Branded

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tiny Boots: Thoughts As I Return Home from the Store

The path to our humble home.

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

Add it to the list.

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

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

Oh.

Tiny boots.

The rest of that stuff is so stupid.

New Faves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Notes from the Infirmary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Having Happiness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fashionista

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reasons

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enough said, right?

Reason 598 I married the right man.

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

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

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