Postcard from Vermont: I could tell you

I could tell you about the morning I spent sitting on our screen porch watching the sun sparkle on the lake while my two girls played on the floor of their bedroom, shared books from my mother's childhood and giggled.

Or I could tell you about the morning it was rainy and we'd all been up since 6 and the kids were bored with the toys here and I'd lost my temper with the whining several times and it was only 9:20 am.

I could tell you about swimming twice a day in the lake and how deeply joyful it is to watch the girls come to love it as much as I do.


Or I could tell you about how Z shrieks every time she sees algae or snails or dragonflies and how E is completely fearless of the water and gives me an anxiety attack every time she jumps at me from the dock with no warning, a tiny twenty-six pound missile.

I'm struggling in writing, as in life, with where to focus my eyes. There is so much fullness here, so much beauty. And there is so much challenge and frustration and imbalance. And somehow, on vacation, it all seems that much more acute.

I don't want to write arching platitudes, projecting into the world only the best, most polished parts of myself and my life.

Nor do I want to write only of the challenges, the darkness, leaving only evidence of my every misstep.

Maybe I could just tell you that I have returned from a two and a half week summer vacation with my kids at my parents lake houses and that would be enough.

Postcard from Vermont: The Peace of Wild Things

The Peace of Wild Things

by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,


I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron
feeds.


I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

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

When blogging worlds collide

I am proud to say that I am the one who found the luxurious house where we stayed in Jamaica, though I can't actually take any real credit since I found it through Amalah. She went there last year with her family (gratis of the company) and wrote about it during what was a particularly snowy and bleak winter. I clearly remember sending CG, who gets hundreds of work emails a day and prizes brevity, a brief email that included just a link to one of her posts and the words START SAVING NOW.

So save we did, for a trip that would hopefully prevent the four of us from the succumbing completely to February, ie. The Darkest Days. By the time we were seriously planning, my parents were just coming out of my dad's latest round of radiation and were ready to celebrate and relax. So we joined forces, invited my brother and his family, and made it a whole famn damily trip.

Though we were all sad when my brother and his family were waylaid by a stomach bug and couldn't make it, Z was truly bereft as she misses her cousin deeply and had been looking forward to seeing her for months. Staying in a rented house was perfectly private for us antisocial adults, but Z really longed for other kids to play with. (E couldn't have cared less, she was either clinging to me or trying to climb out the window.)

So we did something we NEVER do: we went to the Bluefields Villas cocktail hour. WITH STRANGERS. Who presumably would want to TALK TO US. And we brought the girls.

(That last part was not our brightest idea ever, in case you were wondering. E was just too clingy to leave with the nanny and Z didn't want to be left out.)

We hoped there would be a nice family with small children staying in one of the other houses, perhaps even ones close in age to our girls. Dare to dream right?

Did we ever hit the jackpot.

Upon entering the cocktail hour, we met J and S. With no other kids in sight, I immediatley assumed they were newlyweds, they looked too refreshed and bright-eyed to be parents. But lo! I was wrong! Their daughters, ages 4 and 6, were upstairs with their nanny (perhaps this explains the "refreshed' and "bright-eyed" part)! And they were friendly! And nice!

My first question, I'm not sure why but maybe I have some deep intuition I'm completly unaware of, was just how they found and chose the house. S said "Oh, from a mommy blog I read...." and I said "Amalah?" and she said "YES".

(!)

We chatted for a while, until Z started whining about being bored, guzzled her smoothie and insisted on pulling the hem of her skirt up over her head while laughing manically. (*Ahem* Time to go!)

It wasn't until later that we each admitted that not only did we read mommy blogs but we EACH HAVE ONE.

Now, I have met a blog friend in real life (Holla B!) but this was brand new territory. Stephanie and I exchanged blog addresses and made plans to meet on the beach with our girls later in the week.

As CG and I sat in bed that night and checked out S's lovely blog, the bizarre nature of the time we live in blew me away. It's crazy to be sitting on a bed in Jamaica, reading about the private world and thoughts of someone who lives many states away, someone I had just met. To be able to read the private thoughts and feelings of a virtual stranger, things that they have never directly told you themselves, and then see them in person the next day...it's odd, right?

The Luddite in me wants to hate this. To find it wrong. Backwards.

But honestly? It was lovely.

Here we are in the water with our girls. I think this was when we were discussing how she checked out my reading list from last year and had read at least half of the books. I mean, HELLO. IT'S A FREAKY-DEAKY, SMALL WORLD we live in, my friends.

I think I might be too neurotic to go on vacation

For months, I was too terrified to speak of our big family trip to Jamaica in anything above an internal whisper. To do so would surely invite a giant hubris fueled smack-down from above. So in the weeks before the trip, as more local friends fell to a four day stomach bug, I squirted both girls' hands with sanitizer at random intervals and gave stern lectures about keeping their fingers out of their noses/mouths/BOTH. I checked the weather forecasts hourly and only packed at the last moment. Mostly I kept my fingers crossed, feverishly hoping that the planets would align to allow us all to make the journey.

In the end, we managed to line up two of the three planets. My girls stayed well (until a cold caught them at the end of the trip). After two bouts of pneumonia and a prolonged hospital stay, my dad was just barely strong enough to travel. Luckily, no monster snow storms thwarted our departures.

But my brother and his family, who were supposed to join us from California, were hit by a stomach bug and forced to cancel their trip. The luck of the draw was not on their side and we were struck by how it could have just as easily been any one of us that didn't make the trip. On each day in Jamaica, we struggled to balance our joy at being together in this beautiful place with mourning the obvious absence of my brother's family.

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When we arrived in Jamaica, a driver was waiting for us. He loaded us into our rental car and drove us to the house my parents had rented, right on the ocean. Bumping along the road, we gazed out at lush greenery sprinkled with roadside stands selling fruit and fish, clusters of people awaiting informal taxis, and tiny shops selling biscuits, beer and cell phone cards.

There also seemed to be a lot of nightclubs, and every one featured pictures or photos of voluptuous women in profile. One squat cement building the size of a small one car garage was emblazoned with the words "For Your Guilty Pleasure" in script on the side next to lurid drawings. I was desperately glad that Z was looking out the other side of our van. Later, when we met a Peace Corps volunteer who told us he was disturbed by the rough, sexual dancehall scene, I tried not to think too much about the fact that I didn't see a single window in that building.

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When we got to the house, we found we had a full staff. A "headman", two nannies, a cook and assorted other people to fetch us fresh towels, sweep sand off our floors and restock our drink coolers. This was, of course, part of the draw of this house; we wanted to relax, not have to work, be waited on. Nevertheless, I spent much of our time there deeply uncomfortable with this. Our first night at dinner, I noticed a metal bell in front of my place at the head of the table. I was supposed to ring it, I guess, to get someone in from the kitchen. At one point, we needed something and someone suggested I give it a shake. It was quickly set aside, never to return to the table.

I should have been reveling in having someone else working at the stove, clearing plates, scrubbing stains from tiny t-shirts. But whenever I caught myself enjoying the beautiful surroundings and glorious infantilizing comfort of being waited on, I feared this was surely evidence of my moral bankruptcy. Of course, any time I spent brooding about this, or worse, annoyed at the staff's slow pace or vague answers to pointed questions, I felt stupidly ungrateful and joyless.

Is there any way to make this much coveted type of travel feel guilt-free and morally okay?

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On our last full day, CG and I slathered on bug spray and sunscreen, picked up our binoculars, hats, water bottles and sunglasses, and went on a hike. We wanted to see more of the beautiful birds of Jamaica, maybe a few unusual plants and spectacular views too, as well as work off the plentiful food that we'd been stuffing in our faces all week. Our guide took us up a wide, overgrown path, pointing out plants that shrink when touched, tiny birds with long forked tails and woodpeckers with bright red heads. We learned which herbs are used for which ailment and held crushed leaves to our noses that smelled like exotic cousins of our basil, cloves and rosemary. It was a glorious, clear morning.

As we picked our way through the trash strewn path, I almost stopped to pick up an empty bottle and crumpled wrapper at my feet. After all, when hiking at home, I always clean up litter. But I quickly realized that I would need several large trash bags just to make a dent and I had nothing but my hands. So I left it all there.

About half way up, we came to a village of tiny wooden and metal homes. Goats bleated from their rope leashes, open trash fires burned, women squatted next to plastic wash tubs and children walked about in holey t-shirts and stained underwear.

I instinctively tried to hide my binoculars behind me and smiled my nervous smile. Did they need my water bottle? Shouldn't we have brought something for them: clothes, food, water? Should I be able to look upon this village and not feel wrenching guilt?

I smiled at the people we passed and waved or offered a small "hi". But we picked up our pace just a bit, uncomfortable I guess, and ready to enjoy the easy scenery on the other side.

Once past, we asked our guide about water, sanitation, schooling, which were all ways to get at our essential questions: "Are they okay? Are they happy? Shouldn't we do something?" And the one I could never ask: "Should we feel sorry for them?"

Perhaps they should feel sorry for us, with our Pr0zac and our concave therapy couches.

Perhaps this all sounds hopelessly privileged and paternalistic.

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We are home now, washing and putting away bathing suits and shorts, scratching fading mosquito bites and shaking sand out of our shoes into the gray snow outside our back door.

As I pull out my morning pills- fish oil, multivitamin, vitamin D, Pr0zac- I think about the twice daily fresh fish, the papaya smoothies, the plentiful sunshine and soothing sound of lapping waves and wonder if I'd need these pills if we lived in a place with views of the turquoise water.

And as I carry the loaded laundry basket to our cluttered basement, I imagine the village's women, bent over wash tubs, high in the hills overlooking that blissful sea.

Where I've been

Please don't hate me.




Yeah, never mind, I'd hate me, too.

I LOVERMONT (though not so much at 5:30 am)

Z lays just a few inches away from me, taking her first nap in many weeks, maybe months. I study how her eyelashes fan out across the new freckles on her cheeks. I can't remember the last time I watched her sleep from this close up. But I easily remember what it was like to take every nap with her this way, when she was still swaddled and soft-skulled. Now, as then, her breathing is ragged, her body twitches randomly, but "peaceful" is still the word that comes readily to mind.

I cannot nap, though I am bone tired, the kind of tired that only happens here at my parents' lake house in Vermont. My vigilance is ever, ever present; 98 % of me can be desperate for sleep but that last 2 % keeps my nervous system humming, listening for E's waking noises that are sure to come just as I fall asleep.

I am not as tired as I was last summer here, when E was an infant and Z was starting to drop her naps all together. I am not as tired as that first summer as a mother when Z was an infant and I stumbled around in the kind of wide-eyed stupor that is unique to new parents. Those summers I pretty much hated everyone who was getting more than three consecutive hours of sleep. People could complain about work deadlines or plantar warts or deep existential ennui and all I could think was: But you're getting sleep. WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT.

This summer is the first time that E and Z are sleeping together in the same room. We thought this might work well, since at home, both girls were reliably sleeping until about 7 am. We prepped Z extensively; she was so excited about bunking with her sister in! the! same! room! that we feared she would wake her sister up to play with her in the wee hours of the morning. What we didn't expect was E waking up shrieking at 5:30 am every morning, causing Z to cover her ears and cry at equal volume "Too loud! IT'S TOO LOUD!". We didn't expect that if that happened, we wouldn't be able to get anyone back to sleep and so our days would start out at 5:30 am with shrieking, crying and pouting. (The former two would be the girls, the latter would be me, of course).

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Down at the dock, I can see the neighbor kids, the ones we thought looked young enough to play with Z from a distance but when we went over to say hi we realized they were way too old to be intrigued by our offer of a "playdate at our play structure!" "With popsicles!". Now they are playing in the water, laughing, diving, swimming without any assistance or hovering by their parents.

Their parents sit on long deck chairs, some evidently dozing, others reading books and sipping dark liquids. I squat on the gravelly sand with arms outstretched to keep E from toddling right off the dock as it bumps along on the waves of passing motor boats. My book is lying beside my bed, waiting for the last 20 minutes of the day to be devoured in desperate hungry gulps. I don't hate those neighbors like I might have last summer. I know I will be them soon enough and I try not to wish the time to move faster. I love this phase. I do.


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There are no bugs this year, which is the biggest gift you could possibly imagine since some years, the mosquitoes swarm you in huge clouds the moment you leave the house, and singletons attack you from all corners of the house before flying to the ceiling in slow, drunk circles to stay just out of reach until they are hungry again.

No bugs? Beautiful weather? THANK YOU, VERMONT.

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My girls are enjoying themselves so much and though our time here still feels a hair or twelve short of what I used to expect from a vacation, their obvious enjoyment makes it mostly fun for us as well (early morning hours excepted).


Sometimes a tiny, self-centered voice inside me hisses that my chance to experience the world, my chance to experience joy, has been replaced by watching my girls experience joy, experience the world. The voice hisses that I would love to spend all morning following my whim and wish, the way they do; going from favorite books to exploring outside to digging in the sand and dumping shovels into the lake to be retrieved over and over and over again. I enjoy doing those things with them, being a guide as they explore the world. There is substantial, indescribable joy in watching them, playing with them, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. But in the dark moments, after hours of following and guiding and listening and helping, I can't help but yearn just a bit for my vacation. The one where I get to follow my every whim and wish. (5 hours lying on the couch reading a book until I fall asleep for a drifting nap, followed by a quiet lunch on the dock with the paper, then a hike to the waterfalls, finishing with a swim in the lake and a leisurely dinner, in case you were wondering.)

I dream of finding that elusive balance: experiencing the joy of watching and being with my girls and yet also carving out moments of joy and wonder for myself that is non-kid related. My parents have been wonderfully helpful, my father full of fanciful princess stories and my mother eager to both hold and bounce E and spend hours making tiny clay beads with Z. Tonight CG and I will have a sorely needed date night. It may not be a full week of relaxation, a vacation in the old, pre-kid model, but it's still pretty darn great.

Luckily, my cranky pants pack well

Well, they certainly don't make air travel much fun any more do they? Or even reasonably comfortable? I know there used to be a time in our country's history when air travel was a big treat, a positive event in one's life, worthy of dressing up and feeling special. NOT SO MUCH these days. Pretty soon they will strip us of all personal dignity, maybe even actually STRIP US, and smush us all in a big pile in the center of the plane, chuck a few cans of soda on top and slam the door.

When did they do away with pre-boarding for "families traveling with small children"? I used to ADORE the feeling of skipping past the Power Suited First Class-ers, even though I'm not exactly sure I needed "extra time boarding", aka. more time spent on the plane trying to keep my kids from becoming an airborne birth control ad, and I could never actually skip while laden down with children and their accoutrements.

Yesterday, on our way back to Snowville, we were just hoping to make it back here before THE NEXT SNOW STORM WTF. I started out the day with our carry-ons well stocked, extra diapers, snacks, PB&J sandwiches, changes of clothes, multiple forms of anti-bacterial wipes/sprays/FULL BODY COVERALLS, all ziploc-ed and in their own compartments of the diaper bag. We made our connection, took off only an hour late ("only"! Celebration!) and then.... E pooped. Big time. Not to fear, I am a seasoned traveler, I know that airplanes have a little fold-down shelf behind the toilet for just such purposes. I gathered my diaper items and headed for the bathroom.

No shelf.

Hrmmm.

I waited in line and checked the other bathroom.

No shelf.

The queeny flight attendant smirked and uptalked at me: "Oh. Yeah. These are older planes? They don't have any facilities for babies?" (I have many gay male friends [see: was a dancer in a former life] so I feel I can say this with impunity: HE WAS BEING A TOTAL QUEEN.)

So I asked if I could change her on the floor.

"Not in the galley!" he said, aghast at the thought of me changing a diaper in the precious NO MORE FOOD FOR YOU, PEON PASSENGERS, OH EXCEPT FOR A $10 BOX OF ASSORTED SNACK PACKS FROM COSTCO food area.

"Oooookkkkaaaayyyy. Where would you like me to change her McQueeny-pants?"

"I don't knoooowww." he said, not even trying to feign sympathy, and turned away.

So.

I headed back into the sardine can of a bathroom and looked around. The closed toilet was the biggest horizontal surface. I took a deep breath, put down my changing pad, placed all my tools in reaching distance and opened the diaper.

I should tell you that E is in a particularly difficult diaper changing phase we like to call the Immediate Flip Over. It's pretty self-explanatory.

So there I was trying to wipe poop off of every fold (there are many, MANY folds on this girl) and she was trying to flip over. She succeeded in flipping her top half over and started grabbing at every dis-GUSTING surface she could find while I grasped her ankles in the air and fruitlessly jabbed a wipe at random spots on her lower half until the combination of our two efforts resulted in contorting her little body into serious chiropractic territory AND slid her face onto the side of the airplane toilet and then SHE PUT HER TONGUE OUT.

O. M. G.

RRRRRReeeettttCCCCHhhhhhhhh.

I wiped her tongue off with a wipe and then freaked out about the chemicals in the wipes. I went to rinse out her mouth with water from the sink before remembering that the water in those lovely airplane bathrooms isn't usually potable. I give up.

Finally I got her changed and tried to balance her on one knee to wash her hands in the sink. But you have to hold down one of the little faucet levers to get any water to come out and the cold is freezing and the hot is too hot but I could only press one while still holding her resistant hand out so I start using an antibacterial wipe and then she started trying to eat it and I. GIVE. UP.

When I got back to our seats, I found Z in a loud, tired, cooped-up tantrum and I contemplated walking back to the bathroom IT WAS THAT BAD.

After a lovely three hours of MORE OF THE SAME, we finally got within striking distance of our home airport when the pilot announced that we were in a holding pattern because the DC airport can't handle another SINGLE inch of snow, so we were circling there indefinitely and OH YEAH if we start to run out of fuel we will have to divert to BALTIMORE.

Then, E pooped AGAIN.

(KILL ME NOW.)

At the last moment, we were able to land in DC, two hours late. I actually clapped AND cheered before stumbling out into the airport to wait an HOUR AND A HALF for our bags.

Z on the weird shuttle between terminals at Dulles.
And yes, just a moment before this, she had been holding onto the grimy hand rail AND crawling around on the floor. So much for our anti-bacterial wipes.

It was ALMOST enough to make me swear off of air travel with small children. Except that our trip to Arizona to visit my in-laws was SO AWESOME and driving three days to get there would be even more insane.

We went to the playground every single day.


We woke up to this view.


We gloated (Enlarge to read headline.). (We also ALL need a haircut!)

We ate snacks outside in our shirtsleeves.


Z insisted on putting her feet in the (freezing cold) pool.


CG and I went on a child-free hike (where I sprouted a saguaro out of my head.) (TANK TOP!)


We even attempted a family portrait (BARE FEET) (CG is only wearing a coat because he was catching a cold and shoes because he was just back from the park with Z. I wasn't cold IN THE SLIGHTEST.)


So, in summary: Flying BAD. Arizona GOOOOOOOD.

The sisterhood of the traveling breastpump

(Q: How many times will I use the word "breast" in this post?

A: Many, many times more than I had to actually say the word to strangers during this past weekend's trip, thank goodness as I tend to stumble and blush when doing so.)

I am proud and grateful that I am breast(1!)feeding, that it is possible, even easy, for me to do so. I read about women not being allowed to nurse in public or being hassled for needing to pump at work and I feel grateful to have had a relatively easy road (especially if you don't count my ridiculously poor public nursing skillz: I always either flash several people, leak all over my shirt or both).

But I was extra nervous for my solo flight to a friend's wedding this past weekend (Woohoo! A whole bag of peanut M&Ms THAT I DON'T HAVE TO SNEAK OR SHARE!). I would be carrying on my breast(3!)pump and, on the way back, a small cooler full of breast(2!)milk. I made the mistake of Googling "carrying on breast(4!)milk" and read horror stories. Specifically, it seems many women are hassled by TSA for carrying on breast(5!)milk without a baby, which, DUH, why would I have all this breast(6, oh, forget it)milk if I had the baby with me?? Others had posted that TSA gave them a hard time for the pump itself, especially since many don't come apart easily so it looks suspicious on the xray.

So, me being me, I worked myself into quite a lather about how this would all go down.

What actually happened? I carried on my breastpump with no problem, not even a question.

I cried like a fool at the wedding (OF COURSE),

(I think she gave me a corsage for the dedicated pumping that was required to get me there.)

cried when I saw the garden where CG and I were married

(I walked down the aisle to relive the glory, of course.)

and pumped like a fiend and stored the milk in a refrigerator at the place I was staying.

(Must have pumping accessory: vital cultural reading)

When I left NY yesterday I packed some bags of ice into a little insulated cooler with the breastmilk bags stuffed in. I didn't even bother to measure them into 3 oz bottles or put them in a quart sized ziploc. I figured if they gave me a problem I would just dump them. I am cursed/blessed with an oversupply problem so even though throwing away pumped breastmilk would feel like a colossal waste of my hard earned effort and time, I would rather do that then get even more worked up about it.

I got into the security line with my pump and my wad of full breastmilk bags and sweated a bit as they went through the xray machine. And then the TSA folks did.... nothing. NOT. A. THING.

So there you have it, my friends.

Now if only I had thought ahead to how exactly I would pump in the airport after getting through security. I should have known there was a battery pack for my pump. Then I could have at least pumped in the relative privacy of a bathroom stall.

But instead, I sat on the floor of the United terminal bathroom, draped my coat over my shoulders and pumped away much to my embarrassment and the amusement/shock of my fellow bathroom visitors. (There was one lady who tapped me on the shoulder -making me jump out of my skin and drop my pump pieces- and said "right on!")

The things you learn...

Postcard from Vermont: Seeing is believing.

When discussing the details of our birth plan, our doula told us that a newborn, placed on her mother's chest immediately after birth and not forced to latch on, will wriggle and squirm and latch on themselves. This seemed like some impossible natural childbirth baloney, like "orgasmic birth". (As much as I felt empowered by Eliza's birth, I would have to say that the physical sensations I experienced were pretty much the POLAR OPPOSITE of orgasm.)

A newborn, who has little control over her movements and can barely see, can latch on by herself?? I would believe it when I saw it.

When Eliza was born, after the initial bottle they had to give her because she was so big, the nurses placed her on my belly and left her there. I resisted the urge to move her to my breast, or at least a little closer to it, and just waited. My minutes-old babe, eyes barely open, started to wriggle and elbow-drag herself across my belly toward my chest. My mouth hung open in disbelief as she found her own way onto my breast. All by herself.

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Friends had told me that one day, Zoe and Eliza would start to interact without me. That Zoe would be helpful in ways I couldn't imagine.

All I could picture was baby Eliza crying that crazed newborn squawk and my sensitive Zoe covering her ears and adding her voice to the din. "I'll believe it when I see it," I said, ever the optimist.

At the beginning of our time here in Vermont before CG got here, I was fragile, brittle even. One day, I was trying to get Zoe and Eliza in the car and off to Zoe's swim lesson. Eliza was overtired, crying in her carseat. Zoe was dawdling and whining and helpfully informing me repeatedly: "Mama! Eliza's crying!".

I forgot my wallet and ran crazily toward the house, Ellie's crying seeming louder the further away I got. By the time I grabbed the wallet and got back to the car, I was a sweaty, twitchy mess. I opened the car door and jumped in the driver's seat, braced for a chorus of cries and screams.

What I heard instead? Zoe singing a made up song to a silent Eliza. There was only one verse: "Don't cry Eliza, don't cry. It's okay Eliza, it's okay."

I'll give you one guess who was the only one crying at that point.

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This Wednesday, we finally leave the lakehouse here in Vermont. After two short flights, we'll arrive in Virginia where I'll drive our new car to our new house.

Everyone says it will soon feel like home. That I'll make new friends and find my way around. That all will be well.

I'll believe it when I see it. (I'm SO READY to see it.)

Postcard from Vermont: Weekend, update.

CG was here this weekend.

I thought I knew how much I missed him but I was wrong. I was missing him WAY WAY more than I thought. So was Zoe.

A few months ago, when we were planning how this move across the country would go down, CG said he thought a month was way too long to go without seeing "his girls". I agreed but said it was a silly extravagant expense to have him fly here for the weekend in between when the movers packed our things in CA and when they deliver them to our new home in VA. "We'll be fine," I insisted.

Thank goodness he ignored me.

Because, of course, he wasn't just trying to take care of each of his girls or wanting to see us for his own pleasure. He was taking care of us as a family, which is one of the things he does best. And I love him even more after this weekend.


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In other news: I believe I am detoxing from my placenta pills and it ain't pretty. I realize my Sudden Onset Weepiness could be related to the fact that my husband was here for a weekend and now I miss him even more. Or the fact that it is finally hitting me that we are moving across the country to a town where I know NO ONE. Or the fact that I'm in a house with my three year old and two month old that tends to amplify acoustically, if you know what I mean. Nice for your music. NOT NICE FOR THREE YEAR OLD AND INFANT NOISE.

No, I am sure that it is because I am all out of placenta pills now. Anyone know a black market placenta pill purveyor? (I'm totally kidding. [MAYBE NOT.])

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Also, Zoe's swimming class today? Went fine. Not great, just fine. I said a little something to the teacher, not much. Zoe went a little more in the pool, not much. She got a little more attention from the teachers, NOT MUCH.

It's just fine. As with many things right now, happiness sometimes comes from having lower expectations.

Postcard from Vermont: Almost fixing it

I am gazing out at the lake after a morning spent playing with Zoe in the water when it hits me that no matter how much fun I've been having, I still feel a bit caged. Without CG here, it feels like every moment of my day is filled with wiping and explaining and cajoling and encouraging patience and working on my patience and cleaning up and dressing and undressing little squirmy bodies and OH JUST mothering.

And so with Eliza possibly asleep up in the house and the monitor possibly reaching this far to the dock and Zoe possibly safe for a moment on the dock with her uncle and aunt, I beg for a swim by myself.

I push off the dock and lunge for the raft, 20 yards out. I pause at the far side, family out of view, legs egg-beating, and close my eyes. The cool water, the momentary release from vigilance, being alone- all feel like heaven and it almost fixes it. Almost.

But then I am coming back to shore and everyone thinks it's great that I "had a swim" and I feel a tiny, sour lump of panic rise in my throat because that was it. That was my break.

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I have been nursing one-armed a lot and tense with frustration a lot and carrying bags and children and carseats and children IN carseats a lot and I have a big knot in my shoulders.

So during a precious concurrent naptime, I take a tennis ball from one of the dogs and I press it between my back and the wall, squeezing the muscles, willing them to relax. I do some stretches and breathe deeply and it almost fixes it. Almost.

But then Eliza starts fussing, just barely. At two months, her naps are still not distinct and I never know how long she'll "be down". So I go to her and prepare to nurse one-armed as I contort myself into a position that allows me to read at the same time because I'm dying to read and there is no other time to do it and I feel the knot rise again.

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Zoe is whining and I say "Zoe, I can't understand the whining" and this time I actually mean it, I have no idea what she's saying.

So she makes it clearer and I wish I still didn't understand so I wouldn't have to find a gentle way to say no, to weather the inevitable tantrum, to assess the best time and way to move her past the necessary explosion of feeling.

And as Zoe's stomping her feet and crying and raging at the injustice of no cookies for breakfast, I glance down at the eager face in my lap. Eliza alights at my glance, her smile taking over her face and her body and her limbs until it is so contagious that it spreads to me and I am helpless to do anything but grin back at her.

And it almost fixes it. Almost.

Postcard from Vermont: Regressions

"Ma ma" Zoe says, less like a word and more like two soft exhales. "Ma ma, I don't need to go potty, ma ma." She sounds a year younger and far away. I'm trying to remember when she started calling me Mama instead of Mommy. It seems like it's been just a few months, suspiciously close to Eliza's age.

It seems like the same amount of time that we've been wrestling with the potty.

"You know the rules, darlin'," I sigh. "We always try before nap. It's been 5 hours since you last peed. Just sit and try. Otherwise, we've got to do a pull-up."

"Okay, ma ma. Ma ma?"

She hikes herself up on the potty.

"Yes, Zoe."

"Will you tell me a story about when you were little?"

I stare at the whale I carved in 7th grade wood shop that hangs over the toilet and think of all the memories from this house that I've come to every summer since I was born. I tell her a story about how my brother and cousins and friends and I used to spend whole weeks in the attic here, coming up with dramatic plays amidst the musty discarded luggage and my grandmother's damp skirted bathing suits hanging on the clothesline.

She lifts one hand off her perch on the potty to wipe hair from her eyes and asks, "Ma ma? Can you tell me another one, please?"

I smile at her in spite of her stalling and retell more of my hazy childhood memories for her entertainment.

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I am standing in the hallway outside Zoe's room as she cries behind the door that she can't sleep, the nightlight is too dark, she needs one more song. My hands are clasped behind my head, elbows closed around my ears, one part stretch, two parts defeated exhaustion.

My mom comes up beside me and puts one arm around my shoulders. I tense and will Zoe to magically stop crying, to prove to my parents who have witnessed the whole bedtime ordeal that I know what I'm doing.

"You are a great mom to those two girls," she says gently.

I want to deny it, shrug it off, beg her to say it again.

"It doesn't always feel that way, Mom."

"I know. But you are."

And I let her hug me, bending my knees just enough to let my head rest on her chest.

Sleeping like babies

I slept for only 1 hour the night before we left for Vermont.

(Anxiety, sadness, a headache.)

After a 5 and a half hour flight across the country (during which the promised, deeply necessary in-seat Direct TV system was NOT WORKING), we wound up with a 6 hour layover in JFK before our flight to Vermont.


This group nap on the floor of the Jet Blue terminal was the best, calmest part of our day.

(I wish my mom had also captured the young lady sitting near us in her skin tight dress and stillettos. I can only imagine what she thought of us: "Time to renew that birth control prescription!")

Goodbye. (Hello.)

Goodbye avocados everyday.


Goodbye lemons from the backyard.



Goodbye view of the neighborhood palm trees from my favorite spot on the hammock.



Goodbye mild winters and perma-sun. (Hello seasons and moisture. Humidity and greenery.)

Goodbye breakfast at Auntie Ems and Marstons' salads and Zelo pizza and the homemade smores at Parkway Grill. (Hello.... um, please tell me there's good food in Northern Virginia.)

Goodbye LA traffic. (Hello Beltway.)

Goodbye farmer's market. (Hello Polyface farm.)

Goodbye tank tops and cotton cardigans all year round. (Hello wool mittens and hats and scarves and rain coats and boots and ...... )

Goodbye City of Angels. (Hello City of Obama.)

Goodbye Kidspace and Shane's Inspiration and Travel Town. (Hello Smithsonian and, uh, the Capitol?)

Goodbye Venice beach. (Hello.... Potomac River?)

Goodbye four years of my life in LA. (Hello to a brand new life in Northern Virginia.)

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I will board a plane tomorrow with my mom (BLESS HER SOUL.) and my two girls. We leave for the airport at 5 am and hope to arrive at the lake houses by midnight. Can't tell you why it's going to take so long; I blacked out after hearing about a 4 and a half hour layover at JFK.
(HOLD ME.)

I hope to be blogging while we're in Vermont but without CG around, I can't promise much. (Though I have one in the pipeline because I finally got a Basic Blogger 101 understanding of a "scheduled post").

See you all on the flip side.