Fussville.)

Stella took another marathon nap today. Life is good. (Stella is an incredible sleeper. I list this first, because I'm told by perfect strangers I'm beyond lucky on this one. I agree. But it really has nothing to do with me. She came in this way, and I'm soaking it up happily. Sleep on, wee one. Sleep on.)

The Papa called me today just to tell me he missed me. It totally made my day.

Stella is so smart, precocious and creative. She laughed hysterically last night as Vinnie, one of our beloved cats, tried to nab some of the pasta off her high chair tray. The Papa and I are so pleased to have such a natural goofball in the house.

Stella now climbs the rocking chair from the side. She hoists herself up by the side arms, swings her little legs over and hops into the seat. It’s precarious and nerve-wracking, yes. But it tickles me to no end to know I’ve got a Can Do Girl on my hands.

I'm able to stay at home right now with Stella, and the Papa has a good job. I can't tell you how blessed I feel right now to have this privilege.

I have an awesome family. My parents are two of my best friends, my siblings are some of the coolest people I know and my extended family is beyond supportive.

I took a long walk with a dear friend today. We gabbed about the kids, swapped ideas about mothering and giggled over everything and nothing. My friends are true.

Despite having spent the last two years in a soggy drizzle-fest, this fall has been utterly spectacular in the Pacific Northwest. Hallelujah and thank you.

I'm healthy. My husband is healthy. My child is healthy. Enough said.

My list actually goes on. Seriously, I could continue for about an hour on this one. But I fear my head may inflate to dangerous proportions. Actually, it's my heart that feels pumped at the moment, and that is never a bad thing. I look at this list and think “Ya done good, Katherine.”

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Bring on the Batteries

2008-11-19T14:26:00.000-08:00

For my final installment of all things crow, I insist upon holding on to some speck of dignity. I proudly declare our home a MBFT (Mostly Battery Free Toy) zone. Stella doesn't play with any of those annoying battery-operated I'm-going-to-kill-Elmo-the-next-time-he-giggles-and-shakes-his-tush toys. Of course, that's not to say she hasn't seen them. She delights over them at friends' houses, and I love that she can have her fill there and then come home to toys that help Mama stay sane. She owns one techno gadget - a ridiculously cute toy cell phone - and that's it. (This is particularly amusing to everyone in our lives because I don't even own a cell phone. My toddler has already surpassed me in her technological prowess.)

It's not that I think talking (signing, dancing, burping.... ) toys are dangerous. They're not. I just think our lives are a lot simpler and quiet right now without them. I have to live with all this stuff too, and I prefer the good old fashioned wood and cloth stuff.

They feel better.

They sound better.

They look better.

Stella will have plenty of time to obsess over whatever her generation comes up with to replace Ipods and cell phones. Right now, I'd like her to revel in playing with natural materials. I don't feel preachy about this at all, and I have absolutely no judgment about these toys in other people's homes. This is just what works for us.

But rather than present myself as an annoyingly die hard crunchy Mama, I must admit that I recently bought a whole bag of toys I never thought I'd let in my house. In anticipation for an upcoming international plane ride with Stella, there are two Target bags sitting in my office, full of ridiculously plasticy battery operated toys. Stella doesn't know they're there, and I'm keeping it that way. I plan on stuffing a backpack full of this crud for the plane. If she starts to lose it and crayons don't do the trick, we're busting out the plastic. I figure I'd rather have a toddler comatose from playing with some stupid singing laptop than have her lose her mind because she's played with her hand-crafted stacking blocks five thousand times. She'll most likely love these toys since they're the forbidden fruit, and I hope to feel smugly satisfied as we "enjoy" an eight hour international plane ride with a sixteen month old.

I took a look at the toys last night and was totally amused by the graphics. What exactly are these kids expressing here?

Will Stella really learn a bit of Spanish with this ridiculous talking whatchamacallit?

I really never thought I'd buy any of these toys. It actually pained me a bit to walk through those aisles and see so much stuff. But I did. And while they will quickly disappear once we are done traveling, they will live quietly, tucked in a closet and ready for the next plane ride.

So there. I've eaten my crow. I know there will be more helpings. It seems like life offers a wild array of crow buffets if you're willing to pull up a chair and own up to your own blunders. The feedback I've received from folks, both friends and strangers, is that all of these experiences are more than common. They're normal and healthy, just part of life with children. Everyone's comments have been immensely comforting and slightly hilarious. So thank you, thank you, thank you. It's made my own Mama journey that much easier.

A Tiny Can of Whoopass

2008-11-17T15:57:00.000-08:00

Look at these beautiful hands.

So tiny. So focused. So determined.

Here they are again. So busy. So creative. So beautiful.

I look at these hands everyday and revel in how entranced I am that the Papa and I helped make this tiny person. Everything about her is just so darn precious, and we pause frequently in this house to just stare at her.

And then THWACK.

Yup, she's done it again, and I'm absolutely mortified that my child - my sweet, precious peanut - has walloped another kid. Yes, my babe is the one who hits right now. (I say right now riding on faith that she will soon pass on this torch of brutality to one of her wee cohorts.) As I meet with friends and their little ones, my wee girl is the one who opens up her tiny can of whoopass and doles out the blows.

As I wrote in my last post, there were many things I felt sure of as an expectant first time mother. I really did believe that I would be the calm and nurturing Mama who would never have a child who hit. Violence is totally unacceptable in our home, so my kid simply won't hit. Right? I guess I didn't really account for the fact that Stella isn't me. (This has been, by far, the biggest and most shocking surprise of having a child.) Plus, she has the communication skills of a stunted caveman. As a result, I've spent the last two months trying to figure out how to help Stella understand that hitting is not okay. I've told her "no," I've explained to her that hitting hurts others and I've simply removed her from the situation to just avoid further wacks. While I work really hard to maintain my role as that calm and nurturing Mama, Stella is still struggling to figure out how express frustration, fatigue and anger.

Stella doesn't want to hurt other people. In fact, she's usually the first of her buddies to hug and kiss everyone. She actively seeks out affection and cuddles, so I'm confident that this spell of hitting isn't some diabolical true nature coming to light. Parents of older kids assure me that this is simply a normal developmental stage that will peeter out once she learns to communicate more clearly and manage her emotions. Okay. So it's all about her frustration level. I buy that.

But I must admit I've been calling upon all my elders and parenting books about this one lately because it's awful being the Mama of The Kid Who Hits. More specifically, it's awful watching my child feel so frustrated that she hurts someone else.

The first time this really happened totally shook me to the core as a new Mama. We were visiting our dear friends in California, a trip we'd eagerly anticipated. My best friend of twenty years had her first child, The Chickpea, ten weeks before I had Stella, and we've been over the moon at the thought of our girls growing up together. We figured six hundred miles was no barrier to raising our girls as buds.

The girls did remarkably well together, playing side by side as best they could. After all, they really don't know one another. But there was obvious potential for pallin' around, and it was great to see them interact. Of course, there were some obstacles. With great reason, the Chickpea was a bit out of sorts that this new kid was running around her house, touching all her toys. Who did this kid think she was? So The Chickpea spent the first three days of our visit trying to share but spending most of her time grabbing her toys, declaring them "Mine!"

As parents, the four of us understood the Chickpea's frustration and humored her as much as possible. Of course, the Papa and I were also increasingly aware of Stella's growing frustration. I swear she started off our weekend behaving very respectfully. She was careful and cautious with all of the Chickpea's toys and was not her usual gregarious self.

Of course, by the third night, Stella was done with Emily Post. Goodbye, Miss Manners. I want me some toys, and I want'em now.

Rather than drag this on, I'll cut to the chase. After being told "Mine!" for the umpteenth time, Stella basically walloped the Chickpea right on the forehead with a big ol' block. Yup, right between the eyes. We all saw it happening, and it was like one of those slow motion scenes from the Bionic Woman. There was nothing we could do but watch in slow motion and then react as time resumed to a breakneck toddler pace.

After explaining to her why hitting wasn't nice, the Papa simply removed her from the situation and played with her in a separate room for awhile. She had free reign over the toys and had the full attention of her Papa. Peace was restored and the girls survived. But I must admit that I felt mortified - on two levels. Mainly, I was just so embarrassed that my kid was the one who was aggressive. I felt like shouting "I'm SO sorry!" and demonstrating point by point how we never allow this kind of behavior at home. And then my sympathy kicked in. After my selfish instinct to cover my own Mama butt passed, I realized that Stella had been slowly growing more and more frustrated over the course of three days. She had shared and yielded until she'd had enough. And she popped. She totally blew her lid. And it took the form of a swift thwack to the Chickpea's head. Ugh. Multi-leveled, not-so-subtly nuanced ugh.

I knew our friends ultimately understood that Stella was simply acting out of frustration. But I can't help but admit that I felt crushed by the whole situation for a moment. I've really never felt more defensive or protective of anyone in my life. It was tough. The Chickpea felt hurt and confused, and we felt terrible about that. But Stella was beside herself with frustration, and I'd be a liar if I didn't feel like opening up my own can of Mama Bear whoopass to protect her. Both the Papa and I saw Stella's little face just crumple in a bright red mass of frustration right before she threw her punch, and it was one of the most painful expressions I've ever witnessed. And that's what really sucked about all this. I was so busy enjoying myself with my grown up friends, that I allowed my child to get to what must have felt to her like a point of no return.

The babes survived as did their parents, but the whole experience made me realize that Stella is going to do things over which I hold no control. Zilch. This is a tough one for a recovering control freak like myself. But like I said in my original Eating Crow post, it seems like everyone I talk to goes through stuff like this with their children. Hitting and biting, tantrum throwing and screaming- it's all part of the deal when you sign that parenting contract. And I'm about to write something that is going to sound pretty trite in light of all this, but I really do mean it. Just when I feel completely thrashed by how emotionally wicked these moments can be, Stella will show me her kind and gentle hands again. She'll reach up as we're reading together in the rocking chair and stroke my cheek. She'll gently pick her crayons out of the box and line them up in a row and smile with beaming pride. She'll run as fast as she can to one of her buddies and plant a giant kiss on them.

If I think about this stage at the immediate level, I'm crabby and anxious about it (with a dash of shame). If I think about it with a broader, more metaphorical perspective, I must admit that the hitting doesn't scare me at all. In fact, it pleases me in a strange way. While I will never condone hitting, I will support Stella in expressing her feelings, especially those nasty and uncomfortable ones like anger and frustration. Sure, we have a very long road ahead of us in terms of fine tuning the ways in which we express all this, but she's already starting the process. She's already got a voice, and our job right now is to help match the actions of her beautiful hands with her beautiful voice.

A Lovely Little Tantrum

2008-11-12T14:12:00.001-08:00

So I promised a big ol' serving of crow for myself. So here it goes.

Every week, Stella and I excitedly trek down to our local library for Story Time. For twenty five minutes, Stella intently watches the dynamic children's librarian read, grooves to the tunes and basically tries to say hi to everyone in the room. She loves it as do I.

Several weeks back, I found myself racing to the car with a half dressed toddler who was still clutching her fist full of cereal because I really wanted to make it to Story Time. (I realize now that these outings are as much for me as they are for Stella.) So we ran into the library, slipping into the Story Time room as quietly as possible. Despite already being totally pitted out at 10am, I felt proud of myself for schlepping one tired mama bum and one cute baby bum out the door. I quickly took Stella's coat off and starting fervently singing "Where Is Thumpkin?"

Little did I know, but Stella has already figured out that some of these kids songs are, well... pretty stupid. It's not like she doesn't play along at times. But it's like she's not convinced she belongs in a group of toddlers. I imagine her wondering "Where are the big kids, like me?" So to keep herself entertained while all the tiny babies cooed at dancing thumbs, she headed for the stage. Normally, I wouldn't begrudge her this instinct. Even to those not drawn to the spotlight, any stage is pretty exciting. At least it's more exciting than Mazy and her friends. But the stage is the one place in the Story Time room that kids aren't supposed to play. They can roam on the stepped seats and in the front where the librarian reads and sings, but the stage is off limits.

I will only allow myself one indignant moment in this whole story.

Why, pray tell, is there a stinkin' stage in the Story Time room?

Harumph.

After trying to lasso her back to my lap about seventeen times, I simply grabbed Stella and brought her back to our seat. It wasn't an ideal move on my part, but I had to wrangle this kid.

Lord have mercy. I've never felt Stella move in the ways she did just then. She arched her back like a professional gymnast, flung her head around like a rock star and howled like a banshee. Like. A. Banshee.

My previously harmless pitted out state immediately catapulted at mach speed to thoroughly offensive. I removed her from the room and let her play in the main library for a short time thinking she just needed to run for a few minutes and then we could return to the fun.

Upon our return, she threw a similar but less dramatic tantrum. That was it. My daughter was in full on Bette Davis mode and there was pretty much nothing I could do to stop it. Fortunately, Story Time finished right then and we quickly tried to make our way to the door and flee. But of course a friend of mine spotted me and stopped me.

Okay, can I just say that I'd like to make a rule among parents that they should allow a fleeing Mama to do just that - flee. I know we've all been there, and we'll be there again, but it really is embarrassing to be That Mom for that moment. But this friend grabbed me and told me "Stop it."

I was totally perplexed. I thought to myself, What the hell is she talking about? Stop what? I'm not the one throwing a fit here. My kid is being That Kid, and I'm doing my best, Lady. Back off.

Then she said, Just relax, Katherine. I saw you giving that look. You know, the one that every Mom has when their kid is acting out. It's a look of shame and guilt. It's the look of why-can't-you-just-behave-you-small-human! Don't worry. Really. It's no big deal. Stella is just off right now. She'll be fine in ten minutes. Plus, we've all been there. Seriously. It's just your turn today.

Not really taking in what she was saying but appreciating her kindness, I nodded and smiled and muttered something about Stella going through a phase right now.

My friend laughed, grabbed my arm again and said, Life is really just a long line of phases, Katherine. So get over it and just deal with each moment.

Dang it.

She was right. Dang it. Dang it. Dang it.

So my kid threw a tantrum, and I ate crow. It's not like this is revolutionary. Every kid does this. But this was the first time my kid did it, and I foolishly thought I was getting close to avoiding one. I know, pure silliness on my part. What I learned even more than how effortlessly crow goes down is that other moms really do get it. It's not like I returned to Story Time the next week to a room full of icy stares and cold judgment. Rather, I returned to a room full of moms and dads who alternately take turns being That Mom with That Kid. This can be a seriously wonderful club.

Like any professional toddler with spunk and spirit, Stella is going to express her immediate feelings and opinions with admirable passion. If I can prevent most of the more traumatic meltdowns, I consider that a success. But I also recognize that I can't anticipate everything for her. I can only do my best. (I actually agree with her that it totally sucks that nobody is allowed to play on that stage!) So I'm comfortable eating crow on this one. I'll gladly eat it, because I feel like I've learned something through the whole experience and, most importantly, I've figured out new ways to respect Stella's needs with a greater sense of foresight and empathy.

(Just so ya know... We now only head to Story Time with full bellies and plenty of time to spare, arriving early so we can grab a seat that is dauntingly far from the stage. We enjoy ourselves and quell Stella's penchant for stage diving. Nice work, Mama.)

Eating Crow

2008-11-11T14:16:00.000-08:00

Before I was pregnant, I laughed a lot at myself when I would pronounce my well-defined dos and don'ts of parenting. I knew that such declarations were silly if not entirely premature, but I really did express myself with confidence. After all, I was a nanny for several years. My wee charge was darling, sweet and precocious, and I used to tell her Mama and Papa how lucky they were that they had such an easy kid. Yup, I was setting myself up to be the Wonder Woman of Mama-hood. (Little did I realize, in all my nannied wisdom, that kids usually don't misbehave with their nannies. Most kids save those precious moments for Mom and Dad. )

To curtail the inevitable I told you so moments, I made sure that I announced my willingness to eat crow once I had my own child. I thought that by admitting that my notions of mothering would most likely shift and evolve over time and that I would make many mistakes over the years, I would pretty much avoid others' judgment. In fact, I think I imagined some sort of congratulatory chorus of praise from everyone just because I had the motherly foresight and wisdom to know my limits and imperfections.

But honestly, I secretly thought that my kid would never throw tantrums. My kid would never hit anyone. And I certainly wasn't going to let my kid play with all that electronic bells and whistle crap.

Hmmmmm.

Well, my kid has thrown a tantrum. And by "a", I mean several. And she has been known to out and out wallop her buddies. And while we only have one of those battery operated toys, she's disturbingly jazzed when she plays with that stuff at friends' houses.

So I've put on my bib and am ready to dig in; serve up the crow.

What's funny is that nobody has commented on what I'm doing or given me flack for my parenting through all this. I'm lucky enough to have family and friends who are supportive and positive as far as my skills as a parent. And I'm often struck by how fortunate I am to have such a support system. It's my own judgement and expectations that I should have worried about a bit more as the babe was baking. As I think I've mentioned before, the perfectionism gene is deeply embedded in my bones. So when I was preemptively defending myself as a new mom, trying to appear humble, poised and self-aware, I really should have been listening to myself a bit more intently.

All this has made me recognize that women, no matter what stage we're in, are just too darn hard on ourselves. Lord knows this doesn't disappear at the onset of motherhood. Just when we feel like we've hit a groovin' stride and are ready to proclaim our freedom from the tyranny of our inner critic, we hear that voice again. You know, the voice that nudges you toward self-doubt and guilt. And it's a tough voice to shake, especially when you're tired and have few moments alone to reflect. But as I think about how I want Stella to feel about herself as woman, I realize there's never been a more important time for me to shake that voice. Easier said than done, I know. But if I'm willing to eat crow, I'm willing to try giving that critic the boot.

I'm compelled to share more of those moments, you know, the ones that make you feel like That Mom... the ones where you realize your kid is That Kid.. the ones that make you shuffle quickly out of Target with your head hung low. It seems like whenever I share these stories, I'm met with other moms and dads telling similar, often hysterical, stories of how they've been That Parent too. Hearing about those experiences makes me realize I'm not a horrible mother and my daughter is just being a normal boundary-testing kid. We all have these moments, even when we've broken our backs to prevent them from happening. This may prompt a few entries... we'll see. Actually, we will see. If I'm to embrace this new inner-critic-less mode of mothering, I've gotta share. So hang in there. Embarrassing moments are on the way.

Learning to Color

2008-11-10T13:36:00.000-08:00

My kid can't draw very well. Her sense of color, texture and space is all off. Her composition is skewed, and her detail work is less than desirable. She's an amateur and a hack, and I'm flustered.

Okay, so my kid is fifteen months old. Have I been too harsh? Perhaps I should I cut her some slack. Okay. Okay. I'll lighten up.

Despite my disappointment (heh, heh) in Stella's obvious lack of creative genius right out of the gate, I'm thrilled that my girl is already intrigued by all things artful and arty. As the weather has suddenly turned from gloriously lovely Autumn to dismally soggy Fall, Stella and I find ourselves with a lot more time on our hands inside. For the most, we're doing well. We tumble. We read. We chase the cats. We meet with friends and family. We play with puzzles. We hide the puzzle pieces under the fridge. We retrieve the puzzle pieces from beneath the fridge with a chopstick. Life is good.

But we have our moments. Long, drawn out boring moments.

So I found a gorgeous old tin I've had for ages and bought some kickin' earth and toddler tummy-friendly crayons and voila, we have an activity. I know, I know. Coloring ain't nothin' new. It's just new to Stella, and she's in heaven. We spend about forty minutes every morning coloring and talking as I enjoy a cup of tea and Stella works up an appetite for breakfast. If we're having a particularly long afternoon or struggling to just get to dinner, Stella often demands the Color Tin come down off the shelf and we're good for another half hour or so. These have quickly become my favorite moments of the day.

Of course, I must admit that we - and by we I mean I - got off to a rocky start. The first few times I took out the Color Tin and showed Stella the ropes, I found myself totally frustrated that she wasn't coloring. I was feeling smug that I, her rockin' Mama, knew her so well that I knew she would absolutely love the balloons, kitty cats and leaves I was drawing. After all, those are three of her favorite things right now. Rather than bask in the glow of my primitive but well-intentioned drawings, she wanted to rub the crayons all over her cheeks and neck. She wanted to touch each and every one until she could start over... and over... and over. She wanted to fill the tin with crayons and empty the tin of crayons, fill and empty, fill and empty.

What about my balloons? Didn't she want to join in? Didn't she want to make a mark on this fabulous piece of paper lovingly taped to the floor?

Well, no. She didn't. And she really didn't care about any of that until about a week ago. And even now, she's still more interested in feeling and sorting.

Oooh. That one looks nice.

Wait a minute. That one looks nice too.

It took me several days to figure out why I was, quite frankly, irritated by Stella's total disregard for what I thought was the purpose of coloring. I thought the point was to draw together. Stella thought the point was to experience all that she could with these amazingly fabulous new toys. She immediately dove in, reveling in the crayons' texture, sound, color, smell and taste. And I was busy drawing a friggin' balloon.

So I get it now. Okay? Consider this Zen Mama Lesson #58.

One more thing.... As I mentioned earlier, Stella can't draw very well yet, but I already regard her "work" with affection. Her scribbles really do look beautiful to me. The form is off. She really should learn to push down harder with the crayon. And her color choice is often atrocious. But it's beautiful. I suspect I'll feel this way a lot as I watch her grow. I'll see the flaws - because I'm actually really annoyed with parents who can't see their kids for all their glory, their good and bad - but I'll still love it all. Or maybe I'll just like it. But I'll stand in awe that it's hers. I mean, I grow her in my belly for just forty weeks and then she moves on to make whatever the hell she wants? Wow. It's a powerful connection that implies ownership on my part, but it's fortunately much more benign than that. It's just a soulful sense of pride that my baby is doing and being as she pleases.

Values on the Fridge

2008-11-06T14:30:00.000-08:00

After fifteen months of occasionally checking in on various parenting books about things like "How to clean your baby's belly button?" and "How to childproof your home?", I've finally felt the need to dig into a deeper, more philosophical text regarding this grand adventure of parenting. It's not that I haven't wanted to before. I just haven't really had the time or energy to do so. Plus, to be completely honest, Stella's been pretty darn easy up until now. She's still pretty easy, but I'm seeing the usefulness of drawing from the experts at this point.

I recently picked up a great book about parenting that borders on crunchy hippy mama-dom - which I unabashedly celebrate if I'm honest - but also offers practical advice for dealing with the ins and outs of kids. And let's face it, there are many outs when it comes to toddlers, so this is perfect. I guess I'm searching for two things as I read this stuff: A) practical tips for the everyday challenges and B) a better understanding of who I want to be as a parent. In other words, what's my philosophy?

I think I've been shying away from this question for many months now because it seems so potentially restricting. Must I stick to this philosophy forever? Or does my discomfort stem from my fear that I'll never live up to my philosophy? Plus, isn't just loving Stella enough? Well, sort of...

Rather than dwell in perfectionist self-doubt, I figure I should give it a go. I'm a teacher after all. And teachers - at least the good ones - actively articulate their teaching philosophies on a regular basis. It's like a code of ethics or a mission statement. Sometimes those mission statements take the form of daily To Do Lists, and sometimes they take the form of overarching philosophies of learning. Needless to say, this appeals to my list-making, overly analytical, fiercely theoretical brain.

The book suggests creating a list of family values to set the stage for finding your parenting philosophy. So the Papa and I sat down last night to talk about our values. Firstly, it was hilarious to me to observe the differences in how we communicated our ideas. While I hemmed and hawed over wordsmithing, basically coming up with about twenty odd rough drafts, the Papa simply and quietly wrote down his ideas. (Can I just say how glad I am that Stella will have her Papa around to temper my overactive jellybean machine of a head? He's a smarty pants, for sure, but he's just so much calmer about it all.) And here's what we've come up with. It's a short list of five values that we want to instill in Stella. Or, rather, we want our entire family to move forward with these values in hand.

1) Everyone deserves to be loved and cherished.

2) Happiness is a choice; we can make positive change happen.

3) Embrace curiosity, hard work and courage, especially amidst uncomfortable challenges.

4) Say thank you often and genuinely.

5) Be mindful of taking care of your heart, mind and body.

We've posted our values on our fridge amidst photos of our beloveds. It feels a bit strange to share such intimate family feelings in such a public space, but such visibility forces us to be transparent about it. Plus, I suspect it will be a really good reminder for me to stay calm and focused as I'm fixing a fourth lunch for Stella because she won't eat the first three. I'm interested to see how these values evolve over time. For now, they seem incredibly important and appropriate in light of the stage of life that we're all in - two early thirty-somethings with a toddler. Will they change as Stella grows older? Will they change as we grow as parents? I'm assuming our sense of worldliness and community will creep into this list more obviously as Stella grows. If anything, it will be exciting to see how this informs our parenting. My hope is that it will serve as a forgiving and gentle reminder of who we want to be as parents and how we hope Stella will feel as a young child.

Most of all, I'm eager to sit down with Stella in the future and ask her to help rewrite these values, contributing what she feels is important for herself, our family, our community and our world.

So I'm chompin' at the bit to know what other families come up with for this exercise. While it felt a bit cheesy at first, it ended up generating a valuable discussion between me and the Papa. It was fabulously comforting that we came up with very similar lists. So please, what have you come up with? Is there one value that you stick to? Are there lessons or ideas you want to give your children? Is there a list on your fridge?

Trying on Pride

2008-11-05T13:01:00.000-08:00

Dear Pride,

This is a getting to know you letter, a introduction of sorts. I've frankly been quite remiss in my correspondence with you regarding me and my country. We've had a fabulous kinship when it comes to my feelings about relationships, career, travel and, most recently, my daughter. But I think you'll agree that we've been really crappy bunk mates when it comes to this whole being American gig.

Pride, I know Barack Obama won't solve the world's problems. He won't be a perfect president, and I know he'll most likely disappoint me at times. But knowing that we are now lead by a person who possesses the ability to unify and inspire rather than polarize and terrify is the best start on the path to national integrity I've ever seen in my lifetime. The fact that people of all colors, creeds and income brackets turned up in droves - DROVES - to vote is beyond moving. It's beyond a source of pride for me now. It's what will drive me in all future elections and social movements and it will be a story we tell our children so that they understand the value of standing up and making their voices heard.

It's hard not to feel weepy, Pride. You've really ignored me on this front and seeing you finally appear through all this is the best gift I could imagine right now. It's always saddened me that I never felt good enough to hang an American flag on my doorstep. And I have quite literally cringed at the seemingly false pride that has abounded in this country over the last eight years. This has changed now. I still cringe at the phony sense of patriotism some folks cling to, but I see true patriotism and honor in the faces of those celebrating all over the country last night, myself included. This is all magnified by the fact that I have a daughter now. This would be incredible even without her. This would be historic and amazing and inspiring. But knowing that Stella will now spend her young childhood in a world where the impossible is achieved gives me hope as a mother that I will actually be able to tackle the sticky questions she asks me as she grows. To be able to counter the struggle she will see with the hope that this election presents allows me a sense of solace as her mother. Thank you, Pride. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Katherine

P.S. Do you think I should send cynicism a note of condolence? After all, I'm hopeful that I'll be able to shed my cynical pessimism soon. I know we're not out of the woods though, so I may save myself the trouble and merely shelve that bitterness until it becomes thoroughly dusty and outdated.

P.P.S. Hey, thanks for adding that extra oomph to swing me to your side last night. Seeing all those different faces celebrating in Grant Park compared to the homogeneous.... well, you know, the other side, was the final push for me. I'm yours.

P.P.P.S. Do you know where I can return my fake Canadian patch on my traveling backpack? I think I'm ready to look for an American patch.

God Help the Racist Nut

2008-10-24T12:37:00.000-07:00

The world is a bit nutty right now.

I suppose it's always been nutty. It just feels a bit more desperate and dismal than normal.

There's also a whole lot of hope spreading, and I rely on that feeling whenever I'm hit with waves of panic or anxiety that we'll be subject to four more years of greed-based leadership. Seeing all the political mud slinging these days prompts me to tighten the reigns around my own belief system. It also makes me question my previously optimistic view of my fellow Americans.

I'm not totally naive. I know bigots are still out there. I guess I just hoped that this crud wasn't this deep. I guess I wanted to believe that most folks would rather hold love in their hearts than harbor such raw anger and fear.

I realized today that the divisiveness of some of this campaign, nearly wholly rooted in "the other side," has become deeply troublesome to me because of how it's impacted how I feel about others. In the last four weeks, I've seen the hate-fueled snippets on YouTube of angry mobs of extremists screaming hateful and bigoted epitaphs. I'm assuming my reaction is that of most educated people - Oh my goodness. We're doomed. If this is what lies beneath the surface of our country, we're totally and thoroughly doomed.

So I huff and puff about all this and vent to my husband about such bigoted ignorance and how we need this change and how we can't let these narrow minded racists get the better of us. We have to change the way we parent and educate as a nation so that people aren't raised to believe it's acceptable to believe such racist lies. This is all good, but I notice I'm starting to use their speech. Us vs. Them. And I realize I've fallen prey to the petty but powerful divisive strategies in this grand political theatre.

I write about all this to vent but to also admit my own shortcomings in all this. While I consciously attempt to live my life with an open heart and loving curiosity of those who are different, I'm having the darndest time finding love in my heart for the racist jerk wad screaming "Commie Fag" at a political rally. How am I supposed to offer a cup of tea to an irate women blathering on about terrorism when she has ALL of her "facts" wrong? Honestly, I don't want to associate with these folks. I don't want to know them. I don't want to hear them. And I really don't want my daughter hanging out with the likes of them.

So this is my dilemma. I want to raise Stella with an open mind. I want her to lead with her heart (and a healthy dose of brains) as she interacts with those who may appear or believe differently. I want her to willingly pursue encounters and ideas that make her uncomfortable in order to expand her experience of the world. I want her to know that she is not the center of universe, and the world is vast and rich.

But God Help the Racist Nut Who Comes Near My Child.

Yup, you heard it. Back off, all bigots. Lay off, ignorant racists! Fierce Lefty Mama Bear is here the protect the young.

Oh, I wish it were this easy.

So am I any better than the folks at these rallies? I've certainly written them off as wackos. I really think they may destroy the country. I want nothing to do with them. Hmmmm. I don't know. I think I am better. And this puts me in the awkward position of not exactly practicing what I preach. Or does it? Does moronic bigotry pretty much exempt you from the Love Train altogether? Should it? Or am I supposed to offer them a seat with even more enthusiasm because of it all? I'm going to need a whole lot of help if it's the latter.

Explaining to a child the subtle but oh-so-important difference between accepting that others may hold abhorrent (and falsely based) views and accepting those views as viable or tolerable is going to be tough. It's so tempting to try to protect Stella from all this crud. And I can right now. That's the beauty of raising a toddler. You realize that the world continues around you, in all its politically charged glory, but what matters right now is mastering the art of climbing a chair or chasing the cats with a feather duster. My job, right now, is to push her on that swing as long as she wants. We are, however, going to have to explain this world to her at some point. I'm actually confident we'll do a decent job, but this whole experience has forced me to accept that I really am quite different than those folks. We all love our kids and work hard at our jobs. But at the end of the day, I would and could never spread such hatred.

I guess that's what I want to ask these folks. Are you comfortable spreading this junk in front of your kids? If the answer is no, then they have some good ol' introspection to tackle. If the answer is yes.... I have no answer if the answer is yes. I just know I feel more and more comfortable drawing a line in the sand between me and them on this one.

I'm pretty sure my guy is going to win, and I feel elated at the thought that hope and integrity will assume their proper place in American leadership. We've missed those two buggers sorely. But to counteract the sobering nature of realizing my own helplessness as a parent, I looked to external sources for help. I know. I know. Buying a crunchy love-you-brothers-and-sisters children's book doesn't solve all the world's problems. It sure does make me feel a bit of hope though. I already love the illustrations, and the message is left-aliscious and loving.

My Intrepid Scout

2008-10-24T12:31:00.000-07:00

My girl is an intrepid scout. She explores, investigates and examines faster than anyone I've ever encountered. She is definitively precocious and possesses a confidence in her adventures I, as an adult woman, envy and admire. Her middle name, after all, is Scout.

My husband and I have remarked several times over the last fifteen months how she seemed to name herself in this department. Yes, we wanted her to be a curious and compassionate leader, unafraid to walk her own path and to champion those in need. We've talked about how we will encourage this part of her identity as she grows. But we're very aware that she's already got this in her. She's already a Scout and she's barely just begun.

The picture above cracks me up. I take Stella to the park almost daily. She knows our neighborhood playground almost as well as our house. It's her digs, man, and she'll show you around with pleasure. What cracks me up is her sense of poise and confidence as she tromps through the grand expanses of what would be to most a very large park. Stella simply starts walking. She goes for it. And before I know it, she's on the other side of a block-long park without hesitation. In fact, she seems to be on a mission of sorts.

(I know it's tough to see her in these shots. She's so tiny. That's the point: she's SO tiny!)

She could be walking to walk. She might just be enjoying the freedom of running around in the crisp fall air. She may be looking for something fun to hold or examine. In any case, she's off and running before I know it.

And as long as she's safe, I let her.

I really can't hold this one back. I've tried, and I always end up chasing a determined kid in a way that makes me look and feel like an overly paranoid first-time mama. (And I proudly admit to that status on most accounts.)

All of this makes me realize the differences between what I thought it would be like to raise an independent and spirited child and what it's really like. One of my daily mantras is "Nurture and encourage her, Katherine, not some textbook version of your child." Stella the Scout indeed.

This usually comes easy. But I have moments where I fall prey to fretful anxiety. I worry that she'll feel the harsh criticism of those who fear natural leaders. I worry that I might give her too much space to explore and she'll feel disconnected or unsafe. Mainly, I just worry she'll get hurt.

I guess that's the deal with parenting. Beneath all that worry is my legitimate question of whether I will equip my child with the necessary skills to get up and brush herself off after she stumbles. Because she will stumble. And in many ways, I sort of want her to stumble. Not yet, of course. She's got plenty of time for all that. But I know the biggest and best lessons I've learned in life - the ones that have really stuck - stem from my many stumbles.

Intellectually I get all this. But I still worry she'll get hurt.

And then I see her walking in that park again. She's still cracking me up, all bravado and fervor. But then she looks back for a quick check-in.

Yup, Mama is still there. Forge on.

She reminds me of my role from a distance but with grace and finesse.

I Didn't Bake Any Bread Today

2008-10-23T18:13:00.001-07:00

I've been reading a lot of mama blogs lately and am consistently amazed by how motivated and energetic my fellow mamas of the world are in their daily lives. They appear to engage in hands-on mothering while crafting, reading, publishing, preserving, cooking and socializing. These are amazing women that inspire me to greater heights as a mother and an individual.

So how come I often walk away from these blogs feeling inadequate or sub par? Is it because I don't bake bread each morning? Is it because fabric that I keep meaning to sew into pillows sits placidly on my couch like crumpled little cat nests? Is it because I tend to fall asleep every time I start reading a parenting book? Is it because I simply can't hack it enough to be super crafty with one child while all these women do it with three and four kids?

In my heart of hearts, I know that I am a good mom. In fact, I think I'm better than good. I'm a really good mom. I am thoughtful, conscious and creative when it comes to the challenges of parenting a fifteen month old. But I still feel less than superb when I look back on each day. And this is just plain silly.

I'm very aware that nobody is perfect. And I've spent countless years working on overcoming my woefully inherited perfectionist gene. But it's still tough to challenge that feeling of inadequacy when standing in admiration of others. Especially others who seem to effortlessly and seamlessly master what you struggle with day to day.

I guess I wish it was more acceptable to simply announce that some days in this mothering gig are really hard. They frankly suck. And the thought of baking bread or mending my toddler's pants while she's teething with a vengeance is beyond absurd. Most of my days revolve around Stella's needs and her desires. Without a doubt, she's the most challenging coworker I've ever encountered, and I often find myself perched on top of a pile of laundry that's been sitting in my living room for three days reading Curious George to a clingy kid.

Having said all this, I wouldn't trade these long days for anything. We have more good days than bad. And I say this genuinely rather than trying to find the silver lining. In fact, there really isn't any truly bad stuff. It's just hard stuff. So the thought of heaping more expectations on myself makes me giggle with delirium.

I realize most of the mama blogs I'm reading are written by women with children who have passed this intense phase of toddlerhood. As my friend Anne says, our job as mothers of toddlers is basically to act as a bodyguard - both physical and emotional - to this little being twenty four hours a day for about three years. I also recognize that these blogging mamas also have really tough days. Mamas everywhere assure me that things get easier. That there will be time for baking and sewing and all that crafty goodness. I have to trust them. And I have to forgive myself for letting that laundry pile sit another day because I frankly need to just linger on the couch with my husband, watch a mediocre movie as the peanut sleeps and fall asleep before 9pm.

I wish I could tackle more. But for now, I simply look forward to the days when Stella and I can embark on baking and crafting adventures together, and I focus on showing more compassion for myself for simply being a really good mom.

Did She Just Call Me A Homemaker?

2008-10-15T13:53:00.001-07:00

I often complain that I'm never included in any of these polls we so often hear about during an election year. It seems like those polls take place in some faraway hamlet on the other side of the country, involving folks living very different lives than me and my neighbors.

(Of course, since the current polls reflect my own political stance and party, I am not too peeved about all this right now. But when those polls reflect what seems to be totally foreign, I often question their accuracy. I know, not too fair on my part.)

So I was finally polled last night.

When I realized what was happening, I sat down with great enthusiasm and told The Polite Lady I had all the time in the world for her. My husband was bathing my daughter, and the nightly house sweep could wait. I was ready. Rock and poll, baby. Rock and poll.

We covered countless questions about my political affiliations, opinions and beliefs. It was all very interesting. I felt vindicated that I was finally being "represented" in some way in one of these surveys. Democracy in action, indeed.

When it came time for The Polite Lady to ask me what I do for a living, I didn't skip a beat. I told her I was a full-time mom right now, putting my teaching career on hold to raise my family.

Important Note: I've been working on this response ever since my daughter was born. It seems I've struggled quite a bit with my decision to stay home with my daughter. Let me clarify. I've actually never questioned my desire to be home with Stella. It feels right, and my husband and I have prepared for this financially for many years. We've been privileged and worked hard to make the choices we've made. I have, however, struggled with the judgment I sense from others when I tell them I am still "not working." Rather than delve into a defensive stance about all this, I'll just say when a neighbor recently asked me "What do you do all day long?" I took a deep breath, smiled and said "I spend all day keeping up with the most complex co-worker I've ever had in my life." Judgment be gone.

So there. I answered The Polite Lady without hesitation. I felt proud of myself. Even smug. Yeah, Katherine. That's one more step toward self-acceptance and all that is woo woo.

And then she said this:

Oh! So you're a homemaker!

It's almost like she had belched into the phone. I had no idea how to respond. I started to laugh. A homemaker? Me? Good heavens, no! I'm a feminist. I'm a liberal. I'm a radical. I'm a woman who stays at home to care for her child, cook dinner, look after the cats, pay the bills, clean the house, do the laundry....

Oh crap. I am a homemaker.

After gathering myself as best I could, I graciously answered the rest of The Polite Lady's questions and thanked her for calling me. Sweet, lefty liberal homemaker that I am.

But I couldn't shake this feeling that I'd been pummeled with a rabid insult. Don't get me wrong. The Polite Lady doled out this label with great admiration and kindness. She pronounced the word as if it were the most important job in the world. But it stung nonetheless.

I couldn't shake it.

So I asked my mother-in-law and good friend - both homemakers - what they thought of this title yesterday over tea. All three of our responses were visceral. It's as if many women who have chosen this path feel misrepresented by the very words our culture use to describe us. Why is this? What's the big deal?

I suspect it has something to do with being labeled in general. Because, as most of us intimately know, none of us are wholly or singly one identity. We come from multiple sources, and we live multiple lives. And no, I'm not talking about Sybil here.

My challenge with all of this is how I define myself. My choices sit well with me. I know in my heart that what I'm doing right now as a full-time mama is what I need and want to be doing, just like I know many of my mama friends who intellectually and emotionally need to work outside of the home. And yes, many must work. I'm acutely aware of my privilege as far as being able to make the choices I've made. Lucky mama, for sure.

But I still don't know what to call myself. I often use the term full-time mama, but that is problematic as well. It's not like working moms aren't exactly full-time. I imagine they think about and work for their kids all day long; it's just different. So I'm stuck using a variety of labels that don't really fit but sorta kinda communicate bits and pieces of who I am right now.

In talking and writing about this, I recognize I often find answers to my questions by imagining how I'll explain all this to Stella. I want to explain to her how we often label others (and ourselves) wrongly. That those labels can sometimes be helpful, but they can also be limiting. That it's important to make choices that make you happy regardless of what others think. That doing what you do with love, conviction and passion matters more than your preconceived notions of who you will or should become. Most importantly, that it is an absolute necessity to live your life without apology.

Rock-A-Dee-Da

2008-10-13T14:00:00.000-07:00

My Mom used to sing to us when we hurt ourselves.

That's what good moms do. They sing us through tough moments.

What's funny to me now, as I embark on my second year of mama-hood, is the actual song my mother always sang to me. I spent the first twenty years of my life believing that this song, a song that instantaneously soothed and comforted me as a child and as an adult, was a song that every mother sang to their child. It was a universal in my world.

My mom sang this song to my older siblings, to me and to my nieces. And now she and I sing this song to my daughter.

It wasn't until I was about twenty that I mentioned the song to a roommate of mine. I was experiencing a tough spell, and I remember saying something like, "Yeah, you know, it's like I need someone to sing Rock-A-Dee-Da to me even though I'm in college." She delivered a blank stare. Our shared moment evaporated. It's as though I spoke another language.

I humorously assumed that because my parents grew up on the east coast, my friend's ignorance of such a classic stemmed from mere dialectal and regional differences. Even though I essentially grew up in the Pacific Northwest, I said things like soda instead of pop, valise instead of suitcase. There must be some sort of northwest equivalent to Rock-a-Dee-Da.

I sang the song to my friend, hoping she would immediately recognize the tune and suddenly understand exactly what I meant.

See Saw, Rock-a-Dee-Da.
Who's there? My Katherine.

(No glimmer of recognition yet. Give her more, she'll get it.)

What would you like? A glass of beer?

(Hmmmm. This is strange. Why did this comfort me? Really. Who sings about buying a glass of beer to a child?)

Where's your money? In your pocket?

(Okay, this is odd too. And it's down right capitalist. Where does money fit into a lullaby?)

Where's your pocket? In your pants?

(Back on track. This is good. Sweet. Cute. Educational even.)

Where are your pants?
Ooop! You left them at home!

(Full stop. What? Who unknowingly urges their kid to fear leaving their house unclothed? What's going on here? Mom? Mom, where are you?)

It turns out this song is not universal. My mother - nearly thirty years after it's implementation as a soothing song for her babies - insists that she made this song up. We just never knew that. She explains that she spent a lot of time playing alone in the park in Brooklyn as a child and would sing this song to herself when she was on the swings. (It turns out my aunt has a similar story. But her song is a bit different. Was this a family song? Was it a Brooklyn thing?)

All four of us kids have chuckled about this song and it's inception over the years. It's funny how you rarely question these sort of knowns in your life as a child. When your mother sings to you, there's an unexplainable assumption that while the moments in which these songs are sung are special and unique to you and your mama, it's also comfortingly universal.

I suppose that's true. I suppose most mothers and their babies share a Rock-A-Dee-Da of their own. Or, at best, I hope that's true.

What's truly amusing in all this is that this song still holds a certain magical hold over the children in our family. When my mother or I sing this song to my daughter, she completely relaxes. Whether she's stumbled, is scared or is just plain tired, these lilting and absurd words soothe her.

I remind myself of this simplicity often as I find myself steeped in the challenges of conscious mothering. This song doesn't solve every problem, nor will it always comfort my daughter in times of crisis. In reality, it's a bit clumsy and slightly perverse. It does, however, remind me that we all have the ability to self soothe, and soothing others sometimes means simply stopping to sing and hold one another.