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.