Whatever, Mom

Jumping Ship

2006-09-14T12:21:00.000-04:00

This Blogger, she's a bitch. After adventures over the past few days that I don't really care to elaborate on, but I surely will anyway...I'm moving on. Please update your bookmarks: http://www.wickerchickens.com

Not everything is set up -- the archives aren't imported yet, and links still point back to blogger. In time, these things will be fixed. But -- right now -- the wicker chickens are cluckin' on their new domain, and I invite you to join the coop.

Happenstance and Insomnia

2006-09-11T05:37:00.000-04:00

I never suffered from insomnia until I got pregnant. Each time I was pregnant, I would, for days on end, wake up at two in the morning and struggle to get back to sleep by five or six. I suppose it was my body's way of preparing me for the upcoming days with a newborn. Funny thing, though, my babies treated me far better than I treated myself; I got far more sleep with a newborn than I ever did while pregnant.

I'm not pregnant these days, but the insomnia creeps up on me every once in a while, still. Most of the time, I'm really annoyed with it. Sometimes, when I while away the hours in a breathtakingly quiet house with a good book, I grudgingly accept its acquaintence. And then there are other times, like today, when I wish I could spend all my night-time hours in such bliss.

It's 5:30 in the morning, and I've been awake since two. After my son woke me up to use the bathroom (Yeah! Evan!) I tossed and turned for an hour until I decided sleep was not to be reclaimed. I headed upstairs, and proceeded to spend the next hours reading and reminiscing. Coffee mugs, mathematics, good books, good food -- they all were my companions in the wee hours this morning, along with a warm smile. Through an incalculable web of coincidence and interrelation, my wee morning hours have been the inspiration for several forth-coming entries and a confirmed urge to start a new knitting project.

There was a time in my life when I thought I was getting "dumber". Growing up, each day was filled with new experiences, new knowlege; by the time I'd reached a certain age, I feared that my intellectual potential had been capped. Bills, commutes, grocery lists and the stuff of every day adult life were far less invigorating than the adventure that was each day of my youth. But lately, I've come to re-think my position. I think, more than ever, that my potential is far from capped. I'm reminded that its very definition -- far more than a discrete capacity -- implies boundlessness and inexhaustibility. And it's mornings like this, where the day breaks and I'm straining at my reins, anxious to leap into the day and plunge into work, that I'm a little sad that I don't always have these wee morning hours at my fingertips. So much to do, so little time. And that's not at all a lament.

Finnegan, Begin Again

2006-09-05T14:45:00.000-04:00

For years, it was the only calendar I knew. It didn't begin in January and end in December. Instead, the calendar I knew began in September, at the start of school, and ended in August, at the close of summer holiday. New Year's day was not a new beginning, it was merely a mid-year holiday. The real beginnings were those first days of school, those post-Labor day rituals of new clothes, new notebooks and new friends. And the ends were sun-drenched and water-logged days of frantic activity, desperate attempts to soak up the remaining freedom of summer.

It's been years since I've felt connected to that calendar. The reluctant capitulation at each summer's end paled in comparison to the utter defeat felt upon that final graduation. In one brief day, my entire calendar was rearranged, my circadian rhythms re-set. No more summers in the sun. Suited and stuffy, their new destiny.

And so I toiled, for the better part of fifteen years. My internal sense of time reflecting the more practical and adult-like ticks and tocks of a January-to-December-and-then-all-over-again world. The memories of those summers, faded. The recollections of those first days of school seemingly alien and distant. My new life was a new calendar, each January, filled with appointments and errands and bills and other sordid details of adulthood. New beginnings only meant a frustrating disinclination to remember the new year when writing checks. And ends weren't a right of passage, a step toward something bigger. They were merely...another step.

This September has taken me by surprise. For the first time, in so very, very long, I'm seeing an end and a beginning in this ninth month of the year. The pool has closed. My garden has petered out, and the CSA has had to surrender as well. Shoes are on my shopping list, and tomorrow, I will pack lunches into sacks and watch my children begin a year anew. The smell of erasers doesn't seem so far away, and I feel a few of my old rhythms beating back to life. I've no doubt that those drums will beat louder and louder in the years to come, as my children find themselves defined by a calendar uniquely innocent and child-like.

I don't believe in living life vicariously through my children. I don't believe in putting my children in a particular place so that I may return to those same places from my past. But, if living their own lives happens to impart a change upon my own -- particularly this change -- I'll gladly accept it. Happy New Year.

My Life in 100 Words or Less: I Am The Cheese

2006-09-05T13:20:00.000-04:00

Rituals can define a family better than any surname or genealogical tree.

Affectionately termed a smammich, our family ritual began years ago between two young people -- two slices of bread -- lying one on top of the other, hopelessly in love. Soon, there was a slice of Zoe. And then a smear of Evan. A Dagwood of love.

Yesterday, my son plopped himself on the pile that was his mother and his sister, shouting, triumphantly, "I am the cheese!" Clearly, indoctrinated.

I had to hold my heart to keep it from bursting with familial pride. My own ritual. My own family.

Things I'm Thankful For

2006-08-30T15:21:00.000-04:00

A babysitter, twice a week, throughout the summer.

Although it required pivoting on a dime in order to respond to being unceremoniously dumped by the first sitter, and still more finagling when the second sitter returned to her full time job in mid-August, it has still made all the difference in the world.

Last year at this time? You could have put me in a straight-jacket. This year? I'm a little sad to see it coming to an end.

I took the road with the babysitter, and it has made all the difference.

Ink

2006-08-30T14:52:00.000-04:00

I've always been captivated by tattoos. Mom and apple pie, a sweetheart, or a favorite animal -- these things don't capture me. I'm captivated by the idea of marking your body -- on the outside -- to reflect something on the inside. But, I've never felt a personal need to do so.

Until recently.

I've been doing a lot of work, chez Kristy, of late. There's more to come on that front, and so much more to say, but, at its simplest, there's been a little remodeling going on. Tearing down some walls, opening up some windows, letting the light shine in -- that kind of work. Lots of sweat and still more tears. But the result? Coming along nicely, I must admit. Coming along nicely.

It dawned on me over the last few months that a tattoo makes sense for me now. I wanted -- needed -- to mark my body in a way that reflected what I've been doing, what I am doing, what I will have done. I wanted to take back a part of my body that had been taken from me. I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to smile. And so, a dogwood, for spring, natural beauty, and so much more, and characters meaning to heal, have been placed upon my body.

Ink. Permanent. Indelible. Mine.

Pushing a Miracle

2006-08-29T13:35:00.000-04:00

All afternoon and into early evening. A nap. A stroll around the block. Dinner preparations. On an ordinary day, this might be how those hours of the day pass, slipping by almost unnoticed in their conventionality. But it was not an ordinary day. It was a birthday.

For this woman, those hours were spent in a time warp. The beginning, the end -- really, there was no difference. For hours, the only clock that mattered was the rhythmic ebb and flow of the forces pushing her baby down, down, down.

It was a remarkable sight. Watching her work -- so very, very hard -- was awe inspiring. She was near delirium with exhaustion, having spent every ounce of her energy hours and hours before. And now she was being asked -- required, really -- to exert her muscles and her mind in ways that she'd never known she was capable of. What, for many people, is the welcome relief, the end in sight, was, for this mom, the steepest part of the hill. Asked to give more when she had nothing left, I saw her tap into something I only hope I have in myself.

She continued on, hour after hour, her facial expression a combination of present and gone, and her words having long ago left her. She had no hope and no expectations, no direction, no proof. And, on this shaky, uncertain ground, she stepped forward, again and again. With an inspired combination of letting go, surrendering to the forces at work within her, and holding tight to her own power and determination, I watched as mom was transformed by all her toil. Her uncertainty turned into commitment. Her anxiety dissolved into resolve. During the hours when so many others were napping, this woman was unfolding. When others were strolling, this woman was bending and breaking. And while others made dinner, this woman became a mom.

This will not be the hardest thing she will ever do for her baby. This will not be the most difficult task, the most exhausting moment. But when those times do come upon her, I hope she will remember this day, and confidently know what she has inside her. She should. That is the real miracle of those afternoon hours.

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

2006-08-24T16:37:00.000-04:00

Riddle me this.

My daughter is in the process of dropping her nap. Yes, she's almost five. Anyway. On the days she doesn't nap? She's hyper, manic, and all sorts of crazy. No fussiness. No grumpiness. No meltdowns. Just a whole lot of peelin' her off the ceiling. I'm the one who ends up exhausted.

Do you care to explain that one?

Hmmm.

In Which I'm Unusually Chatty and ... Well, You Be The Judge

2006-08-23T18:52:00.000-04:00

I have sunk to a new low. I am currently -- as in, concurrent to my writing this post -- viewing via web cast last night's performances from Rock Star Supernova. People, this is bad. Worse? That my dejection upon learning that I'd actually missed last night's episode was entirely turned around upon the revelation that I could see all that I missed online. Rock Star Supernova -- without commercials -- and my blog. I love me the Internets. Every day.

And, on an completely unrelated note, am I the only one who finds the words warrior and rural entirely impossible to pronounce? And the words recommend and vacuum -- am I the only one who has to look them up every time? Me and Merriam-Webster, we're likethis.

I have thrown away exactly six meals, out of a total of six that I've personally been responsible for serving to my children this week. Everything that they've actually consumed this week? The product of someone else's kitchen. Worthy of a hmmm, huh?

Tim's out of town, the nights are long, and showers are particularly scarce around here. On an up note, I have an appointment for some serious body modification later in the week. I'll leave the details to your imagination.

Sniglets

2006-08-21T13:13:00.000-04:00

unhappenstance

Main Entry: un·hap·pen·stance
Pronunciation: &n-'ha-p&n-"stan(t)s
Function: noun
: the circumstance due to the simultaneous, but chance, occurrence of a spouse leaving town for the week, becoming entirely unavailable for small household errands, and the sudden appearance of an empty pantry, empty refrigerator, empty freezer, empty dog-food bin, and an empty laundry detergent container.

bearrand

Main Entry: bear·rand
Pronunciation: 'ber-&nd, 'be-r&nd
Function: noun
: a presumably-short-but-ever-so-long trip taken to attend to the business arising from unhappenstance. Always includes offspring in various degrees of agreeability and manner, shouting pleas for toys, snacks and other unreasonable requests, darting uncontrollably in and out of sight, and otherwise inflicting holy terror upon everything in their pathways.

The Elephant in the Living Room

2006-08-17T14:24:00.000-04:00

It's been the elephant in the living room ever since I began practice as a doula. How much will my experience shape the way I react to the experiences of the people I am supporting? Is it possible that my experiences could hinder my ability to support someone experiencing the same? I've been wisely cautioned that I can't be out to "save" someone. I can't be out to give her the experience that I would want. I have to understand: it's not about me, it's about her. So, can I keep my experiences out of hers?

Kristy, meet the elephant.

Yesterday evening, after a long and bravely-fought battle, my client went under the knife. And I was there with her in the operating room.

The fear in her eyes, the confusion and uncertainty in her voice, the disappointment in her sunken shoulders -- all so much like me five just short years ago. And when she cried out in pain and they told her it was only "pressure"? The similarities were just too striking. The elephant was charging.

But I held strong. I understood my purpose. Yes, the memories were there with me, in that very room, but instead of igniting fear and terror, they served to bring forth empathy and genuine concern. I wanted, more than anything else in the world at that moment, to make a difference for her. I held her hand. I told her I understood. I let her know -- I knew. And we cried, together. My tears were for her.

Oh, I was mad. Mad at the circumstances that stacked a deck against her. Mad at the choices she was given. Mad at the choices she was denied. Mad. Mad. Mad. And, for her, I am only sad. No, none of this is her "fault," yet she will be the one to reap the consequences. That is what is so very sad -- for me.

And yet? I am happy. Happy to make that difference. Warmed to be there when her partner and mother could not. Privileged to hold her hand. Comforted to listen to her, hear what she was saying, and validate her. And, yes, relieved to have found a way to help her make her own decisions, with confidence, though perhaps not without discomfort. Out of my experience came an empathy from which I could draw on to comfort and reassure her -- during her own experience. The challenge -- to draw on, but not dwell on, my experience -- is deep, but the reward is far deeper.

So, I've met the elephant. And he's not as wild and unruly as he's rumored to be. I've no doubt, in fact, that elephants do indeed cry.

The Grammar Bitch Gets Stumped

2006-08-17T13:30:00.000-04:00

Everyone knows our dear English language can be a tricky little devil. She's filled with all sorts of rules -- that are constantly broken. She's swarming with single letters that take on multiple sounds, and multiple letters that share the same sound. Every time she seems to make a little sense, she goes and puts you through the ringer. Apostrophes indicate possession in one instance, and contraction in an other. And don't even ask her to take on plural possession with any sort of regularity. She'll fight you tooth and nail on that one.

While the past tense of fret is fretted, the past tense of get isn't getted, it's got. The past tense of bet? Not betted, not bot, but -- and how's this for clarity? -- bet.

Need is needed, but feed is fed.

Anything belonging to her is hers, but anything belonging to him is his.

Let's not forget read and read, and aloud and allowed, and ....

You get the idea.

So, it's no wonder that our little ones are just a little confused every once in a while. It's one of their endearing habits, in my opinion, those mis-conjugated verbs and adorably off-the-mark possessive pronouns. That English? She's really not that accommodating to the wee ones.

But I like her spunk, none-the-less. The hoops she has us jumping through make things just spicy enough, just fun enough, to let us know we've got a spirited one on our hands. I'm always ready to defend her honor, ready to correct the little ones in my house on their otherwise disrespectful use of our playground of words.

But, every once in a while, out of the innocent, untrained minds of a little one, comes an honest observation of our language that leaves me utterly unable to come to her defense.

Such was the case the other day when I reprimanded my daughter for calling her brother a poo-berry.

"Zoe, that's potty talk and name calling. We don't do either in our house."

"But mo-om! It's okay to call him Pooh Bear. Why can't I just call him poo-berry, too?"

I sat there in stunned silence, because, you know? I really couldn't even begin to explain that one.

Let Me Do It

2006-08-10T13:08:00.000-04:00

My hands were virtually tied behind my back. "Don't touch me," she'd said. "Be quiet," she'd said. My hands and my voice -- the only tools I knew -- were holstered and rendered useless. I struggled to understand how I could help her, how I could support her.

For so many moms, personality is magnified in labor. Preferences become requirements. Opinions become convictions. Introversion becomes isolation. And independence becomes fierce self-reliance. For this mom, it was no different. Her strong will, stronger. How could I support her?

And then, in one short sentence, I understood. "Let me do it," she said.

Let me do it. It rang out loudly in the quiet room. I understood. Supporting her meant standing back. Being patient. Trusting. Supporting her meant letting her do it. Letting her proclaim her power. Letting her roar.

So, I let her do it. I sat quietly. I listened. And I watched, awestruck, as a powerful miracle unfolded in front of me.

Roar.

Blossom

2006-08-10T09:24:00.000-04:00

There is a plant, "the century plant," that only blooms once in its life. But, oh, how magnificent that bloom is! Extravagant and showy, it grows fast and tall, regally reaching toward the sky. The prodigal bloom is both the plant's final swan song and its own undoing, sapping the plant of all its resources and, eventually, causing the plant to wither and die.

I've had a plant in my home for the better part of fifteen years. It's somewhat ungainly, that plant. Its broad leaves reach out singly from the root system, with little more to show than bright, waxy greenness. Rather plain, really. Given to me by my mother upon moving into my first home, the plant has seen me through many joys and tears. Its own health has often mirrored my moods, its wellness and vigor waxing and waning over the years. Whittled down to a few paltry leaves at one point, then nursed back to health by the caring love of my husband, it has now enjoyed a warm state of continued vitality for the past few years. Mirror, mirror.

The other day, Tim called me into the living room.

"Kristy, come here."

As I came to the doorway, I saw my husband pointing down to this plant. Peeking out of the bundle of leaves was a single stalk, punctuated by a bulging, fertile blossom. It's actually quite beautiful, this bloom. Graceful and delicate, it dances like a ballerina in white atop a stage of peaceful green. The plant's unremarkable foliage, for fifteen years belying its secret beauty.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years.

I really hadn't thought it capable. No, this plant wouldn't, couldn't bloom. But, it has. And, once again, it is my mirror. In a relative state of contentment the past few years, I was utterly unaware of just what growth lay within me. Slowly though, this year, I've seen a blossoming, a surprise, a graceful transformation that I did not know was there. Unfolding from my own soul, a blossom.

This blossom, though, is not my last. It is not my swan song. Far from it. While the century plant's destiny is a fiery, striking exit, I believe my unfolding is just a beginning. My plant kept a secret for many, many years. It made me believe it was limited, its potential grounded by dirt. But, out of that soil came the unexpected, and suddenly its potential was boundless. Now, I trust -- I know -- there are many more blooms to come. Each one, a surprise.

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

2006-08-08T14:50:00.000-04:00

I just made an Internet purchase, as a new customer at a particular site, without breaking my out my wallet to retrieve my credit card information.

16 digits, plus the security code and expiration date. Memorized.

Hmmm.

The Person I Would Be

2006-08-04T14:37:00.001-04:00

[I haven't done Sunday Scribblings for ages. But, this week's prompt was uncannily a propos of something I'd been thinking all week.]

There's always a discord between the love you have for the person you are today and the love you have for the person you once were. Those two loves, they seemingly are at odds with each other. Each and every one of your experiences shape you, transform you -- into a different person. How can you love two things that are so very different?

I was thinking about that the other day, in the wake of my recent flashbacks. Who would I be today, if it had never happened? Who would I be today? Part of me believes that I was set up for a traumatic experience, no matter which way it went. The disempowerment, the disrespect, and the fear were built-in to the entire situation in which I'd placed myself. So, in many respects, I believe I would be the same person I am today, regardless of the ultimate outcome of that fateful day.

But, then, I wondered. What if I didn't change? What if I never stopped to think, 'There's got to be a different way'? What if I walked away that day, satisfied? Surely, I'd be a lot less traumatized. So much of my pain of the last five years has been from learning my responsibilities and learning to forgive myself for failing to meet them. If I never searched for a different way, I never would have needed to blame myself for the way it was. All that emotional toil, would be swept away by a tide of oblivion.

But so, too, the insight, and the empathy, and the capacity for forgiveness, and the desire to enact change for the better -- all would be washed away. The respect for myself, the confidence in myself, erased by a change in the fates. The patience and self-love and duty to honor -- the person I am today, lost. The person I would be? Would be, in many ways, the person I was on that day.

I love the person I am today. But, I don't hate the person I was. I love her, too. We're different, that girl and I, but happy to have known each other, for a moment, once upon a time. She was young and courageous and possessed a deep trust borne out of genuine love for other people. She smiled at the sunrise. She laughed at the moon. And she believed in innocence. The person I would be? Someone I would be proud of. But, I'd still miss me.

A Little Bit of Growing Up, Or, Growing Up a Little Bit

2006-08-03T15:49:00.000-04:00

Finally. Finally.

"Mom, sometimes I'm good and sometimes I'm bad."

"That's right Zoe. That's part of growing up."

"Yeah, like when I do what you ask me to -- that's being good. And when I don't -- that's being bad."

"That's about right. But, you know, Zoe? It's a pretty big deal that you even recognize that."

A pretty big deal, all right. Over this summer, I've watched my daughter give me little glimpses, here and there, growing in frequency, of what it means to be growing up. Hassles are fewer and farther between. Questions? Get answered. Requests? Get fulfilled. And, when behavior isn't right, discipline actually works. I've seen compunction, forethought, true sorrow, and even regret. Maturity, it seems, is knocking on her door.

Oh, don't get me wrong. We're not out of the woods yet. Traveling right along with the mellowing maturity is a sense of entitlement from being "a big kid." She's always ready to correct Evan upon the slightest violation of house rules, she's quick to proclaim her status as the "oldest," and she hopefully justifies all of her requests with the claim of being "a big girl now." The sass is less than endearing. Maturity's got a troublesome companion.

Isn't it always the case? It's a paradox, really. With each step toward independence, the very freedoms we gain bring with them the burdens of responsibility for and proof of worthiness of those freedoms. They're inexorably entwined, coming, not one before the other, but, together, putting our worthiness and responsibility to the test.

Zoe's struggling under the weight of this responsibility right now. She's blossoming beautifully in so many ways -- gaining confidence in herself, showing true understanding of behaviors and consequences. Simply, she's growing up. But, at the same time, she's buckling a bit under the weight of her new-found maturity. The bossiness and sass -- her own experiments in using that confidence and understanding -- show she's not quite there. But, get there, she will.

In the meantime, I'll take the bossiness and sass (with correction, of course). Because, by God, with that bossiness and sass, she's actually cleaning up her room!

What I've Been Trying So Hard to Tell You All Along

2006-08-03T13:23:00.000-04:00

I think, perhaps, it holds my fondest memories. Danny, the Champion of the World. Between its cover and its back, lies a charming story of a young boy and his father, suspended in a world of their own. Gypsy wagons, fire balloons, tickled -- yes, tickled -- trout, and drunken pheasants, this is the stuff of their magical existence. But, it is an unspoken, unmentioned thread woven throughout the story that binds it so close to my heart. That unspoken thread is of a very special bond between a father and his child.

I can remember devouring this book as a child. Of course the fantastic adventures drew me in, but it was the special kinship between father and child that kept me coming back, warming my heart and making me smile from within. The father's playfulness, imagination, sense of honor, sense of right -- was all too familiar to me. Unfolding in the pages before me was my relationship with my very own father.

I wonder if Zoe felt the same way as we read this book aloud over the past few weeks. I know she loved it. She asked for it almost every day. It was our story to read together. Day by day, the gypsy wagon warmed us, the fire balloon amazed us, the trout tickled us, and the pheasants doped us into delirium. Her, for the first time; me, all over again.

I wonder if Zoe saw her father in the story. I know I do. This time around I saw my relationship with my father, but I also saw my kids' relationship with their father. The playfulness, imagination, sense of honor, sense of right -- they're so inherent in my husband as well. My kids? They're lucky to have the father that they do.

Today, we finished the book. The closing words wrapped around me in an all-too-familiar hug:

What I've been trying so hard to tell you all along is simply that my father, without the slightest doubt, was the most marvelous and exciting father any boy ever had.

Gender doesn't really matter here. Any boy. Any girl. It's the father that's marvelous and exciting, and the child that's lucky enough to have him. That love, that bond inspired a beautiful book. It also inspired me -- twice. Dad, Tim: what I've been trying so hard to tell you all along...

Wear Your Fucking Sunscreen

2006-08-02T15:03:00.000-04:00

Alternate title: Thank God For Bangs

Reliving a Nightmare

2006-07-31T13:35:00.000-04:00

It really is amazing, the body. It has a memory of its own.

I've always known I would have a difficult time with another surgery, should such an event be part of my fate. I've always said I would have to do a lot of psychological preparation to go under the knife again. I've forewarned my husband that he'll have to fight tooth and nail to accompany me should I be put under general anesthesia again. I must have a witness, I say. I must have a witness to the lost hours, lost time, lost life.

But last week's minor procedure wasn't surgery. Procedure. Such an antiseptic word. In and out of the office in a half a day, a few stitches, and a bandage. No, not surgery at all. At least, not in my mind. My body, however, thought differently.

"You should feel pressure, not pain. A little tugging here and there. That's it."

The words were spoken to me in the present. 2006. My body was instantaneously transported back in time. 2001. Flashback.

The fear in my chest. The anger in my eyes. The pain in my belly. The terror in my throat. The numbness in my legs, my soul. And the sorrow in my heart. They were all there, once again.

A bitter tear escaped and crept slowly down my cheek, the only outside hint of my voyage within.

My body remembered. My body remembers.

In Which I'm Just Coherent Enough to Prove I'm Alive

2006-07-28T08:19:00.000-04:00

Hi. Yeah, it's me. Heart is beating. But that's about it.

I have a hole in my head to the tune of 4 inches, although my husband swears it is only 3 and a half. Whatever. I beat Dooce's basal cell by a freakin' mile. Because I feel the need to be superior to her, you know.

Anyway. I'm nauseated and have a headache.

And I have about three thousand things I'd like to write about -- happy things! like how my daughter told me she loved me more than cartoons! like how my son ran to me in the thunderstorm yesterday crying "keep me safe!" -- but, instead, I'm sitting here, lamenting the hole in my head and really doubting the value of trepanation.

Filling In The Gaps

2006-07-19T22:09:00.000-04:00

We've "known" each other for a while, but only in the past 18 months or so have we found ourselves in a friendship. And, this week, I've met her for the first time. How's that you say? Ahhh, the Internets, my friend. Be thankful for the Internets.

Gretchen's every bit the person you'd think she is from reading her blog, and more. (I'm not providing a link to her blog, because, well, it's changing as we speak.) I'd expected the wit. I'd expected the sass. I'd expected all of that and more. But, you know? She's still full of surprises. Damn, that girl. A well of surprises.

She's kind. And empathetic. And thoughtful. And warm. Not that I thought she was the opposite of all of these things...of course I didn't! It's just...well, it's just that as nice as the Internets are, in-person is even nicer.

Nice to meet you, Gretchen. Damn nice to meet you.

Things I'm Thankful For

2006-07-17T13:27:00.000-04:00

The Raleigh Little Theatre. Four tickets to four family series performances for under $150. Richly costumed, creatively set, and acting and singing that only leaves a little to be desired, if anything all. Sunday afternoons spent in suspended reality. The Raleigh Little Theatre has it all.

The only problem? Deciding whether to watch the play, or watch my children watching the play. Hours of heart-warming entertainment, both -- but the edge must be conceded to watching the kids. Eyes wide open, jaws slack, shoulders tensed, and bodies leaning ever-so-slightly toward the stage in involuntary fascination, their performance was enough to steal the show.

Choosing My Religion

2006-07-13T13:56:00.000-04:00

My husband and I have rather purposely not raised our children under any particular religious doctrine. Matters of faith, we think, are too big to be dictated; One must choose what they believe on their own. Our goal is to raise thoughtful, inquisitive young adults who find their own answers to questions of faith, or, at least, find a place of comfort in not knowing the answers. If that place of comfort, that place of knowledge is within an organized religion, so be it. That will be their decision.

It appears as though we've made great strides in paving the path of that journey.

"I'm going to 'merca," Evan said to me this morning. His annunciation still leaves a lot to be desired, so often there's a little sleuthing to be performed. He is quite sure, however, of what he's trying to say, so anything that's repeated back to him incorrectly will be thus rejected.

"You're going to America?" I guessed.

"No. I'm going to 'merca," he tried again.

"America?"

"Nooooo." Clearly he was getting frustrated with his mommy's inability to simply hear him. He raised his voice so as to be heard more clearly. "I GO TO MECCA."

"Mecca?" I asked, clearly intrigued.

"Yesssss. Mecca!" At last! Someone was hearing him!

"Mecca, huh? You're making the Hajj?" I expected my addition to reveal his obvious confusion. Surely, he did not yet know about Islam.

My expectations were not met. His response was an emphatic "Yes! I go to Mecca."

Choosing his religion -- at the age of three.

Every Birth Is Different

2006-07-12T21:48:00.000-04:00

She didn't speak English. Or, only very little. Having babies was nothing new to her. She was experienced; this would surely go quickly.

"But," she said wisely and prophetically, "Every birth is different."

I was at her bedside as a volunteer. A little nervous, unsure if I could surmount the language barrier, concerned about having just met her. How could I share with her so intimately when we'd only said hello less than an hour ago?

She was quiet. Intense. Funny. Stoic. Warm. I spent so much time looking at her, trying to read her, trying, the only way I knew how, to get to know her. We chatted, a little, when she felt like it. Teenagers. New Dads. Good Food. Light conversational fare, most of it. But then there were the illuminating stories, the ones that surprised me, the ones that let me in -- just a little bit.

"You probably won't believe this. You probably will think I'm silly," she said in a quiet moment when her companions had left her. "I dreamed last night that you would be with me today. You were there, in my dreams. Not a nurse. Not a doctor. You."

I believed every word she said.

Eventually, though, the conversation subsided. Words were traded for touches. Gentle nods let me know: "I trust you. I'm glad you're here." All the strangeness between us, completely erased in a moment of primal need and empathetic response. The language now being spoken was universal. It was all that was needed. The day marched on in a silence of touch.

And a wee one was born.

Then, this mom of so many, who'd birthed her child so victoriously, turned and said to me: "I've had many babies. I've always been alone. This was the first time, in all of my births, I had someone with me. It really helped. It was nice. Thank you."

All that experience, and, yet, still room for more. Every birth is different. This time -- for her -- I made the difference. I am honored beyond words.

Bag O' Tricks

2006-07-11T09:16:00.000-04:00

I went shopping to purchase items for my doula bag yesterday. My goal? To gather all the items I might need to assist a woman and her husband while she labors, in a traveling tote. My trip around the store went something like this:

Women's Clothing
Health and Beauty Aids
Pharmacy
Garden Center
Sporting Goods
Men's Clothing
Dry Goods
Office Products
Kitchen Wares
Luggage

I couldn't help but chuckle as I wove my way throughout nearly every department in the store. They say being a doula is about mothering the mother. Of this, I have no doubt. My Mary Poppins-ish bag is just further evidence. A little bit of this. A little bit of that. All these seemingly unrelated items, pulled together with a dose of creativity, ingenuity, and thrift. Add in compassion and caring, and you have the very definition of motherhood.

Oh, How I Have Failed As A Mother Of A Son

2006-07-07T14:33:00.000-04:00

"Come on, Evan, let's have fun cleaning the house this morning."

"Yeah!"

"We'll clean the bathrooms, vacuum the floors, and dust the furniture."

"Yeah! Cool!"

"First, we need to get a dust cloth."

Pause.

"What's a dust cloth, Mommy?"

My most humble apologies to my son's future wife. I'm just so very sorry.

Things I'm Thankful For

2006-07-06T13:44:00.000-04:00

Thursdays.

That's when we get our delivery of fruits and vegetables from our CSA. The waxed cardboard box, folded shut, always reveals upon opening a bountiful surprise. Peaches. Berries. Corn. Tomatoes. Cucumbers. A little something different every week.

Last winter, when we purchased a share in this farm, my expectations were entirely rational -- a box of food, grown locally and organically, each week. Little did I know the joys those boxes would bring: the anticipation that rises as each Thursday approaches, the excitement that bubbles up upon opening a box, the spirit of adventure that comes from trying new recipes and foods, and the comforting sense of connection I get from touching, handling, and eating foods raised "right down the street."

Each Thursday, I receive a box. That it's full of food is of no particular surprise. That it's full of spiritual sustenance? Something to be thankful for, indeed.

Tu Me Manques

2006-07-05T10:21:00.000-04:00

Zoe is away at my parents' house this week. Camp Mimi and Papa Joe, we call it. She's going to the beach, starring in a parade, swimming the afternoons away at the pool, eating M&M's to her heart's content, and watching far too much TV. In short, my parents are performing the duties of grandparent quite well. And Zoe is having the time of her life.

Evan, on the other hand, is at home. He's enjoying a week of undivided attention, an unshared spotlight, sole rights to toys, and the opportunity to sit in whichever chair he chooses for meals. Presumably, a heaven on earth for a typically self-concerned two-and-a-half-year old.

I'm not sure he sees it that way.

The tearful farewell was to be expected. Watching his sister load up into a car, knowing she was headed somewhere he was not could only have elicited a mournful mood. But the soulful "Where's Zoe?" hours later, the entreating "Wake Zoe up!" pleas the following morning, and the constant string of hopeful requests for his sister throughout the days lead me to believe he's less self-concerned than I'd previously understood.

I've always loved the French use of the verb manquer, to miss. One is missing a button; one misses an appointment; one even misses doing their homework. But when it comes to missing a person, the subject and object are reversed -- Tu me manques. The literal translation? You are missed by me. There's something about the inversion that seems far more active, far more passionate -- far more true.

Evan misses his sister. But, even more so, he is missing his sister. His sister is missing from him. I used to mourn the lost "alone time" that his sister, being the first child, received but that he never experienced. How unfair, I used to think. This week, my thinking has changed. How unfair it is to be suddenly alone, when all he's ever lived is together. His world? Includes his sister. He's never known anything else. I hope he never does.

My Life in 100 Words or Less: Building Blocks

2006-07-03T13:10:00.000-04:00

A vintage box of Legos -- carefully stored since a father’s youth and finally deemed suitable for an eager little boy -- retrieved and opened. Father immersed in pleasant reverie. Son swelling with excitement.

But the strongest emotions came from the mother, the wife. Unearthed after twenty years, the set was remarkably and inconceivably complete despite a childhood’s enthusiastic use. As she poured over the pieces her husband had toyed with so long ago, she saw a window into the child who became her soulmate. Sturdy. Classic. Imaginative. Strong. And careful enough to keep it all together.

Cool Waters

2006-06-29T10:42:00.000-04:00

The first day I did it, I think it took as long to prepare for the event as the passing of the event itself. The second time, the preparation didn't sting so badly. By the third trip, I'd found my groove. Suits on, sunscreen applied, picnic lunch prepared, towels and toys and changes of clothing packed: we're headed to the pool! A well oiled machine, we are.

A little less than a month into summer, and it's hard to imagine that last year I hit the pool less than five times. Already this season, we've been five-times-five times, at least, and there's no indication the pace will slow down. Both children are old enough to enjoy the water for hours at a time, and, finally, now having access to a pool with a shallow end, swimming is more an enjoyable activity than a worrisome one. The pool lets the kids expend their energy and gives mom a welcome relief from the hot, humid air. It is, quite simply, the summer of cool waters.

I grew up at the beach, spending entire days with my feet in the sand and tasting the salt water on my lips. Raucously riding the waves in on canvas rafts, combing the shore for never-found seashells, and dripping wet sand into fantastic fairy castles -- these were the main activities of my summers.

But, every once in a while, we -- my sister and my friends and their siblings -- would all pile in cars and make the seemingly endless trip to the on-base officer's pool. And there, in its teal blue and concrete expanse, we'd splash and dive and play in an entirely different aquatic adventure. Underwater flips, suspending all sense of gravity and spatial relations, turned our hearts and souls upside down, if only for a moment at a time. Entire worlds were created in our underwater games, filled with giggles and rules and imagined heroes. Those games spilled over onto the concrete patio, softened with damp, chlorine smelling towels, during the inconvenient and inexplicable "adult swim" breaks. And the diving board, both enticing and terrifying, was the site of many displays of juvenile bravery, triumph, and -- once -- tragedy. Fond memories, those chlorine-filled days.

Those memories are all returning this summer, splashing onto me as I watch my kids at the pool. The same rush of adrenaline I felt so many years ago jumping off the high-dive rushes through me once again as Evan enthusiastically (and timorously!) leaps from the edge of the pool. As Zoe flirts and giggles with her new-found friends, playing games to which only they know the rules, I find myself struggling to not insert myself into their imaginary play, remembering how fun it all is. Zoe's first back flip -- tossed high in the air -- sent familiar waves of weightlessness through my own body. The poolside snacks, the picnic lunches taste every bit the same as they did at that officer's pool. Slightly warm and salty, the food brings a much-needed burst of energy and makes the arbitrarily imposed breaks just a little more bearable. And, finally, the hard, powerful exhaustion at the end of the day brought on by the sun and water feels every bit the same as I recall from long ago. Sleep scarcely stays away from all three of us on the short ride home. All the packing and preparation and parental responsibilities brought on by a trip to the pool are washed away in that deep, rewarding sun-drenched slumber.

I've always known that parenting can provide the opportunity to reconnect with your own childhood. But, up until now, I've been parenting children of ages for which I have no personal recollections. Reconnecting with walking and talking and solitary play is simply not possible, as I have no memory of that time in my life. But as my children grow into the age of which I have memories, entire experiences are relived and recalled effortlessly. Unexpected gifts, they are. This summer, I'm swimming in them.

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

2006-06-27T13:48:00.000-04:00

"When you clean up your room, you will get your quarter. That is the deal."

"But I don't like to clean up my room. It's too hard."

"Zoe, you clean up your room all the time. It's your responsibility. Now, please, go clean up your room."

"But, Mom, I don't wan't that responsibility."

"Well, then, you don't get your quarter, and you will still have to clean up your room."

Pause. Clearly the wheels were spinning. And then, she spoke.

"I want my responsibility to be to stop sucking my thumb. Cleaning up my room is just too hard. Stopping sucking my thumb is what I want to do."

Coming from the world's most determined Junior Robert Downey, Jr., this is quite a proposition. Giving up an addiction as strong as crack instead of cleaning up a room? And all for just a quarter?

Hmmmm.

Little Did I Know

2006-06-27T10:47:00.000-04:00

"Kristy, I'm in labor." The phone call came early in the evening, just as we were finishing up with dinner. "I should be having this baby by midnight. Do you want to come over?"

On the other end of the line was a woman who'd graciously invited me to be a part of her birth. She had already lined up a doula -- two, actually -- but knew I was training to be a doula as well. She, quite simply, was giving me a very special opportunity to learn from a very talented group of people. Hers was to be a home birth.

"I'll be right there."

As I got in the car and headed to her house, I thought eagerly of the experience that lay before me. My first birth. A laboring woman. A baby on the way. What I've set out to do is undeniably a selfless task. Caring for a laboring woman, tending to her needs, assuring her, relaxing her -- guiding her through a very intimate, personal experience -- is not at all about me. It is about the mother, the baby, and the family into which that baby is being born. And yet, it is impossible to deny that I will be affected by -- personally and intimately experience -- each and every birth I attend. To fail to do so would be an affront to the very honor it is to be present at a birth. And so, as I drove to my friends' house, I was thinking very much about this first experience and what it would mean to me. Little did I know what the hours before me would have in store.

Little did I know how awe-struck I would be at the power that is a laboring woman. Her contractions, gripping and pulsing, at once both capturing her and captured by her. Moans and cries, not so much a call of despair as a battle cry of strength and force. The slow, sly approach of another contraction caught with resilience; the thankful end accepted with grace. It was awesome to watch all of those powerful forces, each solely possessed by a laboring woman, hard at work in their inspired task.

Little did I know how beautiful it is, a gathering of women, friends, and family, there for one single, unified purpose and each sharing the same respect for the event they are witnessing. A mood of calm and comfort pervaded throughout the room. There was no anxiety, there was no fear, there was no confusion -- only a sense of peace and honor. We told stories, laughed, tucked children into bed, ate when we were hungry, drank when we were thirsty, and slept when we were tired. All of us. Mom, too. Normalcy, in this case, was stunningly beautiful.

Little did I know how graceful a pair of eyes, how artful a pair of hands, how musical a low hum can be. The determined eyes, peering into Mom's as she searched with her own frantic eyes for a place of familiar comfort, gracefully led Mom to a moment of balance. Small hands calmly searched for the right touch that would make Mom let go; a low hum, alone at first, was soon joined by a chorus of thoughtful internal contemplations. Together, the dozens of hands and eyes and voices throughout the room performed a concert that was nothing short of magical.

Little did I know how comfortable it would be, how natural it would be for me to simply touch another person. My hands went instinctively -- to her hands, to her back, to her hips -- with no question or anxiety. I knew what to do. I knew what to say. I found a sense of peace in each touch and word. I found a sense of purpose.

Little did I know how calm I would be when things didn't go exactly as planned. I was composed, both outside and in, when personally emotional touchpoints arose. Seamlessly and effortlessly, I called upon my rising well of empathy, not to make me feel better, but to make Mom feel better. My words were for her, not for me. My one personal concern, alleviated. My only remaining concerns, hers. Little did I know how comfortable I could be while still genuinely burdened with those concerns.

Many, many hours later, after the sun rose and the birds began to sing, I left the house. Although she had many hours to go, my role in my friend's birth, for many reasons, had come to an end. Alone, I was left only to savor the experience -- all that it was and wasn't -- for myself. My role in her experience had ended. Her role in my experience had only just begun. So much learned that night. Little do I know, indeed.

Negotiations and Love Songs

2006-06-26T11:47:00.000-04:00

Every one I know who says they're done having kids is very adamant about it. "I'm done. Our family is complete," they say with confidence. My husband is among this crowd.

I'm not so sure, myself. It's not that I definitively want another child, but I definitely cannot say with confidence that I don't want another child. By some obscure reverse reasoning, then, I'm left with an open door that I cannot seem to close on my own.

My husband is trying his best to shut it, though. Slam it shut.

"I'll let you have a cat, but not another baby," he said the other day. He's been the biggest resistance to adding another living thing of any variety to our family. My pleas for a cat -- of the tortoise variety, to match my dog, of course -- have fallen on the same deaf ears on which my maybe-pleas for a third child have fallen. I suppose he decided relenting on the lesser of the two evils in his eyes would shut me up on the other.

Hearing his offer, I figured if he was willing to make a concession in our friendly stand-off, I would surely be smart to agree. I know, deep in my heart, that a third child is not in my destiny. I might as well, though, milk my position of influence for all it is worth. If he feels he must placate me, by all means, I will let him. "Be careful what you offer, Tim, I might just take you up on it."

"Anything," he said, "to get you off that baby kick of yours."

A few days later, as I was vacuuming all the pet hair rolling around like tumbleweeds on my hardwood floors and lamenting at how completely incompetent my vacuum cleaner was for the task, I remembered yet another family acquisition my husband has been resistant to. I quickly picked up the phone to call him at work.

"Tim, I'm trading in the baby -- not for a cat, but for something else. I want my Dyson."

I realize this speaks volumes about my true feelings on another child in this family. Willing to trade a wee one in for a cat or a vacuum? Clearly, I have many issues to deal with. Not the least of which is: which one should I choose? Rest assured, though, the ultimate decision will not be without careful thought and consideration. For whatever creature comes to rest in this family -- a cat or a vacuum, for clearly the child will not be -- I have already put much deliberation into the question of its name. He or she will be called, quite simply, Omega.

A Piece of Cake

2006-06-22T21:04:00.000-04:00

[Ms. Pea, if you read all of this -- even the not-so-nice details -- just remember: it tasted good!]

Mmmm. Coconut Cake.

A recent read featured a coconut cake so enticing it single-handedly whisked a character away to her knight in shining armor and brought this reader all the way back to her childhood. Memories of my grandmother serving the sweet concoction -- every bit of it home-made and always with only fresh coconut -- became, as I read, entangled with the grand cast of characters in the book.

Food has always been an evocative force in my life. The tastes and smells of particular foods hurl me involuntarily into another time and place. Even the preparation of certain foods -- shelling peas into a deep pot, cutting biscuit dough with the rim of a glass -- can whisk me back into my grandmother's kitchen with me scarcely able to recognize my trip as a break from reality. All of my senses can be brought to life with just one bite or just one slice of the knife.

It was this heightened state of conscisousness, this pleasant trip, that I eagerly looked forward to when I decided to make a coconut cake for a special gathering of my book club this week. [The book's author, Julia Glass, happens to be a dear friend of one our book club members. The author was in town for a reading, and graciously agreed to attend our book club, as she had done several years ago with her first book.] Surely the tasks of mixing and grating and pouring for this particular cake would bring on a far more intense experience than merely reading about it.

Intense, it was. Pleasurable? Not so much.

First, there was setting. I'd been up thirty six hours. Thirty six hours. (The reason for this is another story, and it will be forthcoming.) I was near comatose, ready for bed at last, and suddenly I realized I had to make this cake. Had to. I'd committed to doing so, and right then was the only time I had remaining to complete the bulk of the task.

Next, there was the coconut.

The instructions, in my mother's hand, begin:

Strike a nail -- or otherwise bore a hole -- through the brown spot on the coconut and allow the milk to drain.

I should have been wary of any food recipe that required I get out a power tool.

The instructions continue:

Bake the drained coconut at a high temperature for as long as it takes for the coconut to crack. Break the coconut into small pieces with a hammer, removing the hard shell and the additional layer underneath. You'll need a knife and a strong hand. And you will get cut.

I did not disappoint. Hands battered, I seriously began to reconsider my love for this particular food. But still, I persevered. After grating the coconut (Be careful not to grate your fingers!) and finding myself with an abysmally small pile of fresh coconut -- all that work for so little reward -- I repeated the process once again. My small little pile of coconut was declared "enough."

Next, the cake. In all honesty, it was a piece of cake, the cake-baking portion of this task. A few moments at the mixer with a few basic ingredients -- with one egg to spare! -- and the cake batter was in the oven. In my sleep deprived state, the twenty-five minute wait was nearly torturous, but, in the end, each layer came out of the oven beautifully, and I declared my evening a success. The icing? Could wait until the next day. And surely, the icing would be, indeed, just icing on the cake. Sleep at last.

The next day, recharged with a good night's sleep, I planned to tackle the icing in the afternoon while my children napped and rested. When the time came, I somehow forgot -- both about the icing and an afternoon appointment which would, when I remembered it as my babysitter approached my driveway, consume the better part of the afternoon and leave me with a mere hour to make the icing and decorate the cake.

Boil three cups of sugar and a cup of water until thick -- when a teaspoon of the mixture dropped into cold water "threads," it is thick enough.

Threads? Threads? Oh dear God in heaven, what have I gotten myself into? Yeah, this looks like it's threading.

Take two egg whites and --

TWO egg whites? TWO? Remember that "egg to spare"? That would be one egg to spare. ONE. Not two.

My dear friend from across the street rescued me with an egg. An egg well past its expiration date, but an egg, that, when cracked open, appeared to be perfectly fine nonetheless. It would do, dammit. [Sorry, Ms. Pea]

Add four chopped marshmallows to the egg whites.

I'd previously bought tons of marshmallows for a project that never actually happened and had intentionally planned on them when I'd made my grocery list for the cake. I opened the pantry door and reached for the marshmallows -- that weren't there.

Sweet memories of my grandmother were rapidly fading from my consciousness.

I did the only thing I could. I sent my husband to the grocery store to get marshmallows. The time? Twenty minutes before I had to be leaving.

Add the sugar mixture to the egg mixture. Beat until it forms the consistency of icing.

Two minutes, five minutes, ten minutes of beating later, I had the consistency of, well, not icing. This would take some improvising. As it was, the icing was far too runny to spread thickly on the cake, but it was just thick enough to provide a sticky layer upon which I could cast my emergency stash of (Nannie, please forgive me) prepared coconut. A nice layer of coconut would camouflage just about anything. It would have to do. I was nearing the end of this fiasco, and I dearly needed to be done with the nightmare.

Oh, but the nightmare was not done with me.

As I reached to one counter for a utensil with which to spread my runny icing, I heard a shuffle behind me. I knew in an instant what it meant. I slowly -- the damage was already done -- turned around with a sick feeling in my stomach. I surveyed the damage.

Things My Dog Has Eaten: One Layer of Coconut Cake. And A Nibble of Another.

My three layer cake had just become a two layer cake. And yes, the frosting was thick enough to hide the dog's damage to the second layer. [Sorry, again, Ms. Pea.]

Without a minute to spare, I headed out the door, carrying a coconut cake that appeared to hiss at me in spite. Evocative, all right. I shall never wish to taste, see, smell or touch a piece of coconut cake again.

A piece of cake. This one gives the phrase a whole new meaning.

Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall

2006-06-21T14:38:00.000-04:00

I left a small but significant observation out of my post the other day. That drama belonging to my daughter that I'm so often tired and annoyed by? She comes by it honestly. Very honestly. As much as I'd prefer not to admit it, I can be quite the drama queen on my own. No, I no longer have the tendency to crumple into a heap on the floor when I find out there's no cranberry juice, but a sad revelation on the part of a friend or even an acquaintance can tax my empathetic soul to its maximum. My emotions bubble and boil at the slightest injustice. And my heart leaps out of my chest on a sunny day.

Seeing my heightened emotional make-up reflected back to me in my daughter can be very disturbing at times. For years, I've struggled with these emotions of mine, placing value instead on the ability to be calm and collected. Emotionless. It's taken a lot of work on my part to come to accept the value of my emotions. Still, as I see that part of me so obviously stamped upon my daughter, I can not help but feel a twinge of anxiety. Will she struggle as I did? Has my genetic makeup taxed her unfairly? Why can't she just be more like her father in this respect?

I realize, of course, that my reactions to these observations are merely indications that I have more work to do on my own part. And, for that insight, I am grateful. I keep the line drawn, and try to be very cognizant that she is her own person. I am not looking into a mirror; I'm merely looking through a lens -- a lens clouded by my own biases.

The reflections and images I see in my daughter, though anxiety-invoking at times, have also been surprisingly therapeutic. When I recognized it was a deep, soulful empathy at work in her display of drama upon understanding the concept of mortality, I didn't grieve for her, feeling guilty for burdening her with my emotional tendencies. Instead, I saw in my daughter a beautiful ability to connect, to feel, to understand the emotions of others. I saw that as a gift, and, in turn, I was able to see, for a moment, that beauty in myself. I smiled in recognition. A little bit of work, accomplished.

A favorite poem of mine, one that has meant a lot to me as I've come to understand myself better, boasts that emotions are gifts -- sent from beyond -- with a purpose. And although it might appear to be laying a heavy burden upon my daughter to say this, I believe my daughter is in the same sense a gift from beyond. Certainly it is not her responsibility, nor do I require it of her, these therapeutic revelations. But I do believe a little bit of magic is at work, a little bit of wonder, when I catch little glimpses, like the one the other day, reflecting light onto my own soul.

A Return to Sniglets

2006-06-20T18:35:00.000-04:00

friendzy

Main Entry: friend·zy
Pronunciation: 'frend
Function: noun
1 the state of uber activity on the part of a mother as she gets household work done during the discrete (and often short-lived) time her two young children are playing nicely together.

On Death and Drama

2006-06-19T14:51:00.000-04:00

Zoe can be quite the drama queen. (We, in fact, call her "DQ" at times, and when we do, we're not referring to the place that serves Blizzards.) A lost toy is almost always cause for manufactured tears and a piece of her food snagged by the dog is grounds for a display worthy of an Oscar. I've heard her mutter "It's just no use. It's no USE," a la an over-burdened Cinderella more than once, and many times I've severely regretted my encouraging her to identify her feelings when I'm met with an, "But I'm angry and frustrated and sad and discouraged," as if the combination were lethal and entirely unique to her existence. The drama is both humorous and tiresome -- and, I've always claimed, fundamentally childish.

My claim has been challenged.

"Mommy, I'm sad and scared," Zoe said yesterday, her eyes welling with tears.

"Why, honey?" My guard was up for one of her displays of acting merit, but I was concerned, too. She appeared to be drawing from a particularly despairing well of inspiration.

"I'm sad and scared because I think I'm going to die."

Woah. Pause. Take a deep breath. How am I going to handle this one?

After approximately three hundred thoughts ran through my head in the matter of three seconds -- not the least of which was those darn older cousins -- I managed to mutter some form of reassurance and empathy. I hoped my words would calm her down and -- more importantly -- erase the concept from her mind. I didn't think she was ready to deal with the concept, and I knew I wasn't ready to deal with it. Not one of my better moments as a parent.

She took me to task on it. Today, the topic came up again, this time a little more subtly.

"Mom, will my heart beat forever and ever and ever?"

There was no denying the deeper curiosity of her question. I was no more prepared to answer her question than I had been the day before, but this time I decided it was time to deal with the issue. She was showing me was ready. I answered her as honestly and factually as I could. It was all I could do. No, her heart won't beat forever. It will stop beating. And she will die. Not for a long, long time, hopefully, and not until after a wonderful, happy life, but, yes, she -- and we all -- will die.

The conversation continued, and was peppered with heartbreaking questions of my mortality and the mortality of all of her loved ones. With each answer, with each revelation, I could see a little more concern and anxiety in her eyes. There were tears and cracked voices. A lot of drama.

But this time, the drama was neither tiresome nor humorous -- nor childish. Before my eyes, I watched my little girl really learn for the first time something that wasn't happy, or exciting, or fascinating or enlightening or all those things that childhood is about. She learned, and she felt, with the deep empathy that is at the root of all that drama of hers, a little bit of sad reality. Her reactions, though dramatic, were real and thoughtful. Her empathy wasn't at all child-like and immature; it was breathtakingly golden and soulful. The childish drama was no longer. Somehow, a little bit of old soul crept into my daughter's young heart today. Somewhere, a tiny speck of her youth withered into adult.

Or, perhaps it simply blossomed.

Living the Jet Set Life

2006-06-09T15:36:00.000-04:00

This never happens. Two vacations inside of a month? Nah, it doesn't happen.

Or, apparently, it does.

We're headed off on vacation tomorrow. Again.

I'll see you in a week.

(And then I'll be paying for it -- in every way imaginable -- for eighteen or twenty four months.)

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

2006-06-08T15:45:00.000-04:00

Irresponsible enough to fail to return not one, not two, but three phone calls. And yet, if eventually the calls are returned, I'll instantly forgive and forget. All my requirements for civility, responsibility and maturity will be tossed out the window. I wish only to hear the word "Yes."

Desperate for a date?

Nah. Desperate for a sitter.

Hmmm...

[Untitled]

2006-06-05T13:14:00.000-04:00

She was perfect.

How can it be?

A new father speaks in past tense.

A new mother, breasts swollen

cradles the nothingness of her empty arms.

A friend

up all night

tears flowing

ashamed of the hurt that can not compare

ashamed

the peace she can not give.

She was perfect.

[Please forgive the painful use of the medium. I am not a poet. So utterly inept. So utterly inadequate.]

First Memory

2006-06-04T20:21:00.000-04:00

My earliest memories are like a collage. A patchwork. There's the green-blue madras memory of the creek, the comforting yellow terry-cloth memory of floor-sized puzzles, the floral chintz memory of backyard roaming in the spring, and the seersucker memory of Raggedy Ann. Overlapping, disconnected and random, these memories are stitched together into a comfortable quilt -- a crazy quilt -- that I can call upon to wrap me in warmth. Comforting.

I once said, with only a little sarcasm, that once Zoe hit the age she'd have long-term memories of, I needed to be on my toes as a mother. Amidst all the anxiety and pressures of motherhood, I could find comfort in the memory-less first years of my child's life, as if they were mulligans, consequence-less actions to be freely and carelessly exhausted. That my daughter would have no memory of any of my early real or imagined failures was a reassuring realization for me. A built-in protection plan, as it were -- for my daughter and myself, both.

Of course, this notion is quite absurd. Countless events of which we have no conscious memory shape our lives forever more. Though we often equate experiences and memories, this is not really the case. Experiences are the entire body of events and occurrences of our lives; memories are our collection -- fundamentally incomplete -- of recollections of those events. We are shaped by all our experiences, whether we have memory of them or not. My mulligan theory, then, was nothing short of wishful thinking. We are the product of our experiences, every one of them, consciously remembered or not.

Our experiences imprint upon us indelible marks -- of temperament, of habit, of tastes, of opinions. While our genes are undeniably central to who we are, it is our biology that is the canvas upon which our experiences flick their paint. Our bodies -- our selves -- hold the memories of our experience. So, though there is a gap in the conscious memory of our earliest years, we are the embodiment of those "lost" (or never remembered) memories of our infancy. Nothing slips past us, really.

The notion of our first memory, around the age of three or four -- earlier, if we're lucky -- is a notion of consciousness. It's a call upon our mechanical systems. A request for retrieval of information from the store. And while the request is fulfilled with a simultaneously vague and accurate memory -- almost always comforting and kind, it is always incorrect. For our first memory, we must search our selves. It is there. Our bodies know it.

You want to know why I care so much about birth? It's because I remember. We all do.

[For Sunday Scribblings]

What A Tangled Web We Weave

2006-05-29T15:26:00.000-04:00

Ok. I'll admit it. I've lied to my kids. Against all my better judgment, against all my own principles, and against all that I want to instill in my children, I lie. Like a rug, sometimes.

There's no more cake.

The TV's broken.

That shirt is in the wash.

So, I've admitted it. (Now, you go on and admit it, too. It's the first step to feeling better. Really, it is. The first step in making me feel better, that is.) It makes me feel small and weak and lazy and thoroughly ill-equipped to be raising children, but, still, I do it. And sometimes I even justify it. Now, that's bad.

Yesterday, though, things went a little too far. I got caught up in a lie, and, before I knew it, I drew my very good friend into it as well. Zoe had been begging to go into Ellen's house to use her potty. She didn't really need to go to the potty; this I knew. She only wanted to go in there to play. I'd told her already if she needed to go to the potty, she could use ours, which was across the street.

"But I neeeed to use Ellen's potty."

I really didn't want to get into an argument. We were having a good time out in the yard, and I didn't want to spoil it with an argument. The problem was, I'd already drawn the line in the sand. A foolish choice, the battle I'd picked, but I'd already told her she couldn't use Ellen's potty. I couldn't let her go to Ellen's potty, but I had to get her to drop her insistence. Damn, these parental challenges.

"Zoe, Ellen's potty is broken."

"Broken?"

"Yeah, broken. It's all clogged up and the plumber has yet to come."

"Really?"

"Yes, really." Fine parenting, huh?

Zoe wasn't going to buy it. She sought out confirmation. "Ellen, is your potty broken?"

Ellen looked at me. I looked at her. A test of friendship?

"Yes, Zoe, it's broken, " Ellen chimed in like a champ. "David couldn't even take a shower -- all the pipes are clogged."

My God, I'd just gotten my friend to lie for me -- over a trip to the potty.

Nothing about the situation was honorable, and I knew it. "Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when at first we practice to deceive," I chanted. I knew my chagrin was the least of my punishment. I would get my due returns. I would get my due returns, and then some.

Somehow, though, Karma got a little mixed up on doling out her justice. Perhaps it was the location of the offense, or, perhaps it was the subject of the lie, but, in any event, Karma's wires got a little crossed. The next morning? I got a phone call from Ellen. Her water heater was on the fritz.

Tangled, indeed.

If It's The Thought That Counts, Well...

2006-05-26T11:17:00.000-04:00

It started off well enough. My intentions were pure. It was to be the closest thing I could manage to "Breakfast in Bed" -- home-made cinnamon rolls and sticky buns, a bright and cheery coffee mug, and some coffee to top it all off. They each deserve a break after a school year of teaching toddlers and three-year-olds.

After the baking session that stretched painfully past 11:30 p.m. and included two trips to the grocery store, I figured, Well, they're still worth it.

But when the quest to find four reasonably priced but still attractive coffee mugs spanned trips to Target, Bed, Bath & Beyond, Wal-Mart, Big Lots, The Dollar Tree, and Marshall's, not to mention the final trip to the grocery store to pick up sample-sized coffee? Well, I'm no longer so sure.

I wouldn't exactly call it gratitude, the thoughts I now associate with those gifts.

Kissing the Mailman

2006-05-25T13:05:00.000-04:00

Packages are always a delightful presence at the door. Whether you're expecting a parcel to be delivered, or what's presenting itself at your door is a complete surprise, there's something about a brown package that delights the soul. A package is like an unexpected kiss -- a peck, if you will -- surprising you into a moment of stillness and consideration, savoring the moment of delivery as much as what unfolds immediately following.

Yesterday was a particularly good day, then. Not once, but twice the mailman rapped on my door to announce the delivery of a bundle from the heavens of wired commerce. The first package teased my sense of smell and all the thoughts and memories inexorably tied therein. Coffee, that wonderful elixir of morning consciousness, promised adventures in taste and delight.

But it was the second package that swept me away for the rest of the day. Delivered several hours after the first, I held the package for a moment, and then let the kiss unfold. In it lay two books, one for me and one for my two children.

I picked up my book, fresh off the press and newly released, and pawed its cover. I thought about the first book from the author, its richness and beauty and achingly real characters, how it made me breathe and feel. I hesitated a moment. Would this one disappoint? Such expectations I held in my hand. I set it aside. I wasn't ready.

Next, then, I picked up the book intended for my children. True to form, its cover beckoned with whimsical and fantastic images. I fell prey to its allure and opened the cover. Abracadabra!

Poems. Silly ones. Serious ones. Nonsense ones. Fantastic and far-fetched, real and tactile -- they all leapt off page after page after page. Knitting witches, and blue donkeys, and trees that don't know how to grow themselves right, and brown skin, and reading wolves: these were my companions for the afternoon. I found myself reading aloud, for that's what poetry wants you to do -- compels you to do -- and delighting over the taste of the curious words tickling my tongue. I mourned the ten-year-old's old age. I fell asleep with the wolf, sated with story. I drew pictures and sang songs and swam in words like brillig and frood. I ached in jealousy over the simplicity and complexity and completeness of every idea and emotion. Awestruck, I was, awash in the aftermath of that kiss. Each page, each poem was a new delight. For an hour or more, I lived alone in the joy of those poems.

And then I discovered the ecstasy of sharing them.

"Mom? Is quiet time over?" My daughter called from the bottom of the stairs. I didn't even look at the clock. I was ready for quiet time to be over. I wanted to share my joy with her.

"Yes, Zoe. And look! I have something for you. Do you know what a poem is, Zoe?"

She looked at me, perplexed.

I started to explain. "A poem is...Well, you put words together. And, they may or may not make any sense. But they do. And they sing a song, but there's not really any music -- but there is music, it's just the words making the music. And..." I stopped, defeated.

"Let me show you."

I led her back to her room, climbed on to the bed with her, opened the book once again, and began to read aloud.

Go on. Open it.

Open it, indeed. A package of poetry. A kiss of words. Delivered to our doorstep, and delivering the two of us from everything else. It was hours before we returned.

On the Cusp of Summer

2006-05-23T13:10:00.000-04:00

By the calendar's standards, Summer is nearly a month away, but by all other indications -- school ending, temperatures rising, gardens growing -- Summer is knocking on our door.

The pool opens this weekend, and we'll be there soon after. This summer promises to be filled with afternoons spent splashing in the cool water, playing underwater games, and snacking in the shade of umbrellas. My weekly CSA deliveries, ongoing now for about a month, are about to kick into high gear. Blueberries, peaches, corn and --- oooohhhhh -- tomatoes! I can taste them now. My own garden has started blossoming, hinting at the promise of its summer harvest. The sundown-shy evenings beckon with family activities -- bike riding, ice cream outings, and cool walks in the neighborhood. And the weekends blare their siren songs of outdoor concerts, time at the lake and movies at the park. My senses are filled with anticipation and glee.

Perhaps it's inevitable that the temperatures will begin to soar just a little too high. The breezes will halt and a stillness will descend upon us. All the activities will suddenly become just too much, and even those tomatoes will wear out their welcome. Perhaps.

But today, as I'm standing on the cusp of Summer, I can't do anything but smile. Bring it on.

Three Wishes

2006-05-21T20:47:00.000-04:00

[In response to Sunday Scribblings...]

For the first of her three wishes, she wished for another wish.

Her wish was granted.

For the second, she again wished for another wish, and it, too, was granted.

For her third wish? A wish, granted once again.

She got all that she wished for, and nothing at all.

I don't particularly care for wishes. Wishes are only stunted visions -- dreams without wings. A wish is cast off, tossed into the ether, sent to find its mythical grantor with only hope for sustenance. Saddled with heart-felt expectations, but given no heart for work, a wish is intrinsically and fatally flawed in its genesis. Its only destiny is a withered and dessicated death.

Dreams and visions, on the other hand, are conceived by their creator, lovingly nurtured, and, in the best of times, given birth into a world of the senses, a world of reality. Dreams share their creator's soul, flourishing in the nutrient-rich material of the dreamer's toil and passion. Once given life in the here in now, it's hard to find the seam that separates the dreamer from the dream. The dream is the dreamer. A dream fallen short of full fruition? Has still travelled farther than a wish.

I don't make wishes. I don't orphan my hopes. I give my hopes life in my dreams. Three wishes, thirty wishes, three thousand wishes -- I'd take one dream over them all.

Rite of Passage

2006-05-19T13:50:00.000-04:00

She cut her hair.

I should have known this was coming: the particularly intense interest in scissors lately; the previous day's experiment with the dolls' hair and the horses' manes; the scissors just disappearing and reappearing elsewhere of late. I should have known. Instead, I just casually returned the scissors to their rightful place -- where she could still get to them -- and didn't think a thing of it. What was I thinking?

Funny thing, though. I was thinking. I knew, deep down, it was coming. And I knew I couldn't stop it. It's a rite of passage, I think, cutting your own hair. Just after makeup with mommy, but before the first sleepover, before the first rollerskating party, before the first pierced earrings -- before all of this and so, so much more, little girls cut their hair. I'm not sure what draws us to do it. Perhaps there's something mysterious about the power of scissors that can't be explained by just cutting paper. Turning those scissors on our own hair isn't as much a destructive act, I believe, as it is an act of imagination, of journey, of fantasy, and, yes, of power. In one swift move, as we watch our own tendrils fall to the floor, we become aware of our capacity to impart drastic change -- in ourselves and in the world around us. I don't think for one moment I'm being overly analytical of this rite. There is truly something magical in cutting one's own hair. And my daughter? Has just lived some of this magic.

She'll look a little silly this summer. The choppy ends, the chunky pieces will all announce to the world her latest status: no longer a little girl. Burgeoning independence will mature and continue to ripen over the summer, I'm sure. The curiosity so central to her artistic exploration with scissors will lead her to many more adventures and discoveries. Drastic change -- in her world and the world around her -- is at her fingertips. She's ready, with a brand new style. I'm ready, too. This rite of passage, I celebrate.

Things I'm Thankful For

2006-05-17T14:19:00.000-04:00

One brand new Coffeemaker. No more mess, no more spills, and one cup of coffee hot enough to stay warm until the last drop. If I can't be given the time to enjoy a cup of hot coffee for Mother's Day, getting a cup of coffee hot enough to enjoy over time is the next best thing.

Gifts of toasters and coffeemakers might be the death knell of a relationship in your book -- a sign that meals shared in silence and evenings spent in la-z-boy isolation are on the near horizon, but not in my book. In my book? A gift of a coffeemaker represents perfect understanding and empathy. Downright sexy, I say.

Now, just what that says about me? I shudder to think. That's one for Things That Make You Go Hmmm.

Things My Dog Has Eaten

2006-05-15T16:45:00.000-04:00

My son's art project. An underwater "ocean"scape complete with sea creatures, coral, and -- you guessed it -- goldfish. And now, the goldfish are no longer. Picked clean by my favorite chow hound.

It seems as though my dog has developed an affinity for fine art. I can't imagine what he'd do with one of Warhol's Campbell's Soup masterpieces. The possibilities are endless.

The Books I Would Write

2006-05-13T22:41:00.000-04:00

[A friend of mine contributes to Sunday Scribblings. I don't fancy myself a writer, but I'm always up for a little inspiration.]

The books I would write would be the stories that live inside me. The ones that breathe and laugh and mope and cry and rattle about and sleep soundly within me. The stories that are polite guests in my soul, the ones that are unwelcome intruders, and the ones that are comfortable friends. The stories that are shy and self-conscious. The stories that are bold with conviction. These stories -- all of them -- would flow effortlessly through my pen. The ink wouldn't sputter. It wouldn't blot. Simply, I'd get it right.

All those moments of thought that appear to be on the edge of something bigger, something more meaningful? They would have life breathed into them, skin surrounding them, blood coursing within them in the books I would write.

The paths that seem to quickly fade from under my feet, leaving me lost, would suddenly reappear and lead me -- somewhere -- in the books I would write.

The headstrong passion that shouts within me would find boldface type and forceful fonts in the books I would write.

The beliefs I know, the facts I believe -- would each be found in the books I would write.

The questions I ask myself would be answered and explained in the books I would write.

And the things I do not know about my own self would reveal themselves to me in the books I would write.

The books I would write? They would have a faithful audience -- of one.

Stumbling on Yawl Point

2006-05-12T14:14:00.000-04:00

I stumbled on an old friend's blog the other day. A very old friend. We knew each other in first through third grades. We were next door neighbors in a cul-de-sac neighborhood, and we, along with one other girl in the cul-de-sac, made up a three-ring circus of outdoor play, imaginative folly, and flips. For close to four years, these three Navy brats, used to moving about and saying goodbye as much as we said hello, found a sense of permanence in each other. I think we knew it at the time -- there was something magical about our friendship, about that time in our lives. And then we moved away.

It's hard to expect a nine year old to maintain connections across thousands -- tens of thousands -- of miles. Dispersed across the world, literally, the letters were written faithfully at first, tucked in with stickers and pictures and puzzles and little surprises. But then, as the years passed, the distance between letters lengthened. Eventually, they stopped. Our parents kept in touch over the years, and we'd learn a little bit about each other's lives through that grapevine -- how her sister studied snakes, how she worked at a travel publishing house, how she'd gone to art school, how her brother had made her an aunt. She knew I'd gotten married, had two kids -- the basic stuff. Still, the magical memories were there, the special connection to that time so many years ago held strong.

I wasn't looking for her the other day when I Googled the name of a local business, but something struck me about the second entry on the results page. A few clicks later, and there she was. Odd, it seemed, to be peering into her life for a few minutes, anonymously lurking over her writing. Odder, still, it seemed, when a childhood photo of her and her little kitten -- whose name came right to my consciousness as soon as I laid eyes upon it -- appeared on one of the recent entries. A blog comment and an exchange of emails later, and a tenuous grasp on a connection was reestablished.

Where it goes from there is entirely unknown -- and entirely unsaddled with expectation or aspiration. We're two people more than half a lifetime away from who we were back then. I'm inclined to believe that there was something substantive, something formative, about our time together -- that the years in remission don't really mean all that much. But the realist in me also knows that a lot has occurred in the interim, and we're each as much a product of those ensuing years as we are the product of those magical years spent drawing and dancing and flipping and giggling. In any event, I've been given the rare opportunity to peek into "what ever happened to." Having done so, I see a lot of what happened way back then. There was little surprise in my view into her modern world.

It's been a fun week of reminiscing, not so much between the two of us, but in my own mind. Little details emerging from memory have brought small smiles of recognition to my face throughout the week. Even if that's all this reconnection engenders, it will have been worth it. Stumbling on an old friend, an old life, has been an unexpected and delightful trip, indeed.

Reports of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

2006-05-11T13:11:00.000-04:00

Tim hates fast food. Road trips with him are always an adventure in finding the right place to stop for a quick meal. So I was surprised, then, when he answered my "What do you want for dinner?" query upon heading out of town with a resigned, "Burgers." Burgers, huh? Well, ok then, I won't question you. I pulled into the first fast food joint we hit on the way out of town, only mildly questioning my husband's apparent displeasure when I did so. He'd been the one to suggest it, after all.

Ten minutes later, our stomachs filled with greasy malnourishment, my husband said, "I feel like crap."

"Um, Tim, you were the one who said you wanted burgers."

"Burgers? Who said anything about burgers? I said I wanted Bruegger's."

This misunderstanding has been one of our favorite examples of marital miscommunication. Until today.

After a particularly rough night of insomnia, I finally fell into a deep sleep at about 5 am. The alarm rudely woke me up at 6:08 with the newscaster saying, solemnly, "...Mohammad Ali is dead." Despite the tragic news, I had no interest in continuing to listen to the report. I'd been given precisely the most important piece of information, and I simply wanted the alarm silenced, so I could hopefully return to slumber. I nudged Tim to turn off the alarm. He resisted. I sharply poked him. He resisted again, complaining that he wanted to hear the rest of the story, which had been muffled by our wrangling. Particularly grumpy from my lack of sleep, I was unwilling to compromise. I barked, "He's dead. You can hear about it on the way to work. Now turn the damn thing off." My poor husband capitulated.

I went back to sleep dreaming of the young Cassius Clay, the older Mohammed Ali, and his mark on our generation and our parents' generation. I awoke a while later and began sharing the sad news during my morning phone calls to family and friends.

Only later in the morning did I turn to the web for more on the story. And then I discovered that there was no story. None. Not one word of his demise.

Had I dreamed it? Had I hallucinated in a sleep-deprived stupor? Only a review of NPR's morning edition online solved the mystery. Mohammed Ali, you see, is dead. At 6:08 this morning, about 7 minutes into this story, the newscaster indeed made the solemn proclamation. Only, he was talking about a poor victim of the violence in Iraq. Had I listened to my husband and the remainder of the story, I would have known this. Instead, I might very well be the root source of the latest urban legend sweeping the country like wildfire. And, at the very least, I've caused my husband yet another upset stomach.

I think someone's trying to tell me something. Apparently, though, I'm not listening.

My Life in 100 Words or Less: How Does Your Garden Grow?

2006-05-10T15:36:00.000-04:00

Our vegetable garden has begun to come to life. Peppers. Tomatoes. Cucumbers. And sweet, juicy strawberries.

It has become a mantra, my morning visit to the garden. Irrationally but faithfully, I check each morning to see what has grown, and, in the process, ground myself for the day's activities.

Zoe has her own garden mantra -- her own yogic meditation. Zoe’s verbalizations, though, are far from the deep, rythmic Ohm of a Yogi. Her mantra is an original tune of fantastic porportions sung to the plants sprouting before her. Grow!

I have no doubt it will be the best harvest ever.

Welcome Back

2006-05-09T13:12:00.000-04:00

My last day in St. John was spent alone. Due to a complicated set of circumstances, Tim had a separate flight taking off a day earlier than my departure. During the months preceding my vacation, I spent a lot of time fantasizing about that single day - alone, untethered, utterly disconnected and entirely free of responsibility. The day promised to be entirely other-worldly and exotic, in other words.

When the day came, it turned out to be a little less exotic and a little more, well, boring than I'd anticipated. Reading, daydreaming, and idle wandering in the solo form held little appeal when the preceding week had been filled with such activities in the shared form. The prospects of the next day's travel looming ahead of me and the welcome homecoming immediately following only exacerbated my impatience and frustration with the day. Solitude, I concluded, wasn't all that I'd built it up to be. I was ready to come home.

Bouyed by this conclusion, I began composing in my head an entry about the temporal nature of wanderlust -- that it's only at its strongest when it's firmly rooted in home soil. Plucked from its groundings, sent to the very places for which it yearns, it seems to eventually wither and fade, turning its desires back to familiar ground. Home and the familiar, then, are as intrinsic as the exotic in wanderlust's constitution. Eventually, the ideal escape lives out its life, transforming itself into the ideal homecoming.

And then I came home. And the homecoming has proven to be far from ideal. The terrors at my feet, claiming to be my children, are far less endearing than the sweet beings I'd imagined. The normal, but still painful, problems of dealing with a two and a four year old didn't magically disappear in the course of the week. The two year old is still very much a two year old, and the four year old is very much a fourteen year old. My nerves, instead of being regenerated by a week of relaxation, are instead entirely out of shape and ill-prepared to absorb the onslaught. I'm nothing short of incapable these days -- incapable of soothing my children, my self, and my mind, and the resulting frustration, anxiety and guilt are crushing. Was it only two days ago that I stepped off the plane? Surely, it was two years ago.

A year ago, I claimed that vacation was "all I ever wanted." Today, if I'm being really honest with myself, I'm not so sure about that assertion. If coming home means coming home to days like this, then I'm not so sure I want a vacation. Either that, or I'm going to have to seriously revise my conclusions about wanderlust. Because, you see, a walkabout without a walk back home sounds pretty good right now.

Pick Your Battles, 101

2006-04-28T13:39:00.000-04:00

Hot pink, cropped pants.
Purple socks.
Brown sandals.

I can only ask myself, "Did I choose wisely?"

Vacation

2006-04-25T14:13:00.000-04:00

I'm heading off on Vacation on Saturday. And, between now and then? The wicker chickens will be running around with their heads cut off. Crazy, a bit.

I need a little vacation from this blog, too. The combination of embarrassment and sadness over the quality of my writing -- not from a strictly academic assessment, but from a "is it serving my purpose?" point of view -- has me feeling the need to take a step back and really ask myself a few pointed questions about it all. I want to take the time to get those answers right.

I'll see you in a few weeks.

Rounding Out My Week of Weak Entries

2006-04-21T15:02:00.000-04:00

I lit a match last night -- to clear out the smell of a fart in my bedroom.

I lit a match last night -- to clear out the smell of my dog's fart in my bedroom.

If anything were to illustrate the dynamics of my relationship with my dog, this would be it. Clearly, this warrants a hmmmm.

By God, The Bathroom! She's Finished!

2006-04-20T15:51:00.000-04:00

I shudder to think how long it actually took. We're not talking new fixtures. We're not talking a new floor or a reconfiguration of walls. Folks, it's just wallpaper removal, paint, a shower curtain, some hardware and a little custom art. That's what we call a cosmetic update. Maybelline, at that -- not the Bobbi Brown stuff. I haven't the kind of house you attempt a full-scale bathroom remodel on. That's for the next house, presumably. Then again, I don't think I should be buying a house that requires any sort of updates to the bathroom after this experience.

In any event, it's done. I'll share pictures. Although, upon inspection, the pictures give off a odd 1970's feel to the bathroom. I promise -- really -- it's quite modern and fun, despite any appearances otherwise. And, if you think differently -- please keep your opinions to yourself. I only want oooohhs and ahhhhs from the peanut gallery.

Take note of the custom artwork! And the fancy-shmancy shower curtain! I really outdid myself on that one, going far beyond a border and actually introducing piping! Piping, folks! And the walls -- not just one color of blue, not just two colors of blue -- but THREE. COLORS. OF. BLUE. All in one room! I've been watching too much HGTV, apparently. When it's the only cable channel that bleeds in on your basic service, this can happen.

Again, I say she's done. I might even have to throw the second "Come Pee in my Potty Party" of my lifetime. Yes, I've already had one of those. It's really quite a blast. You're invited.

But, despite having said otherwise no less than three times in this post, I must confess. She's not really done. In true Hansen tradition, there's one very small remaining task: caulking the nail holes in the crown moulding and touching up the paint. I figure we'll get to that by December. The devil's in the details, remember.

Things I'm Thankful For

2006-04-19T14:48:00.000-04:00

Yoga. In a time in my life when things are getting decidedly out of control, I'm grateful for Yoga. Tell me, folks, what other form of exercise includes arriving in flip-flops and finishing with a nap -- separated by a good ass-kicking in between?

Kristy B. and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

2006-04-12T19:58:00.000-04:00

The alarm went off exactly one hour after I finally got to sleep (damn insomnia!) and less than thirty-seconds later my son woke up which meant I wouldn't get a shower in peace and then my hair wouldn't "do" right and I got deodorant on my t-shirt. Evan didn't like the breakfast he requested and Zoe wouldn't get out of bed and Tim had to leave for work early, and my coffee, when I got to it, was cold. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Evan hated the shorts I put on him so he pitched a fit and then when I tried to put his new sandals on he freaked out entirely giving me a big kick in protest. Zoe's hair was all in tangles which meant the world was going to end as I combed her hair and then she hated the shorts I picked out for her. I was lucky to put on matching clothes and rush out the door to get them to school on time.

I think I'll move to Australia.

On the way to the car, Zoe wanted to pick flowers for her teacher and I had to tell her no because you're not supposed to pick mommy's flowers and then she pitched a fit and I had to decide if it was a battle I really wanted to fight. In the meantime, Evan decided he didn't want to go to school and started crying uncontrollably. At school? He clung to my leg as if I was about to drop him off in Hell.

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

The kids brought home Easter candy and begged and begged to eat it all and then when I said they couldn't have it they both disintegrated into puddles of tears.

At ballet class, Zoe slammed the door on her friend and then lied to me insisting that she didn't do it and then when I talked to her sternly about fibbing and slamming doors, she melted into a puddle of tears and said I was hurting her feelings. The moms in the waiting room were simply talking too loud and giving me a headache, so when I went into the back room to just get some peace and quiet, Evan pitched a fit and fell and hurt himself on the floor.

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I could tell alright because when I took the kids to lunch after ballet class, I turned around a moment to order lunch and I heard a scream and then I turned around again to see Evan crying and holding his hand which he'd just placed on the fireplace. Who needs a fireplace in April? So then everyone was staring at the worst mommy in the world, the one who lets her child run free in a restaurant, neglects basic safety precautions, and allows her child to scream bloody murder and disturb the peace of the establishment. We're going home, I said. And then Zoe let out a scream in disappointment of being denied a lunch date with her ballet friends. I think she said something about wanting me to go away to Australia.

When I got home, Evan cried for three hours straight and wouldn't let me leave his side and then Zoe cried because I wouldn't come to her side. The dog started barking, someone was at the door and the phone started ringing.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Only three people showed up for my book club, and my dog ate the brownies. Zoe didn't like her hot dog, the lady at the gym nursery was a bitch, and Evan refused to keep his burn dressed. The kids cried for more Easter candy and I said I was mailing the candy to Australia.

At bedtime, Evan wanted lots and lots and lots of toothpaste and I had to be the meany and tell him no. He told me to leave him alone. I wanted to tell him to leave me alone, but I couldn't. Then he discovered Monsters. Great. Monsters.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I'm home alone this evening, the laundry has piled up, my bathroom still isn't finished, and I'm watching Howie Mandel on TV. Howie Mandel, folks. Howie Mandel.

It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

My mom says some days are like that. Even in Australia.

(Of course, she's in Africa.)

Mundane Comforts

2006-04-10T15:58:00.000-04:00

I wanted to pick up the phone and call her. I reached for the phone and then stopped.

An inescapable sadness gripped me when I realized I wouldn't be reaching her today. Not today, or for the next three weeks. Travelling, she is, with little or no access to modern communications.

I was sad that I simply couldn't share. Something mundane, but important all the same.

The matter of great importance? That the t-shirt I'd bought with her -- the one that had an irresponsible price tag -- turned out to be one of the best fitting shirts I'd worn in ages. She would be thrilled to know this. Then again, she probably already knew.

This? Is me and my mom.

Miss you!

NOW We're Talking

2006-04-07T14:02:00.000-04:00

Approved at the National Organization for Women's most recent Board Meeting:

OPPOSING BANS ON VAGINAL BIRTH AFTER CESAREAN (VBAC)

WHEREAS, the National Organization for Women (NOW) has a long history of supporting a woman's right to make reproductive choices; and

WHEREAS, Vaginal Birth After Cesarean (VBAC) has repeatedly been shown to be a safe and reasonable choice for women; and

WHEREAS, VBAC labors that are not induced or augmented with drugs proceed without the need for emergency surgical intervention 99.6% of the time; and

WHEREAS, unnecessary cesareans pose serious risks to mothers, including two to four times a greater chance of maternal death; increased risk of emergency hysterectomy; injury to blood vessels and other organs; chronic pain due to internal scar tissue; increased chance of re-hospitalization; complications involving the placenta in subsequent pregnancies; and

WHEREAS, unnecessary cesareans pose risks to the infant, including an increased risk of respiratory distress syndrome; prematurity; the development of childhood asthma; and a 1-9% chance the baby will be cut during surgery; and

WHEREAS, over 300 hospitals within the United States have banned VBAC, including at least one hospital in every state; and

WHEREAS, it has been reported that some women seeking care in hospitals that ban VBAC have been forcibly anesthetized and C-sectioned when they try to withhold consent to surgery; and

WHEREAS, the right to refuse unwanted and unnecessary medical treatment is a fundamental right; and

WHEREAS, the right to bodily integrity is a fundamental right,

THEREFORE BE IT RESOLVED, that NOW oppose institutional and healthcare policies that deny women's access to VBAC; and

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED, that NOW's policy statements, brochures, and fact sheets concerning reproductive freedom include information on VBAC; and

BE IT FINALLY RESOLVED, that NOW and its chapters work with national and state health care organizations and providers to oppose legislation and public policy that would restrict women's access to VBAC and to medically accurate and comprehensive information on childbirth and the right to choose VBAC.

It's about choice, my friends. Choice.

When My Son Reads Only For Plot, I Shall Be Only Half-Responsible

2006-04-04T13:34:00.000-04:00

A propos of nothing in particular the other day, I said to my husband, "We need to get rid of the board books in Evan's room."

This had nothing to do with needing more space on his bookshelf.

This had everything to do with temptation. It's just too easy to grab a short board book -- two if it's been a really bad day -- to hasten the bed-time routine. Far too often, the hand reaches for Boynton over the Bard. So shameful. In my book, denying my son the pleasures of reading is nothing short of a cardinal sin.

Without a word of further explanation from me, my husband smiled at me in complete recognition. "Guilty too, huh?"

Cramping My (Home Decorating) Style

2006-04-03T14:52:00.000-04:00

Years ago, while shopping for our first home, I bird-dogged a home without my husband and instantly fell in love.

"I've found our home," I said immediately upon leaving the home and calling him for an update. "It's perfect."

I was already decorating the home in my imagination when my husband burst my bubble. Upon his tour of the home, he reported "That place is a cosmetic nightmare. Every wall has to be painted or stripped of wallpaper -- a cosmetic nightmare."

Which was exactly my point: "That's it -- it's only cosmetic. We can handle that. A little bit of elbow grease will work wonders on that house."

Ultimately, he wasn't swayed by my pleas and that perfect house went into the hands of some other handy family. We did, however, end up purchasing our own set of cosmetic projects with the purchase of the 1920's bungalow that we called home for five years. During that time, we painted, refinished floors, installed a garden, and entirely updated the only bathroom in the home.

(This, in and of itself, was quite the feat. Our only commode was out of commission for several days. Let's just say we got to know our neighbors very well during this time. And when our other neighbors -- who had only lived in their house for a month -- approached us about using our bathroom to shower for several weeks while they renovated their bathroom, we didn't think twice about handing over our house key to them for said purpose. Talk about a special neighborhood.)

All of these projects were carried out with efficiency and purpose by our own two hands. We were the epitome of the do-it-yourself couple -- right down to the authentic bruise atop my husband's head at the hands of yours truly and a rogue 2x4. We did it so well and so enjoyably, that we even signed on for another cosmetic challenge with our present house. Surely we could bring out the beauty within this beast.

In Gretchen's words: We were completely fucking mental.

That wallpaper I stripped weeks ago? The resulting bare walls sat untouched for weeks on end. The bathroom itself was out of operation for much of that time, as we'd had to remove the toilet tank to strip the paper behind it and were unwilling to replace it in the interim. Six weeks later, we're still not done, although I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Sad thing is, I'm keenly aware that it's the details that are remaining, and therein lies the devil, for sure. Clearly, though, our do-it-yourself spirit has been bested by the realities of, well, life.

Just cosmetic? Ahh, how I shall eat my words. These days, it's still a nightmare, if not all the more.

Hair

2006-03-31T14:28:00.000-05:00

This week, my daughter discovered braids. Her grandmother sent her a book, clearly published in the 1970's and prominently featuring a girl in pig-tailed braids.

"Mommy, I want my hair in twisty-things," Zoe proclaimed shortly after spending her quiet time perusing the new old book.

Uh Oh, I thought. This is from the girl who will barely let me comb her hair. Hair maintenance is a purely practical task around here. Enduring sitting still and a little bit of discomfort for the sake of vanity is an entirely foreign concept. "You really want braids?" I asked, assuming -- hoping -- I'd get an answer in the negative.

"Yes!" There was no denying her conviction.

I gathered four hair ties and went to work. Her excitement was palpable. She sat still for the procedure, and I suddenly found myself enjoying the moment as well. There was odd and unexpected pleasure to be found in the brushing, stroking and preening. This wasn't the chore of wrangling her angry hair into submission each morning. I'd come to associate working with her hair as just that -- a chore. This? It wasn't work. It was a quiet moment of blissful touch.

The finished product was hardly a facsimile of the girl in the book, who had the advantage of the appropriate length hair for such a style, but, in the end, there were two pig-tails bound by braids sticking out the sides of my daughter's head. The look was entirely juvenile, but stunningly "big girl" at the same time. Stripped of the frame of her hair, her face suddenly appeared older, less child-like. I was taken aback. It was only the ten-thousandth reminder -- just this week -- that my daughter is growing up.

For now, Zoe is content to ask me to braid her hair each morning. I'm glad to oblige, happy for the opportunity for the moment of closeness. I know it won't be long before she'll be able to braid her own hair. Perhaps before then, even, she'll tire of braids and abandon them for styles requiring upkeep and products. Those plaits will become a distant memory for her. This is only inevitable. But for me, the pleasant memories of touching my daughter's hair and watching her transform before my eyes will be forever bound up in braids.

Imperative Indulgence

2006-03-30T08:29:00.000-05:00

I had the pleasure last night of re-reading a good portion of a friend's old blog entries. This, in turn, led me to read a good portion of my old entries. I've been writing in this blog consistently for well over a year. All along, I've been unapologetic about my intentions in doing so. I write, simply, to give my children an opportunity to better understand who I am -- one day. In the meantime, I'm writing for myself. As I read through many of the entries I've written over the past year, I enjoyed reliving the moments that brought me to write them in the first place. The act of re-reading them was certainly as indulgent as the act of writing them.

But is it really? Indulgent? I'm not so sure.

In the last couple of months, as I've struggled to sort and shift and reassign my priorities to insert my part-time work into my days, the thing for which I've felt the most remorse, the most sadness, is losing the time to sit, to think, and to write with quality. Not everything I put into this blog over the last year was quality writing. I daresay, little of it was. But, any time I had an idea that I wanted to develop -- to mull over -- I found the time to do so. My thoughts were deposited into this blog, safe and secure. Little, if anything, of importance to me fell to the wayside. Such is not the case over the last few months. Those precious hours in the afternoon are usually reserved for work right now. By the evening? I'm simply too tired.

Little by little, I've watched as thoughts, moments, memories and ideas have simply slipped through my fingertips and disappeared into the ether. I'm trying, of course. Not everything slips away. But the luxurious hours I used to spend crafting and coaxing my thoughts onto virtual paper are rare now. The thoughts I had, just today, about Zoe and Evan and their very special relationship as sister and brother -- I'm not certain they'll find a place here. The bliss spread over their face upon biting into crisp apples, and the simple joy I felt upon watching them in the rear-view mirror? Tenuously captured, if at all. Countless other thoughts and moments have already suffered the same fate.

So is this exercise really an indulgence, then? That it became, by necessity, a lesser priority might lead one to think so. In the economics of decision making, this activity has suffered. But the cost of lost memories and derailed trains of thought is far more dear.

Rebecca Will Have No Doubt Where She Falls In This Picture

2006-03-28T14:31:00.000-05:00

Reasons #1,687 - 1,689 why I love me the Internet:

I've spent the better part of yesterday afternoon and this morning watching a web cast of the National Institute of Health's "State of the Science" Conference on Cesarean Delivery on Maternal Request. At the same time, I was connected via instant messaging technology to several other people watching the same conference, providing a unique opportunity for enriching commentary. And, at one point in time when we wanted to get a message to an attendee at said conference, what did we do? We text-messaged her.

It doesn't clean bathrooms, but it sure is better than sliced bread.

Learning the Alphabet, Any Way He Can

2006-03-23T10:31:00.000-05:00

As he deposited a long, loose stool into the commode, he peered down to inspect his accomplishment. The exact character of the product in question was only fully revealed with his comment: "Ooooohhh! Look! It's a 'W'!"

As unpopular as she is in my circle of friends, Dooce would be nothing short of proud. Me? I'm not so sure.

A Deeper Look Into Hmmm

2006-03-23T09:58:00.000-05:00

The other evening's "Hmmm" post was my knee-jerk reaction to observing, for my doula certification, the fourth of five sessions of a childbirth education class. I've been attending these classes with a raised eyebrow for weeks now, and that one simply pushed me over the edge. I needed to vent, and my blog takes my huffing and puffing quite well.

In all honesty, it's been nothing short of depressing observing this class. The phrase lambs to the slaughter has entered my mind more than once as I watch the instructor, time after time, gloss over fundamental facts, omit entirely pertinent information, and simply smile in uncomfortable capitulation to convey words she is not "authorized" to proclaim. I'm not a conspiracy theorist; I know quite well plenty of women are well-served by this education and plenty more find their own way to the education that they need. These women aren't all lambs. But some are. There's no denying that.

I have a friend who has questioned why I would ever want to be a doula in a hospital birth. "I'm too jaded," she says. "I couldn't do it. I'd watch one nurse do one thing cavalierly, as routine, and I'd be compelled to overstep my bounds. Why are you going to do it?" To her question my answer has always been the same: "Because I believe in it." No matter the setting -- and perhaps because of the setting -- I believe women should be supported in labor.

But throughout my observation of this class, my friend's words have taken on a different meaning. They no longer mean "Why would you put yourself through it?" They mean: Why be a part of it? Why supply your tacit approval with your presence? And as I've sat in this class, respecting my place as an observer, I've found it extremely difficult -- downright uncomfortable -- to simply be there. Tacit approval? The urge to withdraw myself is more than a little strong. This is a question I'm going to have to consider carefully. For now, I'm going to believe my anger can be used constructively.

If forced to look a little deeper, I also realize my anger is not entirely about watching it happen -- it's about watching it happen again. Except the first time I saw it, I didn't know it was happening. I didn't know it was happening to me.

Another friend of mine said she looked forward to watching me grow in my journey to become a doula. In response to her comment, I thought to myself, I've done my growing. And, for the most part, my statement is true. Shock and Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance -- I know them all quite well. Although my beliefs have changed quite a bit while making their acquaintance, the only feeling remaining in my heart is Acceptance. I've made my peace. And yet? When confronted with who I was back then, the poor choices I made? It still hurts. It will always hurt.

Observing this class will not be the only time I'm confronted with my past. I can think of a dozen possible moments directly related to my doula work that will cause me to look back, and I'm certain there are countless more I'm unable to predict. Thing is, for every trigger that exists within the landscape of my doula work, there's another trigger within the landscape of life. Knowing this? That's acceptance.

But my friend is right. My journey will require growing. Deconstructing this anger is just a part of that growth. Keeping check on my intentions, my motivations, my purpose -- that's another part of that growth. I'll always need to ask myself questions, and answer them honestly. I suppose, then, this journey and this growth is all about stopping a moment and thinking, "Hmmm."

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

2006-03-21T21:19:00.000-05:00

Thirty Six Minutes. Thirty. Six. Minutes. Every medical intervention common in a hospital birth today -- amniotomy, forceps delivery, vacuum extraction, pitocin induction and augmentation, episiotomy, electronic fetal monitoring, epidural analgesia, oh, and cesarean section -- presented to a room full of first-time expectant parents. In Thirty Six Minutes.

This is our childbirth education. This is reason number 4,256 why our birth culture is entirely fucked up.

Things that make you go Hmmm? No, things that make you go AAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys

2006-03-20T18:33:00.000-05:00

The other night, while my daughter and I were out on a date seeing a local production of James and the Giant Peach, my husband and son sat down together to a dinner of roasted pork tacos with lime and cilantro and frijoles charros. Straight from the Southwest, but ever so much more inspired. (When I had my taste the following day, I lamented the fact that I surely must have fallen from grace in my past life. To suffer the indignities of the American pallette whilst being ever so aware of the beauty that is Mexican food is surely the worst form of punishment.)

My two cowboys finished the evening upstairs, playing and enjoying each other's company. In a moment of solitary play, Evan set up Bob the Builder and Forklift Guy (two guesses as to his lot in life) in a little play of their own.

"What are they doin', Evan?" my husband asked.

"Eatin' dinner, " Evan replied, always the verbal minimalist.

"What are they eating?" my husband prodded.

And as the backdrop of the beautiful Wyoming sky descended upon the playroom and the crumpled twang of Heath Ledger's Ennis echoed throughout the air, my son took misguided inspiration from the evening's meal and replied:

"Pork and Beans."

Clearly, he doesn't share my love.

Owning Up to Reality

2006-03-18T15:18:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I went to see Wilco in concert. Between the "Is this going to be a 'sitting down' show or a 'standing up' show?" question I asked on my way, my surprise-turned-concern at the discovery of the existence of an opening act, implying that we'd be getting home really late -- like 11:30, the pain I felt upon learning the answer to my previous question (decidedly "standing up"), and the strange disconnect I felt while observing fully one-third of the audience using their cell-phones throughout the performance -- to take pictures, to shoot video, to text message, and, oh, to talk, I was forced to consider the possibility that I was, in fact, old.

Friday night, I went to another concert. Emmylou Harris, quite possibly the most stunning 59 year-old alive, put on a delightful performance. We audience members sat comfortably throughout the show, not a single cell phone was to be found, and I was at home at an entirely reasonable hour. I was also well below the average age of the rest of the audience, who, in general, resembled that of The Lawrence Welk Show.

In this case, being among the youngest in the crowd is simply nothing to write home about. That possibility I was considering a mere two weeks ago? I might just have to accept it as fact.

Girl Power

2006-03-17T14:41:00.000-05:00

"I wanna be a boy!" my daughter proclaimed loudly last night. It was her form of protest for being required to sit on the potty to pee. Her eyes reflected the pure injustice she was called upon to bear.

Moments later, I ushered my son onto his makeshift step-stool (fashioned out of two phonebooks and some duct tape -- how's that for recycling?) in front of the commode. In the ensuing moments, I held my breath, praying that he would get it all in the potty. He didn't. Thing is, sitting hadn't fared any better for him. Peeing on the potty, it seems, was an act to be taken literally: on the potty, on the floor, on me. Ewwww. No matter what the position -- standing, seated -- the aim is decidedly not true. The apparatus is, simply, flawed in its design.

Rethink your proclamation, Miss Zoe. Because, in my eyes? You most definitely do not want to be a boy.

You Never Forget Your First One

2006-03-14T13:15:00.000-05:00

When I started knitting a little more than a year ago, I'd look over at the women next to me knitting sweaters and secretly stare in awe. Wow, I thought, What an accomplishment! New and uninitiated, I couldn't imagine ever getting there.

Turns out, this knitting thing really isn't all that difficult. Pretty simple, really. You knit. You pearl. Combine these two stitches in any number of ways, and, well, that's about it. So, after too many small projects that ended just too quickly, I decided it was time for a sweater -- something simple, but detailed enough to keep me busy for a while. With a gift checque in my hand, courtesy of my generous husband willing to share his bonus from work, I headed to the yarn store to seek out the perfect pattern and the perfect yarn. Whether it was my self-imposed timeline or just pure luck, the quest was fulfilled in one morning's outing late last fall. By the afternoon, I was home and casting on.

I worked on it -- in a very off and on fashion -- throughout the late fall and winter. Slowly, but surely, the stitches piled on, creating a fabric that was destined to be my first sweater. I was delighted to watch it grow by my own hands.

I followed the instructions religiously, though, a few times, I questioned them. Should I really increase here?, I'd say to myself. Hmm, I think this should be larger here, I'd think to myself. But, I was once taught by a wise woman to always follow the instructions. Have faith in them, she'd said. And so, I followed the instructions and ignored my inner voice, believing it would all work out in the end.

Every once in a while, I'd try the garment on to check the length of the body, the length of the sleeve, or the fit of the bust. As the sweater grew, I began to have concerns about the fabric. It hung oddly and wouldn't lay right. That same wise woman assured me that blocking the fabric would work magic on my concerns. Again, I had faith that it would all work out in the end.

Several weeks ago, I bound off the last sleeve. I was done. I'd completed, on my own, that awe-inspiring task I'd held such regard for just a year ago. I was there. I called my wise friend and arranged an evening of wine and steam. The wine to loosen my nerves; the steam to loosen my sweater.

As it turns out, blocking does work magic. Those areas that seemed to torque and squirm just melted away under the heat of the steam. And the wine was good, too. By the end of the evening, I had a sweater I was delighted with (and memories of a delightful evening of conversation, too).

But those instructions I'd questioned? It appears I was spot on in my concerns. Certainly, the sweater is fantastic and I'm proud to wear it (already have, in fact). But, I could have spared an increase here and a decrease there. I still think my friend's advice is sound -- instructions can lead you through murky waters and get you to the solid shore. But, with this sweater, I've discovered something else: my instincts can get me even further. A year ago, I didn't have any knitting insticts; with months and months of projects under my belt, I'm surprised and blessed to learn I've got a voice I can trust in the matter.

Perhaps my tendency to extract lessons from many of my knitting projects is pure contrivance. I have no doubt the lessons I find in my knitting are eye-roll inducing to others. But, I must believe such an investment of time reaps rewards far beyond the finished product. This sweater is no exception. Faith in the process and trust in my instincts: strike the right balance, and the product is nothing short of poetry.

Details

2006-03-13T13:38:00.000-05:00

Friday morning I awoke to a forecast of 75 degrees and sunny skies. Taking advantage of one of the blessings of staying at home with my kids, I abandoned my plans for the morning and headed to the lake house to enjoy the beautiful day -- and weekend -- that lay before us. The lake house is in a small town in Virginia, where my mother grew up and where I spent countless weekends as a young girl.

Heading down the back country roads to the lake house, I was basking in the glory of the day and found myself in a blissful mood. Those roads are near to my heart. Every inch of them, it seems, holds a memory from my childhood. And the last few miles? Are my life spread out in landscape.

As we approached the lake house, I told Zoe and Evan we would soon be passing the house where my mother grew up. "Look. There it is," I said. The small brick home slid by, a black mystery to them. Perhaps Zoe and Evan logged something of the home in their memories. The brick exterior. The glassed-in porch. The ivy growing up the stone chimney. These things, they are but materials. Me? In the moment it took to pass the house, I recalled every corner of the interior. The warm wood floors. The winding staircase with that one errant nail-head poking up, threatening to strike any inattentive toe. And the dark rooms to the north, chilling and inviting at the same time. Details, both architectural and emotional, that will never be known to my children. I felt a pang of sadness.

We continued on up the road. Up ahead lay a series of small hills -- hills that my father would navigate at high speeds in a clunky old barge of a vehicle, sending waves of giddiness throughout our bodies as we experienced the closest thing to weightlessness our earth-bound bodies could sustain. That feeling always marked one thing: we were home. Instinctively, I picked up speed, approaching an irresponsible velocity. My kids in the back seat began to giggle. And then I crested that first hill. Just like so long ago, that familiar feeling of weightlessness took over inside. Zoe and Evan, they felt it too. The giggling erupted into laughter as they said, "Again! Again! Do it again!" just like I'd urged my father years ago. I was more than happy to oblige. I was glad to share with them that one emotional detail from my childhood.

Moments later, we pulled into the gravel drive leading to the lake house. The kids were excited. Their anticipation was palpable. Up ahead lay a weekend of blissful play with cousins and grandparents -- the stuff warm memories are made of. As the pops and pings of the gravel hitting the underside of the car provided a soundtrack to the anticipation inside, I couldn't help but hope Zoe and Evan were forming emotional details that very moment. A different house. A different road. Different details. But family stays the same. We were home.

Proof Positive That I've Matured. Or, Is It Regressed?

2006-03-08T13:44:00.000-05:00

A year ago, a month ago, a week ago, I would have cringed at the thought. Oh, the mess!

Yesterday, I just kissed her. Chocolate kisses, however messy, are still so very sweet.

Seeds

2006-03-06T13:48:00.000-05:00

I pulled up along-side my friend's house, eagerly anticipating an evening of knitting, cameraderie, and conversation. Next to her house stood the house I used to live in, several years and a lifetime ago. Focused on the evening ahead, I almost missed them. But there, under the spotlight of the poorly aimed streetlamp, bunches of daffodils glowed their yellows and whites, warming up the crisp evening air.

Those perennial harbingers of spring, I'd hesitated to plant them years ago. Boring, I'd said, Uninspired. But in the time since my departure, they've flourished. What were small, pitiful bunches are now abundant masses shouting their message to passers-by. Hardly uninspired. I paused for a moment before I went in the door, taking in the blooms' sunshine, and remembering my days with them with fondness.

Sometimes, you plant something, and then you forget about it. On it grows, as it should, independent and strong. In reality, it owes you nothing. But, if you're lucky, you're given a chance to remember, to be reminded, that it was you who was blessed to be there, so long ago.

Hallmark Corny, But It's Really What Went Through My Head

2006-03-02T20:54:00.000-05:00

As I was listening to a rather vitriolic conversation on the ultimate mommy war today, I caught myself getting caught up in the emotion. One participant was lamenting the lack of choice so many women face when considering what's right for their family: many women simply can't stay at home, given the realities of their economic situation, and many women have to stay at home, when they weigh their income against the cost of childcare. Non-decisions, really.

And then there's me, I thought. Choosing to give up a healthy salary, and then utterly discounted for it, in so many ways. So much thrown away in people's eyes: a salary. an education. a productive member of society. All for diapers and snot. A $100,000 decision.

And then I stepped away from the emotion. I thought about how I really didn't care about what other folks thought. I thought about how, despite all the rough days and shed tears, the diapers and snot, I knew this was right for me, for us.

This wasn't a $100,000 decision. It was priceless.

Book 'em, Dano

2006-03-01T20:33:00.000-05:00

What do you do when you have a thousand things to say, but no time to say it well? Hop on a meme, of course. One for which I was extra special tagged, I might add. Damn, once you allow it to happen, it really doesn't feel all that icky. Isn't that how really bad habits happen? I got me a meme habit, then.

1. Name five of your favorite books.

The Bird Artist, by Howard Norman. I wrote about my passion for the book once upon a time. It might not be the most triumphant book ever written, but I'm so very thankful I read it.
The Known World, by Edward P. Jones. Like Ms. Pea's list, mine, too, is heavily weighted on recent reads. This one is no exception. Its exploration of moral ambiguities was riveting.
James and the Giant Peach, and Danny, Champion of the World, both by Roald Dahl. If The Bird Artist re-kindled my love of books as an adult, these two books sparked the original fire. The man's a genius.
All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy. This one is remotely in the same category as The Bird Artist in terms of why I look fondly upon it. Additionally, the scenery is beautiful.
Three Junes, by Julia Glass. First. Novel. First! Unbelievable.

2. What was the last book you bought (or brought home from the library)?

Birth as an American Right of Passage, by Robbie Davis-Floyd. This one isn't even a read for my Doula training. You want to hear that list?

3. What was the last book you read?

I'll spare you the doula reading (although I'd urge anyone to check them out). Outside of doula reading, I just read Kafka on the Shore, by Haruki Murakami. Ms Pea has a better policy on books she doesn't like: she puts them down. Me? I read it and then say, "Well, I'm glad I read it in a nice-to-have-made-your-acquaintance kind of way." I'll be steering very, very clear of Murakami in the future. Not my cup of green tea.

4. List 5 books that have been particularly meaningful to you.

Wait?! Aren't those my favorite books?! Ok, in addition to my favorites:

The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down, by Anne Fadiman. A really interesting read about a cultural clash in a medical setting. This one touched me way before the events in my life that induced (Ha! The irony!) my medical skepticism took place.
Thinking Woman's Guide to a Better Birth, by Henci Goer. Absurdly provocative title aside, it really did make for some interesting, informative reading.
Encounters with the Archdruid, by John McPhee. Hey, think a little about what part you play in this world.
Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The language! And it's a translation!
Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. Hey, it was the only book assigned to me in High School that I actually read!

5. Name three books you've been dying to read but just haven't gotten around to it.

1491: New Revelations of the Americas before Columbus, by Charles C. Mann. What can I say? It's piqued my interest.
Atonement, by Ian McEwan. It has come highly recommended by some highly regarded friends.
The Quiet American, by Graham Greene. Because, well, I want to read it.

Things My Dog Has Eaten

2006-02-27T18:37:00.000-05:00

My daughter's lunchbox. And the lunchbox that replaced it. And the lunchbox that replaced that one. And -- you guessed it -- lunchbox #4 went the way of the dodo, right along with my son's lunchbox, this very evening. Five lunchboxes since September.

The only thing good about this? Husband and children are off to Target to buy lunchboxes #6 and #7 as we speak, giving me time to pen this little entry.

I won't go so far as to say I'm thankful...

Fledging

2006-02-24T14:00:00.000-05:00

Each night, after he's been dressed for bed, Evan stands on top of his dressing table and takes a flying leap into my arms. It started out as a hesitant, yet insistent, lean into my patiently waiting hands. Over the course of almost two years, it has progressed into a full-on leap, complete with air-time, giggles, and a rush of adrenaline in both of us. It's our shared mantra, one we look forward to every evening. With a devilish grin he looks at me, and without so much as a response to my "Ready?," he throws himself forward, implicitly trusting the arms outstretched and ready to catch him.

Every ounce of my rational mind says I shouldn't encourage him to do this -- taking flying leaps off high places just isn't sound practice. But every moment of my mothering soul says I should let him fly. It won't be into my arms one day. This I know. But when that day comes, I believe the lessons of these bed-time leaps of faith will be the force sustaining his flight.

Forget Johnson & Johnson, I'll take two Evans

2006-02-24T12:03:00.000-05:00

"I'm having a bad day," I said to Evan, unfairly unloading on his ill-equipped ears and foolishly looking to him for salvation.

"You hurt?" he asked empathetically in response.

"Yes, I hurt."

He took the burden unjustly heaped upon him with astounding insight.

"Get BAND-AID," he said. "You need BAND-AID."

Watchful Eye

2006-02-21T15:09:00.000-05:00

Zoe's play date yesterday was certainly not her first. It wasn't even particularly eventful, save the home gymnasium that afforded much delight. No, yesterday's play date was simply four giggle-and-nonsense-filled hours of independent play at someone else's house, providing fodder for delightful stories for hours and hours afterward. Normal, ordinary, kid stuff. And, in that very respect, it's worth noting.

I can remember, distinctly, being close to Zoe's age and spending countless hours with a gaggle of kids roaming the neighborhood. The woods behind our houses afforded much delight on sunny days. On rainy days, we'd parade from house to house, raiding kitchens and playrooms with reckless abandon. We weren't given any supervision beyond that which an eye out the window or an ear to the door could provide.

Quests, hunts, games, puzzles, frights and giggles -- they were all ours. Our play was imaginative and spontaneous, and all of it our own doing. Those supervisory eyes and ears rarely, if ever, entered our world, and, when they did, they disrupted the play -- not added to it.

Zoe is making (has made?) that transition from looking at me as her playmate to looking to her peers to fulfill that role. It's bittersweet, but far more sweet than bitter. I'm glad to see her enter a world that is sure to be full of fond memories and life lessons from her own, independent experiences. That is what being a kid is all about.

Go on, Zoe, and play. I'm happy to be left behind, relegated to a watchful eye in the background. I suspect, though, that my eyes will be taking in far more than they're looking out for.

Jones'n

2006-02-20T13:47:00.000-05:00

Although I can't claim to have never felt the pressures of socio-economic differences, I can say that I'm pretty much past it all. I live a pretty good life, my bank account is a stark reality, and, despite all appearances to the contrary, folks on either side of my place on the economic bell curve probably feel the same way on both matters. For every person that appears to me to have a bigger house, nicer clothes, and more frequent vacations, there's a person looking at me coming to the same conclusions, and vice versa. So on it goes, ad infinitum. There's little sense getting wrapped up in all the nonsense, then. And, for the most part, I don't.

I can remember, though, as a little girl, inviting a friend over to my house. The minute she appeared at my front door she said, incredulously, "Your house is huge." Not two weeks later, I was invited over to another friend's house, and I couldn't help but say the same thing about her house. So young, and yet so very, very aware of things.

I thought of that this morning as I dropped my daughter off at a play-date with a classmate. As I turned into a neighborhood of million dollar homes (this being far above average in my area), I couldn't help but feel a little out of place. Still, my discomfort wasn't so much from the exposure of my insecurities; I was more concerned about the comments I was hearing from the back seat.

"Wow, that house is huge!"

So young, and yet so very, very aware of things.

As quick as I am to try to understand just where this awareness came from, I recognize that it's only natural. Things that are different -- things that are foreign -- are a natural source of intrigue for kids trying to make sense of their place in the world. I can't begrudge her the experience of understanding that we all are, in fact, different. (I think that my relative insulation from such differences growing up led to a much greater shock upon discovering them as a young adult.) But I can hope she'll come to understand that different doesn't mean better -- or worse.

That's a hard lesson to learn, though, when different, this time, means an indoor gymnasium complete with tumbling mat, balance beam, parallel bars, and trampoline.

If I Ruled the World...

2006-02-18T14:48:00.000-05:00

...wallpaper would be outlawed.

Evil, Evil stuff, that is. Screw personal property rights. Screw individualism. Because, you know, no matter how en vogue the paper is when you apply it, it really will become hideous. Not merely ugly -- full on hideous. It's only a matter of time.

You think you won't outgrow it? Fine. Guaranteed your buyer will hate it. Guaranteed. And that shit is miserable to take down. MIS. ER. A. BLE. This, I know. Intimately.

So, really, my proclamation is all about doing unto others as you would have done unto you. My reign isn't that despotic.

(Guess what I've been doing? It's that time again.)

The Weather is Beautiful, Wish You Were Here

2006-02-17T14:27:00.000-05:00

Raleigh, NC: 73 degrees and sunny.
Gillette, WY: -10 degrees. MINUS TEN DEGREES. Who cares what the sun is doing?

Too far from home, in so many ways.

Come home soon, Tim. And hurry. Looks like we're getting snow tomorrow.

Grand Canyon Perspective

2006-02-16T21:51:00.000-05:00

Feeling Lucky? Google "SOCATOA" and you'll get a lusty story about a woman and her fetish for trigonometric functions. It appears, for reasons I'm entirely unable to understand, that when one Googles "SOCATOA," my blog entry is the top hit. For some unsuspecting graduate student in a university library today, my words were what appeared before her when she sought help for her Physics homework. Funny thing, this Internet.

Why she stuck around long enough to read the entry, despite its obvious inability to fulfill her quest, is certainly a mystery. But, she did. And, following the moment she took to read the entry, she took the moment to leave me this comment:

Kristy--I'm a grad student...single, 26, confused...don't worry, this isn't a Dear Abby thing, I just wanted to tell you that I stumbled across your blog a minute ago because I literally typed "socatoa" into google to try to make sense of my physics homework...and I was so touched with your entry...I guess I just wanted to tell you (as if you didn't already know!) that you are an incredibly lucky woman. From where I'm sitting (at the University library), what you have in your life, with your two kids and your husband who genuinely loves you...that seems like the most enormous challenge in the world. I truly wonder if I'll ever be able to write something like what you wrote with so much love and satisfaction and confidence in my "voice"...good luck to you and your family--Ami

My words might have given her pause for a minute or two -- long enough for her to leave her kind comment. I suspect, though, that she moved on shortly to find the real answer to her Physics question. From there, perhaps she'll triumph in the challenge she sees and will write about it in her own insightful voice. In any event, she's soon enough forgotten about me. But her words? They're not forgotten in the least.

It's too often that one can get lost in the day-to-day drudgery of life. This blog helps me minimize that tendency; it makes me stop and savor and drink in moments that might otherwise to be mundane. But, it's also very narcissistic. Insulated. Myopic, at times. Thousands of words, lost in their own kind of drudgery, but for the complete stranger who can put it all in perspective in a few short sentences.

Somewhere, in some University library, a thoughtful woman stumbled upon my words today. I'm so very, very thankful she chose to tell me what she felt and, in doing so, remind me of what I have in my life. Because of her, I'm the one who's feeling really lucky right now.

Thirty Five Dollars

2006-02-15T23:09:00.000-05:00

For what it's worth, our family is on a budget. In the days prior to kids and when both my husband and I were working, a budget was some nebulous idea of where we should be spending our money. That idea routinely got tossed out the window each month in favor of more concrete, material purchases -- fun stuff. Now, we're not afforded that luxury. Quite simply, the money that comes in has a very concrete, and not at all material, place to go. Mortgage. Food. Utilities. Preschool. Gas. Decidedly not fun stuff. Luxuries, let it be said, are few and far between.

So it's telling, then, that I spent thirty five dollars this evening. On a babysitter. So I could knit.

Pampering? Or Priority? A little of both, I say.

And I'm worth it.

Five Days, Revisited

2006-02-13T20:41:00.000-05:00

Tim headed out of town today for the entire week. He left at 5:45 am. At 6:00 am, my son woke up with a fever. Murphy is alive and kicking. You know what? I took it in stride. I didn't panic. I didn't even find myself calling upon my inner strengths.

It used to be, Tim would go out of town, and I'd call in the troops. With a frenetic nervousness, I'd book activities to consume the days and schedule family members to come over for the late afternoons and evenings. I can't do this by myself, I'd think to myself. I can't do it.

Things have changed. More and more I find myself forgetting to call my family members when Tim heads out of town. More and more I find myself "winging" the days, letting our activities be ruled by happenstance and serendipity. More and more, I find myself knowing I can do it.

This growing confidence isn't entirely a product of my children growing older, putting experience under my belt and making the task slightly simpler at the same time. In some ways, they aren't easier. A willful four-year-old and a quintessential two-year old are far more challenging, on every level, than a two-year old and a take-along infant. But, somehow, things are easier. It's a little about stride, I suppose.

A year ago, on a day Tim was out of town, I could reliably predict the end of the day would see my raw nerves, a strained voice, and an anxious eye to the kids' bed-times. Today, there was none of that. It was a calm evening, with fun and laughter -- mine, even. And, in a most telling turn of events, the house is in order. I've not slumped into the couch in defeat immediately after putting the kids down; I'm quietly, and fondly, reflecting on the moment. Day One, under my belt.

We'll see what I have to say on Day Five.

My Life in 100 Words or Less: Drive By

2006-02-10T13:56:00.000-05:00

I hurled around the corner, much too fast for neighborhood travel. I was late picking Zoe up from school. In my haste, I almost missed a glimpse of my neighbor's preparations for their upcoming out-of-town trip. In their driveway stood the accoutrements of traveling with a wee one: pack 'n play, oversized stroller, infant bath, infant feeding chair, carefully-selected foods, and diapers, all waiting to be loaded up. A harried father stood close by.

I smiled as I flew past, the glimpse of so long ago kindly fading in my rear-view mirror. Traveling fast, I am. Should I slow down?

Potty Talk

2006-02-09T13:49:00.000-05:00

(Despite all evidence to the contrary, this entry is not about toilet training.)

Evan takes his time talking. In every way. He didn't say much the first eighteen, no, twenty, no twenty-two months of his life. When he did begin to talk, his vocabulary, diction, and sentence structure simply crept into existence. His language development wasn't an overnight occurance as much as it was something best captured in time-lapse photography. Definite progress, in minute movements. Now, with the basics of communication under his belt, his self-imposed language timeline is most observable when he speaks. Very deliberate. Very exacting. He simply works -- and hard -- to get the right words out. And, for that reason alone, he's quite stingy with his words.

His words, most of the time, are simple requests, polite responses to questions, and silly-isms that serve to produce peals of laughter from himself and his audience. Whether it's simply convenient or entirely appropriate, the stereotype of male communication fits him well: nothing serious, just the facts, and absolutely no insight into the inner mind of that little boy who can charm me with only his smile.

Yesterday, though, I was blessed with a glimpse of a little more. As I had my first heart-to-heart conversation with my son, I captured another frame in the time-lapse reel of his language development.

"What did you do today in school?" I asked. I was expecting the usual, "Played."

"Grant. Hurt. Me."

Hmm, this was interesting. "Grant hurt you? What did he do?"

"He. Hurt. Me. Hurt. My. Ear."

"Aww, hon. I'm sorry. How'd he do that?"

"He. Hurt. Me. Hurt. My. Feerings."

"He hurt your feelings? Evan, I'm so sorry. Did you cry?"

"Yes. Madeline."

"Madeline, what?"

"Madeline. Made. Me. Feer. Bettr."

My son, opening up. Talking about something other than playing, on his own volition. It really was a moment. I sat there, taking it in, this little, first, real heart-to-heart. A moment to savor, indeed.

That this moment took place entirely on the potty, as a distraction from the, ahem, real work at hand? Well, you can't expect him to escape the weight of that stereotype entirely, can you?

Doh!

2006-02-07T14:12:00.000-05:00

My daughter was slumbering away this afternoon when I heard her stir and start to cry.

"Owie! Owie! Owie!"

I quietly came down the stairs and peeked in her room. She was on the bed, in a semi-state of slumber, echoing her pain and reaching back to extract the well-entrenched wedgie out of her underwear. Yes, she still takes her pants off to take a nap and she still puts her underwear on backwards. Yeah, that would be painful, Zoe.

I giggled. A lot. But just as I was forming the blog entry in my mind, entitling it, "Not the Sharpest Knife in the Drawer," she came to a full state of awareness.

"Owie! My ear! My ear! My ear hurts!"

Whoops. Now who's not the sharpest knife in the drawer? Perhaps the fact that she's had a cold for a week, and is napping through her "quiet time" for the first time in months should have clued me in. Sorry, Zoe. Doctor's appointment is at 4. We'll get that taken care of.

But, really, it wouldn't hurt if you'd learn to put your underwear on the right way.

Befuddled

2006-02-06T16:30:00.000-05:00

I'm rarely daunted by this mothering thing. Ok, so there's the self-doubt, and the second-guessing, and the, and the. But! Other than those minor things I really do feel like a capable mom. Travelling with tots? No problem. Braving the world of wee ones going wee on public potties? Been there, done that. Making three beds, getting two kids dressed (not to mention myself), lunches packed, and everyone out the door with less than one cup of coffee in my system? OLD. HAT. Logistically, I've got the skilz. Until today. I've met my match.

In approximately 39 minutes, I'll load up the car with two kids and head to the swimming pool. Once there, I'll send my daughter off to swimming lessons on her own while I bravely dip into the pool with my son.

And then...

I'll have the task of taking three wet individuals -- all with limited patience and empty stomaches -- and drying them enough to brave the winter chill that has descended upon us. Wet suits. Wet hair. Questionable locker room. All by myself.

Daunted? Hell, yes.

On Becoming a Doula

2006-02-02T13:58:00.000-05:00

I can remember the first time I heard the word "doula." A co-worker, expecting her third child, but her first in over eighteen years, was talking to me. She was talking about all the things that were "new" since the birth of her children years before.

"Have you ever heard of a 'doula'?" she asked.

"No," I said. I looked to her for an explanation.

She went on to explain what a doula was, and then finished the conversation with:

"The word 'doula' means a woman's servant. Isn't that a great word?"

I had to agree. The word, and the description behind it, intrigued me. A woman helping another woman in labor? Calming her? Comforting her? Reassuring her? Serving her? How beautiful. In reality, it wasn't a new idea at all. Just one that had been lost for too long. I casually tucked the word in the back of my mind, hoping to make use of it again one day.

It was a year before I recalled it again. When I did remember the term, I knew I'd recalled it too late. Sitting on the other side of a traumatic birth experience, I remembered that conversation from so long ago, and ached for not recalling it earlier. Calm. Comfort. Reassurance. Service. All the things that the birth of my daughter was not. I resolved it wouldn't happen again.

And, it didn't. Two years later, I witnessed the calming comfort of a doula attending the birth of my son. She wasn't the only reason I had a positive experience, but she certainly was integral to that experience.

And now, I'm about to embark upon a journey to become that source of calm and comfort for others. A word, once tucked in the back of my mind, is now at the forefront, and may, one day, become essential to my own self-definition.

But why am I doing this? Is it out of some desire to heal my own pain? Certainly, the question must be asked. True, perhaps I would have never pursued this quest were it not for my experiences. Had I not experienced the trauma of that first birth, that word might have remained forever tucked in the back of my mind, lost to the ether that is insignificant encounter. But I did experience the trauma. And that encounter from so long ago became utterly significant to me. That trauma and my pain, then, might be the genesis of my journey. For that I am entirely grateful. But they are not part of this journey as I move forward. My pain is not behind me -- it never will be -- but I have come to gratefully accept it as a part of me. The journey towards my own healing, then, is complete. This journey -- becoming a doula -- is an entirely new pathway.

So, why, a doula then? I've thought about this often, and I can come up with only this answer: I believe in it. A simple answer, but a telling one. I believe in it. Those first thoughts upon hearing that word so long ago? They still ring true to me, louder now, than ever before. Nothing new, really. As old as Woman, actually. Calming. Comforting. Reassuring. If I can be this to someone else, and, in the process, let her come to know the power and beauty that she is herself, then I will have fulfilled my job. Nay, I will have fulfilled my passion.

Rescue Me

2006-02-02T13:41:00.000-05:00

Evan spent the evening with his older cousin last night. In doing so, he was introduced to the world of action figures and "boy toys" of the non-vehicle ilk. That he has none of these at home is not the product of some conscious decision on our part. Simply, we hadn't thought to purchase any for him. Watching him play enchantedly with his cousin's toys last night, my husband and I came to the rare conclusion that we might "ought" to purchase a few of these items for his own collection.

And so, I found myself in the Action Figures aisle at Target this morning. What a mistake. What I found there was entirely disconcerting. Everything looked scary. Spider-man. Bat-man. The evil foes. Even Superman had a scowl on his face. I stood there, paralyzed by indecision, for the better part of twenty minutes. As much as I wanted to purchase a figure for my son, I could not find one single figure that did not engender thoughts of Argh! or Thwack! or Smoooosh! or, worse yet, Grrrrrr!. I was, literally, uncomfortable selecting anything from that aisle for purchase.

I have never felt so disconnected from my son as I did standing in that aisle. Was this what he was destined to grow up to be? Is this the only thing that he will enjoy for years to come? From the looks of the decidedly narrow-minded stock at Target, the answer to my questions was apparently a resounding yes!, many times over. And I, simply, didn't get it. That Y-chromosome that I've found so enchanting so many times before wasn't so appealing at that moment.

Frustrated, I strolled out of the aisle and into the next, and easily selected a small toy for my daughter, one which held equal appeal to me and her alike.

Time, once again, to face the music, I headed to the Thomas aisle. Maybe there's something there, I thought. Not an action figure, but something I can purchase to fulfill the expectation that I'd already set for my son that day. Perhaps I'll dodge this bullet just for today.

As luck would have it, there is an action figure for the younger set. Or, an action figure for the faint-at-heart mother. There, on the shelf, were a few chubby, happy-go-lucky guys with tools and vehicles equipped for rescue. Rescue Heros. I snatched one up and handed it to my son, who showed his delight immediately. I was delighted too, grateful to be rescued from disconnect, at least for the time being.

My Life in 100 Words or Less: To Do List

2006-02-01T13:47:00.000-05:00

Family. Work. Home. Knitting. Painting. Writing. Doula Study. Home-improvement projects. Photo Albums.

You might call it overscheduled. You might even call it spread too thin.

I just call it lucky.

Evil, Evil Meme

2006-01-31T14:49:00.000-05:00

First off, am I the only one who'd never heard the term "meme" prior to entering the blogsphere? It has its own definition, you know, outside the blogsphere. And I think I like the word, but I'm not so sure I like what the blogsphere is doing to it. The obligatory "tag" associated with blogsphere's memes cause me shudders and remind me of my disdain of chain mail.

But, I hate coming off as the party-pooper more than I hate chain mail. I've been tagged too many times now -- twice on this particular one -- to continue to blow them off gracefully. No longer can someone excuse my behavior as "shy" instead of the alternative accusation of snobbery. But, really, I'm not all that bad. Just struggling with my own personal issues.

You see, I don't mind being tagged. I rather like it, in a strange-need-to-have-my-ego-stroked kind of way. It's the tagg-ING that gets my panties all in a bundle. So, I figure I can tweak the "tag" to something more palatable to my own personal hang-ups, and still play along with the party. I'm never one to follow rules, anyhow. Besides, I need something to get my feet wet again.

So, here goes, and apologies to any tags I've failed to acknowledge in the past. Really, I'm not a snob, you see...just shy.

Four Jobs You've Had

1. Waitress, of the cocktail, seafood restaurant, spaghetti house, fine dining, and retirement home varieties.
2. Solicitor. Yeah, that was my official title. I hung out on the boardwalk, too. And got paid $40 a score. (People! Minds out of the gutter, please! Interested in a time share? Free tickets to the local theme parks and a gift certificate to your favorite restaurant for two hours of your time...)
3. Manager-Trainee. At a bank. Shudders.
4. Title-less position (because that was the hip thing to do in those days) at a dot-com in the height of the dot-com era. My $10,000 investment? Um, let's just say it was a nice write off a couple of years later.

Four Movies You Could Watch Over and Over

None, really. I just don't get the fascination with watching movies again and again. Now, if the category were "Four Movies You Can Get Sucked Into on a Lazy Saturday Afternoon When You Accidently Turn the TV On", I'd answer:

1. Dances with Wolves
2. Grease
3. Dirty Dancing
4. Christmas Vacation

But, really, it would only be because the evil TV made me do it...

Four Places You've Lived

1. Virginia Beach, Virginia
2. Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
3. Charlottesville, Virginia
4. Raleigh, North Carolina

Four TV Shows You Love to Watch

(blushing)
1. 24
2. American Idol (Only for the opportunity to scoff! Really!)
3. Survivor (10 seasons and still devoted. God, I'm sick.)
4. Grey's Anatomy

And, really, I promise, that's ALLLL I watch. I don't even have cable! (Ok, so there's the rare glimpse of Dancing with the Stars, and maybe, every once in a while, you can catch me watching Trading Spouses or The Super Nanny (Schadenfreude, folks, schadenfreude!), but really THAT'S IT.)

Four of Your Favorite Books

1. The Known World, Edward P. Jones
2. The Bird Artist, Howard Norman
3. A Walk In The Woods, Bill Bryson (Ass though he is)
4. All The Pretty Horses, Cormac McCarthy

Four Places You've Been on Vacation

1. Spain
2. Greece
3. Yellowstone National Park
4. Edisto Island, South Carolina

Four Web Sites You Visit Daily

1. Google
2. My Favorite Blogs (yeah, you're guilty, too)
3. Bueller?
4. Bueller?

Four of Your Favorite Foods

Only Four?!
1. Macaroni and Cheese -- the REAL kind
2. Coffee Ice Cream
3. Tomatoes
4. Cheese

Four Places You'd Rather be Right Now

1. Yellowstone National Park
2. Africa
3. A Coffee Shop, with my knitting
4. The Beach

Four People I'm Tagging

1. See No Evil
2. Hear No Evil
3. Speak No Evil
4. The Mailman

Ain't No One Gonna Break My Stride

2006-01-30T13:53:00.000-05:00

Wow. What can I say? Have you ever got the feeling you're on the cusp of something, but exactly what, you're unsure? [Waving Hand] That's me, right now.

This entry won't be so introspective, or well thought-out, or witty, or anything, really. I'm just marking the moment.

I started a job last week -- a very part-time job. I'll be working 10-12 hours a week, both from home and at the client's site. The work is scheduled to be completed in October, but I've reasonable suspicions that this could become a quasi-permanent position. As it is, the income will be very nice, and will relieve some of the pressure we've been under the past two and a half years.

This week, I received the required readings for the doula certification process, and I'm beginning to cobble together child-care to cover the time I need to be away for the training workshop in April. I'm finally at a point in my life where I think I can pursue this goal I've had for several years. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, by this time next year, I'll be heading off in the middle of the night to help a woman in labor. How cool is that?

And, finally, I recently made the decision -- very confidently, in fact -- to put my kids in pre-school only three days a week next year. I'd toyed with the idea of putting Zoe in five days a week, primarily based on pressure I'd (irrationally?) felt from other mothers doing the same. But, in a moment of clarity, I realized I truly wanted a few whole days with my children -- now while the time is available. Realizing this was the way I truly felt was, in some ways, a watershed event for me.

These three things, coming together at the same time, mark that something I feel I'm on the cusp of. I don't know exactly what it is, and I don't know if it will be successful, but, maybe -- just maybe -- I'm hitting that stride I've sought for so long.

What's This Thing Here?

2006-01-26T21:36:00.000-05:00

Oh. A blog. My blog. Totally and utterly neglected, like I'd like to neglect my dog. Life has gotten crazy, and crazy doesn't make for good writing. Or even bad writing.

I'll be back.