A New Year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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.