June 29, 2002/2012

June 29, 2002


It was so hot that morning, like 142 degrees with 231% humidity. The AC units in our hotel bedroom barely kept up and sweat management became a serious pre-occupation. Our garden wedding in late June didn't seem like such a great idea all of a sudden.

I was doubly sweating because in addition to being hot I was nervous, though not in the cliched, "cold feet", runaway-bride kind of way. More like the "all these people, so many details, me at the center of attention, ALL THESE PEOPLE" kind of way. My stomach was in knots and I took many trips to the bathroom, you know, just to hang out.

I was trying so hard not to get overwhelmed by details, or give anyone a reason to call me Bridezilla, so when my bored hair dresser did a really fast, really lame, really slicked down version of the hairstyle I had wanted, I didn't say anything, it's just hair.  And I said hi to the hair salon bathroom.

When the flowers arrived, and they weren't at all what I had chosen, I didn't say anything, it's just flowers. I visited the bathroom.

When someone called me "Mrs. K-" even though I wasn't changing my last name, well, okay, I said something. I believe that particular something contained a curse word.

And then, of course, the bathroom. 

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, I got dressed and CG and I saw each other before the ceremony.

It was so hot we decided to take our schfancy, couple-y photos before the ceremony, which was smart, because 5 minutes after walking outside I had rivulets of sweat running down my legs under my mother's silk wedding gown and my forehead could have powered several lamps in Laura Ingall's Little House.

My maid of honor earned her honorific more times than I can count, including a desperate visit to - you guessed it! - the bathroom minutes before the ceremony to hold up my dress so I could greet my Aunt Flo as she arrived for a spectacularly poorly timed visit. EFF.

My BFF also earned her doctorate in Sweat Management that day.

 

As we got ready to line up for the ceremony I felt myself floating above my body. Am I really here? Am I really at my wedding? Is this really it?

In the months before the wedding, I had nightmares - many, many nightmares - that involved me walking down the aisle gazing at everyone I ever knew and loved and then promptly throwing up at the altar.

(Have I mentioned the bathroom?)

In another twist of fate, a few weeks before the wedding, my dad cut his finger badly, something about riding a tractor and grabbing a wire fence at the same time didn't agree with him. Unfortunately, it got infected and that meant that on my wedding day, he escorted me down the aisle with his middle finger permanently at attention.

As we were walking down that aisle, and the string quartet was playing Bach, and my dad took my elbow in one hand and gave our guests the finger with his other, I was thrilled and giddy just to be there, just to not be throwing up. As I walked I laughed, I sweated, I teared up, I laughed some more.


ALL THESE PEOPLE.

And then, there at the end of the aisle was CG. My guy. My chosen family. Waiting for me.

Oh right, HIM.

 

All those details, all those people. I was so busy thinking about flowers and sweating and not throwing up that I forgot what we were here for after all. One touch of his hands brought me back.

I'm here. I'm right here.

The rest of the night was fantastic. Freaking fantastic. We ate very little and danced very much,  danced until our legs literally gave way beneath us and we tore our mother's wedding dress (okay, that was just me).

What a perfect wedding, everyone kept saying to us, completely ignoring the sweltering heat, my ripped wedding dress, my dad's middle finger, the wrong flowers. Such a great day!

 

We collapsed that night into a sweaty exhausted heap, convinced that this thing, this wedding, was the start of something natural and complete and deeply, deeply awesome.

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June 29, 2012


There was a night a few years back when we looked at each other from across the ocean that stretched between one couch cushion and the next and I said the thought that was worming its way into my brain: "This is why people get divorced." It was a scary thing to say but an even scarier way to feel.

There was nothing majorly cataclismic going on. But we were talking in circles. We didn't feel better at the end of our fraught conversations. We didn't feel close.  He didn't look me in the eyes. I pulled my knees in tight to my chest and did a lot of crying.

We suddenly realized that people got divorced who loved each other. People got divorced who had great weddings. People got divorced who had children they loved more than their own breath.

We are in a much better place now but that time changed us. We are no longer those children who got married on that too hot day ten years ago. We know now that marriage is not some natural extension of loving and enjoying each other, some coasting ride that requires only that you pick a good partner to begin with. It is a daily choice, to turn toward one another instead of away. To not be too afraid to be honest, too exhausted to be kind or too proud to be wrong.

Ten years ago, I underestimated the challenge of staying together. I didn't understand the way time would change us, change me. I didn't know who we'd become, who we'd create. I didn't realize how marriage is built and rebuilt every single day, every single conversation.

We wonder, is it possible to grow old together with mutual respect and admiration? Can we still challenge each other, tell the loving but hard truths, push each other even as we both get more and more stuck in our own neurotic ways?

That's our goal. Passion, admiration, respect, playful companionship.

Dare to dream.

All the details of my life overwhelm me, all the things I need to remember, all the balls we juggle suspended in mid air. I forget sometimes, at the end of the day, to really look to him. He's right there. But still, sometimes, I miss him.

Choosing the right person may not be the be all and end of all a good marriage but it sure is a good start. I chose someone who balances me out. I chose so very well.

Mostly I think, What a great marriage. And I'm not ignoring the hard times, the tears, the moments of loneliness and frustration. I am including them, proudly.

What a great marriage.

Work

Apparently, E has read the Two Year Old Job Description.


She only wants to do things for herself things that are forbidden and/or dangerous, otherwise she'd like to be carried and entertained constantly thankyouverymuch. She is uninterested in being buckled, wiped, brushed, or instructed in much of anything. She sings to her own reflection in the toilet handle as she flushes it over and over and over again.

She scribbles on the wall with a pencil and when I try to redirect her to some paper, she walks into the bathroom to draw on the wall in privacy. When I take the pencil away from her, she pulls her stool up to the counter to slyly fetch another one. When I take that one away and redirect her to another activity, she'll wait a few minutes and then sneak off to pull another pencil stub from thin air with which she'll happily decorate the couch.

It helps to think of this kind of behavior as normal. It helps even more to think that it is part of her learning necessary information about the world and how it works.

I remind myself of every cliche from every parenting book: Her job is to test me. What seems like unreasonableness and general jackassery is how she is learning about the world and her power in it.

If learning about the world and all its rules is her job, am I her boss or her coworker or some poor tired underling silently counting the minutes 'till quitting time?

Or am I some combination of the three?

-----------------------

CG drives off each morning with Z in his car, while E and I hang in the doorway, waving, blowing kisses, making the "I love you" sign with our fingers.


After dropping Z at school, his workdays are filled with meetings; sometimes the meetings are back to back to back with no breaks and no chance to prepare for the next or process the last.

Some days, he dreams of quitting his job and being a flight instructor. Some days, he feels so very lucky; he not only found a job in a terrible job market, he found a pretty damn awesome job where he does high level science-y things.

He comes home to dinner on the table and girls ready to talk about their days or throw themselves in a fit at his feet, he never can predict. He comes home to a few hours of constant co-parenting, to dinner and Candyland and books and bedtimes, his car ride home the only buffer between his two very different but important jobs. He comes home to a wife who greets him with a meaningful kiss or a weary grunt, he never can predict.

I remind myself of just how demanding his job is, and I stoke the fires of gratitude nestled deep in my belly. I remind myself of how hard he works so I can stay home and how present he is with us when he gets home.

I remind myself of all this so that I don't imagine his workday as a relaxing bastion of calm yet stimulating adult interactions and resent the crap out of him for it.

--------------------------

Z has started to read and write, like some kind of person. I knew this would happen eventually but watching it unfold is still ... magical. It's like when your baby starts to talk honest to goodness words and you suddenly see them as some little magician or spectacular acrobat performing an impossible feat.

How did she do that?! How is it possible that someone who once couldn't reliably get her fist in her mouth can now read and write her own stories?

She is so serious about her work, which in Montessori is what they call ... everything they do. Her reports from school are mostly glowing, she works hard, she's progressing quickly. She proudly shows us her thick stack of stories and math sheets and labeled pumpkin drawings that come home every week and we ooh and aah over them with real appreciation and wonder.

Tell me about this work. When did you learn all the parts of the fruit bat?



Then she throws a fit about cleaning up her toys and the spell is broken. I bite my cheek to keep from yelling "Are you freaking KIDDING ME?! You are one of the luckiest children on the face of the earth who's only job is to LEARN and you are complaining about picking up a few measly dolls?!?! Dolls that were, just so you know, possibly made by little fingers who aren't allowed to go to school and whose parents aren't able to buy them much of anything let alone lovingly remind them time and again to PUT THEIR COPIOUS SHIT AWAY."

Instead, I calmly remind her that her job isn't just to learn at school. Her responsibilities at home are just as important: we all contribute to keeping our home peaceful and running smoothly.

She flops and whines and stomps and I'm worried she doesn't really get it at all but eventually she starts this onerous work of cleaning up her embarrassingly large array of toys, this most important work of learning to be a decent human being.

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In all my time as a SAHM, I have put the emphasis on the mother in that acronym. I think of myself as primarily here for my children, for our relationship, for the bonding and care-taking that we as a family value so deeply.

In our current reality, though, now that Z is in kindergarten and E is in preschool three mornings a week, it's becoming obvious that I am mostly a housewife. A domestic engineer. My work is primarily about keeping our household running.

I only flinched once while typing that!

(Okay, maybe twice.)

A great deal of my time is spent procuring, cleaning, organizing and purging household goods. I buy and recycle and scrub and tidy and file and throw away, all day long. I stem the tide of of the kindergartener's "collections" and process the high volume of artwork. I regularly have to bring order to the pantry, the linen closet, the top of the washing machine, the girls' toy containers. When, due to illness or busyness, I stop this process for a day or three, we are instantly covered in dolls, papers, dishes and - OH MY YES IT'S A CLICHE FOR A REASON - laundry.

It doesn't look that bad, until you realize I just emptied it YESTERDAY.
(I think we need a bigger laundry basket.)

Some days, I have my head so far up my laundry pile that I cannot see past it. Some days, I swear I would love my family so much more if they could just stop producing laundry or dishes or both for ONE MEASLY HOUR. Some days, the relative merits of Spray & Wash vs. Oxyclean is the deepest my thought processes go.

(Team Oxyclean, all the way.)

I vacillate between trying to find meaning in the drudgery and just getting it over with as quickly as I can. I can be all zen and slow and deep or I can just be done already and go read "Divergent" like I really want to.

(Seriously. If you like dystopian YA novels, Divergent's your next favorite book.)

I had such high hopes for how much free time I'd have when E started preschool. Remember? I was starry-eyed with the potential.

What I have actually done with those preschool hours: seen a number of doctors for various minor issues, exercised a bit more, tackled a few small house projects, and run the usual errands more efficiently. Yep. That's pretty much it.

I am often struck by how quickly the preschool time goes, how little I can actually accomplish in 2 hours and 40 minutes. Every preschool day, I glance past the loftier someday to-do list and feel the stronger pull of my mundane everyday to-do list. If I cross all those things off during preschool hours, I'll have the afternoon to spend enjoying the girls instead of running them around town in the car or pushing them away as I fold laundry. Creating more relaxing time with them is hard to pass up. That is why I'm home isn't it?

It seems I can try to cram more in - more writing, more ambition - or I can slow down and do what I'm already doing calmly and well.

What does it say about me that I'm not sure which track to take?

I want to have work that isn't just about this house. I want to have work that isn't just about my children. But I'm beginning to realize that even when they are older and busier, all the work that this household requires isn't going to just disappear.

I am so blessed that I am able to stay home now. I am so fortunate for the material comfort we possess that makes it possible.

I stoke those fires of gratitude too, as I never want to forget how lucky I am, even as I hunger for more, that vague, unhumble, distinctly un-zen-like more.

Happy Anniversary, complete with maggots

Yesterday morning, 7:12 am. I rolled the trash cans down the driveway and left them at the curb. As I turned away, a motion caught my eye. Specifically a tidal wave of white wriggly maggots that foamed out from under the slightly ajar trash can lid.

Now. I am not a huge EEK-BUG! kind of person but I do have my limits. Yesterday I discovered maggots are significantly past my limit.

You see, my husband has been known to put things into the trash can without putting them in a plastic trash bag first. I have reminded him that this can leave the trash cans themselves quite dirty and stinky and I do not have any wish to clean them out by hand, if you get my drift. He wants to reduce how much we use plastic, a goal to which I also aspire.

However. When he put sub-par Indian take-out in the trash last week, the tops of some of the containers came open, the trash can lid was left ajar and flies found it and made their little babies and MAGGOTS OMG GAG RETCH BLEH.

I have to say I surprised myself. I wasn't angry at him. I understood his point of view, his choices, even though different from mine, were valid.

I told him about the maggots and we both screwed up our faces in matching horror. Gross, he said. Sorry.

Today, we have been married exactly nine years.

I am so proud of who we were nine years ago, young and brave and hopeful, and who we are now, older and wizened but still hopeful.

I was trying this morning to remember our wedding vows, we wrote them ourselves on a hike in the Berkeley Hills above his house. I knew I had them somewhere and finally found a copy, stuffed into our wedding album.

They were about listening, comforting, encouraging. About "supporting you as an individual and embracing you as a partner." But no where did they mention maggots.

Perhaps we need to add that one in.

Happy Anniversary CG.

The Day after Father's Day

I was planning on calling my dad all morning, but was so focused on the girls and CG, that I figured I'd wait till later. I spent the entirety of naptime cleaning up from our breakfast and getting ready for the afternoon and then all of a sudden it was 3:30 and so it was that my dad called me on Father's day.

It was snack time for the girls and they were loud but his voice was lighter than it has been in a long time and seemed to float above their noise. He had finally gotten back to the carving studio and, though the radiation has rendered his hands unsafe for the bigger power tools, he dug out his hand tools and was able to carve, just a little. I smiled at the unmistakable joy in his voice. And then my brother beeped in and we both had to go and we said, loudly over the din, LOVE YOU.

Before I hung up, I told him I would call him back later that night and felt so grateful to be able to say that, so nonchalant like that.

I forgot to call him back until it was too late to call.

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CG and I went out to dinner, feeling just a tad guilty about arranging a date night on Father's Day, knowing that very soon, all he'll want on this day is MORE time with his kids.

But we sat at a window seat two top in our favorite restaurant in town, holding hands and talking about the summer and his work and all the places we want to travel someday, anything but the fact that he doesn't get to call his dad on Father's Day or any more days ever again.


Then the bartender stepped outside the front door to greet a little boy and a young woman. He dropped down low to scoop the boy up in his arms and the boy yelped and grinned and kissed his daddy on the cheek. We smiled and squeezed each other's hand and were fine, really, until it was time for the boy and his mom to leave. The boy clung to his daddy and cried NO, wanting to stay with him, just a minute more. His mom, eyes full of apologies, pulled him away and down the street as quickly as she could.

CG met the bartender's eyes as he walked back in.

"That's tough, man" my husband said, feeling it in every way.

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My husband stepped into our garage yesterday and up to his workbench, which he hadn't touched in months, moving the tools to their rightful places, cataloging the household things he can change and fix and help. Like my dad did when I was little. Like his dad did for his family.


He could not call his father yesterday, but I like to think that, in the garage, he talks to him, if not in words then in hammers and wrenches and saws.

One of the Many Reasons I Love Him

Dear E and Z,

One day last month our family took a hike in a nearby park. It was the first time in a long time we had taken you hiking and, Z, you were not too thrilled with the idea. I was worried about this little endeavor but I love hiking so much and hoped we could get you to enjoy it rather than complain the whole way.

Luckily, after initially wanting to be carried (E) and fearing bees and bears and poison ivy (Z), you got into it. Both of you ran down the muddy trail, squealing over bugs and picking up rocks that were definitely dinosaur bones.

We got all the way down to the river, where the mud had gone to business school and set up a LLC. In an instant, Z, you slipped and fell right on your bottom with a terrific muddy splat, flinging brown spots all over your legs, face, arms and your frilly black and white polka dot dress. (Yes, we tried to get you to hike in something else, you wouldn't have it. It was the frilly dress or nothing.) You burst into tears, wailing that you weren't pretty anymore.

Your dad. Oh your dad. He squatted down right in front of you, completely earnest and sincere. Scooping up mud with his fingers he proceeded to war-paint his own face. With the first stroke he said "Am I still beautiful to you, Z?" and you smiled through your tears and said "yes". At the second stroke- "How about now?"- you giggled a "yes" and the final stroke brought a raucous, hysterical "YES!".

He then looked deeply into your face and said "You are beautiful no matter what, no matter how much mud you have on you. In fact, I think you look more beautiful now, because you are real and outside and having fun."

And then, E, you immediately, happily, smeared mud all over yourself.

(Ah well.)

As we hiked back to the car, all of us muddy from head to toe, I thought, for the hundredth time, what a gift this man is. To us all.

You are beautiful, no matter what.

Amen.

Love,

Your Clueless But Hopeful Mama

Going Away/Coming Home

Dear E and Z,

Yes, we went away for a long weekend, leaving you with your grandparents. We know this was a little hard for you.

Wait. Is that a new wagon for you girls to share? And is that Grampa - you know, just-had-radiation-and-two-bouts-pneumonia-Grampa- pulling you on a walk to town?

Though you missed us, We're glad you were in good hands. Gramma and Grampa came and so did your great aunt and some friends filled in and....

Um, is that a new puzzle, E?

Okay, you got presents and vistors and lots of fun - we obviously don't need to apologize for going away. But perhaps we can explain needing the time away.

Our friends got married, you see.


And the wedding was far away, in California. The plane trip and subsequent drive were long. The days were filled with things kids aren't too fond of but adults ARE.

Okay, you'd LOVE this bridge. Don't worry, we promise to take you there one day.

We spent hours listening to nothing but the sound of the plane/car/hotel heater/each other's breath. We silently watched our friends get married with tears in our eyes and all our attention on the same thing at the same time. We danced till the wee hours and woke when it was already light out, to nothing but the sounds of distant birds.

All of this was brilliant and needed.

We stopped at random restaurants with excellent carnitas tacos. (ie. not really your kind of lunch.)


We took quiet, slow walks on lovely beaches. Cold, windy, foggy beaches (ie. NOT YOUR KIND OF BEACHES.)



We followed our whim and our pace and our interests. We had four days with barely any schedule. No whining. No wakeup calls. No conversations with each other that started with "Here's my list of things we need to talk about."

It was odd, even unsettling at times. We were together for seven years before becoming parents but it's almost like we forget what it's like, being together just the two of us for this long, talking without interruption, focusing on only each other. We needed time and space to remember what it felt like, how to talk to each other like this.

The redwoods helped, too.

Our love and devotion for you is never in doubt. Our love for each other is never in doubt either but it does get overshadowed at times, lost in the shuffle. Sometimes the needs, the attention, the relentless pace of life with little kids, even beloved little kids, too easily creates an exhaustion, a space between us.

I'm telling you all this because I want you to know something: We love each other, you, our whole family, so much. So much that we sometimes need to go away by ourselves.

One day, we hope you have children with a loving partner. Not only because we want grandchildren (someday, after college and at least a few years of not knowing what you're doing and muddling through to deeper understanding of who you are). Not only because it will bring you an understanding of why we are so crazy about you we are (crazy in every sense of the word). But mostly because we plan to give to you just what has been given to us. A weekend away, as often as you need, to stay connected, to remember what it's like to be just the two of you.



But no, we don't think we'd have the bravery to dye Easter eggs with your kids while you're gone. Your Gramma and Grampa are a rare breed.

love,

Your Clueless But Hopeful Mama and Daddy

A Birth Day

She always knew she wanted more than one child and seemed to be able to get pregnant easily. Staying pregnant was another matter. And no one talked about the miscarriages. It wasn't done.

She was nervous about miscarrying again but there was nothing else to do but try, try again. They waited for the doctor to give the okay.

When she got pregnant this time, she was apprehensive, tired, sick. The nausea would set in around 4, just in time to make dinner. She never threw up but felt so sick she could barely eat or cook. Saltines were worthless but grapes - smooth and sweet - worked wonders.

Once the evening sickness passed, she was ravenous, nourishing the baby within with every meal.

They attended natural childbirth classes together, determined to have another birth without painkillers, just like her first, only, hopefully, easier since he had been sunny-side up and she had labored with him for 36 hours. For that birth, they had educated themselves with a pre-publication book about natural childbirth written by an acquaintance. This time, they would know what they were doing and they had a doctor who supported their choice.

And, hey, second births are supposed to be easy, right?

As the end of the pregnancy neared, her husband painted the nursery a neutral, easy white and she climbed a tall ladder over and over again to hang a wallpaper border around the top of the room - pastel tulips fit for either a boy or girl, whichever was nestled inside her belly.

This baby was a little overdue, but then so was their first, so they entertained friends for Easter. One, a single man, said “I’ve never seen anyone so big, you must be about to POP!”

Some things are the same across generations.

(One can imagine a caveman saying this same thing to his cave neighbor’s wife.)

In the early morning hours of April 17th, she awoke in pain. It was a little after 3 am. It was beginning.

She got up, showered, and carefully shaved her legs, knowing it might be weeks before she could attend to such things again.

She woke up her husband around 6 and he left to pick up two necessary, if conflicting, things: the babysitter, who was a 16 year old diabetic daughter of a friend, and a bag of Winchell’s doughnuts, fulfilling both the needs of and a promise to their firstborn son.

Before she could leave the house for the hospital, she had to give the babysitter an insulin shot, while in labor. Neither knew how, but it had to be done in the sitter's bare thigh, so it was her job, not her husband’s. The babysitter closed her eyes.

Jab in it in my hip, and please do it fast like my mom does.

She waited for her own pain to subside briefly before inflicting it on someone else.

They made it to the hospital and checked in by 7:30 am. The doctor showed up and stayed for the rest of her labor. He was a nice man with six children of his own, the best doctor around for natural childbirth.

Still, even without a sunny-side up baby, this was not easy. No popping the baby out like in those natural childbirth books. This was hard, painful work.

Then, a little after noon, there he was. A baby, with a head of dark brown hair. A boy.

9 lbs, 6 oz.

Oh thank God.

.......

What should we call him?

I don’t know. I guess we have until we sign the birth certificate to decide.

What were those family names again?

-----

By that evening, she was in surgery to control for post-birth bleeding that could have killed her.

Before she would be released, she endured several surgeries and received many units of blood.

To add insult to injury, when she left the hospital, she was plagued by a spinal headache that would last for the first few blurry weeks at home.

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There is a picture of her getting out the car with her new baby boy, named for a distant relative, her three year old son poised to jump on Mommy. This is the universal arrival of second children. The universal expansion of heart and attention and motherhood. The universal exhausting blur of the first few weeks at home with a new baby.

She was weak, so weak and tired. A handful of vitamins and iron pills were her breakfast.

As the first weeks went by, the baby cried, oh how he cried. He would wail and pull his knees up close to his chest in apparent discomfort. Sleep was elusive, no rocking, patting, singing, or walking seemed to work. And yet they did it all endlessly.

So this was colic.

It's his diet. Your diet. Cut out orange juice. Cut out onions. It’s just colic.

Doctor, it’s been three months. Shouldn’t "three month colic" be over by now?

Listen Mother, you be patient with him and I’ll be patient with you.

She looked for a new pediatrician.

She gave him soy milk and watched his crying subside.

It was not an easy birth and it was a difficult year. She greeted his first birthday with gratitude that they had made it through, with love.

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My mother in law gave birth to my husband 37 years ago today.

His birthday belongs to him of course - but also to her.

Thank you MB, you're my hero. Thank you for birthing my wonderful husband. And for letting me tell your story.

Periphery/Intertwined

He started out on the periphery of my life. He appeared in my dorm as a freshman, a mop of frizzy curls atop a lanky frame that always seemed to riding a bike, even in rain, even in snow. I often passed him on my way to the library, with my New York Times and my legs clad in black cotton.

I can't say I knew him then, I knew of him really; we lived in the same dorm, we attended the same parties, our best friends dated each other.

But I don't remember ever speaking to him during our years at the same college.

A few years later, he became an acquaintance, someone to invite to my flat's dance parties, or to meet up with at our college's events for recent grads in our city.

We started swing dancing together.

Then club dancing together.

Somehow we started calling each other up and chatting about our lives.

(Including our love lives.)

He asked me out, but I was seeing someone else. We stayed friends.

He started saving my beloved New York Times Sunday Magazine for me, since I couldn't get it delivered at my apartment - it was always stolen, no matter how early I woke up to retrieve it. My best friend from college, who knew him too, came to visit and raised her eyebrows knowingly at the stack of magazines he carefully handed over.

I went away on a long trip and dreamed about him. I dreamed he was my boyfriend.

I set out to make him mine.

He became mine. I became his.

Then he was my world. I thought of him all the time, every moment seemed so clearly marked: I was either With Him or Waiting To Be With Him Again.

We made a life together.

We made a home together. (Several homes, by now.)

We made a family together.

We got very, very busy.

I woke up and suddenly felt him on the periphery, again.

His lanky bod is still topped with curls. My legs are still clad in black stretch cotton. That is about all that is the same.

He puts hair goop in to tame the frizz, and rides off in his low gray car. I wave my hand goodbye and help a tiny hand next to me wave too and I don't see him for many hours.

My time now seems divided into time With Kids and Time Away.

Time Away Alone.

Watching 51 Birch st. together the other night, we started out apart, in our usual spots: him on one side of the couch, laptop on his lap, me on the floor, stretching my hips. By the end, we were intertwined, in a way we hadn't been in too long: fingers and knees and arms linked in the way you are when you are coming together, away from the periphery.

(Go. Watch 51 Birch St. and prepare to be moved. And possibly intertwined.)

The I/We Debacle

CG and I have a recurring problem. Deeper than the eternal Socks Next to the Hamper Fiasco or the You Load the Dishwasher Wrong Battle, this one cuts to the heart of what it means to be individuals in our family, to be autonomous and yet connected, to have a full-time stay at home parent and a full time working parent. We bump into this particular issue again and again, struggling to find a middle ground where we both feel loved and respected.

The problem: when talking about our house or our children, I often possessively say "I" or "my". And he inclusively says, and doesn't understand why I don't say more often, "we" or "our".

It is a pet peeve of mine when couples become a mono-unit using the royal "we" to express the sum content of their uni-brain. "We just loooove the endless pasta bowl at the Olive Garden, don't yoooooouuu?" This is one of my hottest feminist trigger points because in heterosexual relationships it's historically the woman who loses her sense of self and becomes subordinate to the man's intellect and opinions. His "I" becomes their "we".

Long ago, I vowed never to let anyone else's "I" become my "we".

But this really isn't political, it's personal. I say "I" when talking about our home or our children because I want to own something and stake claim to an identity that is mine alone. Since choosing to stay home with the girls, there is precious little else to possess. I can't deny that a selfish, possessive love for my girls and our home runs deep in me, whether it is a result of me staying home with them or the underlying motivator for me to stay at home in the first place, I don't know.

So I get that my identity struggles are at the heart of this stumbling over pronouns, but it still refuses to go away. I still say "I have some cookies here somewhere", "I found a great Christmas gift", "I thought her first birthday party should be at a biker bar" because I bought the cookies and I found the Christmas gift and I researched the very best biker bar for our daughter's first birthday (not really, but let's pretend). This, of course, negates that I bought the cookies because we both like them, I found the Christmas gift after we decided on the general idea and I chose the biker bar after we dismissed a topless bar from our list of options (But there'd be boobies everywhere! She'd love it!). From my skewed perspective, he gets sole ownership of his career, I should get sole ownership of what happens here, in the house, with the girls, even though they are his daughters too and he is as true a partner in parenting as he can be.

CG wants me to use "we" because he often feels wrongfully and hurtfully excluded when I use "I". As the current designated household earner who works very hard to keep us flush with those cookies and Christmas gifts and biker bar birthday parties, he sometimes feels cut off from the bonds, rituals and rhythms of life with the girls just by virtue of the number of hours he works away from the house.

He wants me to say we have some tea and we found a good preschool and we use time-outs sparingly because presenting a united front as parents, as the people who started this little family in the first place, is of paramount importance to him. My overuse of "I" appears to stake my claim to the mantle of Head of Household, or at least to Chief Parent. He worries I see him as an afterthought, a supporting player, in the central dramas of our family's life and my overuse of "I" just confirms and entrenches that fear.

I'm clearly struggling to forge an identity as a person, a mother and - gasp - homemaker, without making him feel as if I'm trying to push him out and own all of parenthood, too.

This is one of those marital arguments where there can be no ultimate victor. We're both right; I deserve recognition for what I accomplish and contribute and he deserves to be clearly included as a partner at the very center of this family. Obviously, I need to work on differentiating when it's appropriate for me to use "I" and when it's more precise and truthful to use "we".

I have some work to do but I'm so glad that we have each other.

Aim high

"Mama, I'm not going to have a job when I grow up, I'm just going to be a mommy," Z announced one morning at the breakfast table, apropos of nothing.

I sat in stunned silence because... how do I even begin to respond to that?

Luckily, CG was there to quickly and firmly respond, "Being a mommy is the hardest job there is." And I promptly forgave him for any perceived slight, minor or major, in nine years of marriage.

"I know, I just mean, I'm not going to have a JOB job," Z persisted.

I still didn't know how to respond to her. I know I should be flattered that she wants to emulate me and be at home with her children but that realization is after some reflection. My initial instinctive reaction was something approaching horror. Rising up from below was a desire to say "No! Dream big! Aim high!" with the undeniable implication that being a stay-at-home mom isn't dreaming big enough, aiming high enough.

You could say I'm still ambivalent about being a stay-at-home mother.

In the last year, as I struggled to fit in here in Virginia and weather the many concurrent transitions, I often turned to a fantasy that "going back to work" would solve my every problem. There were several problems with this line of thought, the first being that there is no clear job for me to "go back" to, let alone one that could pay for daycare for two kids.

But maybe part time, on the weekends? Just to start? Problem was, I kept butting my head against a clear, heartfelt truth: I didn't actually want to go to a job outside the house right now, what I want is to stay home with my kids, while they're little, and be happy about it. I haven't given up working ever again, I just know that my heart is here, now.

Maybe I haven't lost all ambition after all. At the moment, I can't think of a loftier personal ambition for myself than staying put for a few more years and being happy about it.

So. Here I am. A suburban stay-at-home mother, in therapy, on Pr0zac. So many aspects of that sentence are temporary. It helps to remember that.

-------------

We had some work friends of CG's over the other night for dinner and what originally was going to be a relaxed dinner with people I know can talk about things other than science turned into All Scientific Workplace All The Time because one of our guests invited a couple of visiting work people we didn't know. It's important to note that while we had an equal mix of men and women, all our guests were unmarried, childless scientists, so I wasn't exactly expecting to have a ton in common with these people. As I struggled to contain the frantically social Z ("Attention! Attention everybody! My dancing show will start in TWOOOOO minutesssss!") and the clingy, antisocial E, I felt invisible as these highly educated, highly employed people chatted all around me, seemingly oblivious to my existence.

During a lull in the conversation, and, thankfully, the dancing show, one kind friend turned to me and asked, "So can you explain Alvin Ailey to me? We saw a poster for his company and I still don't understand what they're all about." This friend knows I was a modern dancer in my previous life. He was being kind, trying to include me in the world of conversing adults. As I took a breath and tried to compose a coherent opening sentence about the history and significance of this pre-eminent African-American dance company, one of the visitors, who perhaps hadn't seen him address the question to me, jumped in, "Well, since I live in New York, I see them all the time and....."

I dropped my gaze and listened to her give an accurate account of their history and significance before finally rising, toddler firmly suctioned to my side, and set the table.

I've been with CG for 11 years now, so I'm used to being surrounded by scientists chatting about things I can barely understand. Not being included in the conversation used to be a mild annoyance, but it was one that we both endured at regular intervals as we used to work in our own separate worlds. Now it's skewed, CG is never surrounded by a group of my people, unable to follow the lexicon of my world. Not that I would ever hope to make him feel invisible, but the inequality of this, the fact that he alone has a whole intellectual life outside of our home, coupled with a craving for that experience myself, is a major motivator for me to get a job.

One day.

---------

The evening after Z declared her intention to be a stay at home mother over her Cheerios, I brought it back up with her.

"Z.....you know.... I love that I can be home with you and E right now, while you're little, and I do eventually want to get a JOB job." I practiced in my head beforehand to make sure I said "and" not "but".

"You do? Why?" she asked with the guileless simplicity of a child.

"Well, I have lots of things I'm interested in, lots of ways I can contribute to the world, and one day, sooner than we both realize, you and E won't need me around quite so much."

"Oh," she said. "Okay," and went back to her coloring book.

This was, of course, only the beginning of a lifelong conversation with my girls, and with myself, about the many, many ways you can aim high as a mom, a woman, a human.

This is mine, right now.

Lifting the veil

For most of the past year, I was stumbling. I was lightning-quick to anger, slow to warm after misunderstandings, generally unpleasant even when I tried really, really hard to focus on all that is good in my life.

I was tired of trying so hard. But I was also too low to work my way out of it.

For months, CG's gentle efforts to get me to consider medication went nowhere good. One night in the fall, he finally sat me down and strongly suggested I see a doctor. At first I lashed out at him, defensive. Then I shrank in fear of him not loving my worthless, angry self, defenseless. Was he saying something was deeply wrong with me? Did he not love me? Was he thinking me weak, incapable of working through my issues on my own?

No. What he said was out of love and respect for me. I see that now. I had to take that on faith then, a faith in him and his goodness.


In some perversely irrational way, I was worried that taking an antidepressant would magically make it all better. This would prove just how wrong our pill-popping culture is! You shouldn't be able to magically fix your sour moods or medicate away parts of yourself. It should take hard work and time and strenuous effort! I didn't want to turn into a medicated zombie incapable of feeling anything.

But I know now that that's not how it works. I'm still the same person. The medicated me still has the same flash points, the same triggers, the same issues. I can still get angry; I still cry; I still have bad days. I still have lots of work to do making my life the way I want it to be, one day, one thought, at a time. But medication has helped in subtle, pervasive ways. My fuse is noticeably longer. When I cry it's for a good reason. My bad days pass quickly and aren't filled with feelings of worthlessness.

For me, medication doesn't take away parts of me. It softens edges, and makes everything just a little easier.

Medication lifted the veil.




The other day, I realized with a start that I am enjoying, really enjoying my girls lately. Many times a day I smile and laugh and think "I am so happy to be right here".

Which makes me realize that, for too long, I wasn't.

The missing husband

We hosted CG's family for Thanksgiving, the first major family holiday without my father-in-law. We were predictably sad about his absence, though happy to be together. With our house full to the seams, Z slept in our room on the floor leaving CG and I little time to speak privately and we mostly bustled about separately, tending to children, meals and family.

After the long weekend, CG left for a four-day work trip and my mother-in-law stayed with me and the girls to help out. Our lives were quiet and normal. Morning preschool for Z, grocery shopping and cooking for me and E. At night I would retire to my big empty bed, listening to every creak and groan of the house, missing the safety and weight of a slumbering husband within arms reach. I couldn't help imagining my mother-in-law doing the same, every single night.

My mother-in-law and I cooked food to share, picked up after ourselves and each other, asked one another if we'd like a cup of tea "since I'm getting one for myself", the kinds of things you ask one another when you're part of a home, a couple of people living together. I was conscious of how I could rest assured that my husband was coming home to do those same things for me once my mother-in-law was gone.

Despite her company, I found myself missing my husband a lot, wishing I could consult with him about the girls, the house, the minutiae of life you share with a partner. I talked to my mother-in-law about her minor surgery that is scheduled for next week, and wondered about how to manage such a thing when one no longer has a partner to rely on to drive you, be in charge of food and household matters, talk to the doctors and make sure you get to appointments on time.

On Friday, I drove my mother-in-law to the airport and said goodbye with a teary hug. I imagined her navigating the plane by herself, arriving home to a dark, empty house. A cold, empty bed. Without anyone on the other side.

That afternoon, CG arrived home, lay down on the bed next to me, filling his spot. Added weight and substance where I need it. We talked a little, looked at each other, listened, supported, asked, cared.

And, for a moment, I didn't take him for granted. I was so thankful my missing husband had come home to me and wished with renewed vigor that the same could be true for my mother-in-law.

The toast I didn't give at my friends' wedding

B and D, I've loved watching you two tonight. You always seem to be touching in at least two places at all times. Your eyes and lips and fingers and elbow creases find each other magically, magnetically, effortlessly. Your joyful grins spring forth as if from inexhaustible wells and, while I know that is just who you both intrinsically are, I also remember what it it felt like to be so happy that a grin wasn't big enough, to feel sore from smiling at, and because of the incredible existence of, your beloved. I'm so happy for you that you found one another, that you are getting to experience this moment of exploding possibility and deep connection.

I also imagine that there may be other moments in your future. Moments when this connection might feel like a distant memory. Moments when maybe B's up all night, every night, with a teething baby and D's putting in long hours at work and has a cold that no one wants to spread and so you go days, maybe even weeks, without kissing or sleeping in the same bed or touching. It may be hard to imagine now, but disconnection happens so easily, so fast.

One day, in the midst of exhaustion and tedium and your third load of daily laundry, you might find that it's just so much easier to turn away from one another. To start to build walls behind which you can retreat, launch ammunition and be right.

That is, of course, the exact moment you must turn toward each other. You must dare to be vulnerable. Dare to be wrong. Dare to be connected even when the connection hurts and you don't know how to make things better. Dare to say, "I love you and I want to make this better. What do you need? What can I do?"

I've been married for almost eight years and the only thing I know for sure is that it starts there. It always starts with what you can do.

You are embarking on an incredible journey together. May your path be smooth and may you easily find each other's hands when the path gets bumpy. May your days rarely be dark and may you light the way for one another when it is. May your well of connection run deep and may you be strong and brave and generous when the well runs temporarily dry. May your footsteps always come back into synch when life- random, imperfect, unpredictable life- pushes them apart.

May you one day, just when you need it, go to a wedding so full of love that it makes you remember your own joyful connection.

To the journey of marriage! To love! To B and D!

(To us!)

On Father's Day

Dear Z and E,

So far this blog is the most permanent record of the details of your childhood. And since I'm writing it, I probably sound like I'm the sole center of your universe. The sun. You've probably noticed I use the pronoun "I" a lot.

But this isn't a universe, this is a family. And you have two people here who would do anything for you, who love you beyond measure. Your father and I, we, are the center of this family and if it doesn't always sound that way, that is my fault.

Sometimes this blog has made your father uncomfortable. So I often pull back from including him in it too much, out of respect for his privacy. This probably makes it sound like I shoulder all the burden, that I carry the full weight of parenthood by myself. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Your father is our rock. He plays with you and works hard for you. He delights in you, worries about you, wonders at you. He can be ridiculously silly and calmly serious. He is our fixer, our voice of reason, our compass.

He is exactly the father I knew he would be when I married him almost eight years ago.

On Father's Day, celebrate with me how extremely fortunate we are to have him.

Love,

your Clueless But Hopeful Mama

Let's stay together

Today is my seven year wedding anniversary.

CG was an academic when we married, a PhD student who hoped to become a professor one day. I saw my life stretching out before me as a professor's wife with all the leather bound books and elbow-patched trappings. I imagined myself pedaling around an idyllic college campus, wondering which young coeds had a crush on my husband.

When we got married, I was a dancer/Pilates instructor/massage therapist/grant writer. I worked 7 days a week and was often gone from the house, with my huge bag full of snacks, meals and changes of clothes, from 7 am to 10 pm. I rarely sat still.

We are not who we used to be.

Getting married is a promise. I didn't quite grasp that it was a promise to stay together as we each grow and change in ways no one could predict.

In a few short weeks, CG is leaving academia, after much tortured soul searching, for his new job in Virginia. He will not be a professor.

I haven't danced, really danced, in over 4 years. I often spend whole days in my 9 x 13 living room.

Last year, CG discovered flying. He now has his private pilot's license and is working toward his instrument rating. I never imagined this as part of our story. My ambivalence about his flying is something we work through. It is worth working through because I love him, pledged to stand beside him as he searches for meaning and joy in his life. It is worth working through because I've never seen him so happy as when he is talking about flying. Except maybe when he's actually flying.

Two years ago, I discovered blogging. I've always kept a journal, working through my thoughts and experiences through writing, wading through words looking for understanding and expression. CG sometimes struggles with this blog. He, like some other friends and family, is more private than me and isn't always comfortable with me sharing personals stories about our family with the interwebs. He's come to accept it because he knows how important it has become to me and wouldn't keep me from something that I care about.

We've come a long way, baby.

Seven years ago today, we were this young, impossibly happy couple who couldn't seem to stop grinning as we pranced our way through our choreographed first dance.

Every time I hear this song on the radio, I remember this day, seven years ago, when we promised to stay together. To support one another. To grow together.

Happy Anniversary, CG.

Let's stay together.


(I couldn't figure out how to get the video onto my computer, so I used our camcorder while it was playing on the TV. That would explain the moment when Eliza fusses halfway through! Somehow, that feels appropriate.)

Two dads

There are many reasons to love this man.

I didn't know most of them until we had our beautiful daughters.

An awesome father is the best gift I have given my girls.

Happy Father's Day CG.


--------------

My father's chemo is done.

I hope to have many, many more years with two wonderful fathers to celebrate on Father's Day.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Nesting

In my very pregnant state, I am supposed to be nesting. The caricature of a very pregnant woman bustling about her house, doing practical things like washing and folding baby clothes and baking cookies?

Um.

Yeah.

Baby clothes, baby clothes and MORE baby clothes.

If you claim that there are two and a half of CG's birthday cookies missing, I will deny, deny, DENY.

But I also find myself drawn repeatedly to crafty projects. I have started a scrapbook for Lima Bean similar to the one I made for Zoe. Once we really, truly decide on a name for this second baby girl, I want to decoupage some letters to spell it out for her, just like I did for Zoe (I posted pictures of Zoe's up here somewhere but can't find them....) Plus, I have two very important birthdays to celebrate (hopefully before Lima Bean's entrance. Uh, exit?) and I really want to celebrate them fully.

As my super wise friend K pointed out, these craft projects that call to me are rituals. The preparations I feel drawn to do for Lima Bean aren't just practical. I am getting excited about greeting her and I want to express my excitement in ways that feel beautiful, special and celebratory. I am feeling full of love for my family and want to celebrate all these milestones with every spare ounce of energy I have.

So out comes the sewing machine!

For birthday crowns (a la Amanda Soule and her gorgeous book The Creative Family):

Is it terrible that I like CG's (that's the "W" one obv) crown better than Zoe's?

And a birthday dress for Zoe in her favorite colors (with patch pockets made with the help of a bloggy online tutorial!). Hopefully I will finish this by Sunday when we will celebrate (a few weeks early to make sure it happens before Lima Bean arrives!).


I love this time of year and feel so grateful that I'm not giving birth in the heat of summer or the short, dark days of winter. How can you not feel good when springtime has sprung up all around us?

Nesting, indeed. Including right outside our back door.

Hard to see in this picture but if you look closely, you will see that on top of our outdoor speaker is ....a NEST.

Swing

February, 1999. San Francisco

My boyfriend doesn't like swing dancing. Luckily I have a new male friend, someone who was an acquaintance in college, who does.

My friend and I meet at the Metronome Ballroom or Cafe du Nord, take the free class, practice some new steps and wait for the band to start up and the real fun to begin. We arrive separately, often bring friends, because we are not dating and there is safety, clarity, in numbers.

(I definitely don't notice how handsome he looks in his vintage shirts or how sweet he is or how nice he smells when we get close.)

The live music is upbeat, infectious. He leads me gently, his hands a little too tentative on the small of my back. I try to lead, out of stubbornness, impatience, an inability to read him and his gentle nudges. Still, we work it out. Swing. Laugh. Dance.

We are partners. Already.

Last Sunday, 2009. Los Angeles

Our last moments at the house are separate, rushed; he talks to the babysitter and plays with our daughter, I cook her dinner and place her pajamas next to the bath. We throw ourselves into our clothes and rush out the door. On the way to dinner, we chat idly, catching up on the day, laughing about our daughter's latest escapades, worrying about her latest challenges.

Once inside the club, our faces soften, our voices slow, and we shift into being alone, together. As we leisurely eat our meal, actually chewing our food and staying seated for minutes, HOURS, at a time, the band sets up. Soon there are couples on the dance floor. Twenty-somethings in exquisite vintage zoot suits and polka dot dresses throw each other around with furious abandon. Seventy-somethings in simple suits and sparkly, forgiving sheath dresses strut and turn with subtlety and grace.

We take to the dance floor, my belly preceeding me by at least a foot, and try to remember our favorite steps from back in the day. It's been years since we last tried to remember how to get into the open position or transition from a swing to a charleston. We glance at our feet a bit too much, I lead myself into turns, we collide with other couples during the fast numbers.

But we swing. Laugh. Dance. We're partners, now more than ever.

(Happy Valentine's Day, CG. I love you.)

Flying.

Dear Z,

Yesterday I did something that I wasn't sure I wanted to do. Something that I was worried was dangerous and wrong for a Mommy to do.

I went up flying with Daddy.

He hasn't gotten his license yet, so his instructor came too. It was a "cross country" flight so he stayed up late the night before looking at charts and maps, calculating every trajectory over the hills and freeways that crisscross southern California. What it really meant was that we went to San Diego for some sub-par Mexican food at the airport restaurant and then came right back.

I've been in small planes a fair amount and I've always enjoyed it. (Unless, of course, you count that time in Zambia where I was stuffed in the back of a 6 seater with cartons of eggs piled on my lap up to my chin and we tried to take off but COULDN'T because we were too heavy so we went back and left some of the eggs to TRY AGAIN.) This time was different though, because I've never given much thought to the training, ability, and level of caffeine of the pilot in command.

Z, your dad may be a born pilot. He LOVES it up there. He had so many proverbial balls in the air and he handled it all with aplomb. He was handling constant radio communications, navigating by sight and GPS, twisting all the vital doohickies and adjusting all the death defying whosamawhatsits on the dash. It was impressive to see.

There was, unfortunately a Moment. We were waiting for a 'handoff' to another control tower and we suddenly spotted a plane close by, TOO CLOSE BY. And then this rogue Daddy-and-Mommy-killer plane turned INTO OUR PATH. I could feel the anxiety of your Dad and his instructor rise but they quickly and easily navigated around it. They both said it was uncomfortably close.

I immediately thought of you. I wondered what would happen to you if our plane went down. But it didn't, and I didn't go THERE in my mind, not for too long anyway. I logically know that riding in a car on the freeway is statistically more dangerous than flying in a small plane. But flying is a new risk rather than the everyday risks I'm used to. So I still worry. Because I know that you would never forgive us if we were taken away from you. And I would never forgive myself.

I hope that one day, you read this and you think, "Mom, what's the big deal about going up with Daddy in a plane?". Because you will have gone up with him many times and felt how sure and strong and confident he is. How much he loves it. And you would never want to stop him from doing it or question why he does it.

You might even want to join in.

Love,
your Clueless But Hopeful Mama

What a difference five years make.

Dear Z,

Five years ago today, I was stressed out, blissed out and about to marry your father. What I remember most about that day is how much in love I was (am!) with your father and also how completely clueless I was about what was to come. Our deep partnership is more of everything- more challenging, more satisfying, more supportive, more exciting, more forgiving- than I could possibly have conceived of on that day five years ago. That day, we mostly ate a little food, danced till we literally dropped and smiled till our eyebrows ached. You, or the possibility of you, were the furthest thing from our minds.

Today, our lives revolve around you and the family we have created. Today, I am driving you and me from Vermont to Woods Hole Massachusetts so that we can all spend our fifth anniversary together. Today, I love you both enough to take on such an onerous drive when I hate driving, fear getting you off your schedule, and dread the many, many verses of "Old MacDonald" I will have to sing to keep down the whining that comes from your carseat at regular and increasingly intense intervals. Today, I love you both so much I struggle with a glutton's guilt that I don't deserve such bounty.

Love,

Your Clueless But Hopeful Mama

PS. (Happy Anniversary, Chic Geek)