Does it hurt me more than it hurts you?

Dear Zoe,

My heart is aching. I need to hold you, kiss your cheek, hear your voice tell me to "Wait. WAIT Mommy. WAIT till I run to Daddy." when I try to tickle you. I just sobbed my way through "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" because there was always some baby being born or some Mama being kissed or some beautiful and true and trite line about love lasting forever and it was more than I could take.

I am so sorry to have left you this long. I know you're too young to really understand the calendar we left for you with its boxes to check off and the day when we would come home starred at the end of the page. I know you don't understand why we can call you on the phone but can't "come home RIGHT NOW!". I know you'll probably never remember this in the long run (in even a week or two?).

I know that you've cried yourself to sleep at least once.

(I'm so sorry for that.)

I also know that you haven't asked for us once today and got to have a cookie AND whipped cream for dessert tonight so maybe you aren't as desparate as we are for a reunion.

I know that we'll see you soon and hug and kiss you and in a few days, we'll be home in Pasadena and it'll all be back to normal with me sometimes looking forward to your naps and bedtime for a little time to myself again.

I know that this Mt. Vesuvius-sized zit smack dab between my eyebrows is from the stress of missing you (and the stress of realizing that we will soon enough be moving to this crazy part of Northern Virginia we're visiting, with its odd lack of history and character and organic, layered, natural development. I hope we can find a nice community here. One that isn't too sterile and devoid of edges and depth.)

We'll see you tomorrow, sweet girl. I'll do my best not to smother you with kisses and endless weepy hugs.

Love,

your Clueless But Hopeful Mama

Standing with us on the side of love

Dear Zoe,

I've always felt a little uncomfortable when I've seen babies and young children plastered with slogans and hoisted up at political rallies, the cutest of campaign propaganda. They are clearly not able to make a judgment on the issue at hand, they are brought there by their parents, cherubic faces forced to tag along, possibly even explicitly meant to pull at your heartstrings. I never wanted to "use" you that way.

But your Dad and I also strongly believe in standing up for what we believe in. So we didn't put you in a rainbow flag T-shirt or plaster you with buttons or stickers. But you came with us today to Pasadena's anti-Prop 8 rally at city hall. You saw your parents stand up with many others and chant "Yes we can!" (you really liked that). You fussed loudly through the moment of silence at 11 am. You ran hysterical, giggly circles around me with your little friend L.

L is a girl. If you grow up and want to marry a girl, we want to be there to kiss you, celebrate you, and greet our new daughter-in-law knowing you will have all the rights and privileges your father and I enjoy.

We had to go today because of you.

Because we love you and will support you in finding a partner to love.

Because we believe in civil rights for gay people and we are willing to fight for it (or at least give up a few hours on a Saturday to show our support).

Because the minister who married us, the one who officially made us a family, now can't get married in this state. How messed up is that?

Love,

your Clueless But Hopeful Mama

Today's motherly advice

Dear Zoe,

If, someday, you find yourself hiking on a trail with your dog and a friend and you happen to accidentally drop your cellphone down the dusty embankment off the trail, LEAVE IT THERE. Do not think you can easily scramble down the impossibly dry, crumbly cliff. Those brambly branches? They will fall apart in your hand. The rocks you see? They too will tumble down the cliff. WITH YOU.

Seriously. You can buy another cellphone. You cannot buy new skin for your legs. Or a new life should you lose yours trying to retrieve a freakin' cellphone.


love,

your Clueless But Hopeful Mama

What's left unsaid.

Dear Zoe,

The other day, it was 90-some-odd degrees at 9 am and we were in a rush. I wanted to stop at the bank machine and then head to the playground/farmer's market before it got too hot. I drove to the bank, walked with you to the ATM, waited in line and then realized that I forgot my ATM card at home. Not that big a deal, one would think, as we were maybe 10 minutes from home and there was nowhere we HAD to be at any certain time. But it was hot and we were running later than I wanted and it was getting hotter by the minute and I was PMSing and you were wanting to do everything "by SELF" and IT WAS ALREADY REALLY HOT.

And.

And I have an issue. A frustration issue.

As I closed my wallet and headed back to the car, I could feel my jaw clench (the first sign). I could feel my heart beating faster, my heart moving blood faster through my veins just in case I needed to ..... run? fight? (the second sign). Tears of frustration and self-loathing were welling up in my eyes. (This all seems so silly now. Tears? Over a little speed bump in my plans?)

I could feel my hands hold you, lift you, buckle you into your car seat a little tighter, maybe even a little rougher, than I needed to. (The very worst sign, the one I fight hardest to control, the one I am the most ashamed of.)

We got in the car and I started to take deep breaths. I told you that "Mommy's very frustrated right now because she forgot her card and we're running later than she wanted. She's just going to take some deep breaths to try to calm down." After speaking of myself in the third person (never a good thing), I took more deep breaths and drove home. On the way, you declared "Mommy frustrated. Take deep breaths.". I looked back at you in the rear view mirror, looking for signs of the permanent damage I must be doing to you, and agreed "yes, Mommy is taking deep breaths to calm down."

I ran in the house, grabbed my bank card and got back in the car. As we pulled out of the driveway, my jaw still slightly clenched, my blood still boiling, you asked hopefully: "Mommy happy now?".

What I wanted to say in response: "Not really. I struggle too often with a demon I'm still learning how to control. I'm scared of how it'll be when you get older and learn where all my buttons are and exactly how to push them. I'm embarrassed that I get so frustrated and despondent over something so transient and trivial as forgetting my ATM card. I'm sorry you had to see it today and probably many times in the future. This easy spark to frustration, this downward spiral to all-hope-is-lost-land, is, I'm so sorry to say, one of our family inheritances. It's been passed down, through genes or modeling or some combination of both, from my father's father to him and my father to me. And probably me to you. I want you to know that it's gotten better with each generation (take home message: therapy is a good thing) and maybe you will be the very first generation to totally be free of it. I hope that you never fear me. I hope that when you are a teenager you will not vow to never to get angry because it's such an ugly, out-of-control emotion and you want no part of it. I hope you never realize in your twenties that you have the same short fuse that you abhorred and feared. Instead, I hope you see your father and me model how to deal with frustration in reasonable ways, ways that you can learn from and be proud of. Or at least, not be embarrassed by. I want you to know that anger and frustration are normal, natural things and there are ways to manage them and express them so that they don't feel like they are taking over your very soul and pulling you down in a hopeless spiral. I want you to know that I fight this problem of mine, this low threshold to TOTAL SYSTEM MELTDOWN, on a daily basis, for myself, for our family, and mostly, ALWAYS, for you."

What I said was: "Yes, Zoe, Mommy's happy now."

love,

your Clueless But Hopeful Mama

There's a sucker born every minute.

Dear Z,

At your first year appointment, our pediatrician looked us right in the eye and said: “Those pacifiers should be gone by 18 months. The sooner the better. It’ll start to warp her developing teeth.”

Ah, a new thing to worry about! Perfect. Because, you know, it’s been almost 4 whole seconds since I last worried about something relating to you.

As an infant, you wanted to pacify yourself on my body. So to relieve the agony of my poor udders, and to keep you from nursing till you were so full you’d invariably spit up half of it, we gave you a pacifier. And the rest is orthodontic history.

You use your pacifiers to sleep. If you ever need tending to in the middle of the night it’s usually because your pacifier has fallen out of the crib and you can’t get it. You like to have them while you are in the car or stroller and after a meal (does this sound like a cigarette addiction or what?). You like to have them for a while after waking up and when you have just fallen, gotten a shot at the doctor’s office, entered a crowded public place or just been stricken with inexplicable pissiness. Add those all up and it’s pretty much all the time.

I was hoping that in giving you the pacifier, we would be in control and we could take away those suckers any time we wanted to. You wouldn’t suck your thumb endlessly like I did. Oh no, missy. No having braces TWICE for you, my dear. No “rapid palate expansion appliance” for your mother to twist with a little satanic key every night. No speech therapy to correct a thumb-sucking-induced lisp. No sucking your thumb raw until it moves right past looking like a wrinkled raisin to become a frighteningly smooth, fingerprintless orb (think of all the crimes my thumb could have gotten away with when I was 12!). No social anxiety at sleep overs, hiding under the sleeping bag while you furtively comfort yourself to sleep; preferring sweating to death from the down insulation to risking the exposure of your secret love affair with your own thumb or worse, suffering a sleepless night with no oral fixation crutch.

Ahem.

Anyway, your dad and I immediately decided that we would Crack Down. No more pacis except for naptime and bedtime for the next six months then none at all, ever. That lasted about ten whole hours. You know where the pacis dry after washing and you spent the better part of the next day pointing up to the drying rack and crying sad, bitter tears. I felt your pain. Seriously. I sucked my thumb for long enough (Was I 13 when I finally stopped? 14??) to have many, many memories of the comfort it provided.

So I gave it to you then and randomly, but frighteningly often, since. Your dad is not pleased with this turn of events and I can only say in my defense: “Dude, if you want to be the one to hang with Zoe while she goes through some nasty withdrawal BE MY GUEST.”

I am ambivalent about the fact that we, as your parents, have the choice of whether or not you comfort yourself with sucking. In some ways it would be easier if you sucked your thumb. Then I could look at you and shrug and say “Well, it’s a part of her. What can I do?”. Instead, I fear we will be the mom and 3 year old at the grocery store that everyone stares at and thinks “Jeez, lady. Don’t you know she should have given that up by now? Just take it away, already.”

Someday we’ll be taking them away. I don’t know just how or when but when we do, rest assured that I understand your loss. And, as always, we’re doing what we hope is best for you.