A recap of that thing called life (and some birthday wishes for my daughter)

I obviously haven’t posted in a while, and I apologize, but I’ve barely been keeping my head above water. I’ve been involved in a job search, a final edit of Use Your Words before it moves to copyediting, prepping for and participating in the 2nd Annual Minnesota Blogger Conference (which was this past Saturday and which was fabulous—even better than last year. I was blown away by the wonderful writing by the people in my session. Go, writers!) Saturday night, we were out in Blaine at the National Sports Center watching D play in the MN History Soccer Game. (He’s still got it, by the way—scored his team’s only goal. From the stands it seemed as though his whole body was smiling.) And then Sunday, we held Stella’s 8-year-old kid party (with a gaggle of 7- and 8-year-old girls running around our house and yard), then spent Sunday evening at the benefit concert for our friend John Sylvester (our friend who is fighting the diagnosis of ALS).

Monday morning I woke up desperate for a day to regroup. Instead, everything is full speed ahead. I accepted a temporary full-time position (starting this Thursday!) in a social service agency that serves the Latino community in the Twin Cities. It’s a wonderful organization, and I’m excited to gain new skills and polish my very rusty Spanish. (I sputtered and turned bright red in the interview when we switched to Spanish. I looked like a complete idiot. That they still offered me the position is incredible.)

So I’m excited about the job, but it will change the whole feel of our lives. No more Zoë days. No more games of Sorry with Stella in the afternoons. No more mornings at the coffee shop writing. No more multi-step dinners during the week. (Hello, crock pot.) But still, it’s a good move for me and my family. (Someday I’ll be able to break down the things that led to this…) For now, I just have to trust that I will figure out a way to fit in my writing and some exercise.

This is all a long excuse for why I haven’t posted in almost two weeks. What do you think?

And now it’s Tuesday September 13^th, and my Stella is eight years old today. Usually on her birthday, I revisit that day, eight years ago, when I was vomiting and burning up from the magnesium sulfate, when I was just hoping that she would come out of me and be able to breathe on her own. Last night I wondered whether this year would bring the same flood of memories, and I doubted that it would. Stella is so grown up—so healthy and tall—so far removed from that three-pound preemie she was when she was born. But this morning, like clockwork, I thought, oh, this is when I began vomiting, this is when D arrived from his red-flight from Seattle, this is when, this is when. And I am tugged back in time by the current of details, seared into my memories of the day I became a mother.

I know there are women in similar situations right now—in their hospital beds, praying that their babies will stay inside them a few days (or hours) longer. I’m thinking of those women and families today as I celebrate all that my daughter has become: strong and determined, empathetic and caring, athletic and so very graceful. I love you, Stella. Happy Birthday! I’m wishing you a year filled with laughter and play, adventure, new interests and friendships. 

happy mother's day!

Stella came into our room this morning and said, "Happy Mother's Day, Mama." 


"Thanks, sweetie," I said and looked at the clock. It was 5:30 a.m. 


"I'll just snuggle with you for a while," she said, and she climbed into bed next to me. I fell back to sleep, but a few minutes later, she said, "I think I'm awake. I'll go down and watch T.V." 


"Okay, sweetie."


I slept until 8:30 and then D and the girls brought up strawberries, a croissant, and a vase of brilliant orange Gerbera daisies. The girls had each made cards and presents: Zoe gave me a framed hand-print with all of the things she loves to do traced around her fingers; Stella gave me a Marigold that she grew at school. So dear!


I hope you are all having a wonderful Mother's Day! I so appreciate this community of mothers and writers and friends. Thank you for being who you are!!! Happy Mother's Day!

what's in a moment?

I’ve been thinking a lot about the moments that I don’t want to forget—moments with my children and other family members, especially my grandpa, who defies the odds at 102, but who won’t be able to forever. (He would give a disgusted grunt at my lack of faith, I know.)

Working from home is tricky—I have more work than work hours—which means that I’m often at my computer even when my children are home. I don’t “clock out” ever. I wake in the night thinking of writing or editing or teaching; yesterday I ended up getting up at 4 a.m. because I had an idea and I didn’t want to forget it. (I know; I could have written it down and gone back to sleep. Instead I got up and logged in.)

I know I’m missing precious moments with my family because I lack strict work/home boundaries. I also know that years from now I will wish I had spent less time at my computer.

Over the last weeks and months, I’ve been reading my students’ wonderful writing about moments with their children, and their scenes, full of rich detail and nuance, make me understand just how much I’ve forgotten, just how little I sometimes pay attention.

Zoë has fully embraced being three—she is defiant and stubborn, changes her clothes twelve times a day, says “I HATE you!” when she’s scolded. She wants to do everything herself, insists that Stella’s size 6 and 7 dresses fit her because, “I’m growing up!”

She is absolutely, unequivocally, three. And most of the time I love this fact. Because she’s also a snuggler. She gives tight, almost painful hugs. She says, “I love you!” and “You’re the best mommy in the world!” She lines up her babies and stuffed dogs and protects them from the “bad guys.”

Yesterday after we had visited my grandpa (our Thursday ritual), she was beside herself, screaming and crying, trying to wrestle free of her car seat restraints because she was “uncomptable!” (And I’m sure she was uncomfortable; she was wearing Stella’s fancy Christmas dress—black velvet on top, stiff white skirt with sparkles on the bottom—and it was all bunched up around her waist.) She wailed as we drove down the River Road. I knew she needed a nap, so I told her we’d go see if we could find some geese, which congregate on the flat plains along the Mississippi River, across from the University of Minnesota. She didn’t care, she said. She saw them yesterday, she said.

But by the time we had reached their gathering area, she was craning her neck, trying to catch sight of them. We found three. They were napping—“in the mud!” she exclaimed, thrilled that any creature would sleep in a muddy field. And the uncomfortable dress was forgotten. By the time we reached our house, she was sound asleep.

Often I read in the car while she sleeps because she doesn’t transfer well, but I had a desire to hold her sleeping body. D has been home on break this week, so he carried her in and passed her into my arms, and I held her there, like a huge baby, her legs draped across my body, her white patent leather “tap shoes” still on. And I stared down are her closed eyes, her chubby cheeks, her parted lips.

“Remember how many hours we spent with her like this?” I asked.

D nodded.

And I just sat there, feeling the weight of her in my lap. I leaned down and kissed her forehead, brushed an eyelash from her cheek. I took her in, my arm quickly growing tired.

I’m not sure if I “captured” that moment. Is that ever really possible? But I’ve written it down, and years from now—when she is a sassy tween—I can scroll through this blog and remember holding her, remember how heavy her thirty pounds felt in my arms that one day when she was three and I didn’t read or turn to my computer—when instead I just held my daughter.

What are the moments with your children that you don’t want to forget?

3!

It’s hard to believe that on Saturday my little Zoë turned three. For weeks, whenever someone asked her how old she was, she smiled that huge Zoë smile and held up three fingers. And now it’s official—my baby is not a baby anymore.

On Friday we took cupcakes to her preschool and her friends gathered in a circle to celebrate each year of her life. Z was feeling a little shy, so she didn’t walk around the candle, which represents the journey of the earth around the sun. And she tucked her head into my lap when one after another of her friends raised their hands to offer their wishes for her birthday: “I hope you get good presents.” “I wish for you a good birthday.” And my favorite: “I hope your cupcakes taste good.” But after each friend expressed his/her wish, she quickly lifted her head and said a quiet thank you.

On Saturday morning, Stella and I went to return Zoë’s presents (a frilly pink dress with a tulle skirt and sparkly pink shoes) because Zoë said she didn’t like them. “I want an American Girl Doll,” she said. Fair enough, we said, so Stella and I headed off to the store to make our returns and pick out Zoë’s doll. (Note: we buy the affordable Target version of AGD rather than the real AGD.)

After Stella deliberated and deliberated about the perfect doll for Zoë, she settled on Jenny with her long blond hair, and then decided we should have party bags with candy for the kids who would be at Zoë’s party. The candy bags turned into bags with party blowers and rubber lizards and little parachute men who turned out to be quite difficult to assemble. (I know, I know.)

Zoë ended up loving her doll (whose hair is already a tangled mess that Stella has had to brush through three times). And she had a wonderful time at her party, up and down the stairs with her friends and cousins.

When she fell into an exhausted sleep that night, I stared down at her (before also falling into an exhausted sleep) and took her in: her tangled red hair, which she insists on brushing herself even though she can’t actually reach the majority of the tangles; her still toddler-chubby body, which is often without clothes, running around the house, jumping from the couch; her round face, which, when she is awake is almost always lit with a smile.

I love the way Zoë still sometimes says “shoppy cup” for “coffee shop.” (“Mom, I’m going to the shoppy cup to work.”) I love the way she picks out her clothes every day, insisting on all stripes (of varying sizes, colors and direction), a tulle skirt, and her patent leather white “dance” shoes that she inherited from Stella. (She’s the only kid I know sporting white patent leather in the middle of a Minnesota winter.) I love that she and Stella have memorized the lyrics to “So Long, Farewell” from the Sound of Music and that they perform it daily for anyone who happens to stop by our house. (The performance includes Zoë being Gretel, pretending to be asleep on the stairs at the end of the song. Stella drags her up the stairs, waving and singing a high-pitched, drawn out, “Goooooood-byyyyyeeee.”) I love how in the morning, she wakes up (inevitably between me and D) and reaches her arms out to encircle our necks. “Let’s snuggle,” she says. Or, if Stella is up first and wants someone to go downstairs with her, Zoë jumps out of our bed and says, “I go with you, Stella!” (Happy, always, to be her big sister's side-kick.)

As part of the Friday’s circle of life celebration at her preschool, I read a little bit about each year that Zoë has been alive, and then I got to say what our hopes are for her future. This is what I read aloud to her and her classmates: “We hope that Zoë will continue to be a healthy, happy girl, bursting with life and laughter. We hope that she will always wear her joy openly, sharing her smiles with everyone she encounters. We love you Zoë.”

Happy Birthday, three-year-old! We love you!

seven

The weekend was a blur. I spent Saturday at the first Minnesota Blogger Conference, which was a tremendous success thanks to the countless hours that went into planning and executing the event. (A huge thanks to Missy Berggren of The Marketing Mama and Arik Hansen of Communications Conversations for all their work.)

And yesterday, we had two birthday parties for Stella—a kid and a family party. She was buzzing around all day, unwrapping presents, giggling with her friends, unwrapping more presents, eating cake. (And of course talking to Nibbles, who has recovered nicely from The Incident. Thanks for all your well wishes.)

This morning, my alarm went off at 6:15. I quickly turned it off so I wouldn’t wake Zoë, who was in our bed because she wet her crib in the middle of the night (which happens at least four times a week because she refuses to wear diapers at night. “I’m not a baby!” she says adamantly when I try to convince her of the merits of diapers at night.)

I snuck out of the room and I slipped into Stella’s room, where she was sprawled across her bed, sound asleep. I sat down on the edge of her bed, and just stared at her, marveling at the fact that she’s seven, a first grader. I brushed the hair from her face and whispered, “Happy birthday, sweetie.”

Her eyes opened a little. “I’m so tired,” she said, stretching her arm.

“I know, honey.” I was tired, too, and I wanted nothing more than to climb into her bed and fall back asleep with my birthday girl. I kissed her temple and wrapped her into my arms.

And as happens every year on Stella’s birthday, I’m pulled back in time, to the day she was born. I go back to the magnesium sulfate, the vomiting, the suffocating heat in my veins. I go back to my supersonic hearing, the twisted sheets, the tests, the tests. I go back to the fear, the not-knowing, the eventual C-section. I go back to my three-pound daughter being whisked away as soon as she’s pulled from me.

The events of my preeclampsia and Stella’s birth follow me around all day in such clear detail that it feels as if I could step back in time, as if I could leap into a parallel universe in which all of those events are still happening.

But then Stella reaches her arms around my neck and says, “I love you, Mama.” And I’m back where I belong, with my seven-year-old clinging to sleep in the early morning on her birthday.

I love you, too, Stella. Happy Birthday, big girl!

the gerbil diaries, part I

Perhaps for some of you the word “gerbil” brings to mind a somewhat hazy (and disturbing) rumor involving Richard Gere, an emergency room, and an unfortunate rodent. Even I experienced a vague sense of discomfort when, last week, the word started being bandied about our house casually and with some frequency.

But you must banish those unsavory images (which were solidly debunked as urban legend) from your imagination, just as I have. You must do this because, you see, the newest member of our family happens to be a gerbil, and I’d like you to welcome her with a clear heart and a pure mind.

Friends, meet Nibbles. Nibbles, meet my friends.



I never thought I’d be a gerbil owner. I actually never thought we'd have rodents of any kind in our house, even though as children, my sisters and I had guinea pigs and mice (and ducks and a chick and salamanders and a snapping turtle and two parakeets and a cat and two dogs).

My parents were very tolerant of pets, and owning pets seemed to teach us responsibility. Which is why I caved. (Who doesn’t want their kids to learn to care for an animal?)

Or at least it’s part of why I caved. Here’s the rest of the story:

Last year, Stella got in her head that we should have another baby. “Let’s get a baby,” she said at least once a week.

“Oh no,” I said each time, “we’re done having babies.”

But this explanation wasn’t satisfactory, so I was forced to go into more detail, explaining that me and pregnancy don’t really mix (to which she responded, “adopt one!”). I explained that we didn’t really have room in our house for another baby (to which she responded, “You can fit a bunk bed and a crib in our room! No problem!”)

But I just kept saying, “No sweetie, we’re not having another baby. I feel so happy and so lucky to have you two girls.”

Finally, she said, “Well then how about a dog?”

So we started talking about dogs—a lot. We talked about a timeline (after Zoë turns 3) and a plan for a non-shedding, hypoallergenic dog (so D’s not miserable). We talked and talked and talked about dogs, about breeds and sizes and possible names.

And then a few weeks ago, my sister adopted the nicest cocker spaniel from the Human Society. Patch is calm and adorable and great with kids. So when Rachel said they couldn’t take Patch on their vacation, we quickly agreed to take care of him. It was the perfect opportunity to see how we would do with a dog.

Well, Patch is perfect (except for his separation anxiety and penchant for shredding things when he’s anxious) and having him was great (except for the late-night and early morning walks and the fact that Zoë kept trying to ride him and smother him in blankets). He was perfect and overwhelming, and D and I quickly realized that if this sweet dog was too much for us, we definitely weren’t ready for a dog of our own.

So imagine my delight when, last week, Stella said, “I think I want a hamster instead of a dog. Can I get one for my birthday?”

“Great,” I said. “Done.”

But after research about the frequent biting and completely nocturnal habits of hamsters (not to mention the hamster salmonella outbreak I read about online), we decided a gerbil (a creature that is slightly less nocturnal and tends to be more social) would be a better pet.

So…

Friday, September 3

2 p.m.—Stella and I visit PetSmart and look and hamsters and gerbils. The staff reinforces our decision about gerbils.

2:30 p.m.—The begging begins: “Please, please can we get it before my birthday? I need it. I need it.”

3:00 p.m.—Names are discussed: Peanut or Nibbles?

3:30—7:30 p.m.—The lobbying for a pre-birthday gerbil begins in earnest. We finally agree that sometime the next day, we will go get the gerbil.

Saturday, September 4

1:30 a.m.—Stella is awake, in our room: “Are you sure we can get the gerbil today? Do you promise?” Kate: “I promise. Go to sleep.”

4 a.m.—To D: “Do you promise we can go straightaway in the morning? Do you promise?” D: “Shh. Yes.” (He has no recollection of this conversation.)

6 - 11:45 a.m.—Many tears because “noon isn’t ‘straightaway.’” Me: “True, but deal with it.”

Noon—We all pile into the car, go to PetSmart, sign papers, see Nibbles, decide he is definitely a Nibbles, buy appropriate (and expensive) paraphernalia: cage (check), ball (check), food (check), treats (check), bedding (check), mineral licks (check), chew toys (check). D says I have a deer-in-the-headlights look on my face. I feel as if we’ve just purchased our first house.

1:30 p.m.— Nibbles is home and seems to be adjusting. The rule is this: no hands in her cage for four days (the salesperson recommended this so Nibbles could become acclimated.)

Sunday, September 5
Sometime in the morning while I am at the coffee shop writing—little hands go into the cage and try to hold Nibbles. Nibbles tries to escape. Tail fur comes off in said little hand. There are many tears. There are many different versions of the story.

12:30—I get home from the coffee shop and notice blood in Nibbles’ cage, blood on the exercise wheel, blood on the food dish, blood on the shredded toilet paper roll. I call PetSmart. The vet is at lunch. I am told they will call me back.

2:30—The vet is not a small animal vet. They recommend a different clinic.

3 p.m.—D takes Nibbles to a clinic in St. Paul. A shot is administered. Nibbles is sedated. An amputation of the “de-gloved” portion of her tail occurs.

3:30 p.m.—I get the whole story after I assuage my daughter’s fears (“But I’ll get in trouble! I didn’t listen!”) about telling the truth. Lessons about following directions are learned. Lessons about being honest are learned. Everyone feels better.

4 p.m.—D and Nibbles are sent home to recuperate. Nibbles is tired, but fine. I look at the vet bill and try not to cry. “We have the most expensive gerbil in town,” I say. D has a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. I pour myself a glass of wine.

The following days are spent cleaning up Nibbles’ droppings to prevent a tail infection. They are spent washing hands and trying to regain Nibbles’ trust. They are spent wondering whether a gerbil is truly less overwhelming than a dog, or even a baby.

back to school

Both girls are back in school this week. Stella woke up at 6 a.m. yesterday, ready to dash out the door and wait for the bus. “I’ve tried to go back to sleep,” she whispered, “but I can’t.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “You can get ready.”

I’ve never seen her brush her hair and teeth so fast. And then she was dressed, had eaten breakfast and triple-checked her backpack. Photos were taken and more photos were taken until finally she rolled her eyes and said, “Okay, mom. Okay, okay.” And then she was off, running to the bus stop, thrilled to be, as she had mentioned the day before, an “official first grader.”

Zoë’s transition was a little more challenging. As I drove her to preschool, she started to cry. “Don’t want to go to school,” she wailed. “I stay home. I tired. I take a nappy.” Poor kid. She thought I’d let her stay home if she slept all day.

Then she said, “I want Stella go to school wit me.” And every time we saw a school bus, she said, “Stella in there?” That killed me.

I tried to point out the big diggers at a construction site. I tried to tell her how excited her school friends and teachers would be to see her again. None of it worked. I had to pry her from my body and hand her off to her teachers when we got to school. The last thing I saw was her red, tear-stained face over the shoulder of one of her teachers. I felt sick as I drove to the coffee shop.

The truth is that I’m thrilled to have longer stretches of time to work. I love having a set schedule, knowing exactly how many hours a week I can prepare my classes and write. I love having time to run during the day a few times a week. And I know Zoë will adjust. This morning was already smoother (though she still offered to stay home and nap). She said, “No, I not go to school. I just stay here with you.”

“But I have to go to work, sweetie.”

She shook her head. “No, you not go to work.”

“Mommy always comes back for you,” I said, reminding her of the Hap Palmer song she loves.

“Just like Baby Songs,” she said.

“Just like that,” I agreed.

And instead of tears when I dropped her off, she just buried her face in my shoulder and told me she was shy.

“That’s okay, sweetie. You’ll feel like playing soon.”

She was probably zooming down the slide a few minutes after I drove away, so I shouldn’t feel so melancholy. And I know this heaviness is about more than leaving a sad daughter at daycare; it’s about the way the start of the school year marks the end of summer, the passing of another year. In a minute, Zoë will be rolling her eyes at me and running to the bus behind Stella, and I can’t even imagine what Stella will be doing. And I’ll probably have more writing time than I ever wanted. I should be careful what I wish for.


How is the transition back to school for those of you who have little ones?

a few things

I feel as though I’ve spent so much of the summer juggling and fretting that I’ve forgotten to enjoy these last months. I have been snappier with my girls, who are both in high-parental-involvement stages—Zoë is potty training and fully embracing all of the defiance inherent in being a two-year-old; and Stella is suspended somewhere between a little girl and a big girl, a transition that makes her moody and sensitive. One moment she’s totally fine, the next she’s furious, in tears, and yelling, “I’m just so frustrated, Mom! I hate you!” (That’s my favorite.)

But as is always the case, I feel much better if I take a moment and list all of the things in my life for which I’m grateful. So here is my list.

I’m grateful for:

• the way Stella purses her lips in concentration when she’s working on a new craft. (She can sit for over an hour and make a friendship bracelet or a beaded ornament.)

• the way Zoë whips off all her clothes a dozen times a day, then shouts, “I’m naked! I’m naked!” as she shakes it around the room.

• Stella’s pride as she heads down the sidewalk on her new skateboard, with more grace and balance that I’ve ever had. (Seriously, the girl has mad skills. She could be a serious surfer if she put her mind to it—and if we lived somewhere that wasn’t landlocked.)

• the way Zoë packs up all her plastic fruit and vegetables in a bag and announces she’s going to work at the “shoppy cop” (coffee shop).

• that I can run again. (I’ve spent hours this summer in the chiropractor’s office and it wasn’t helping—or helped a little and then stopped helping—and finally last week I started taking those little packets of EmergenC of all things, and my hip and leg feel so much better. Electrolytes! Magnesium! Selenium! Potassium! I could have run for an hour the other day.)

• D.—I have to give the guy a shout out not only for his surprising garage-building skills but also because he’s my biggest supporter, arranging his schedule so I can finish my revision by Sept. 1

• Led Zeppelin—Okay, I’ll admit this is a little strange. But can I tell you how much I’ve loved rediscovering those guys this summer? There is nothing like running down a country road in Northern MN; open pastures on either side of me, a cloudless sky above me, and “Ramble On” blaring on my IPod. (Who am I? No idea, no idea. I’m just going with it.)

• My parents, who have spent even more time with the girls than usual so I can log in as many hours at my computer as possible. I know it can be exhausting, but they keep offering. They keep showing up, and I’m so grateful for them.

• My kick-ass friends, both in person and virtual. I so appreciate that you’re always close by, always listening, always ready to make me laugh. Thank you!

I’d love to hear what you’re grateful for. Leave a list in the comment field or link to your own post. And thank you, as always, for reading.

big girls

Sorry I’ve been quiet this week. Zoë has been out of toddler school and Stella has been out of her before-school program for almost two weeks now, and I’ll admit that it’s been a serious challenge to try to get all of my work done. Thank God for my parents, and especially my dad, who has come over a number of times so I can slip out to the coffee shop for a couple of hours before Stella gets on the school bus.

And now Stella is done with kindergarten, as well. She’s been counting down the days for weeks, and yesterday she was giddy with excitement. “I’m a first grader now! Can you believe that?”

I can’t believe it, actually. I have a first-grader? How did that happen?

Even though my stress level has been higher than usual lately—I’m teaching an online class, juggling two freelance articles and two book-editing projects—I’m trying to take a little time to just enjoy my girls each day. Last night before dinner, we filled water balloons at the hose and smashed them on the sidewalk, and then Zoë and I watched Stella go back and forth on her new skateboard. (I never had the guts to skateboard as a kid—I don’t even think it occurred to me to try—but my girls are something else. As Stella careened by us, Zoë shouted, “Wow, Stella. That’s cool!”)

Both of my girls are full of sass, both are incredibly strong-willed. (Now where did they get that?) And I’m aware—suddenly painfully aware—of how fast they are growing. So this summer, I’m trying to capture as many cuddles as I can.

Back in February, around the time that Zoë had her seizure, she started wanting to be rocked to sleep. And because she was sick and then she had the seizure, we started rocking her to sleep. So now, before nap and bedtime, after we have read her books and after she has “cuddled me” (“No, no, mama. I cuddle you!”) and after I have then cuddled her and we have gone back and forth a few times about it being time for nap or bed, she agrees to let me wrap her up in her soft, soft Tinker Bell blanket (“Wap me, mama. Wap me!”) and I rock her in my arms, humming a lullaby until she falls asleep.

There is nothing like staring down at a sleeping toddler. When she’s asleep in my arms, she looks so much like a baby still. I gaze down at her relaxed face, at her open mouth. I brush her sweaty hair from her forehead and lean down to kiss her cheek. And when I feel her body grow even heavier in my arms, I stand up to transfer to her crib. But then her eyes flutter and she says, “One more minute, Mama. Just one more minute.” And if I hesitate, she says, “Sit down.” So I sit back down on the edge of Stella's bed and rock her a little more. I just can’t help it.

Luckily, D will be done with school next week, as well, so I can write and work on teaching in the mornings—I’m going to finish the revision this summer if it kills me—and then we’ll switch in the afternoon. And each day, I’m going to hold my daughters and tell them how much I love them. Because soon I won’t remember them being this small.

my dancing girl

The last two nights, we’ve sat in a darkened auditorium and watched Stella prance onto stage and spin and twirl with a handful of other 6-year-olds in their line-up of Aristocats. As I sat and watched my composed daughter sashay and pirouette with incredible grace, I tried to keep the tears from my eyes.

Three years ago, after watching Barbie’s Swan Lake, Stella announced that she wanted to start going to dance class. I was dismayed. I even tried to talk her out of it. (Don’t you want to try a circus class? What about karate?)

Don’t get me wrong. I love to dance. When I lived in Costa Rica, I spent countless hours dancing. In fact, I heaved myself into the back of a truck (a truck that sometimes was cleaned of cow shit for the occasion, sometimes not) and held tight to the wooden planks of the cajón as we bumped and jolted our way along the dirt road to the nearest dance hall. And then I proceeded to dance until my toenails were chipped and my quads and the balls of my feet aching. I spent my Saturday nights for two years in this way, and when I came back to the States, I could salsa like I was born to do it.

But I never took dance lessons, and some of the girls I knew growing up who did take dance struggled with eating disorders. Even now, when I see the float of ballerinas at the annual Grand Ol’ Day parade, their ribs and collar bones protruding sharply, I feel so sad.

But three years ago, Stella insisted. “I want to take dance.” She would then point at Barbie on the screen, balancing on toe shoes, and say, “I want to do that.”

So, I did my research, scoured the web until I found a dance school that was “accepting of all body shapes and sizes” and was devoted to making dance accessible to all young people regardless of socioeconomic status. I called and spoke with the education director, who was warm and welcoming. Okay, I thought, we’ll try it.

But in the back of my mind, I thought Stella might dance for a year or two and then lose interest.

She hasn’t lost interest. She just finished her third year of classes and she’s talking about moving to the next level in the fall.

Dance parties are a daily occurrence in our house. I turn up the music and both girls spin and twirl across the floor, Zoë following behind Stella, trying to do everything that her big sister does. (Zoë has also taken to wearing tights and a leotard when she accompanies Stella to class every week. As she waits in the lobby, she performs for anyone who will watch her.)

The thing is that Stella not only loves to dance, she’s really good at it. And I don’t mean to brag. It’s just that I’m amazed by her, by this skill, this talent that has nothing to do with me. (I’m seriously lacking in the eye-hand coordination department. The bruises I often boast on my arms are evidence of my klutziness, which sometimes sends me into a door frame or chair. Maybe this is why running is my exercise of choice? Open space is good.)

One of my Mother Words students once said that you don’t raise kids; you wait for them to reveal themselves. This was years ago, and I remember thinking, oh, that’s an interesting way to look at it. But Stella was only two then, and I couldn’t fathom what she would be like in one year, much less four.

Last night, as I watched the older students from the studio leap and shimmy and fly into the lights, I could feel time fast-forward. And I saw D and myself sitting in that same auditorium ten years from now, watching a grown-up Stella leap and shimmy and fly into the lights, her arms and legs powerful and propelling.

Stella was not nervous before her performances; she was beside herself with excitement. And as I watched my composed and self-confident daughter move with such incredible grace across the stage, I realized that this is what my student had been talking about. Stella is revealing herself, and all we have to do is sit and watch her (and of course encourage and love her and cheer her on). I can do that.

two

It’s my little Zoë’s birthday today. How can she already be two years old?

I remember the day she was born, the thick wet snowflakes falling outside as I tried not to think about being sliced open. I remember the terrible cold I had that day (as I do now). I remember that Donny took Stella out for breakfast so I could try to sleep a little more. I remember that I didn’t sleep. I remember the moment the doctor pulled her from me and held her up for me to touch. I remember, later, in the recovering room, when Donny placed her in my arms and she latched on immediately, gazing up at me.

This morning, she woke at four a.m. after Stella barreled out of their room riding the tails of a nightmare. Both girls were then in our bed, but that doesn’t work for Zoë. She was up and down, saying, “Downtairs. Downtairs now.”

At 5:15, I kicked D in the shin and he took both girls downstairs for breakfast. “Don’t open the present without me, though,” I called after them.

Yesterday, Stella and I had gone to pick out a doll for Zoë. Stella has the Target version of an American Girl Doll, one she calls Charmy Running Girl. (I don’t remember what her box name was.) And because Charmy is Stella’s doll, Zoë can’t get enough of her. “Runny Gool. Where Runny Gool?”

It was Stella’s idea to get Zoë a doll of her own. She thought this would keep Zoë from pulling Charmy’s hair and dropping her on her head. She thought if Zoë had a doll of her own, she’d back off poor Charmy.

When I got up at 6:30, we all sat on the floor as Zoë opened her present. She was ecstatic. “My Charmy Runny Gool! My Charmy Runny Gool!”

Stella pursed her lips, holding dear Charmy in her arms. “Zoë, you can’t name her that. They’re cousins so she needs a different name.”

Zoë eventually settled on Sofia. (Named after my friend’s baby.) But Sofia turned into Charmy Sofia and then Sofia Running Girl. And after twelve minutes, Sofia lay abandoned on the floor, and Zoë was weeping to hold Charmy, the real Charmy, as I was trying to finish packing lunches and get both girls—the live ones—ready for school. Ah well.

This afternoon, Stella and I will take cupcakes to share with Zoë’s toddler friends. And tomorrow we’ll have a party with our families.

Today, I am thankful for my Zoë, thankful for the way she says, “’Kay, Mama? ‘Kay?” I’m thankful for her devilish laugh, for the way she lines the baby dolls up on the couch, covering each one with a tiny blanket. I'm thankful for the way she says, "Tay too yo welcome" when I pass her a bowl of orange slices. I’m thankful for her red hair, which is a mat of dreadlocks at the back of her head because she will not let me brush it. (And I just let it be. I let her go to school like this.)

I’m even thankful for her gremlin ways—the way her teeth grit in a crazed smile when she’s about to pinch me or when her “gentle touches” become a lot less gentle or when she has grabbed my favorite mug from the dishwasher and run into the other room, poised to smash it to pieces. Okay, it was a little hard to love her the moment the mug exploded into a gazillon ceramic shards on the floor. But then I was over it.

And I do love every bit of you, Zoë! Happy day!

on friday

Zoë woke at 1:30 am with a fever. She’d had a cold for a week, but this was the first sign of a fever. She was inconsolable, so I brought her into our bed. “Cuddle me, mama,” she said, wrapping her arms around my neck. We had a fitful night of sleep, and in the morning her temperature was 101.3.

I usually get very irritated when my kids are sick on preschool days. (This sounds horrible, I know.) But on Friday, I didn’t feel that way. I had a lot on my plate, a handful of things that needed to be checked off my to-do list, but it didn’t matter. I wanted Zoë home with me. We spent the morning cuddling, wiping her nose, and watching her favorite baby songs video (a classic—circa 1982).

She napped a little, and when she woke up she felt hot. I made some soup and was letting it cool on the stove while I held her in my arms. But all of the sudden, she sat up with a start, cried out in pain, then began to shake, her body going rigid in my arms. I knew immediately that she was having a seizure. I stood up slowly with her in my arms and walked to the phone. I dialed 911, and when I heard the woman answer, I said: “My daughter is having a seizure. She has a fever.”

Then I started to cry. Zoë was still rigid, her eyes rolled back. The receptionist got my address, my name, and connected me to a paramedic. All I could do is hold my daughter and cry. I knew that febrile seizures weren’t uncommon. My good friend’s daughter had one about a year ago. Still, there is nothing like watching your child go rigid, unresponsive, in your arms. The skin around her mouth turned purple. What if she stays like this? Her backed was arched. What if she doesn’t get better? The paramedic on the line asked whether she was breathing.

“No. Yes. She’s drooling, frothing at the mouth.”

“Let’s count her breaths. Tell me every time she breathes.”

Zoë made a sputtering sound and took a ragged breath. “Breath,” I said.

“Okay,” he said.

“Breath,” I said. And again, “Breath.”

“Good,” he said. “She’s breathing. I won’t leave you alone. I’ll stay on the line until the paramedics arrive. Is your door open?”

I looked down at Zoë. Her eyes still staring off, unfocused. I carried her onto the porch, unlocked the door. “I hear the sirens,” I said.

“Tell me when you see them.”

I looked down at Zoë, whose eyes were now closed. And then I saw the fire truck in front of our house. “I see them.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to let you go.”

“Thank you. Thank you,” I said, but I’m sure I wasn’t able to convey my gratitude that this man was there with me, waiting with me, talking to me.

I have seen someone have a seizure only once. It was almost ten years ago, when D and I lived with Mimi, and I had taken her to Byerly’s, the upscale grocery store where she always shopped. I was pushing my cart along the meat aisle when I saw a man holding onto one of the frozen food containers. I walked past and glanced at him because he was standing there frozen himself, and that’s when I noticed he was jerking slightly and staring off in that dazed way. What I should have done is gone to the meat counter and told the butcher to call 911. (I didn’t have a cell phone back then so I couldn’t do it myself.) But I didn’t go talk to the butcher. I wasn’t sure the man was having a seizure. I moved on a little, and then thought, no, something wasn’t right with him. I went back and said, “Excuse me,” and of course he didn’t respond. He was standing right in front of his cart, so I moved it to the other side of the aisle so he wouldn’t fall on it if he fell. Then I turned to the meat counter to have someone call 911, and that’s when he hit the ground. He fell hard, like a felled tree. I heard it. When I turned, he was flat on the floor. The paramedics were there in a few minutes, and when the man started to come out of it, they asked him whether this was his first seizure. “Yes,” he said. I continued to hover around, feeling guilty that I hadn’t acted more quickly, that I was too worried about minding my own business to get the paramedics there sooner. It wouldn’t have made a difference, but still. I was shaken for the rest of the weekend, and I think about this man still, wonder what happened, what caused his seizure.

I know as seizures go, a febrile seizure is the best possible kind. I kept thinking this. This is the best kind. This is the best kind. And I thought about those of you whose children had and have seizure disorders. I thought of how powerless it must make you feel, every day.

The paramedics tromped into out house, dwarfing it with their huge bodies, their gigantic boots and jackets. I kept apologizing for the mess, worrying in a completely illogical way that they would think that the Little People and crushed Cheerios all over the floor reflected bad mothering and that somehow this untidiness led to my daughter’s seizure. Crazy, I know. “I usually pick up,” I said.

They waved away my worrying, crouched down, and checked Zoë, who couldn’t keep her eyes open. They told me she would be fine. They told me about their own children. They told me I did just the right thing. They were fabulous.

A neighbor popped in his head to see if I needed help, and I shook my head.

The paramedics said they could take us to the ER, but that it probably wasn’t necessary.

I thought about the ambulance. Stella would be off the bus in a half hour and there was no one there to wait for her. I also thought, shit, we can’t afford an ambulance. I hate that I thought that, and if they had said, we should take her, I would have gone, of course.

They gave Zoë some Tylenol and were on their way. I called our clinic, and the nurse said I should bring her into the ER to be checked anyway. So I called my sister to see if she could come over and spend the afternoon with Stella. Then I tracked down D, who was in a workshop. He met me in the ER and Zoë, poor Zoë, underwent a slew of tests. But they were all reassuring. She just had a virus and a fever.

When we got home later, my dad brought us take-out and my sister and her husband and son came over for dinner. Zoë wanted me, only me. She was feverish all night—next to me in bed, saying, “Cuddle me, mama.” D and I were up and down, alternating Motrin and Tylenol every three hours.

In the morning I was so tired my face hurt, but I had an interview for a grant I’d applied for, so I showered, grabbed some coffee, and tried not to sound like an idiot in the interview. Afterwards, I rushed back home to find Zoë asleep in D’s arms on the couch.

Her fever finally broke early Sunday morning. That phrase—her fever broke—always reminds me of the historical romance novels I read as a teenager (and I’ll admit into adulthood). I can see the hero pacing a long hallway in his Hessian boots as he waits for word on his young bride, who contracted a terrible fever during childbirth. Or I think of the heroine, dabbing the forehead of her lover after he was wounded in a duel, defending her honor. I assure you, I was no less relieved than my heroes and heroines when I reached over and felt Zoë’s forehead in the middle of the night and it wasn’t burning.

The fever was back Sunday afternoon, and then gone yesterday. I have my fingers crossed that it stays away, and that this is the only seizure she will ever have. That’s what I’m doing. I'm crossing my fingers.

the first day

The bus was late this morning, on the first day of kindergarten, and for a while I thought we would have to drive Stella to school. Riding the bus has been the thing about which she has been most excited, and I knew she would be disappointed if it didn't show up. When it arrived a few minutes later and the driver opened the door and called out her name, we gave her a big hug, and she smiled, waved, and walked right up those steps.

I now understand what "my heart swelled" means. My chest, for the rest of the day, has felt full. I'm so proud of her, my Stella.

fall

Fall is bittersweet for me. I love the cooler weather, the oranges and reds of the changing maples, but I hate what fall portends—those long, cold months trapped inside. Fall also makes me feel melancholy, heavy with the sense of time passing. I’ve been feeling this a lot in the last weeks, probably because I can’t deny time’s passing this year—Stella is starting kindergarten. We were up north at the cabin again last weekend, and when we arrived home on Monday afternoon, I looked at the calendar and realized she would be starting school in just over two weeks! I felt almost panicky—there were the school supplies and new school clothes to buy, the forms to fill out, etc. It all seemed like too much. It didn’t help, of course, that D was out of town.

D has been gone a week, and I’ve had it with single parenthood. The saving grace has been the two full days of childcare. On Tuesday morning after I dropped off the girls, I tied up the last piece of a seemingly endless freelance article, then dove into my manuscript for an hour. I met a friend for lunch, then spent the next couple of hours working on an editing project. Today, I plan to work on the book, go for a run!, and then back to editing in the afternoon. Heavenly.

In a week, however, these long days will be over. Stella will be in half-day kindergarten (it’s a lottery system here in Minneapolis), which is about, oh, two minutes long. So for the next year, I will write in the morning, come home to be with Stella (and Zoë on the days she’s not at toddler school). Then when Stella gets on the bus, I’ll have another few hours to work. Stella will be home early afternoon, and we’ll have a little time to do errands or crafty projects before we go get Zoë. I won’t have big chunks of work time, but I will still have more time total than I’ve had in the last year and a half. I’m gearing up to roll with it.

Yesterday morning Stella and Zoë and I went to Target and checked off the items on the kindergarten supply list, and this weekend, we’ll go shopping for Stella’s new school outfits (a ritual I remember fondly from my own childhood and teen years). Then in two weeks, I will have a kindergartner! How is it possible that my 3-pounder has become so big and tall that it is difficult for me to carry her? How is possible that that tiny baby, her fingers unable to close around my pinky, has grown into a beautiful, responsible girl, all sass and spunk? I suppose I will continue to ask these questions indefinitely, with every new milestone.

Do you ever stop marveling at this, how fast they grow?

changes

Last week, Zoë started “school.” It was awful. I should have known it would be awful, but I didn’t. D and I dropped her off on the playground with Stella, and she was fine until she realized we were going to leave her there, and then she burst into tears—wailing and pointing to the door. Stella was a dear, holding her hand and talking in that really high voice she reserves for Zoë. But as we drove away and saw Zoë screaming, I felt sick to my stomach. Why was I doing this to her?

I thought the transition would be easy because she had been to school so many times to drop off and pick up Stella. She knew some of the teachers. She recognized the other “babies.” I thought she’d be fine because she’s such an extrovert. She thrives on attention and activity and being surrounded by other people.

Who was I kidding? Had I forgotten that I had been with her almost every moment of her 17 months? Had I forgotten that she was a momma’s girl? Apparently.

She cried 90% of the day, and when I went to pick her up, she was standing in the corner on the toddler playground, staring dazedly at the other kids, her eyes red and her face mottled. The poor thing wouldn’t let me put her down for the rest of the day.

But, and here is the flip side—I got a ton of work done that day. I sat in my office and typed away, did research for an article that feels like it will never be finished. I stared out the window, wondered about my little ones. I had a conference call with my co-editor at Literary Mama. (Yes, I’m now on board at Literary Mama, co-editor for Literary Reflections! I’m thrilled!)

I got a ton done that day, and Zoë’s second day was better: down to 15% of the day spent crying. And I’m hoping that soon she will be jumping into the car on school days. (I guess I shouldn’t hold my breath for that one.)

I know I need this time to work, but I do miss the little bugger. And since last week, Zoë has been less into mom. Last weekend we were up north at the cabin, and she only wanted Grammy. Lord knows I’ve been in this situation before. I understand what it feels like not to be the favorite. I also understand that these phases pass. (And then they return and they pass again.)

I’ll be patient with her and patient with myself. Now if I could just tie up all my freelance work so I can get back to my book!!

dragging

First, I want to thank everyone who weighed in on last week’s post about weaning. One of the great things about blogs is their potential to start and sustain a real discussion. And of course the challenge with an online discussion is to keep it from turning into a “fight.” Breastfeeding is such a hot-button issue for so many people, and I really want to thank you for not letting the discussion turn into a yelling match. I do realize that my sensitivity about weaning emerged a bit, and that probably hurt my facilitation skills. Ah well...

It’s been a challenging week for me. I’m craving prolactin—doesn’t that stuff come in a bottle?—and I’m really missing my cozy time with Zoë and the way nursing calmed her.

All of this (plus the health scare I had a couple of weeks ago) has made me very tense. I developed these ridiculous knots in my back last week, knots so tight that my arms began to tingle and my chest felt heavy. But instead of realizing the tingling was a result of this tension, I became convinced that I had a serious underlying health issue. (This is what happens when you combine an active imagination and a worrying nature with hypochondriac tendencies.)

So I spent a week brooding and worrying and feeling generally low. I sat and stared at my computer, working over the same sentence again and again, struggling with the silliest of words.

Yesterday, D said, “Go get a massage. Today. Now.”

I love massages. I do. But they seem like such a luxury, an expense that I hardly ever justify. But yesterday it was either try a massage or go to urgent care toting my Internet-procured list of possible causes for my symptoms. I decided on the massage, partly because I figured it would be less expensive than urgent care. I got a last-minute appointment at a salon near my dad’s house, dropped Zoë off with grandpa, and splurged.

But it turns out that sometimes a splurge is not a splurge at all. This woman was fabulous, and the massage was painful, but afterward, there was no tingling in my arms and no heaviness in my chest.

Then last night, I was checking my website for messages, and there was a note from another mother writer, the wonderful Erin White of Hatched by Two Chicks. (Erin’s lovely essay “East Wind” was in Creative Nonfiction a few years ago, but I didn’t realize she was a mother-writer and blogger until last night!)

This is what Erin said:

“There is nothing quite like the end of the nursing relationship, especially with a toddler. I weaned my first right before her second b-day and the process knocked the two of us off our feet. But we got back up again, much faster than I might have expected, and then we got going on the task of figuring out new and amazing ways of connecting to each other and to our own worlds. My second (who I think was born the same day as your second!!) weaned herself at 11 months and I will always be grateful to her for that. I got my energy, my body, my work, and--dare I say--my chi, back in the most amazing way. Nursing is heaven and weaning is freedom. For mamas and for babies. I tend to see nursing and the decision to stop as really great practice for making later decisions about ourselves in relation to our children. And as the mothers of daughters (I have two, as well) I think its so so important for us to get really good at valuing our bodies and our independence while at the same time staying really connected to our kids.”

I love that. After all, parenthood requires constant practice in letting-go. And we must continually navigate our shifting and growing relationships with our children.

Zoë and I will be fine, eventually. We’re in the midst of figuring out new ways to connect. Yesterday, she had trouble falling asleep at nap time. We battled it out for a bit, and then I just went and got her from her crib, and she fell asleep in my arms, like an infant, her face pressed into my neck. The same thing happened again this afternoon. So for now I’ll just I hold her tight, listen to her steady breath on my neck, and rest my cheek against her temple.

weaning and weeping

I went cold turkey on Zoë on yesterday.

On Monday I went to the acupuncturist to help with my general malaise and to get an immune system boost, and the acupuncturist reminded me (as her husband had back in February) how hard breastfeeding is on our bodies, how much energy it takes. I nodded and agreed. Let me explain: I have been sick more in the last year than ever in my life. I am well—breathing freely for a week (maybe two)—and then I’m sick again, coughing until I puke. And I’m tired all the time.

Part of this is not the fault of nursing, of course. It’s me doing what I do: too much. It’s the master juggling act that, even on the days I feel I have perfected it, takes its toll. But with nursing, it’s as if I can feel the energy just draining out of me.

The acupuncturist told me her own story—similar to mine—about the exhaustion she experienced while nursing her second child. She said that in the end she weaned for self-preservation. I nodded again. I know it’s time.

Then she asked if I was still eating a lot of sugar. (It’s in the notes from several months ago.) I said I was, and she reminded me that sugar is an immune-system depressant. (Had I blocked this? I knew it was hard on the sinuses, but had I forgotten—not known?—that it actually made your immune system less efficient.) So much for the 3-pound bag of gummy bears I just bought. (It’s true. I really am in my late-30s and buying gummy bears in bulk.)

“There’s also a lot of sugar in wine,” I said with a grimace.

“For now, why don’t you wean Zoë, wean yourself from sugar, and keep the wine.”

I love this woman. “Deal,” I said.

Deal. I had my coffee without sugar for the first time EVER in my life yesterday. And guess what? It was fine. At the coffee shop I put in a little honey, and I actually liked it! Mikey likes it! I didn’t shove a handful of gummy bears into my mouth after lunch, and I was still fine. I didn’t even want a bowl of chocolate ice-cream when D dished himself one after dinner. The sugar, I guess, will be the easy part of this deal.

The hard part, clearly, is weaning Zoë. I made it through yesterday. When she pounded on my chest in the afternoon, I distracted her. We had dinner at my mom’s and she was up later than usual, so when D put her down to bed, she was fine—so tired she didn’t care about her milky. And even early this morning, when she cried out at 4:45 am (yes, I’m serious), I just nudged D and told him he was on. He took her downstairs and fed her some banana and a little bit of a smoothie.

But when I got up at 7 (7!) and Stella came upstairs talking about her new feather collection (we have to drive all over town looking for the dirty things), Zoë heard my voice and immediately started to keen mamamamamamama. She crawled up the stairs, grabbed my legs and pointed to the bed.

When I said, “milky all gone,” she began to wail. And I mean WAIL.

In the bathroom, she threw a tantrum of which I wouldn’t have believed a 15-month-old capable: she upturned the basket holding extra rolls of toilet paper; thrashed around the plastic step-stool, slapped Stella, and banged her head against the door. The only reason that she didn’t hit her head, hard, on the tile floor was because Stella was there to catch her, cradling Zoë’s skull in her hands.

“Just feed her, Mom,” Stella said.

It crossed my mind for a moment, and then D was there: “You can’t feed her forever.”

This thought is usually the most helpful for me to remember. I have to stop at some point, and it will be hard for me no matter when I do it. But maybe I could do it in a way that would be less hard for her? I had started on a slow-wean process, cutting out a feeding a week, and I had successfully eliminated the bed-time nursing. But then Zoë got sick and I got sick again. And the thing about the slow wean is it’s still hard for her, but it’s hard for a longer period of time. And if I just cold-turkey it at this point, my thought is that it will be difficult for her for a few days, and then it will be done.

But the “you can’t feed her forever” wasn’t actually helpful this morning, when my heart was breaking because I wasn’t giving Zoë what she wanted and needed. My eyes filled with tears. D apologized and herded the girls outside with the lure of a dog sighting for Zoë.

If I could go out of town for three days, and then come back, it would be easier, but that’s not in the cards, and I am convinced it *is* time to wean her. But still, I feel so sad that I won’t nurse Zoë—or any baby—ever again. It’s so final, a part of motherhood that is over for me.

You see, I love nursing. When I’m lying down with Zoë before her nap and she is nursing away, I slow down. It’s just her and me and the rhythm of her gulping. Even if I feel hectic and stressed, for the moments I am lying there with her, brushing away a sweaty curl from her forehead, I am calm. When she glances up at me with her eyes wide, I think, this is the most amazing thing in the world. When she pulls my shirt over her face and twists its edge around her fist, my heart could break with love. When she peeks out from behind the shirt, I smile. “Where’s Zoë?”

I have been looking forward to the new anthology Unbuttoned: Women Open Up About the Pleasures, Pains, and Politics of Breastfeeding, edited by Dana Sullivan and Maureen Connolly, for a couple of months now. I’m planning on reviewing it for Literary Mama, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet. But this morning, before I walked out the door to the coffee shop, I grabbed it from my stack. I clearly needed some nursing/weaning mama power.

Of course I wasn’t able to read the whole thing this morning. I jumped around, skimming the essays for words of wisdom, and it worked; I did feel a little better. What I love about this anthology—aside from some really stellar writing—is that it includes so many perspectives. Sometimes people get up in arms about breastfeeding, whether they are arguing for or against it, or have a strong opinion about how long women should nurse. But from what I read of this book, none of that proselytizing has a place in Unbuttoned. And that’s what I need right now—to feel a sense of community, to know countless women have been through what I’m going through, and to not be judged for how I’m weaning Zoë. And this is exactly what I got from Unbuttoned.

These are going to be a difficult couple of days for me and my little one. I’ll report on our progress (and also on my heart health—thank you for your kind words and blessings). Until then, send good weaning vibes, please.

my girls

I’ve been really enjoying my girls lately. Enjoying them, that is, when the older one doesn’t channel a thirteen-year-old, complete with eye rolling and exasperated whatever-ing, and when the younger one does not—within the span of two minutes—climb on top of the dollhouse and launch herself onto the couch, destroy a picture frame, and swallow a mouthful of toilet paper. But even when they’re doing these things, I’ve been finding them fairly delightful. What is wrong with me?

I think it has to do with the fact that both D and I have been in work-related funks lately. On Monday we were feeling so discouraged that D took a day off work and we took Stella and Zoë to the Minnesota Zoo. When we pulled into the parking lot, we counted 17 school buses with sinking hearts. And indeed, there was much jostling to catch a glimpse of the Grizzlies and their enormous paws, and there was much dodging of grade-schoolers playing tag and flirting with each other in that you’re so ugly kind of way. It was a long day, and by the end of it, the kids were tired and crabby, and D and I were more discouraged than ever. All we wanted was to lose ourselves in a movie, but there was nothing on, so we did something we’ve never done before: ordered a pay-per-view movie. (I know, we’re totally crazy.)

Without knowing much about it, we ordered Seven Pounds with Will Smith. Not exactly a light-hearted film, but we both really liked it, and sometimes a depressing movie is just what you need to help put your worries in perspective and make you feel grateful for what you have.

So I’ve been trying not to feel the weight of all I have to do, or to dwell on the fact—or opinion—that there is no market for either of my books (Yes, I’ve been working on a proposal for a new book). And even though writing feels like more than a job to me—it’s more a way of seeing, of being in the world—the publishing side of it is a job, and I need to keep that in perspective.

And I’ve been trying hard to be present when I’m with Stella and Zoë, to remember how lucky I am when Stella excitedly tells me about the finger-knitting they did at school, saying, “Mom, it was soooo fun, and you wouldn’t have believed it, but the boys just went crazy over it. They loved it!” Or when Zoë does her little bouncing dance whenever she hears a line of music or laughs her belly laugh after she’s rifled through the clean laundry, found a pair of underwear to put on her head, and peeked out of one of the leg holes. Or when Zoë reaches her arms for a hug from Stella, and Stella says, “Isn’t she the cutest thing you’ve ever seen, mom? Aren’t we so lucky?”

Indeed we are.

happy mother's day!

I slept in late this morning, which—and I’m serious here—means I slept until 8:30, at which point the loving parade of my family came in, bearing a bowl of strawberries doused in sugar (one of my favorite things), a steaming cup of coffee, a small potted rose plant, cards, and a gift certificate for a manicure and pedicure. Whoo-hoo! Stella was all smiles, but Zoë was crabby, pounding on my chest, impatient to nurse. She’s had a cold, which, as usual, she has given to me.

I went for a run anyway, and then all of us went to the garden store to buy some new plants for our very-slowly developing garden. Later, we’ll go to my mom’s for dinner. Maybe I’ll even get a nap in. It’s been a lovely day.

I hope you’re all having a wonderful day, as well. Tonight I’ll be raising my glass to all of the wonderful mothers I know (and even the ones I don’t know).

And in honor of mother’s day, I want to share with you these two short excerpts from The Maternal is Political. The first is from Violeta Mendoza’s wonderful “Of Volcanoes and ruins and Gardens,” an essay about adopting her daughter from Guatemala:

It’s the opposite of pregnancy, maybe. If I had given birth to her, her birth would have begun a slow process of releasing her into the world; having adopted her, we’ve begun the process of letting each other in, of allowing ourselves to become inextricably linked. We were born six thousand miles apart and share not a single genetic secret; we share only circumstance, a chain of moments. It is enough. I’m in awe of the way the perceived boundary lines between us fall away. The space that carries my love for her is so vast, it feels like a cove carved out in me; so big, it’s startling what else it lets me carry.

I love this: “the space that carries my love for her is so vast, it feels like a cove carved out in me.”

And from Judith Stadtman Tucker’s “Motherhood Made Me Do It Or, How I Became an Activist”:

I’m always reluctant to make sweeping generalizations about the psychology of motherhood, but I think it’s safe to say that the process of becoming a mother can alter a woman. Some changes may be superficial and transitory; others are more lasting. Sometimes the process of becoming a mother works into the deepest cavities of the self and fundamentally transforms a woman’s worldview.

Indeed. It’s sometimes difficult to even know that ways that motherhood has changed me, but I know that I’m different. I know motherhood has made me celebrate small, seemingly insignificant moments, moments like Zoë curled into me, nursing, or Stella bent over a piece of paper, drawing intently. I know motherhood has made me feel gratitude so intense that I never would have guessed at it. I know motherhood has made me a more serious writer, has underscored the importance of stories in my life.

So here I am on this mother’s day, feeling grateful, and wondering how motherhood has altered each of you. What lasting changes have been wrought in your heart and mind as a result of being a mother?

Tell me.

back

D has been in town for only one day out of the last ten, which I hope explains my silence the last two weeks. When D’s gone I lose my morning writing time and my weekend teaching prep time, but I also lose sleep. Usually, we alternate getting up with Zoë, but when D’s out of town, I’m up by 5 am every day. After two weeks of this, I’m so tired I could puke.

But even with this—the tiredness and the lack of work time—I don’t feel crazy the way I did last year when he was on the road. At least Zoë sleeps through the night now and still naps regularly (knock on wood), so I’m able to get some work done during the day.

While D was gone, Stella and I practiced her reading—she read one whole page of Diamond Castle Barbie the other day! And we “chatted” every night in bed before she fell asleep. She’s been asking about evolution and God and souls—the big questions that surprise me and that I hope I answer without too much bumbling. Zoë has begun to love books, as well. She picks up Bear On A Bike—her favorite—and plops down in my lap a dozen times a day. The dear.

My mind has been buzzing with writing of the non-Barbie and non-Bear variety, as well. I’m loving my new Loft class, American’s Writing Across Cultures, which is helping me stretch my memory back to the work and research I did in Costa Rica in the 1990s. I’m also still immersed in my online Mother Words class, which is going very well. I was worried that teaching online would be difficult for me because I’m someone who feeds off the energy in a classroom, and I thought I would miss sharing that physical space, but it turns out I don’t. My students are so smart and thoughtful and are such careful readers that I have found myself both energized by them and in a nearly constant state of appreciation for their hard work and talent. They’re amazing!

D won't be traveling for a while now, so I can safely say that I’m back, as well.