call me zari

New Norms

2009-08-06T21:18:00.000-07:00

Four is old enough to grasp "President" and to recognize Obama's face in a storefront or on TV. She knows that he and his family live in the White House. She knows his job is very important.

I'm buried in the scraps of paper that collect in her cubby, and Stella's voice with excited recognition is behind me.

"Mama! These must be pictures of all the presidents!"

I turn to look high where she is pointing. "African-American Achievers" She is showing me pictures of Martin Luther King. Rosa Parks. Twenty influential black men and women.

Obama. Sotomayor. Preschool children. Maybe the world is changing.

Keeping House

2009-05-11T22:43:00.000-07:00

I have learned that housekeeping means making your home look great for guests. Stack magazines, stuff clothes in drawers, wipe down the bathroom sink and toilet rim. Don't so many of us joke the only reason we invite people over is to clean up? I also straighten for the women who clean our home twice a month. Our house is truly clean for five hours, then everyone gets home and it's down hill from there. Today I cleaned for the babysitter- which was happily a pre-clean for the cleaner, who comes tomorrow.

I remember the first time I realized that not everyone cleans for guests or lives in a perpetually clean house (which is what I truly imagined). I was fully 25 years old, in midwifery school, going to the house of a classmate for a study group. She had three kids and a working husband. There was toothpaste on the bathroom sink. Kids' underwear on the floor. Dishes on the counter. Mail was strewn on the table. Her home was not in total disarray, but it was so clear that she had done nothing to prepare for our visit. I was shocked- and then moved by her vulnerability. She wasn't worried about us. She believed we would love her just as she was. Or maybe she hadn't the time to worry about us- but I was childless and had no concept of the magnitude of chores in her life. In any case, it was a revelation.

I am not neat. Why was I making a fake clean world for everyone in my life? I don't know why I wrote "was," because I still am cleaning for the architect, neighbor, friend, but now I am aware of the behavior. Cleanliness is one of my fantasies, like being tall or graceful or witty. I do not leave food crusted on the counter or let the trash overflow, but the papers stack up and the clothes don't return to the closet on their own.

As much as I think that I am in recovery since that fateful study group, the fantasy of a neat, clutter free life is full force in our house remodel. We will have a bay view, a beautiful kitchen, an elegant front entry. I am probably the most excited about the mudroom. This "drop zone" should replace the entry or kitchen or dining room table. All family members who enter from the driveway will pass through this vestibule first and have a place for backpacks, shoes, mail, lunch boxes, etc. I am convinced that my home will finally look neat all the time- because of the mudroom. I know this is not true, but I am like the girl who eats a half gallon of fudge ripple while paging through Vogue and complaining about her body. I stay up nights hunched over the laptop searching flickr or houzz for images of open floor plans, kitchen islands, and fireplaces while boxes remain unpacked and stacked in the corner of the living room. All of these homes are beautiful because they have nothing personal in them.

What is my real life like? Is it neat? Orderly? Um... I came home from my first hospital shift to shrieks in the bathroom. Apparently, Otto had just removed his shit filled diaper, got it on his hands, and rubbed it on his head. He was screaming because he was standing in the shower spray while his father stared at him. Tonight I came home from an evening clinic to low lights, the babysitter in the living room. She stopped me in my tracks and turned on the light. The dog had puked foamy, slimy yellow puke in ten spots on the rug.

But have no doubt, the mudroom will put an end to my pre-cleaning fits and my surprise bodily fluid nights.

Mark my words.

A Boy

2009-05-06T21:22:00.000-07:00

Walking past closed doors, I knew each room held its own pivotal event, and I felt like a voyeur. I had heard report at 7am: sorrow and joy about to happen behind every room, most likely on our shift. And then sitting at the foot of of the bed in 19, I was in the core, the axis around which every other event would unfold. The third child, the first son, was born with his hair pressed slick with vernix into a beam of light and the smiling sobs of his father. Everything outside our circle vanished. There were no walls, no rooms with sick babies, new babies, and mothers in pain. There was no hospital, no city, no time. We could have been anywhere, anyone.

This birth was the first I have attended in five years. I was anxious for months leading up to Tuesday. Amidst moving, selling our home, planning for the new house, my return to deliveries was never far from my thoughts. They say it's like riding a bike, and it is, in a way. Obstetric fads come and go, one research trumps another, and we go from VBAC to cesarean, obsessive fetal monitoring to broad strokes, cervidil to cytotec. But the central pieces of watching a woman's perineum bulge, checking for a cord, celebrating the child, waiting for the placenta- these hold true.

We Make it Home

2009-02-06T09:38:00.000-08:00

As much as I complain in signs on the body- backache, leg bruises, a sore thumb- I like settling in. I shift pieces like a puzzle of sliding squares. Couch to the right, kid table around the side, filing cabinet left? No, right. This nesting is satisfying. We will be here ten months, more or less. It needs to be home.

What We Leave Behind

2009-01-26T06:58:00.000-08:00

Each crystal slipped between my fingers, wet with the cleaning spray. One wipe and they were dry, sparkling again. Only two, maybe three times have I cleaned the chandelier. The first time it was a two hour job. Preparing for our wedding, my husband's mother and sister and I worked together. We took off every piece and scrubbed them in warm, sudsy water. We removed years of grime and specks of ceiling paint. We readied the new house.

Our new apartment is comfortable. We have two small dark bedrooms, an efficient kitchen with a farm table in the center, a small family room off the kitchen that extends the kids' room. There is a peaceful living room with windows on three sides, the world's smallest bathroom and a laundry. We have a view of palm and plum trees and the shop signs on Grand Avenue. Today the kids' room is an oasis in the stacks of boxes.

The laundry door frame has half a dozen pencil lines marking growth of a teenager in 2005. I noticed the marks while putting in a load of curtains from the old house. Dread knocked me down. I forgot to photograph or trace our marks. Now they're painted over! There are few irreplaceables. During this move, I have understood how a person who has lost her belongings to flood or fire can exclaim, "I feel free!" We are burdened by so much Stuff. But a growth chart with dates and names? There is really no way to let it go, really no way to carry it with us.

Last night it happened on the living room carpet.

2009-01-19T10:22:00.000-08:00

The kids were dancing to the Counting Crows, and I was taking in the scene. Stacked boxes, furniture moved, art off the walls. For months now we have been running toward a single goal: Move to a neighborhood with a better elementary school. Before we went to Brazil, we closed on the new house, turned in Stella's paperwork, and sighed relief. We returned 10 days ago and started putting the details of seven years in boxes- or in the free box out front. Augusto said goodbye to some "really nice pants" from 1986. I admitted that I'm never going to sew those scraps of fabric into something beautiful. The kids chose toys to donate.

The movers come tomorrow.

In Decmeber, when our real estate agent came by with the stager, I couldn't listen when they debated new colors for the dining room. The dining room is exactly the color of my grandmother's living room. I brought a chip of paint from her wall. I felt mixed pride and regret when we cleaned up the neglected garden. But I stayed on task.

It was on the floor that I unraveled. It went like this.

Right there by the mantle we toasted our wedding. I remember the picture of us raising our glasses. We were smart when we picked this flowered rug and brown couch. It does hide the dirt from the kids and animals we anticipated. It's dark now, but this room is so great in the sun. We can never spend enough time here, just laughing.

Augusto is sorting his papers in front of the furniture that would change our lives. He is sandwiched between the two places our children were born. The bathroom is a little too big, but it was perfect for a mom pushing out a baby, surrounded by her husband (with video camera in one hand, son's head in the other), two midwives, and assorted equipment. The office never did get organized, despite a few genuine tries. It wasn't until after Stella came out that I realized I had stopped there to have her. It didn't matter.

Upstairs we have two bedrooms. When we moved in it was one large master suite with a knotty pine ceiling. There are animals and hand prints and shooting stars there. All three babies were conceived under that constellation. I need to remember to take a picture of the ceiling.

Our kitchen! Why do all parties end up there? Everyone crowded behind the counter with Augusto serving drinks and some gracious friend loading the dishwasher. How many bowls of soup did we serve? How many glasses of wine? How many debates started and (mostly) resolved? I love opening the dutch door in the mornings, folding laundry onto the counter.

We really are moving out of this house.

Before we started packing, I wanted to make a video tour- something to show the kids. Look, you were born right on that rug! Here's the window seat we made, letting you live mama's fantasy. This is the circle you rode around on your little bike. I never made the video. A house is just walls, right? I see that clearly in our new place, torn down to the studs. Even so, how do you leave a place of firsts? A wedding, a loss, two births. What were we thinking, doing all of these important things in the non-forever home?!

Sometimes I long for the houses we left when I was a kid. The one with the willow tree. The one with the small creek. The one with the endless cross country skiing. The one where I had high school parties. I stalk these homes from time to time. I wonder who lives there now.

Even as I dream our new home the Forever Home, I know it isn't. History has proved I don't stay in one place. But I want to, I really do.

This is so wrong

2009-01-12T23:14:00.000-08:00

It's Ours!

2008-12-11T11:34:00.000-08:00

We were number 2 on four houses. Each time we were out bid, we decided it was for a good reason (i.e. we had less money than someone else), and we decided to try again. This is in a down, buyer's, crashing market. And we were overbidding on major fixers, each time Augusto never letting on how excited he was- and then me crying over the defeat. Something was wrong.

Then we find this true dump of a home. The eye sore of the block. The one that makes most sensible people walk out saying, "Not for me." A bad smell. A peeling ceiling. Curling-edge oak floors. Missing elements like railings, floorboards, a driveway. And naturally, as with any house I WANT, other people are already making offers. I swear I could start a new service: Want to sell your home lickety-split? Then let me love it and there will be a dozen offers after just 17 days on the MLS! So we leap headlong into the abyss and offer full price on a home that needs gutting. Wait... not over asking, just asking price. And it disappears from the MLS--- because we won! We won!

We are motivated buyers, but we are not insane. The house's ultimate value is spectacular- just like the bay views. The layout is ideal for our family. The land is gigantic (by urban standards) and has some level parts. The street is quiet and walkable to a commercial area- and a great public elementary school.

Oh, and it comes with this sweet 1966 Beetle. If anybody is interested, we're selling.

Post Election Blues

2008-11-05T19:49:00.001-08:00

Last week we were on the way to swim class and we passed a large group of people chanting and waving YES on 8 signs. "What are they doing, Mama?" Stella asked from her car seat. "Well..." I thought about how to explain the California proposition to change the constitution.

Me: "You know that Papai and I are married, right?"
Stella: "Right."
Me: "Do you think that's OK?"
Stella (a little confused): "Yeah."
Me: "And you know Mark and Lina's Daddy and Poppy are married, right?"
Stella: "Yeah."
Me: "Do you think that's OK?"
Stella: "Yeah."
Me: "And do you think two girls could get married?"
Stella (thinking this is silly): "Yeah."
Me: "I think so too, but those people with the signs think that only a boy and a girl should be able to get married."
Stella: "WHAT?!" (as if I told her there was no more color blue)

Today I am elated with Obama's victory.

I need to let that statement stand alone. But (WHY does there need to be a "but"?), I am sad too. Living in the Bay Area bubble, I really thought Prop 8 wouldn't pass. I shared my little legislative lesson in hate with Mark and Lina's Poppy and he said, "We lost the battle, but we won the war."

True.

There is hope for the next generation.

Gluing the Pieces

2008-10-26T21:45:00.000-07:00

Modern day homemaking hazards are different than 30 years ago. We have disposals. We have Cuisinart. We have glue guns.

I plugged in my 10 watt gun, purchased just minutes earlier- when I realized oh, shit! Boo at the Zoo is this weekend, I don't have all the evenings of next week to make a dog and a parrot!. The gun warmed while I gathered feathers, felt, googly eyes, and a foam visor. I began without a plan, but after the first miracles of hot glue marrying felt to foam and feather to fabric, the Way of the Parrot made itself clear. Shoot, press, shoot press, and I laid feathers like shingles, bottom to top. Two lines of hot glue here and a 3-D beak appeared.

I felt a little guilty and a lot thrilled to realize that what I would do in two hours would have taken my mother several evenings. No needles and thread. No lugging out the machine. And then I burned my finger. And I burned it again. Who knew the costume maker's modern tools would still make tender fingers?

With seared fingers, glue silk spun across the counter, feather fluff on the floor, I was awake later than advisable with nothing else "done." And I was completely happy. I arrived at a moment for which I had been waiting, this feeling of I CAN DO THIS. I am good at this job. I am happier providing for my kids' enjoyment than doing anything else. I imagined all of parenting was this way. Why else would people have children?! I am usually self-conscious when I meet the stranger or friend who answers "Great!" when I ask them how it's going with the family. Why isn't that my response? Do they have it easier somehow? What is their secret? They must be lying...

And then I made two Halloween costumes at the last minute without a plan or pattern. I wanted to read, felt compelled to clean, and needed to sleep, but I made the costumes because I wanted to. Because I didn't want to buy them. Because I promised I would. And in the cutting and gluing, I mended a piece of myself.

I don't even care that the parrot looks like a chicken and the dog is cow-like. Stella beamed with joy and Otto ran to put Rex's toy in his own mouth. I call that success.

Stolen Post... I couldn't resist

2008-10-14T23:20:00.000-07:00

Not too long ago, I wrote about my friend Mage, who had breast cancer. She's 35 and recently had a mastectomy and four lymph nodes removed. She started a blog when she was diagnosed. Her entry from today, about getting a compression sleeve to prevent lymphoedema- and the revelation that came with the shopping trip- is here for you. Whenever I am stuck in my own high quality "problems," I unwind laughing and crying with her words. Enjoy.

Good Enough

Once in Boulder, I made a fitting appointment at Hangar Orthotics and Prosthetics.

Susan, the kind, competent and exceedingly petite woman who answers the phone and manages the front desk, took me into an exam room and measured my arm with a yellow tape. She asked me which kind of compression sleeve I was here for.

I had no idea, I didn't even know there was a choice. She shrugged and made a decision without my input. I like to think she made the right one.

She copied my insurance card and told me she'd call me when the sleeve arrived.

A week later, I was back in the office to pick it up. Susan wasn't there that day, so I sat alone in the waiting room until Angela, the CPO, had time to see me. I don't know what a CPO is, but I know she is one because there was an article about her stuck up on a bulliten board near the front door. I also learned that she plays the banjo.

After a few minutes of waiting, I decided to look for the bathroom. I didn't find it. I gave up after I accidentally opened a door to another exam room where a patient was waiting to be seen. I didn't see the man's face. He was sitting kind of behind the door. But, I could see his leg, propped up on a chair. I could also see that he didn't have any foot at the end of the leg.

Like most people would be, I was horribly embarrassed to have opened the door to someone else's exam room. I closed it immediately and went back to my chair.

I imagine I am also like most other intact-bodied people in that I am uncomfortable when confronted with missing body parts.

You know how it is, you don't want to avert your eyes, but you don't want to stare right at their stump either. You want to act like you didn't notice, but not like you are insensitive. You want to appear cool, when really you are just clueless.

I asked myself, "Why I am so on-edge around amputees?" Maybe looking at their altered bodies triggers my own fear of injury and loss? Maybe their difference from me sparks a physical curiosity that feels socially inappropriate? Maybe I am struggling not to feel pity for them?

I don't know exactly. It's a complex issue. But, as I've noticed before, I don't need to really understand my emotional hang-ups in order to move through them.

What shifted for me that day was my sense of "otherness." Here I was, sitting in a room decorated with advertisements for artificial limbs and posters celebrating differently-abled atheletes. I wasn't here with a friend. I wasn't here to sell something. I was here to be treated. I was one of these people.

I couldn't help but notice that I didn't feel quite as embarrassed to walk in on that man as I would have before my surgery. Yes, I was still a stranger barging in on his private space. But we had something in common too. We were both patients in this place. We were both missing pieces of our bodies and here to be helped with the resulting health complications. We were on the same team; in the same club.

Yesterday I rode the bus from Boulder to Denver. A man whose left arm ended at the elbow was sitting behind me. I didn't pull out my usual cool-but-clueless routine. Instead, I threw him a goofy grin with an upward nod. I'm sure he thought I was some kind of weirdo, but for me it felt like a secret handshake. I wanted him to know that I'm like him...we are the same in one small way.

Now, I am not trying to compare loosing a breast with loosing an entire limb. Physically, I am able to do almost everything I could do before. Socially, my loss is nearly invisible. Obviously, there's a big difference between my story and that of the guy in the bus or the man in the exam room. But, we share something that most people don't, and I can't help but want to acknowledge that.

I think that's normal. The world is so big and we are so small. It's just nice to be able to separate the giant mass of humans into smaller groups. It's comforting to know what group you belong to, and to connect with others in the same group. At parties, we light up when we meet someone who loves the same music, plays the same sport, or collects the same kind of hand-painted Moroccan pottery as we do.

This urge to identify and reveal ourselves to other members of our various sub-cultures is even stronger when the group we belong to has a history of being riduculed, persecuted or pitied by the larger population. I think the urge is stronger because we feel safe with each other in a way that we don't feel safe with others.

I think that's what I was trying to say to the guy on the bus. I wanted him to know he was safe with me. I wasn't going to pity him or think he was strange because his hand was gone. How could I? I am missing pieces too.

But, I couldn't say it outloud. I couldn't say it outloud for the same reason the urge to connect is stonger than if we shared a hobby or a hometown. I couldn't say it outloud because we belong to a group that has a history of being riduculed, persecuted or pitied.

Thinking about it this way, it is suddenly clear why I've always felt uncomfortable around people with missing body parts. I feel like I'm put on the spot. I feel like I'm being tested. I know I belong to the group of people with a history of persecuting, riduculing and pitying. I feel like I'm being measured against that legacy and that the situation pre-disposes me to being found guilty.

But now that I've turned in my perfect-body membership card, I feel relieved of such judgement. Even if other people don't know that I'm permenantly excused, I know. They can give me any grade from F to A+, and it's not going to affect me. I didn't even sign up for this class.

This is just one more place where cancer has taught me something I should have known already.

I'm not just good, I'm good enough.

Whew. What a relief.

Things That Make Me Happy Today

2008-10-08T15:36:00.001-07:00

1.The dentist's office calling after I've left work to tell me that they're running behind, would I mind rescheduling? Would I? You bet! Time to stop at the grocery store and get a few things done before I need to get the kids- that's so much better than sitting in a hygenist's chair.

2.Multiple packs of size 4 diapers. There is a boom of babies my son's size. Ever since he was born the store is regularly out of the size he currently wears- and only that size.

3.Pupusas! Again, the Whole Foods is regularly out of them.

4.Coming home to scrubbed toilets, shiny floors, and fresh beds. Twice a month cleaning is being truly blessed.

5. MY POEMS PUBLISHED by mamazine! Woo Hoo!

We're Getting Older in Many Ways

2008-10-06T12:34:00.000-07:00

Breakfast in bed was brought by Augusto and then shared with my two pigeons. They followed with a rollicking, off-tune, and round-like Happy Birthday and Parabéns. The tradition in Stella's school is to follow the song with, "Are you 1? Are you 2? Are you 3?" and so on. She learned to count to 39 today.

And then I hung out at the DMV for an hour because I like the Oakland diversity smashed into one space full of many pleasant and some very impatient people... and I needed to get a new license photo and fingerprint before today's expiration. It was worth it to be able to say my height and weight hadn't changed from 13 years ago.

In other news, last week I learned something new when Stella locked herself and Otto in the bathroom. She often takes him in and locks the door. Even though she can unlock it, we usually discourage the behavior. This last time, she decided to poop and was up on the toilet, so she didn't want to/ couldn't unlock the door. Otto was happily washing his hands in the sink. I nearly went for the special little pin key, until I suddenly realized that with both of then locked in the bathroom, I could actually eat my breakfast and read the paper in peace. Which I did.

***

Stella: "My wrist hurts."
Me: "Why?"
Stella: "There's a pain in it."
Me: "Well that certainly explains why it hurts."
Stella: "Huh?"

Fences Make Good Neighbors?

2008-09-16T13:00:00.000-07:00

I keep creating fences. Actual fences that mark property lines or make a barrier from the street. We're visiting my mom in Southern Maryland where summer lingers in the lush two hundred year old oaks, the bank of the river which sits at the end of my mother's broad, green lawn. On this morning's run, I passed home after waterfront home- some old farm houses, some modern mansions, the odd trailer. I paused at the small cemetery, to see the local names: Joy, Younger, Lusby (the town's namesake)- deaths at the turn of last century. There are swing sets here, the same kind I had as a child. There was an old man on a shiny John Deere, circling his land. There was a Thai woman who had arrived by golf cart. She apologized that she was picking mushrooms. She showed me the plump russet caps. "No die,"she assured me.

The striking, unifying feature of the landscape is the lack of fences. My fifteen years of city living doesn't know what to do with all this interconnectedness. Azaleas and lines of oaks, or variations in grass height make the divisions known, but a person or animal or child could just wander from yard to yard unobstructed. I grew up this way for years, but it comes now as a revelation. Everyone with whom I currently spend any amount of time has a boxed-in yard. I am happy be in these open spaces, knowing the traffic is minimal and the distance from house to street, in most cases, far. But I still keep inserting fences. It is strange.

This one is up there on the list of really shitty days

2008-09-10T22:01:00.000-07:00

How can you not imagine the details of your new home when you offer fifty thousand dollars over asking price on a house your whole family genuinely loves? Who would think that when you offer to close in 21 days and say you won't even inspect the home that someone else would nab it from you?

I am heartbroken tonight. It was honestly a shitty day from start to finish. I woke at 5:40am to a jealous, screaming Stella, who wailed "pick me UUUUP!" when I managed to get Otto to sleep again in bed. He was asleep on top of me, so I couldn't get out from under and Stella would not shut up. I finally moved him to grab her and put her in bed with us (Augusto left before 5 am for an overnight to LA). Naturally he woke, cranky again after I jostled him. So that's how it began. We fought over shoes and teeth and exactly how to get into the car, and I arrived late to work only to learn that a term pregnant patient's entire family and fiancee were killed in a political-religious fire bomb riot half a world away. And another woman's baby died. And a colleague's father murdered his mother when he was a kid. And then we were out bid by someone who offered a little bit more and could close on the house in 14 days. And then the kids were shitheads, so I chugged two glasses of wine and bickered with them until they finally went to bed at 9:45 pm.

Oh, but they wanted to sell the house to us. We've heard that twice now and it only makes me feel worse. We wrote a letter to the sellers, spilling our visions of the future. What if we do find another house to bid on? How can any other letter be genuine after that one?

Now it's night two, up too late, barely keeping my eyes open, and I am still imagining our now non-existent lives in the house on the hill, not getting out of my head the many children under age five who live a house or two away, where I would put the hook for the dog's leash, curl up to read the paper, or plug in my phone to charge. And I am totally unable to imagine how you undo the visions of your life with baby and husband and grandparents and suddenly a friend of the family calls long distance and it is all gone.

I wish I could offer some perky optimism, but I used up this week's hope already.

Here We Go Again

2008-09-09T23:45:00.000-07:00

I always manage to post when I should be doing something else. Right now I should be sleeping, or taking a couple of Valium, at least. We singed another offer on a house tonight. Fearing a repeat of the nine-offer marathon that led to our current home, we decided to jump off the cliff. Many factors pushed us to the edge: school applications due in December, conforming loan stimulus package ends in December, the general thought that if we're going to sell our home, we should get it on the market soon, and most importantly WE LOVE A HOUSE! I know, I know, I said that about the one with the sword ferns. After 8 offers in 2002, our Realtor asked if we really loved the house we ended up buying, because it looked like we were going to get it. By then, we weren't even letting ourselves get to that point.

The truth is, I loved the house from last month. Augusto didn't. It was crazy to offer. Today when we sorted out our offer, the energy was great. We have seen many homes now. We BOTH love this house. "Just tell me one thing you love about it?" I asked. He usually holds his cards close, and never wants to get his hopes up about anything. "I love that it's all one level, so when you come home in the rain with a sleeping kid, you can drive right into the garage, go directly into the house, and it's not 13 steps up to the bedroom." It is a great house. A sleek mid century modern with an amazing open floor plan. This home will truly be fantastic for our family. I stomped around the neighboring streets and met a woman who raised her adult son there. She filled me in on all the young families who recently moved in and how hard the couple selling the house had worked to improve it.

It is right that we are here now, offering thousands of dollars more for this one than we did for the other one. It was meant to be.

Marriage Understood, or How We Ended Our Weekend at the Russian River

2008-09-02T22:42:00.000-07:00

Late weekend morning, I'm still in my pajamas, we're been talking about gardening for over an hour. Stella puts a glittery fuzzy hearts feelers headband on me.

Stella: Mama, let's get married!

Me: How do we do that?

Stella: You tell me.

...um...

Me (straightening my posture, wiggling the sparkly hearts perched on my head): OK. Stella, I love you, and I want you to be my wife.

Stella (with a rare, direct-into-the-eyes look): OK, I'll be your wife. Now go change your shirt and come work in the garden with me.

Beware: Cheezy Hippie Post About Dirt

2008-08-21T15:18:00.000-07:00

I actually smiled when seeing car after dirty car in the work parking lot. The months of summer dry don't usually keep the locals from having shiny cars. But this season the lines at the car wash are shorter. There's hardly anyone with a bucket and sponge in their driveway. The summer fundraising kids are desperate on the corners.

The Bay Area water restriction means that homeowners need to use 19% less water this year than the same time last year. This was a hard challenge for us, as our garden is already drought tolerant and we have efficient appliances and low flush toilets. But we have learned to trust that the dishwasher will clean when the dishes aren't fully rinsed and it's packed to capacity. We have remembered the efficiency of a quick shower, the simplicity of reusing clothes. We let our tiny clover lawn try to die. We aren't making flushing an exciting part of Otto's potty training. We thought it impossible. We have reduced our water use by half.

It seems the awareness of the drought is growing. It's not just the environmentalists who are forgoing clean cars. Judging by the lot, it's most everyone. Three months into the restriction, I am totally comfortable asking if I should flush or not when visiting someone's house. Lately, I even assume the house follows the Yellow Be Mellow, Brown Flush Down philosophy, and I just close the lid.

Saving water is a change of life. We do it not for fear of water bill penalty, but because we know water is scarce. We want everyone to have some. The cars in the lot made me happy because it was obvious that so many people chose to care for the planet over making the car shiny. I thought about going to the full service wash the other day, because my car was a mess, inside and out. But I realized the inside was more important to me- that's the part I see more often- so I shook out the floor mats and wiped the dashboard with a baby wipe. Good as new in 4 minutes, and only one wipe to the landfill.

Now if I could tackle the other messes in my life with such satisfying efficiency and environmental aplomb, then I'd really be smiling!

The last moments of Mage's "two-breasted life"

2008-08-10T23:35:00.000-07:00

We didn't get the house.

Before we got the bad news, I took the kids to the local farmer's market and park and dreamily drove by the house. As I stalked by the house for the 15th time, I felt it was gone. I just knew they had accepted the other offer. I was really funked up about it. The letdown deepened this evening when I didn't find anything on zip realty that would work even in a pinch.

And then I read my young friend's latest entries in her brand new blog. She shares the (would have been surprisingly silly if it were anyone else's) details of her 8/8/08 mastectomy:

I know for sure that my breast looked okay in the conveyer belt room because as Eric #1 was pulling back my robe to get my breast exposed for the procedure, I told him, "You're the last person who is ever going to see my breast like this, so will you just take a moment and appreciate it?" This seemed to embarrass him. At the time I thought he was just uncomfortable because he was just trying to do his job and didn't want to think about the fact that I was a nice lady with a nice breast who was about to lose it forever. But, now that I am writing about it, it really does seem like the waffle-iron room happened first. In which case, maybe he just looked uncomfortable because I was asking him to appreciate a breast that looked like it was smeared with mud and had been attacked by bees. Poor guy.

Mage is one of those people who makes lemonade out of lemons. She has cancer and hasn't hit 40 yet. You need one hell of a juicer to inject humor into that scenario. Thanks for the mind-shift, dear friend. I'll take my two-breasted life into some other house some other day.

C-C-C-Changes

2008-08-09T14:44:00.000-07:00

I've been obsessing lately. I am known to obsess. Pick an important topic, and it can occupy every nook in my life. Lately, it's a house. I am in love with a house. I am in love with everything about it. The windows, the natural woods in which it sits (with native Sword Ferns!), the funky butcher block kitchen, the delicious blackberries, the great, flexible floor plan, the little property line creek, the excellent neighborhood elementary, the dead end street. I love the way the street gently climbs through a canyon of native oak and then the house sits happily in a little clearing of sun. Get the picture?

The problem is that it's not ours... yet. We offered. The sellers countered. We countered back. Now we've been waiting for 24 hours and I'm gonna flip out. I know there is a another counter offer. So what is going on?! Please oh please, people of the universe, send your vibes to these nice sellers and let them choose us. And let the other people who offered find the house of their dreams very, very soon.

We arrived at this new home by some accident. We like our current home a whole lot. It has inlaid wood floors. Updated kitchen and baths. Mostly, I like it for its location and more for its history. We married in our back yard. I gave birth to both kids less than 15 feet from where I now sit. But it never felt like a forever home. The kitchen doesn't look over the yard. There are only 2 bedrooms on one floor. And the local schools suck. Real bad. I've been trying to help our local elementary for 4 years now. But I am losing hope. Stella enrolls in kindergarten this December.

I teased myself: If we find a 3 or 4 bedroom home within in a good school boundary that has a kitchen and living room that look to the back and a babbling brook- I'll move. Well, this house that hangs in the offer/counteroffer is exactly that house.

Both placentas are still in the freezer. I think I never planted them with a tree because I knew deep down we would move on. I've found where I want to make deep roots. But like those last weeks of pregnancy, never knowing when the labor will start, but seeing that child in my mind's eye... all we can do is obsess, and wait.

Tethered: Fresh eyes

2008-08-02T15:45:00.000-07:00

Elizabeth Flemming's blog is a great pause in my day. Her art-photos, musings, and posts of work by others are inspiring. Her recent post Tethered: Fresh eyes really grabs me. It is simultaneously empty, chaotic, hopeful, and silent. Just about how I feel right now.

It reminds me of one of my mother's favorite stories- the one she tells now because I'll be in her place soon. When I was just starting to write, I sent her a letter in the form of a paper airplane. On it I wrote: I NO LOVE YOU.

Great art can say so much, evoke such emotion with so little. Just like children can.

Hey, Mom. It's thirty years late, but I'm sorry. I love you now.

Love: The Gift of Sleep

2008-07-31T15:36:00.000-07:00

There was a time when waking at 5:30 was normal. Never acceptable, but usual. That was too often in the first year of both kids. Longer winter nights and increasing age of the kids stretched wake-up time, but not often beyond 6:45. 6:45 is awesome. Awesome in my new view of the world. The problem is that if I'm not sleeping in, my body prefers 7:30. For a very long time, I woke early six days a week. Sundays were my day to sleep. Sometimes I lingered until 9. I bitched about it so much that every so often, Augusto woke to avoid my wrath. Then my second maternity leave ended. There was no way I could be up with the baby at night, get up in the early morning, and work all day. On my three workdays, Augusto got up with the early riser, and I slept. On the other days I rose first then tried to nap.

Then I discovered the hidden benefit of weaning. I left the morning feed as the last, so after the last time, Augusto did the final weaning. After a ten day stretch, I tried to get up with Otto, but he clawed at my chest and cried for 45 minutes. I couldn't hack it.

It's been six weeks since we nursed, and our household has done a schedule switcheroo. Augusto gets up with one or both kids, and I sleep. Except on Sundays, when he gets his turn. It has become a blissful, miraculous norm. Today I only had a half day at work, so when Otto sounded off earlier than usual, at 5:40, I offered to get him. Augusto protested, then thanked me for doing what has apparently become his job.

This is LOVE.

Never Prune While Drunk

2008-07-26T19:35:00.000-07:00

That's my best gardening advice. Even if you think the job can't wait. That you won't have time tomorrow or any other day in the foreseeable future. I know when something needs pruning, it needs pruning. It's like a haircut that can't wait: it's 11pm and you're in the bathroom- optimistic with the scissors. You know how well that usually goes. I'll say it again. Don't prune if you're drunk.

Even a glass and a half can cloud my judgment these days. We had an unusually warm evening in Oakland. We finished dinner on the deck and watered. I like watering with a glass of wine and the family milling about. It's my little suburban dream. I can leave the rest of the suburbs where they belong, but a hose in one hand and a drink in the other is my bliss.

I digress.

Watering one spot leads to another, leads back to the veggie garden. Which leads me to wonder why the beans are still seedlings and the tomatoes didn't flower with vigor. And then it hits me. The tree mallow is twelve feet tall and that's too big. Yeah, it's a tree mallow. It's shading the beds. And with the local water restrictions, I have watered less. No time like the present! It's light out at 7:30! The family is fed and happy. I'll prune!

It happened just like that, I swear. The pruning wasn't so bad, aesthetically. Or at least I think in my current state. The peripherals were problematic.

The Oh, Shit!
Why am I pruning during a drought? Don't I usually prune in the winter rains? We prune to fill out the plant. Is this best for the mallow? Oh, the flowers are so pretty; but I'm killing them.

The Dead Babies
And then Otto runs to me, showing me the "Ma-mos!" The first small, green tomatoes. Something must have come from my mouth, because Stella asks, hopefully, from 40 feet away, "What did Otto do?!" I show her and she smirks. She did the exact same thing the Summer of 2006. I tell her so.

The Inspiration
Never prune while drunk. It's a post title in that instant. My error composted into creativity. Not bad, actually.

The Fallout
I turn off the spigot (does anyone else love that word and never use it?). I skip to the laptop, knowing it's been days since my last risky post. I need to bury it a bit. And I type what you started reading moments ago. (Your moments are hours to me. We did a bath-milk-bed in between sentences.) Oh. And I type, and Otto moves flotsam from a little ceramic tray to my old keyboard. Screws. Pins. Beads. A shoe charm.

Maybe my best gardening advice is my best parenting advice. Don't try to do too many things at once. You never know what will come of it- or what the toddler will do while you're absorbed in the distorted glory of your words and ideas thrown to the world.

One True Bio

2008-07-21T22:42:00.000-07:00

My Monday morning was the usual. Breakfast Dodge Ball with Otto (he is messy and creative with his meals), two drop offs, and then I sat at the computer in my jog bra. Again. I have this idea if I put on the boob corset in the morning, I'm one step closer to running when I'm kid-free. But I tweaked one vertebrae before I even left the house. It was one those incredibly athletic moves- talking on the phone. I waited it out and worked on my bio for some poems that are soon to be published in mamazine. I finished and sent it off, just in time to shower for work.

Here's what it should have read:

"Kim is a wanna-be daytime-TV-watching-housewife who should be running with the dog and/or folding laundry but is instead perfecting her three line bio. She pretends to feel guilty about the dog but secretly remembers that her childhood dogs went out back by themselves and were just fine. She also thinks that if she leaves the laundry, maybe her husband will fold it when he gets home. Kim is an expert procrastinator and mediocre cook, but she is a talented midwife and also gives great head. Her poems have appeared in less than 2% of her submissions. She lives in a cluttered house filled with fart jokes and abandoned water glasses with her handsome husband and gorgeous kids. When she's not stalling, she dreams of lounging on lawn furniture from Williams Sonoma while writing brilliant poetry."

Come on now, what's your real bio?

Sometimes They Break My Heart

2008-07-17T10:42:00.000-07:00

We play Birthday Party like we always do. Towel or blanket spread on the floor. A pile of clothes laid in the middle is our beautiful vanilla-berry-chocolate cake. And before the cake is cut with a hand-knife and served on open palms to oohs and ahhs, we sing in both languages and make a wish. I haven't told them the wish should be secret.

"What did you wish for?" I ask.

Stella blurts, "Two hundred of you!"

"Two hundred of me?" I can't believe it. She hides her face a little. "Yes."

"What did you wish for?" It's innocent enough. Such simple questions they ask.

"That I'll never yell at you again."

I couldn't lie because it was a big wish just like hers. I wanted her to know that my late for work irritation- PUT ON YOUR SHOES NOW, or whispered growl- QUIET. You'll wake your brother, are not the me I imagined. So I use every wish I can get, real candle or not. I close my eyes and think this is the day I become the mother I want to be. The mother they deserve. And her wish is real too. What shame I feel, she uses her wish for more of me.

Wait, child, I want to say, wait until I get my shit together and can act like a grownup, then you can have all you want.

Mr. Disney was Inspired by Oakland's Fairyland

2008-07-14T11:11:00.000-07:00

We aren't a Disney Family, like many we saw last week. We don't have the pin collection, we didn't go in the minute the park opened, and we did not pay $150 to make Stella into Cinderella- although it was tempting, I admit. Now if they could have guaranteed a princess who does housework and has good manners... But we did have 6 hours of fun in Fantasyland, Toontown, and the Princess Faire. Augusto had a conference, so I took the kids down for 2 nights.

What We Learned at Disney:

1. The Disneyland Hotel kiddie pool slide is really fun. There is no admission fee (other than a night at the hotel).

2. It is possible to get out of a 30 minute line 20 minutes into it for "I changed my mind" and a pee break. You just hop the barriers. And remember not to wear a skirt next time.

3. The $2.99 Toddler Meal is reasonable price- for 1/4 of a child. Try to look like a bratwurst-buying family and sneak snacks past the guards.

4. The Royal Coronation Ceremony is awesome, complete with a maypole. Waiting for a princess behind a wall isn't necessary for a 3 year old.

5. Disney does not acknowledge Oakland's Fairyland. They claim to be America's first theme park. Humpf.

6. Everyone told us to get out, nap and go back. They were right. It also works to skip going back in.

7. Wait 5 years before going again. Both kids will be tall and adventurous enough to go on the rides we're also into.

What I Learned While Flying Outnumbered by Children:

1. Give up all hope of staying clean and unsticky.

2. All people stare. Some get out of the way. Some offer to help. It is advisable to make the most of either.

3. The carry-on is only for kid stuff. Time to read? Don't make me laugh or I'll spill another liquid on my pants.

4. A day is only a day. How long was labor? I survived.

We got a pin after all (for our collection?). Stella calls it our Disney Remembership Pin. "It's to remember all you saw there."

That's an Awful Thing to Call Your Husband

2008-07-06T15:26:00.000-07:00

After he pulled the tube from my nose and throat, the urge to sneeze went away, but tears kept pouring from my right eye. "Early nodules," he said. People who haven't seen me in a while ask about my nasty cold. My speech therapist friend said I needed to see an ENT. I put it off, like most things I need to do for myself, and ALL things medical.

I have always wanted a husky voice. I have often listened to my answering machine messages with disbelief. Is that flat, nasal voice really mine? And then it happened. I woke up on December 23, 2007 with a Demi
Moore voice. No cold, no pain, just pure sex appeal. Neighbors, co-workers, and old friends have commented on how I could parlay my voice for work or other more interesting favors. Naturally, the voice has been lost on my husband. He's thankfully attracted to my other, somewhat more stable attributes. Like my face and boobs and personality. Somewhat more stable.

My voice is low because of little callous-like growths on my vocal cords. Why do I have vocal nodules? Because I abuse my voice. I don't whisper very often, so that means I scream too much. Don't jump to conclusions. I do scream at the kids more than I want, and we do yell across the house a fair amount. Is the dishwasher clean?! Can you grab a diaper?!

But it's partly the dog's fault. Honestly. We got Rex less than two months before my voice changed. And since then I have been intercepting the kids' favorite toys, our food, clothing, and shoes. "NO, REX! DROP IT! DROP IT!" I've been deflecting his enthusiastic attention. "OFF! GET DOWN!" Rex's trainer (we've only been twice.... and come to think of it really should go back) said the dog is not deaf. We should just speak to him and not repeat ourselves. But it will take him hearing "No" 1000 times before he understands it. Huh? Not in a row, I guess. So I know what to do, I just don't know how not to react.

Scenario Option 1:

Kid drops lovey that she can't sleep without. Dog lunges for it. "NO, REX! DROP IT! DROP IT!" Dog runs, so happy now that I'm playing with him. I lunge for his throat. He whizzes by. "REX!!! DROP IT YOU DAMN DOG!"

Scenario Option 2:

Kid drops lovey that she can't sleep without. Dog lunges for it. "N0, Rex. Drop it." Dog runs, so happy now that I'm playing with him. I stand still. I trust he won't actually rip apart this essential stuffed bunny who is already by some odd design only a blanket on the bottom half. "Rex. Sit. Drop it." Rex obeys and I return the slobbery but intact lovey to a very relieved little girl.

How do I cure vocal nodules? Voice rest. No whispering, no screaming and talk as little as possible. Yes, this is expected of me, the one who talks with patients all day, who got poor conduct marks in middle school -talks too much-, who has a preschooler that asks why at the end of every answer. It is a ridiculous order, but the concept of voice rest has got me thinking. Talking is so core to who I am, that I don't have any idea how to proceed other than to just go for it. Every day I venture into where I've never been, like today: two kids and a mess of finger paints. So I'll just shoot from the hip, as it were. Or from above as is the case here.

And as it is with most forced endeavors, I'm already learning. Changing for the better. Do I really want to teach my kids to scream at animals? Do I really need to explain etiologies and treatment recommendations in such detail? When I go to work tomorrow morning, can't I just say "OK, we went to a nice parade. How about you?" rather than getting into how we were late for the parade, and the guy who took pictures of Otto, and the fireworks too? Haven't I always wanted to be the one who waits for the rest of the group to voice their opinions and then shares mine? To be the girl in class who never says anything and then one day opens her mouth and what comes out is so insightful and smart that everyone stops to listen? Won't I benefit from more listening?

Here's my chance. The doctor told me stop yelling at the dog. "That's an awful thing to call your husband," said my friend when I told her the doctor's orders. There is room for much humor, but I believe there is also room for much, much more.

I Am Loved

2008-06-26T09:58:00.000-07:00

I'm really feelin' the love these days.

First of all, I am the 1st runner up in the mamazine MAMAFOCUS contest! I am really honored because the entries and other winners are amazing. Not only do I get the feel good joy of winning and the numerous clicks over to my blog from mamazine and shutter sisters, but I also get a prize- a Metalsgirl Inspirational Bangle!!

Second, Augusto and I went to Tomales Bay for our first overnight ever... JUST US. It was really great. I mean, really, really great. We talked about things other than the kids, we flirted, we climbed up a rock, we kayaked, we had a delicious dinner. And we didn't bicker. Not even once. The kids behaved and enjoyed their night with our fantastic friends. So that means there is hope for more!

It's all just too cool. I love being loved.

End of an Era

2008-06-19T09:56:00.000-07:00

Tuesday morning Otto nursed from right to left and back again. He gripped the side he wasn't suckling, obviously plotting the next switch-over. I thought hard. We are going out of town without kids for one night this weekend. Soon I will be working weekly 12 hour shifts delivering babies (!). My father is visiting next week. Augusto might go out of town soon. I made the decision. I hesitated. Then I talked to him. "This is the last time for nursing, Otto. Tomorrow you'll get up with Papai. We won't have any more mama milk." He didn't say anything, but he did linger more than usual. Or maybe I was lingering. I have been nursing since October 18, 2004. Three years and eight months. Well, there was a 6 month break while pregnant with Otto. But I was pregnant and under hormonal influence.

Weaning Stella brought tears. Initial nursing was so rough, that letting go of our triumph was especially hard. By weaning Stella, I was making way for the new baby. It was the first space she needed to yield. By weaning, I was letting go of her.

Weaning Otto is bittersweet. I have been boasting for months. No more babies for me. I've been a vessel for too long. I want to drink martinis without guilt and go rock climbing again. And here we are. Two days into it. At 5:30 am, I breathed in and out, fluffed my pillow and listened to his cries when Augusto got him and took him downstairs. "Mommee. Mommee!"

I could turn back. Nurse tomorrow. Part of me wants to. I will never nurse again. I keep thinking it! There are no rules, no guidebook. We make it up as we go. Why stop now? My friend who is taking the kids this weekend- she can handle one tough morning. She is a good mother. Our night away is the inspiration, but it's not the reason. I'm not completely sure, but the reason is linked to my need for self care, independence. Parenting is a state of constant alert. Deep giving. My personal stores are dangerously low. I am running, reading, getting occasional pedicures. But mostly I am taking care of others. Work. Dog. House. Garden. Husband. Neighborhood politics. Oh, yeah.. and Otto and Stella. Nursing is a beautiful symbol of nurturing. I think that's why I need to let it go. Otto needs to yield space for me now. By weaning him, I am letting go of me.

friends, or what i love about oakland #2

2008-06-12T10:23:00.000-07:00

I envy little in others. Fame and wealth and extreme beauty fascinate me. I thrill at another's exotic vacation or fresh romance. But a real coveting of something someone else has? Here's one thing: old friendships. That's something I wish I had. Like Karen at Shutter Sisters, my family moved around a lot. I moved in 3rd, 6th, and 9th grade. Then again for college, after graduation, and for graduate school. I crossed state lines and finally, a continent. And then my parents left where we had lived during my high school, so that became another move for me, as related to holding on to friendships. For a few years after each move, letters and seldom visits kept friendships alive. But the oldest of those, formed in grade school and earlier, those are gone. Really gone. Time, mostly has erased them. But our slow climb on the social ladder, via my dad's promotions and bigger houses, was probably the real killer.

Sandy was my best friend in elementary school. Our back yards touched since the day I was born. Even though we went to different schools, we still spent our summers flying on her trampoline or turning over rocks in the creek. At 21 she was married and living in a trailer. At 21 I was studying Matisse and Tagore. It never mattered where we lived or what we did, but over time, the memories faded and we didn't have much to talk about. I wouldn't know how to find her today.

I have lived in the bay Area for 13 years. Longer than anywhere else in my entire life. Stella and Otto are blessed by fun, diverse friends. It is not uncommon for Stella to tell me that some people have a mommy and a daddy, some people have two daddies, and some people only have a mommy... and so on. She once let us know that she wanted two mommies too. Augusto said he thought that was a great idea! Most of our crowd is from somewhere else- as is common in the San Francisco Bay Area. Will we live in this house, this neighborhood forever? Or will our friends? I doubt it. But we want for our children what we long for ourselves. How will we preserve their - our friendships?

"Now that's something."

2008-06-08T07:24:00.000-07:00

His voice, round and cheery, is over my shoulder this morning. And I think it too when I stand on the Transbay bus to get a gander of the new bridge. It looks ready, complete with speed limit signs and benches, but ends abruptly 1/4 mile from Treasure Island.

San Francisco is glowing at 7:42. "That's a beautiful city. Just beautiful."

My grandfather visited twice in my 13 years here. Once we toured the wharf and then jetted off to Alaska- just the 2 of us. Once we met at SFO. He and his 86 year old bride were on a layover. They were heading home from a Hawaii honeymoon. Melvin had a way of getting around. He was an elevator repairman who knew how to save. We talked weekly until he died. But he is still everywhere.

This week I watched a young woman and an old man sorting out details after a fender bender. She was on her cell phone while he waited at the hood of his car. He had his manual open, registration and insurance card at the ready. My guess was it was her first accident, and his first in many, many years. I wanted to go to the double yellow line, ask if they needed any help, but I was stuck on the curb with both kids and a doll's stroller. The kids and I were walking to school. We had paused at the FedEx and UPS drop off boxes, and they were opening and closing the slots. I was about to stop them when I was overcome. That was Melvin there, prepared for anything at 93. Most likely a reassuring presence for the young gal (although in private, he would complain about her ruining his paint, how she didn't know how to drive). It was the way he just waited, rested his hand on the hood. I waited for Stella to ask why I was crying, prepared myself for her little voice, "Old Pop Pop died." But the kids kept on opening and closing the mail flaps, and I stood in his presence, sad and content until the moment passed.

***

Between work, food prep, exercise, and games of chase, there isn't much space left for memory that stops me in my tracks. The joy and stress of daily life are so noisy. Often I can't hear my feelings. A day or week even, can pass so quickly I don't realize what I've missed. Paying a parking ticket. Scheduling a sitter. A page of emails. My grandmother's birthday. This week was one of my busiest in months. In addition to the usual, I went to Vallejo for half a day and SF for a 3 day conference on antepartum and intrapartum management. But in the journeys (walking, riding the bus), there was enough quiet to receive the visits from the man I miss so very much.

friday, and a little bit about breasts

2008-05-30T12:02:00.000-07:00

to do list

what we did

Yes, that is my second child sitting on top of the table.

And "bra" is the last item on the list. This week, my clinic's monthly medical talk was on mammography. The speaker showed a slide of the effectiveness of mammograms in dense breast tissue. The current debate is whether we should or shouldn't recommend yearly screening before age 50. His point was that comparing the 10 years before 50, to the 20 plus years after does not give an accurate picture of the gradual increase in effectiveness of mammography- and decrease in breast density. He advocates screening annually starting at 40, as does the American Cancer Society. For a low risk woman, the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists and the American Academy of Family Physicians recommend getting a mammogram every 1 to 2 years between 40 and 50 and starting annually at 50.

His talk was clear and persuasive, but when he showed the slide of 5-year increments of declining tissue density, all I could see was my unavoidable future of sagging breasts. Cancer? Maybe yes, maybe no. Sagging? Guaranteed! An informal survey after the lecture showed 99% of women in the audience had the same thought. I can eat my antioxidants, wear a seat belt, and get my mammograms, but my future health is largely out of my hands. And I can't prevent gravity and time teaming up against me. So I'll get a new bra with a stronger foundation.

wake in love

2008-05-28T22:26:00.000-07:00

12:30 am Turn off light. Pass out.

4:22 am
"Mama, I'm going to pull up the covers." Stella has taken her spot on the floor next to our bed and feels compelled to rip me from my detailed dream.

5:36 am
"Momm-ee!" Otto calls from what should be the kids (plural) room. I consider letting him fuss a little. Stretch him closer to a better 6 am wake time. Then I remember Stella needs her sleep and his cries might wake her. So I go to him. He rises to my arms and heaves us toward Stella's bed. Her soft, empty twin futon on the floor. We snuggle down and I offer him the breast. Shifting. Nursing. Covering my free nipple from his twiddling fingers. And we fall asleep.

6:14 am
I am attacked by full mouth kisses. Big Otto kisses on my chin, my lower lip. Smacking noises and small wet teeth. And I am laughing. This is so much better than a cat tail or dog breath in my face. And just as quickly, Otto hops off the bed, is padding out the door, looking for "Papai?!"

***
Yes, Stella's spot on the floor. It was a threat at first. Our queen mattress was feeling small and Otto had finally gone into Stella's room. We wanted our space. Our nighttime, grownup space. So I said it, if you want to come and sleep with us you need to go on the floor. I put down some padding and blankets, thinking she'd never do it. Of course she slept on the floor. Night after night. Every night since then. And now I feel like a horrible mother, with her preschooler's head sometimes wedged under our bed or her legs on the bare wood across the room- having tossed herself there in the night. I have begged her to come up into our bed. "I like it on the floor!" When she comes from her room at 3 or 4 or 5 am, I have lured her with warm covers, the space between us, a better pillow. "I like it on the floor!"

***

Our kids move in and our of our space on their own schedule, usually before or after we are ready. I have almost weaned Otto. Our morning nursing is all we have. When he messes around with his free hand and tugs at my other nipple, I want the next time to be that last time. Then I remember I will never nurse another child. I am done. I came so far from the first letdowns (no pun intended), that it is really hard to let go now. I don't have to wean him, but we're planning a no-kid-night-away next month. Our first EVER since Stella was born. Nighttime, grownup space, you know?

Love, And a Little Peace

2008-05-22T15:58:00.000-07:00

I couldn't help but scatter him with hearts.

I'm sharing this love after I just got some love myself- a 15 minute chair massage at the grocery store. I almost walked out, thinking of all the papers and laundry and cooking that were waiting at home. But I waited my turn and now my shoulders are a little less attached to my ears.

Sometimes I AM really smart.
Sometimes I can receive the love.

Happy love thursday. Now go give yourself a little .

clean it out and it fills again

2008-05-20T12:46:00.000-07:00

this is where i am right now

and the house is quiet
for a moment

why i love oakland #1

2008-05-18T20:54:00.000-07:00

saturday morning coffee run
shiny harley parked on the sidewalk
heat reflecting off the pavement
two women having having breakfast curbside: crew cuts, black leather, tattoos, black boots.

stella and i exit past their table: in skirts, matching baseball caps, pink!, flip flops. the woman with the most tattoos smiles and waves at stella. we pass the motorcycle.

"is that a motorcycle?"
"yes, it belongs to the women in the restaurant"
"which women?"
"remember the one who waved on our way out?"
"the one with the helmet on the table?"
"yes, the one with the drawings on her arms?"
"drawings? i don't know... the one who was holding her fork to her mouth and eating?"

Ready or Not, Here it Comes!

2008-05-15T10:40:00.000-07:00

Rex didn't even look back as he ran when I has started to walk. And that's how it is here now. They're moving forward whether I'm ready or not. On the way home from school Stella was saying something in her seat.
"What?"
"Nothing, Mama"
"I couldn't hear you, Sweetie. What were you saying?"
"I wasn't talking to you, Mama. I was talking to myself."
"Oh, you were?" you're not four yet, do you do that already?
"Yeah! You thought I was talking to you?!" and then she laughs at me

Mother's Day was wonderful. Not because of the most beautiful earrings in the world that Stella picked out all by herself- guided to the right store by Augusto. Not because Stella and I shared a pedicure chair for the first time. Not because of the sweet goodbye of Otto's last bedtime nursing. Mother's Day was wonderful because it wasn't all that important to me. I wasn't waiting for some big acknowledgment from my husband, some huge chunk of time to myself. I receive the gifts of motherhood daily.

Andrea at Superhero Designs asked "What are you willing to receive?"

Since my immediate reaction: Massage!, I have been mulling.

I am willing to receive gifts I have previously refused or made me feel guilty:

help to my car from the grocer
comments on how great i look after two kids
day care in excess of my working hours
one extra hour of morning sleep

I am willing to receive love.

I am willing to receive parenting feedback from others.

I am willing to receive the good health that comes from exercise, vegetables, and sleep.

I liked this hard question. Now I'll pass it on. What are you willing to receive?

I'm a Mother

2008-05-11T14:15:00.000-07:00

pregnant with stella

stella 1 day old

4 days before otto is born

hours after otto's birth

i still can't believe it
happy mother's day

Taking out the Garbage

2008-05-05T08:40:00.000-07:00

Ours is a multilingual household. English. Portuguese. Bark. Babble. Silent Treatment. Thank goodness we have a translator.

Otto squawks and demands, "Bawbaw." Stella says, "Otto wants milk."

At the back door, Rex lays down with a humpf. Stella says, "Rex wants to go out."

Augusto says to the family, "Vamos pelo parque?" Stella says, Mama, let's go to the park!"

I speak in Portuguese daily, so she should know I understand it. Perhaps it's so bad she figures I need help? But no. Augusto says, "I'll pick up Stella today. I think we'll go to the park and then get some ice cream." Stella says, "Mama, after school Papai is taking me to the park. And then we're getting ice cream!"

Em... that was all in English. She's translating one parent to the other. Clearly she's tuned into our latest high tension-low conversation phase. We aren't understanding each other often enough. Last week, after Augusto laid off several employees, he was edgy. I was maxed out on giving him room. He said something that now I can't remember. He offended me. I started to bitch, "I can't believe you said that. It was so." I stopped, not wanting to bicker in front of the kids. "Rude." I looked at Stella and she was staring at me, eyebrows up. Like, yeah, I said it, that word came out of my mouth, and I just completed your sentence, ha ha. After I recovered from the shock of her repetition/understanding- it didn't matter- I felt the horror of seeing the real impressions we make. Then I had a little inner peace. She saw it too. Isn't that one of the benefits of family, ganging up on each other?

But usually it's the routine words that get lost. The following conversation has been started by either parent.

"I took out the garbage."
"What?"
"I took out the garbage."

Dinner, bath, bed routine.

"Did you take out the garbage?!"

It's misunderstanding, sleep deprivation, ignoring, and simple absentmindedness. Do we really have time for a conversation about garbage? Aren't we happier, more suited, making plans for a fall trip, selecting a date night? But those conversations don't happen either.

"We should think about using our frequent flier miles in October."
"Where do you want to go?"

Dinner, bath, bed routine.

"Did you take out the garbage?"

Wake Up, Idiot, She's 3

2008-05-01T21:15:00.000-07:00

There is a shift. It's not Spring, but a developmental leap. Stella is less obnoxious. This is a major breakthrough. We're enjoying each other more often. After months of butting heads on everything from the shape and quantity of cereal in her bowl to who shuts the door/ gets the mail/ goes first up the stairs/ uses the potty, we are just having fun. I am happy in a way I can't quite explain. I really worried we were doomed to a strained mother-daughter life, like I have known at times, and my mother too. And friends and colleagues and strangers. Of course, we probably are still doomed. Who, really, can escape the great fates?

For now, though, I'll bask in her soft hair on my shoulder, her gigantic smiles when I make a joke or spin her around. She says Please and Thank You. She understands that when she makes a choice between a juice box and a fruit strip, she actually can't have the other when she's done. And she's ok with it.

I will admit I'm less obnoxious too. I am playing more and screaming less. The screaming and nattering never got us out the door faster, it just raised my tension and made her sink her heels in deeper. Our play is longer and on her terms. Whack palm to forehead- I know, doesn't everyone know how to play with a preschooler? I obviously didn't. Her fantasy camping/ hotel/ swimming life is vast and repetitive. She wants me to understand it all. And all. And all.

Augusto was away for 8 days. It was in this time that I woke up. Email and reading and shitting alone just weren't options, so instead of bitching about it all week long, I did what I could. I enjoyed my kids. And as I gave myself this little gift, I learned how much fun they are. So I don't really know if she changed, or I did, I just know I feel better.

*****

There are all kinds of "teachable moments." We can't guess at someone's desires and expect to always be right. Stella and Otto are real chums. Yesterday he was pushing her around the kitchen. He is very strong for his 20 pounds. It bothers me when he pushes other kids.

I intervened, "Be gentle, Otto!"

And Stella surprised me. "No Mama, I LIKE when he pushes me!'

What do I know?

A Day for Gaia

2008-04-22T16:09:00.000-07:00

We are waiting for rain. Stella has been waiting for rain for a year. The days it comes she dons her full regalia in joy. Sometimes she is sure it will rain, she suits up for it regardless of outcome. In California, we don't have rain for several months in a row. It has taken me years to adjust to the subtle- and not so subtle (rain v. no rain, duh)- seasonal changes. There are still days when I completely lose my bearing. Is is Fall? Spring? I begin looking for Jack O' Lanterns or Easter Eggs as a clue.

Today the sky is thick and the dust at the dog park has a little less loft. I want the rain to fall today. Earth Day. The idea of a day to raise awareness and protest environmental destruction was born right around when I was- the Fall of 1969. I like to imagine early 1970. Parents looking ahead into their grand children's lives, young students with a new agenda, confused politicians. All looking out for the Gaia, looking out for us. And here we are. 37 years later. Today's Earth Day is more about community clean up, fun festivals, and recycling lessons than protest. Pollution, pesticides, extinction- these problems have not gone away, but Earth Day is no longer known for demonstration and protest. The original organizers have action items, so go get busy.

the trainer's trainer

2008-04-15T14:07:00.000-07:00

The original image is on flickr.

Such a Deal!

2008-04-14T12:07:00.000-07:00

I have a personal trainer.

Surprisingly, I'm not afraid to admit it. I've always associated having a personal trainer with being perfectionist and foolishly rich. My disdain probably originates from some secret desire to have money to sprinkle here and there- and have the body that only comes from excellent genes or a particular type of perfectionism. I never wanted a trainer like I never wanted an exercise buddy. I don't want someone to see me puffing up a hill or watch them pressing more pounds.

But here I am, ready to cancel my (unused) gym membership.

It all started because Rex wouldn't chill out. As in, "Cut it OUT, REX! Stop (insert: licking, following, nosing, barking, chewing kids toys)!" So I took him to the dog park. He LOVES the dog park. The butt sniffing, the rough play, chase. At the dog park, I sit there watching him burn off all that puppy energy. And I think, here's one more creature to take care of. What about me? MY time? And of course work is more stressful, my PMS started lasting 14 instead of 7 days a month, and those new pants I bought only serve to accentuate my muffin top and make me very gassy.

So Rex and I went running together. And we did it again. And again. And he began to recognize my running shoes and baseball cap and now jumps for joy when he sees me putting them on. And today he encouraged me. He actually turned around and said, "Oh, come on!" when I slowed to a walk. It was a subtle, but certain nod of the head, jig of the front paws. Totally non-judgmental. "Hey could you pick up the pace a little? I know you can do it, and I'd really like to go a little faster. Please"

I intend no offense in comparing Rex to a personal trainer- I can't help but compare him to Otto every day. But there is no doubt in the connection. He is expecting me. He wants more out of me than I think I can give. He is faster and stronger and will always be. But Rex makes it even better: he's free and it's a mutual benefit. Two more reasons to lase up those shoes.

I Hold Them in My Heart

2008-04-01T13:08:00.000-07:00

Why can't it be "April Fool's!" now that my patient's baby died at 6 months and my dad euthanized his cat, and I got an asinine crank call telling me I had so many days to live?

Yesterday. Can't I wish it one big joke? Ha ha, just kidding?

The mom came in for her routine prenatal. Mentioned no movement. Watched her daughter draw happy pictures of the baby. I searched for the heart. The quick beat I love to share with the big siblings. Is that a horse in there?! A train? I searched again. I prayed. I tried to make my face neutral, my eyes soft. I took her into the room with the ultrasound. And the little one only floated with his mama's breaths. Not still, but swaying in the fluid. I couldn't get the words out before my heart cried. My tears fell. I think your baby died. You need to go to the hospital for a better ultrasound. But I knew. She knew.

In 10 years, this was the first fetal demise. Nasty jargon for a loss inexplicable. The term you don't share with the family. Fetal. Oh, no... a baby, a loved member of the family. Demise. Should that soften the blow? Make it so that the midwife doesn't cry when she collapses in the chart room, her colleagues with no choice to hear it out? I was unprepared for the moment, caught in the disbelief. Consulting with the perinatologist like I would for fibroids or diabetes, while the majority of my soul paced the room, asking why?

And when I came home to tell it all again to Augusto, it was too familiar. The same sequence of sadness when we lost our first son. That empty, empty sound on the doppler. The panicked face of the resident. Then the words that became only the sound of nothing in the room, of everything lost in our hearts.

I told the family of my loss. Felt strangely grateful for some small connection to their crumbling souls. I am so sorry. What else is there, really, to say?

finger gore and a lovely girl

2008-03-27T21:14:00.000-07:00

Losing a fingernail is like losing a tooth. First it's disgusting, then you just want it over with. I'm losing my left pinky nail because of a nasty cuticle infection. It's been hurting for nearly 10 weeks. For two nights it was so painful, at 3am I nearly went to the Emergency. This, after two medication-free home births. A throbbing finger puts me on the verge of an embarrassing trip to the hospital.

"What are you here for?"
"My finger."
"What is wrong with it?"
And then I show them the centimeter of red and everyone in the triage laughs.

I decided to stop trying to treat myself with saltwater soaks and got a culture. It is MRSA, a resistant community acquired bacteria. I'm on my third course of antibiotics. I've only take antibiotics three times in my memorable life. This fourth event (three different meds over 30 days) is the longest. And nothing really worked until the base of my nail popped free. The color is fading, and the pain is easing.

Instead of a picture of my sick finger, I give you rocks and my lovely girl for

love thursday. I thought you'd like this one just a little more. I love smooth rocks and her heart hoodie.

Mom Squad

2008-03-24T11:00:00.001-07:00

Surfing, instead of running (although I am fully geared in a jog bra), I found this Mom Squad Makeover Contest. Entered videos are available for inspiration. The more I watch, the better I feel. It IS hard work being a mom. It IS normal to have a jelly belly, sallow skin, and a grumpy outlook. I love these real moms. Some sad, some begging, even. I want to reach out and hug every one, say "I know how you feel, I have dog hair everywhere, too."

I don't need a makeover, I just need to exercise, sleep, eat vegetables instead of cookies, and take a shower every day. I rushed everyone out the door (late, as usual). So I'm signing off and putting on my running shoes. The dog has been waiting long enough. I'm just going to think "makeover, makeover" while I run.

What inspires you to feel better?

Creative Urges

2008-03-19T16:59:00.000-07:00

afternoon sun, originally uploaded by kimthemidwife.

I've been feeling like a haggard woman. Saggy skin, downturned cheeks, shadowed eyes. Caffeine alone isn't perking me anymore. Cleaning out dark corners of the house isn't either. I keep abandoning the exercise plan.

So I'm holing up on the computer and blissing out on my family photos. I'm cranking up the creative volume in my life from everything to kid crafts to mama time. I found a great photo site, Shutter Sisters, and am entering their "eyes closed" challenge. I remember from long ago photography classes that you have to be really careful about sharp lighting contrasts. But the light highlights my daughter's sweet face-- without any idea about what a haggard woman is. That's bliss.

Busted!

2008-02-22T23:07:00.001-08:00

There are events every parent dreads- yet expects- will happen. Like the kid who asks why that man is so fat- in front of that man. Or repeats something unsavory you said about the neighbor. Today I exited the shower to find the kids playing tug-o-war with my vibrating dildo. Moments before, when it became suspiciously quiet, I peeked around the curtain and saw Otto waving a naughty feather duster. Hastily rinsing only half of the conditioner, I told the kids to stay out of mommy's drawer and rehearsed all the answers to all the questions I would hear. The experts recommend preparing for such challenging times. Scripting your answers just in case. Like when the 4 year old walks in and sees naked Mommy on top of naked Daddy and asks, "What are you doing?"

I am very interested in raising sexually healthy future adults. I want to my children to have confidence and pride in their bodies. I want them to learn to love in their own ways. I read a great book on the subject before I was even pregnant. Every day at work, I hear and give advice on the intimate details of a wide variety of sexual issues. I love asking my 70 year old patients if they are sexually active. Stella knows what her vulva is and that touching it is a private affair. And yet, I was wholly unprepared to see the Blue Ripple in Stella's hands and the speed controller in Otto's.

"What's this, Mama?"

Pause.

"Give it to me."

"What is it?!"

"It's a tool. Give it to me."

"What kind of a tool?

"It's a tool that Mama hasn't used in a long time. Let's put it back in the drawer now."

I walked out of the bathroom and saw the contents of one bedside drawer strewn on the floor. Things I honestly forgot were there, but instantly knew I should have put under lock and key long ago. Edible Undies. Liquid Latex. A colorful volume on intimate massage. The naughty feather duster.

"Is this a pompom?"

"Yes, it is!"

"Can I play with it?"

"Right now you can."

I replaced the toys with a mix of emotions. Here I was in one of those Moments I had waited for, albeit earlier and different, of course. I felt sure I would be the mother who could talk with her kids about sex. I would give them the information they needed to make safe and healthy choices. I would make sure they felt comfortable asking tough questions. Yet here I was putting away sex toys I received at my bachelorette party, mostly unopened and waiting six years in that drawer for what? Time? Inspiration? Boredom? Six years. And who finally plays with them? My children. And how did I answer the questions? It's a tool? Yes, it's a pompom? You can play with it. Geez.

So we haven't used the toys in years. Texans waited how long to be able to buy butt plugs without breaking a law? It's not that I think sex toys make sex better, or that sex without toys is boring. I'm bothered by the waste. The waste of drawer space. The fact that they sit there when someone else would love to play with them (and I don't mean my children). That they were well intentioned gifts gone stale. And know I know for sure the time to use them has passed. If we can't get some action in the 10 minutes before I pass out, then forget it. It's comical to think there's time for role playing or cleaning the "tools." But can I give them away on Freecycle? Sell them on Craigslist? Drop them off at the Salvation Army? If you, gentle reader, want a tub of paint-on latex clothing or a bright orange soft rubber whip, let me know. My girlfriends were generous.

But the other emotion is joy. Everyone always says that kids call us on our own shit. Help us to see ourselves. Help us laugh at ourselves. You can't hide a bad day from a teen or fake listening to a toddler. And you can leave it to a one year old who will open any drawer and his question asking sister to remind you that you don't need a drawer full of sexy toys to feel sexy. You don't need edible undies to feel consumed. But you do need some clever answers pretty darn quick if you don't want the whole preschool to hear about it in your 3 year old's version of events.

So I'm back to the drawing board. What will we say that time we forget to lock the door? Will it ever be wrong to dress or shower in front of the kids? And what if we differ on these answers, how will we be ourselves? How will our words and body language affect their sexual development? The drawer was a warning, a practice session for the foibles ahead.

Coffee can't fix everything.

2008-02-16T22:01:00.000-08:00

Tonight I saw a woman doing something I have done more than a few times before. She was waiting outside the bathroom door at Barnes and Noble, determining if intervention would be needed, curious and scared to see who emerged. A kind gesture toward a child or other recipient of someone's wrath. The sad part is that this woman was waiting for me.

The evening had gone well up until about 10 minutes prior to the bathroom. Augusto is out of town, so I took the kids shopping. We picked out a twin futon for Stella to delighted mattress diving and lollipop games. We went to the noodle place at her request (load back in the car, drive, wrangle the van into a spot...). We waited for a table. We got silly and impressed the patrons with two charming kids scarfing down tofu and broccoli. I cleaned Otto's mess. I let Stella eat a lollipop. We paid and left the restaurant.

And then Stella asked to go to the bookstore. I knew this meant play with the train table and then ask for a book. It was already 7:40. I wanted to go home. Otto was tired. I was tired. I sensed a tantrum in the air. She had already hit the pavement before we went to the noodle place. I just couldn't handle another melt down. So I said yes. My first mistake. She wanted another Dora book. Dora is ok in theory, but she is a TV series, not a book character. We have never seen her show, but the books suck. Thin TV-based plot, stupid lines. "Say no swiping, Swiper!" Say, what?! She loves Dora books, but they're killing me. The she wanted Strawberry Shortcake. I could only imagine how much I would like it. I don't want to squelch her desires, but how does she even know about this crap? She doesn't watch TV! I want to read real stories with her. Or poetry. Or at least cool rhyme. So I directed her to some Caldecott winners. And some Dr. Seuss. We were on to tantrum three and she still had a jumbo Blow Pop in her mouth. And it was 8:30 or some similar ridiculous time. And I had to pee and change Otto's diaper before we left.

After threating to take away the lolli, leave her in the store, and not get her any more books, she hastily picked an actual book (as opposed to every crappy book with batteries). Somehow I managed to storm her off to the bathroom. Of course, on the way in she wanted to drink from the fountain (to high for her to do it on her own). My arm was killing with Otto. My bladder was dying. I said no. The stall time was equally perfect. Otto touched every disgusting surface and Stella whined about wanting to finish her lolli, not go home, etc. We made it to the sink. Otto first, Stella second. While I was washing Stella's hands, Otto sneaked off and put his hand into an unflushed toilet. I was already obviously peeved at my kids and not even trying anymore to conceal my anger, frustration, and general sense of impending doom. But the dirty toilet sealed the deal. I slammed down her new book and told her to stop making trouble as she cried for her book while I washed Otto's hands about 23 million times.

That's when I exited to the eavesdropping woman. I don't know what she thought. Maybe she heard the slamming book and, "SHIT!" and though I had hit my kid. Perhaps she just felt bad for Stella who more than once said (tears streaming), "Sorry, Mama."

Walking to the car, Stella asked, "Are you mad at Otto?" No, I was mad at myself.

Just a Day in the Park

2008-02-08T16:46:00.000-08:00

Coffee changes me from a bitchy grumpy monster to a cheery gal who wants to fix the sewing machine and make those recycled cashmere hats. Or clean out that old filing cabinet. Or just play with my baby that isn't really a baby anymore.

Otto and I went to the park today. When I popped him out of the stroller, he actually beamed from ear to ear and charged the playground. He dove with glee into the sand, squealed with delight down the slide, and made friends with everyone there. And no wonder, when Stella was this age, we went to the park almost every day. This is the first time I have gone with Otto alone. If I dwell on that one, I'll get too sad. The point is that we went. The sun was warm enough for a t-shirt and Rex kept quiet enough under his tree. It was just what we needed.

Thrown Back In

2008-02-01T11:34:00.000-08:00

A little vomit never fails to clear writer’s block. Or writer’s absence, really. Blogging is low in the order of my life- down below pedicures and exercise and massage- none of which I have accomplished recently. That is not to say I don’t love to write and find it helpful/ relaxing/ whatever. But it just gets buried. And we traveled four out of the last eight weeks. After all that time, I lost my momentum. Several phrases have popped into my head over the past two months. Opening sentences, full of charm. But they always come while driving, or holding a screaming child, or in the room with a patient. So I can’t write them down, and like everything else I don’t nail to my skull, they’re gone. Poof.

But the vomit stuck without a hammer. I wrote about puke at least once before. So here we are at the vomit’s silver lining- the inspiration to blog. The vomit was minor, actually. Just once and not too much. But the timing was stellar. Otto had a vaccination on Tuesday and fussed most of the wee hours of Wednesday. Augusto was holding him while I made breakfast and said, “Can you hold him a sec?” No sooner had Augusto walked out of the kitchen when Otto retched all over my clean from the hamper fuzzy sweater. Right then I announced that I would be going to work and Augusto would be home with the puker as he had NEVER been thrown up on by anyone in our household, and I had been lucky one too many times. Off I went, working mama who knows how to put her foot down.

These days, work at work is easier than work at home. The clinic’s problems are within my control. People don’t whine too much, and I can shut the door at the end of the day. At home, we have certainly rounded the one-year mark. Otto’s birthday was last month. We are night weaning. I remember the clearing when Stella turned one. And I feel it now, but we have this giant baby of a dog who hasn’t rounded whatever mark he should. He is improving with less ankle biting and fewer destroyed toys (nice wooden ones which have survived and been handed down through three families). I think I feel a change coming. Soon.

***

We went to Baltimore for Thanksgiving and Brazil for Christmas. We also went to my 20th high school reunion in Philadelphia. I recognized many people, but I couldn’t remember how I knew them. I didn’t know if we had been friends, or lab mates, or just been trashed together at a party. It was weird, to say the least. And I connected with others I held dear long ago. It was good. The pictures of our 1980’s hair were worth the trip.

It was a joy to see family. Otto is a sensation everywhere we go. His charms and easygoing way pull in strangers and family alike. Even Stella copies him and is becoming more outgoing. The best gift from Brazil is Stella’s Portuguese. She started speaking when my in-laws were here, but now she digs it. She invents new lyrics in Portuguese. It’s cool.

***

Tonight is the first Friday of February. Otto and Rex are napping, Stella is at school. Augusto is at work. I’m going to get started on our monthly soup and enjoy the quiet while it lasts.

This Bathroom is Small

2007-11-29T06:12:00.000-08:00

“This airplane is going to take off, and fly, and then we’ll see Papai!”

When you stop in Chicago, there are seven hours of flying time between Baltimore and Oakland. Seasoned adult travelers start to whine after the third hour of a lit seat belt sign. But it wasn’t so bad making the return without Augusto. Both kids slept for the first leg, we jumped in the galley during the stop, and we got creative for the final 5-hour haul. Videos, books, stacking snack boxes, passenger peek-a-boo. I briefly handed Otto over to Joe, an empathetic grandmother from the Sierra foothills who was willing to let him pull on her necklaces and jump on her lap.

The first time I flew with Stella, we were on our own. In a teary segment of the flight, an Asian woman reached out her arms, offering to walk 8-week-old Stella for a spell. I was a new mother facing a non-English speaking stranger at 30 thousand feet. I rejected her offer and managed alone. Months later I realized my missed opportunity. In Kenya, where I studied for a semester, people with seats on buses- white strangers included- are expected to hold a package or a child for standing passengers. This transfer happens without comment. The more responsibility I acquire- children, pets, increased work hours- the more I understand why it takes a village to raise a child. In our urban far-from-family world this means letting strangers open doors, carry groceries, or distract a toddler having a tantrum. It means accepting offers from neighbors who want to baby sit, and exchanging childcare with other families. And I also think it includes letting a complete stranger hold your baby when your arms are full.

So our flight was helped by Joe, the flight attendants who didn’t scold us when we just had to get up (despite the illuminated seat belt sign), the peek-a-boo passengers in seats 10 E and F, and by comic relief, of course.

“This bathroom is small.”

This understatement from Stella when the three of us entered the head. We all could stand in the triangular space between the toilet, counter and door, but we completely filled it. There was no pull down changing table, so I changed Otto’s poopy diaper with my butt on Stella’s head, sandwiched the kids between my knees when I sat to pee (and Otto toilet-papered the floor), and put Otto on my hip while Stella stood on the toilet to wash her hands.

“My pants are still down, Mama.”

It was hard to keep it all straight. But I must admit I felt a thrill when we exited, triumphant and surprising, like clowns from a car.

What was I thinking?!

2007-11-16T07:33:00.000-08:00

We now have two creatures in the house who want to chew, rip, and mess up everything from balls, to plants, to toilet paper. Just as I tear a throw pillow from Rex’s mouth, I turn to see Otto grabbing the phone. I pluck Otto from the phone corner, put him down, and find Rex chewing a hole in the rug. I give Rex a toy, then Otto pounces on the dog and I’m separating them again. Is this what it is like to have twins? And this ritual doesn’t even include Stella. Add her to the mix, and it involves a lot of whining and stomping for something she can’t have, such as chocolate at 8pm or messy painting as we’re about to leave the house. It’s background music for the dance.

Rex needs to be trained. He nibbles on pant legs and wrist bones when he wants to play. Any kid toy is his to eat, apparently. And he jumps, of course. Otto needs to be trained too, but it’s a longer process for which I have more patience. And Stella? She’s training me how to take ten deep breaths when we’re late for work, how to stop and see the spider webs. How to think it’s funny when Rex steals Otto’s food from the high chair.

I had a patient yesterday who was pregnant with baby number 4. Her other children are 5, 3, and under 1. She is happy, but her primary-caregiver husband is scared. So scared he barely spoke and just teared up a lot. I made my other patients wait 45 minutes while they tried to talk about the future, their options, and how they’ll afford 4 kids under 6. I know how stressed I can get with two kids on a bad night. And how adding Rex increases the stress on those bad nights. And to think of adding a baby 8 or 9 months from now? Forget it. I’d be terrified. Thank goodness for good birth control. I think that dad is probably getting his vasectomy as I type. His fear clings to me. I just hope she can carry them all.

Premature Spring

2007-11-08T21:34:00.000-08:00

I have a feeling of Spring in me. The change of light and season always brings it on, but having strangers fling about my deep junk drawer receipts and mini-light parts has really been a catalyst for change.

I have been tossing. Six cubic feet of clothes cycled though Tuesday night’s clothing exchange party, and I only picked out 5 “new” items for myself. Our laundry nook got a makeover. Three kitchen drawers are now liberated of extra ice cream scoops and specialty spatulas, and even better, they open and close without squeezing in a hand to free the item that is stuck on the underside of the counter. And I have plans for practically every secret storage spot in our house. The guys in masks uncovered our crap, littered it around for us to detest. They didn’t take much, but now I don’t want the stuff we have. I don’t mean I want to replace it. I just don’t want that much stuff anymore.

We did add a few things, though. The dead bolts we should have had long ago. And the dog. People keep asking if we rescued Rex (a.k.a Ruffles per Oakland Animal Services). This dog? Definitely not. He wasn’t on his way to death. Within five minutes of starting the adoption paperwork two other family units came to invite him home- and left in tears when they discovered they were too late. I nearly changed my mind when the first woman literally burst into sobs, saying, “Well, at least we know he’s going to a good home.” But I too had been awake all night fitting him into the fabric of our life. He was just our dog. It was clear. And we were right. He is one of us, even when he chews little bits of the carpet, lunges for a poopy diaper, or does some other disagreeable thing that makes us have a better idea of why someone would leave him at the night drop. He is one of us in all our broken, trial and error ways. We’re learning together how to sit and stay and shake and live with trust of the future. And even when we aren’t making philosophical leaps, Rex is just one more inspiration to clean up (or else he’ll eat it).

News flash!

2007-10-31T22:28:00.000-07:00

We got a dog at the pound today. A big orange Halloween dog! We’re still working on a name. Stella dressed as a cat wearing a tutu (she couldn’t decide), we had the big preschool parade (for which I gave my work shift to someone else), then I shored up the fence and cleared off the side porch. Then we got ______. He already seems at home.

Make a Wish and Blow

2007-10-23T11:34:00.000-07:00

**** October 12

** 9 am

The effects of the accident wash through our family. Others have become sick from stress and all are feeling a loss. My nephew has been amazing. His father is the man whose head needs to be supported when he is propped up. He said, “Papai, don’t think of what you can’t do, think of what you CAN do.” This from a 15 year old when he saw his father for the first time after the accident. I didn’t even try to keep it together over that very long distance call. The boy is a marvel.

I spend a lot of time trying to focus on each moment. Motherhood and loved ones with cancer and even my own near drowning are the stuff that inspire a good look at life. They are the stuff that, if we are lucky, make us pause and take it all in.

I am working too many hours each week covering shifts for a doc who is out. Stella is in school full time- other than when I pull her out for a zoo trip (or today’s ghost making party that starts in an hour). Otto keeps me present and charmed by his giggles and broad leaps growing up. But I constantly butt heads with Stella.

** 5 pm What a day.

After I dropped of Stella at school, I went home and took a nap upstairs with Otto. It was pouring glorious tent-in-the-rain-sounds. I heard a noise that woke me. It was a boom, then walking. I relaxed when I thought it was only my neighbor bringing in her garbage bins. I dozed off. About 30 minutes later, I was in bed nursing Otto when I heard what sounded like Augusto's footsteps on the stairs. It was 2:45. He had a meeting at 4. It didn't make sense. Then I heard 2 male voices approaching the bedroom door. I hopefully (?) cautiously called out "Augusto?" and the door opened to two men in black clothes and black watch caps. A million awful scenarios went through my head, and then the guy who opened the door said "Oh shit!" and they both ran back down the stairs. I grabbed the phone and dialed 911 then took Otto into the bathroom and locked us in.

The guys (we think there were more than 2) tried to interrupt my 911 call (so were possibly thinking of coming back upstairs?). The police surrounded the house within 4 minutes with the dog and guns and warning shouts. When they determined the place was clear, they let me out.

They messed up our AV equipment, took pictures off the walls (looking for a safe), took about $600 of electronics, and made a general mess. They pried open the french doors with a screwdriver.

I can't get that image of them out of my head. I'm so glad Stella was at school. I know we were really lucky.

**** October 23

How do I pause and take it all in? How do I slow down the pace?

Fingerprinting. Visitors. Hypervigilant nights. A birthday party. Mounds of mail- growing. Home form work at 10 pm. Up at midnight with a puking baby. Out of your pajamas before oatmeal at 7:30. I won’t wind the jewelry box until you brush your teeth. Two kids, a lunch bag, one very important bunny, a car seat, keys, wallet, shoes, don’t forget to set the alarm. Thirteen stairs. School drop off. Nurse in car. Sleeping baby up to the crib. Move load from washer to drier. Wash breast pump, bottles, breakfast bowls. Take out trash and compost.

Each moment rushes into the next and before I can wrap my brain around a spinal cord injury, a robbery, or an unsafe furnace report, Otto has five teeth, Stella says “I’m already three,” and the amount of free space on my desk shrinks to twelve square inches. Do I hide my overwhelm (ha, ha, good kidding myself on that one) or just make sure everybody survives? Stella had a great dance party. We did the limbo with a broomstick and my dad wore the crab hat and set up a tattoo station. Pizza. Ice cream cake. It really was a good time.

Diving In

2007-09-15T16:45:00.000-07:00

You know how it is to go from alarm clock to cereal to locking the door to crossing the street to putting one foot in front of the other… all the while numb and bursting with emotion at the same time? This week a relation, the father of a teen very, very dear to me, had an accident. He survived, but he lost complete use of his body. I am sick with sadness imagining how every person he loves/ loves him is suffering now. Sick to numbness beyond imagination. How it would be to know I could never tickle my squealing children again? And he is stuck in Croatia, a world away from his family in Brazil, a world away from us. Our grief spans three continents, not solving one thing.

At home our world is busy with work and eating and dancing and bedtimes. Augusto and I are dealing in our own ways. He is ever the optimist, hoping for a treatment or act of God, holding on to his fears- and tears. I am the salty spring for us all- eyelids swollen daily as I can’t shake it. Don’t want to shake it, really, because even as it kills me to hold the image of this man’s elegant olive wrists gesturing in a story, this tangible memory makes him complete. And the beauty of the motion, now forever in the past, makes me believe we will all survive his accident, each holding on to some piece of him, carrying him. Carrying on.

Another Lesson- And Distraction

2007-08-29T22:06:00.000-07:00

While I ignore my recent shaved-ass-inspirations and drink wine and eat chocolate, Augusto is unclogging the washing machine pump filter. In a stupid, stupid moment, I put two small latex-backed rugs into our $1K front loader. This error was preventable. After Stella smashed raspberries into one of our little wool kitchen rugs, the conversation went like this (but in Portuguese):

Gentle MIL: You know, I was thinking these rugs are...

Perceptive Me: Really dirty. I know.

Earnest MIL: Can't you take them down to the cleaners to have them washed?

Me: It will cost me at least $20 per rug to clean them. They're $10 IKEA rugs.

MIL: $20 ?!!

Cocky Me (turning crusty rug over in the sink): It says to flat wash only, but if I ruin them in the washer, it's cheaper to buy new ones than pay for cleaning.

Gentle MIL: I don't know...

Excited, Naive Me: I've been wanting to clean them or get new rugs for ages. They're at least 3 years old. I'm going to give it a try!

So I am escaping the not-so-mumbly mumbles of my pissed off husband (who has gathered a crowd, both young and old, by pulling out baby socks and pennies and... wads of rug glue). I am posting baby videos on You Tube (of course!). Oh! to be under 3 and have smart ideas and simple solutions. "Don't worry Mama, these things happen. Don't cry about the washer."

Body Lessons

2007-08-24T07:10:00.000-07:00

I have made bodily discoveries in the most memorable and significant of times. At 27, my first cluster of gray hairs unveiled themselves the day I kicked out my cheating boyfriend. I found a yet-to-be-explained kiwi-sized abdominal mass when I was in nursing school and exploring every crevice with newfound abandon. At age 12 I broke my pinky toe. Nursing it I found my beloved Christmas tree shaped toe mole. In a beer-inspired college competition, I learned that my ability to fart on command is not, in fact, a common skill.

This week- in the most unusual and unfortunate of ways- I learned that my ass has grown. It was in my way, and I accidentally shaved it. I was standing in the shower, shaving my legs and rinsing the razor behind me when the side of my ass caught on fire. It took one stupid moment to realize what I had done, and considerably longer to decide how to get out of the shower and stop the bleeding without ruining a towel. I shaved a 10-inch slice that stung the whole day but has almost completely healed. What I learned- other than there IS a creative way to make your ass the highest part of your body AND apply pressure at the same time- is that I need to curb my daily chocolate habit and get this widening ass to the gym! No more excuses.

Drunk Without the Buzz

2007-08-15T21:26:00.000-07:00

I am Mama tired. Mononucleosis tired. Mt. Everest tired.

Otto is 7 months old today. He is still not sleeping longer than 4 hours at a time. I’m getting up 2, 3, 4 times a night and working 3 days a week. And I got whatever sniffly, coughing, raspy, achey virus the kids had. A nurse at work told me when her son was 5 months old she ran away for one night. Literally left with barely a warning. She pointed her husband to the frozen breastmilk and spent the night in a hotel.

I’ve never been a night away from the kids, but I have a screaming loud physical need to curl up in a bed for 24 hours. Any bed. I’d take even 8 hours if they could be free from baby coughs, nursing, Stella night-talking, husband farts, pee habits, and post nasal drip. I don’t have any more frozen milk, but we do have formula and a baby that needs night weaning anyway. Could I do it? Sneak away? I don’t know if I could, but I know I need it.

A local man forgot his 11-month-old son in the car and went to work all day (only realizing it too late when his wife called to ask why daycare said the son was never dropped off). In the wake of that tragedy, the paper published a you-think-it-couldn’t-happen-to-you piece- and convinced us that it could- with results from a UCSF sleep study. It found that people who are sleep deprived (only 4 or 5 hours a night for as little as a week or regularly interrupted sleep) perform on tests at the same level as a person who is legally drunk. I can’t imagine forgetting my children in a locked car, but I can relate to a busy, sleep-deprived life where a slight change in routine can throw off a whole day. And make you do something you’d regret forever.

Fortunately my offenses include putting cereal boxes back in the fridge and showing up at work in my flip-flops. I’m legally drunk without the buzz. Whoo hoo.

***

On a more positive note (strictly, oddly related the mouths), Otto cut his first tooth on Sunday. Stella chewed her first gum tonight.

***

I had so many other deep and clever things to write about, but like a drunkard, I can’t remember what they were. So I’ll just pass out now.

We Made the Decision, Part 2

2007-08-04T13:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning I sought shade at a plastic picnic table while talking about booster shots and shyness with Stella’s new preschool teachers. Stella ignored me in favor of the ice cream stand made from buckets and chairs, the giant slide, the girl who played house. It was a battle to extract her. I was thrilled to be negotiating. Vovo is waiting. We’re having a party tonight; you need to have your nap so that you can have fun later. We’ll come back and play next week.

We’ll come back. Yes! After weeks of polling my parent-friends and harassing my mother-in-law with the merits of this school over that one, we have enrolled Stella in our local preschool. I have a really good feeling about it. The decision came down to the walkable, time-tested, dog-eared, multicultural school v. the brand new, flashy (animals! Redwoods! a submerged in the ground boat!), make-our-own-organic-tea, 10-minute highway drive school. The old school is a little cheaper. The new school’s play yard and plans for kids making books with their own digital images (etc, etc) was hard to pass up, but we couldn’t ignore the years of experience, real diversity, and proximity of our choice. I wavered even until I handed over the deposit, asking “Is this $420 refundable?” But then Stella started to play, and I started to chat with the staff and watched them interact with the kids, and I relaxed. Melted into the bench, actually, relieved to be done with the pros and cons list and to have made the best choice for our family. Our morning seemed like a casual family picnic with the grownups kindly asking one boy not to play pretend guns and another getting smothered with kids-hugs when she arrived. One school had an impressive list of goals and philosophical foundations. The only mission of Stella’s new school is play and peace. I could feel it %100.

Just Thinking

2007-08-01T06:41:00.000-07:00

Just when you think it’s safe to share a new trend, it changes. I was silly enough to brag about Otto’s longer sleep nights. He was finally sleeping 5 ½ to 6 hour stretches and I rejoiced in the company of other parents. “Oh, how much better I feel today than the past 7 months!” I told one woman who is due to have her first baby any minute. Stupid.

I am sitting here pre 7 am (way before my pre-kid days) after one measly 4 hour stretch last night and then Stella woke up to pee. And then Otto was up an hour and a half later. You do the math. I know how short it was without counting. Augusto up for the 4 am potty break, but the slightest loud breath wakes me these days. Lying in bed is far better than carrying 30 something pounds to the bathroom. So I can’t really complain about it.

It makes me crazy how much of the time I want for the past or hope for a change in the future. The focus of our childbirth prep class was being in the present. Meditation. Taking a big breath. Dropping the Doom of Dwell. I worked really hard at it. Or didn’t work hard. Whatever I was supposed to do. Let go into the moment. I sucked at the practice. There is nothing like labor or a newborn to keep you mindful of the present. I hung around for those… but now I’m a time traveler. Monday I was so grateful for my job and looking forward to my increased hours. Yesterday I was pining for my maternity leave as I strolled to the playground and library, latte in hand. (When out on a weekday, I’m always amazed at how many people are window shopping, sitting at cafes, not working or caring for children. What ARE they doing? Self employed? Trust fund? Laid off and taking a break from the job hunt?)

Anyway. I’m up after too little sleep and will be heading to work in an hour, so let me be present with this gift: this happy, babbling little guy all to myself before the rest of the house wakes and the rush of the day begins.

Let Me Know

2007-07-20T21:50:00.000-07:00

Inspired by the book Guess How Much I Love You and this post, I gave it a whirl this evening...

After reading a bedtime story.
Me: Do you know how much I love you?
Stella: Two pounds.
Me: Two? I love you 10 pounds! ...How much do you love me?
Stella: Thirty pounds.

As I am leaving the room
Stella: One more song, please.
Me: OK, I’ll sing you the last few lines then I’m leaving, OK?
Sing end of made-up Thomas the Train song.
Me: Good night.
Stella: Thank you , Mama.
Me: You’re welcome, Sweetie.
Stella: Let me know, Mama!
I’m still walking away…
Stella: Let me know, Mama!
Me: Let you know what?
Stella: Thirty pounds!
Me: You love me thirty pounds?
Stella: Yeah.

She Said, He Said

2007-07-19T22:51:00.000-07:00

Stella said, “I love you.” She said it to me for the first time before bed last night. She said it again tonight. We’ve never taught her to say it like we have with please and thank you. A few times I asked her who she loves and she ran a list of her friends and relatives: “Baraka, Althea, Dani, Pop Pop, Grandmom, VoVo, Paka [our dead cat], Marmalade [our other dead cat].” Mama and Papai didn’t make the list, and I didn’t press for it (heartbroken and confused as I was). She has said, “I love apples.” And, “I love rain.” But this declaration of love in the moments before singing and sleep was from a totally different planet. It was a little shy, like hearing it from a nervous boyfriend for the very first time.

My first reaction was complete joy. But as with each milestone, those grownup words let me see my baby slipping away. Today I got my latte and browsed the bookstore with Otto strapped to my back and Stella home with the in-laws. It was the first time I put him in the Ergo carrier, and as I skipped hands-free out our door, I remembered those easy days with Stella. Those pre-verbal days with only me to decide which store to enter or how long to linger there. Those days before tantrums and elbows that always seem to land in a soft spot. And even as I felt grateful for Otto’s present infancy, I saw the future in fast forward. Pre-verbal is already slipping because now he’s saying- wonderfully, sweetly, sadly…. “Mama.”

Emergencies

2007-07-14T07:19:00.000-07:00

Highway 24 ("The 24" as CA highways are called) passes directly adjacent to the heliport of Children's Hospital. On my way home from work this week, the big red helicopter circled overhead then rocked its way down. What horror had befallen the child inside, the one that was airlifted in for emergency care? I saw the family of that child- hands cupped over mouths, nails bitten. I thought of my own mother, as I always do when I am passed by an ambulance, siren blaring. Even years after I had my own ambulance trip (age 12) Mom said she had palpitations every time she saw an ambulance in motion. She said she cut open the palm of her hand trying to unlock her car when she got the news (your daughter almost drowned, she is still unconscious).

The pulse of the landing shook my car. And then I remembered that I am the parent now, the one who chewed my lip bare at Stella’s first emergency trip (cashew allergy), my cuticles on the second (asthma). By the third visit (inhaled carrots), I was whittled smooth. After Stella was diagnosed with nut and egg allergies, every experience was suspect. Did a kid just eat a PB&J sandwich and then put his hands all over that swing? What was in that wrapper she just found? It's very sweet of your child to offer her cheerios, but our daughter can't have any.

I haven't become careless, the image of her blue lips, her vomit, her puffy red body (all but the soles of her feet)- from just the tip of one cashew- won't let me.

I read every label and ask at every new restaurant, every new meal, every friend's house. Any nuts, nut oils, or eggs? But I have relaxed with some foods that are processed in nut facilities. Foods that aren't loose like granola. Playgrounds are fun again, and I don't feel freakish saying no to a snack. We bring enough of our own to share. Stella knows her EpiPen is very important (especially after she took it from her day care bag, removed the safety cap, and then got a 2 minute time out). She knows the word allergic and stops begging for a bite when we tell her it will make her sick. That's the other way we've relaxed; we eat contraband foods in front of her- sometimes. But that's where it hurts again. The label. Allergic.

Stella: That's ok, mama? I'm not allergic?
Me: Yes, Sweetie, you can eat it.

OR

Stella: My face is not itching. I can eat that one. I'm not allergic!

I love food. Discovering new textures, combinations. I take foolish pride in Stella's decent eating habits (yes, broccoli or apple skins or mixed vegetable pizza). As long as it isn't meat, Augusto will eat what's put in front of him without complaint or suggestion. But he lacks passion (except for ice cream and chocolate). I can turn heads moaning over a burrito or pureed parsnips. I want kids who share my gusto. But how can we dive into an exciting culinary future when every box is turned on its end, every enthusiastic offering of something homemade initially rejected? Like birthday cake.

We started feeding Otto rice cereal a week ago. He had pears yesterday. I can’t help but wonder if he has allergies. My gut tells me no. He doesn’t have any of the rashes that Stella had from 9 weeks until 15 months. As a precaution, he won’t get any nuts or shellfish until he is able to articulate a funny feeling or an itchy lip (probably at least 2½). We haven’t decided about eggs.

As a parent, the burden of caution is everywhere. Streets. Stoves. Ledges. Creepy people. Objects smaller than a toilet paper roll. So we add some common foods to the list. It’s better than worse alternatives.

I want to be Judy Blume and Martha Stewart and Annie Sprinkle but I don't want my parents to know.

2007-07-07T12:47:00.000-07:00

Last Night

Not long ago we gave a few friends a standing invitation for dinner at our house every first Friday of the month. Some friends were established, some somewhat new. We wanted to create a space for conversation, kid romping, and low-intensity hosting. Mostly, we wanted to grow familiarity with these people so that it felt natural for any one parent to toss all the kids in the bath, for another to open every cabinet in search of a wine glass or sippy cup. We wanted to cultivate community. The beauty of First Friday Friends is that we don’t need to think. We check the calendar, see what’s in the peak of season, and expect people at our door. We always serve a vegetarian soup, bread and drinks. Our friends are never obligated to bring anything, but usually someone brings some good wine, a salad, some dip. It’s been four months so far- I mark the time by the soups: chard-sorrel, asparagus, carrot, zucchini.

The last stragglers just left after a longer than expected round of Chinese Checkers (I can’t really call them guests anymore- that’s too formal a term). Our daughters hung in well beyond bedtime while our babies slept. I don’t have the usual post-host exhaustion. We had more than a dozen adults plus a handful of kids eating, talking, running in every room, and I feel filled, not drained. The plan that went out as an email after much thought and anxiety (what will they think? some don’t know each other… do they want to be friends as much as we want to?) is already exceeding my hopes.

This Morning

Last night I dreamed I was reading some old blog entries and one said, “I had sex with my grandmother last night.” I freaked out because I didn’t remember such an offense, and because I just mailed my blog address to about fifteen friends and family. Perhaps I can quick delete this entry, I thought. But, no, I told them two days ago. They might have already read it! Then Otto woke to nurse and my nightmare was over.

After two years of blogging, of sending my life into space with no one reading, I invited my peeps to see it. Just like with the Friday dinners, I wanted to deepen my community, my connections with friends. Since strangers are now reading my blog, it felt odd that my original intimates didn’t know about it. And now this girl who would call all her parent’s dinner guests to the basement to watch her choreographed solo roller skating show is suddenly afraid.

The anxiety started after I wrote about our first Friday routine. Some people who received the blog notice don’t know about first Fridays. Will they feel left out? And maybe long ago I wrote something unflattering or private about someone else and forgot. Now they know. I am unexpectedly self-conscious now, finally understanding why some bloggers use pseudonyms. I don’t want to hurt anyone, and as I am discovering, I don’t want parts of me to be seen. It is exhibitionist to keep a blog about my life. I know that. There is a certain pleasure in sharing it, in thinking that people might find interest in the stuff of our dinners and sleepless nights and vacations. There is an excitement in wondering who has come by, who is peeking in on nursing, potty training, returning to work. It’s like chatting at a café with a friend but the friend doesn’t talk back at all, and I get to take up all the time with Me (unless they go, “um hmm,” and leave a comment, which I would really, really like, by the way). The truth is that a big, old part of me wants to be smack dab in the center of it all. But you can’t have your cake and eat it too. I always hated that expression. But in a blog where your names are real and you alert your family in a fit of hysteria, you can’t tell all anymore. I don’t feel comfortable telling it all, anyway. I can still roller skate for the party guests, but I need to keep my clothes on.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

2007-07-02T10:53:00.000-07:00

Now I am going to write about nose picking. I am WhyMommy obsessed (and sweet/ salty Kate obsessed too), and I’ve had a hard time writing about my daily life. But I know they’re having a regular life in the throws of it all. I think everybody’s 2-year-old picks her nose. Actually, I think everybody picks their nose. And that’s the problem. How do we teach our kids not to do what we adults do?

I don’t buy “do what I say, not what I do.” I think we should be changing our behavior- or at least thinking about the reasons behind behavior and asking for reasonable accommodation. This goes for swearing, eating in the living room, snacking on chocolate before dinner, and leaving the house before going to the bathroom. On nose picking, our house rule is: No picking in public, but at home or in the car is ok. I wanted to be realistic, that’s why we added the car as an acceptable place. You might not know I pick my nose in the car. I avoid it at stoplights when there are other cars present. When I see you coming in my rearview mirror, I quick pull my finger from my nose. And if I have a passenger other than family, I don’t pick. Ever. The nose picking rule works, because I can keep picking where I find it acceptable.

Even weirder than thinking so much about nose picking rules, is thinking about reasons behind nose picking. It seems Stella always has her finger up her nose. When I started paying attention, I realized with horror that I do to. Nightime nursing: pick. On the phone: pick. Watching TV: pick, pick. It’s disgusting and oh, so satisfying at the same time. And it’s addictive (and sadly a diagnosable obsession). I don’t have a cold, yet the slightest sensation of something extra in my nostril sends me running for a private place where I can go get it. So who sees her mother picking her nose all the time? Now I get it.

Oh, and another house rule is: Wash your hands often.

WhyMommy

2007-06-29T12:24:00.000-07:00

I’ve been stewing a post in my head about nose picking and educating our children. But I’ll need to come back to it, because all I keep doing is checking WhyMommy’s posts on breast cancer. I am nursing as I type, enjoying it before Otto gets too distracted by the click of the keys. And there is a mother in DC weaning her son. She has a serious cancer (I guess that means we’re making progress if “serious cancer” isn’t actually redundant anymore) and cancer treatments aren’t good for breast milk. Her baby is three days older than mine. And she is strong now. ~~Asking~~ Demanding that her readers’ comments be positive. Typing her truth. Not changing her name, her tune to WhyMe.

Another mother in DC just beat colon cancer. She shared her journey through mass emails. The same emails that a two years ago were updates on her daughter’s running and music achievements. Quick notes about a new job, a move, other people’s health. I was with this woman nine years ago, steadying her as she signed the papers for the Chinese adoption, as she pulled the first picture of her daughter from the cardboard envelope. We were coworkers, and I was a new midwife. She was too moved, to already in love, to drive to the post office alone. She calls me her midwife. For years after she moved East, I didn’t read all of her emails in detail. Other than the updates, we lost touch. But then one day she found out she had cancer, and all I could think about was that lunchtime trip. Her dreams coming true.

We imagine our lives. We see the splendor of it rolled out ahead. Parties. Graduation. Celebration. We piece together “normal” in relation to others. How much sleep do you get? How often do you fight with your husband? We read the paper and swallow hard at kidnappings, kids caught in gunfire, fathers killed in a convenience store. But life as a parent is mostly just day to day. What’s for dinner? Is the dishwasher empty? No, you can’t stand on that chair. I can’t figure out how one becomes the person in the news with the sad, sad story. No. I know how these things happen. What I can’t wrap my head around is how you live with them. How you live.

The year my mother had breast cancer and my uncle had brain cancer is the year we lost our first son. It’s not so clear to me now how we lived. I remember crying on the couch an awful lot. I remember my milk darkening circles on my shirt. I remember believing I had the worst luck on the planet. But then the days moved one by one along the squares in the kitchen calendar. My mom came and went from the community chemo room. She mailed pictures of her bald head. We threw ashes into the Pacific. Hours became weeks became years. And now we are parents of two. My mother and uncle survived. And I sit here now thinking how lucky we are to have more than just a “normal” life: health, and wealth, and love. How lucky I am to feed my son and dream of his first day of school… that quintessential vision of the backpack, the glance backover his shoulder. How easily it all can change.

What does WhyMommy think of now in those moments when she's not strong? What is normal in her house? I swallow hard now and hold a future for her in my swelling heart.

P.S. I like letters

2007-06-23T22:07:00.000-07:00

It's getting better. I can see a speck of light- really a warm glow- at the end of the sleepless tunnel. We've had two nights of two feedings each (with one extra rising to sing to Stella- WHY? I don't know).

So I'm actually up after 10pm, happily noodling away on the computer, joining Facebook like a co-ed. I was shocked to find 6 people from my address book already had Facebook pages. (Three of them are my 20-something cousins, but anyway...). I haven't figured it out yet- just what exactly it is that I can get out of Facebook, but I am gathering friends and have already"poked' two people. I don't know what happened to them when I did it, but i hope it felt as fun as it sounds (although poking my own cousin doesn't sound legal).

I also found this article in a cool new mag I found after joining Work It, Mom!. The author writes a letter to a seat mate traveling alone with two small children. I can't tell you more because I don't want to ruin your read. Just the other day I received a letter from Southwest Airlines letting me know that they forwarded my thank you note to the flight attendant who helped me on my return flight with the kids. I also wrote a note to the passenger who helped me on the outbound journey. After reading the piece by Vibrating Liz, it's interesting to imagine what their experience was. It's also a reminder to slow down.

And why am I still awake?

2007-06-21T22:34:00.000-07:00

Sleep is one of those essentials like food and water. Sleep deprivation is a common form of torture that is deplored by human rights groups. This is Otto’s sleep schedule from last night:

8 pm go to sleep in crib

12:30 nurse in chair, go back to crib

2:30 cry for 12 minutes, fall back asleep while mom buries her head under the pillows

3:30 come into bed, nurse

5:30 nurse in bed

7 am wake up

I went to bed at 10pm, so I was up 4 times with a maximum 2.5 hour stretch. Did I feel tortured? A bit. Otto is 5 months old and weighs over 13 pounds. He should be able to sleep longer stretches than 2 to 4 hours. Add to this rumination playground chats about babies who actually do sleep, mamas who have a glow in their cheeks, and in-laws who think letting a baby cry is cause for calling Amnesty International, and we have one crazy, exhausted, working mama in Oakland.

He got 2 decent naps today, 10- 11am & 2-5 pm so we’ll see how tonight goes… Supposedly sleep begets sleep. I better start mine.

Working Mother

2007-06-18T22:07:00.001-07:00

Today was my first day back at work. Not only did I survive it, I loved it! When I left Stella when she was 3 1/2 months old, I cried all the way there and called no less than 3 times before I returned home. Today I felt a lump in my throat as I kissed Otto, but it was brief. I only called to say I'd be a little late. When I got home, Stella ran to hug me and Otto took me back without question. I felt like a whole person. It didn't hurt that my in-laws were caring for the kids.

I loved seeing patients, catching up with my coworkers, and finding my drawers organized and ready to go. The work made me dig into my mental reserves. I forgot some paperwork details, how Sickle Cell Genetics work, took too long to chart my visits, and found myself chatting away with patients while I had others waiting. Midwifery is like riding a bike; it will come back very soon.

Talking was the best part. I thrive on grownup conversation. Uninterrupted experience. That's what I get at work that I don't get at home. And it's behind a closed door- no one to bother us! It's a marvelous thing. Pumping wasn't too bad. I got 3oz out of 2 sessions. That's half of what some women get from one boob in 5 minutes, but for me, it was ok. The pump didn't romance me the first time, so I wasn't expecting much. Otto will start eating cereal in a few weeks, and I have about 30 oz of frozen milk, so I'm not stressed.

It was a challenge to write, however. My handwriting has always been a mess, but after six months of writing only shopping lists, checks, and brief thank you notes, it is officially illegible. Once my father received a note from me and asked politely, "Did you write it so that I couldn't read it... on purpose?" I'll work on the writing. Every year it's my resolution- that and flossing. I never achieve my goals.

Pile of Milestones

2007-06-16T18:57:00.000-07:00

We are a house of milestones. Every time we arrive at putting on a shirt, zipping a boot, descending stairs, we get smarter, more confident in our parenting. Then we have a new set of skills to master, a new type of tantrum to face. And we question ourselves.

Stella is completely diaper free. She’s been 5 nights in “unterVear.” Last night she gave away the rest of her diapers to a friend. She’s really excited about pooping in the toilet. So much so that she waits to flush (another favorite activity) and runs to her father or grandmother and says, “Look, I pooped. Come see!” She then leads them to the bathroom. Once when Augusto was at work, I convinced her that saving her stinky poop in the toilet all day was not a good option, she drew a picture of it. A really good picture. Her first representational picture. I’m a proud mother, what can I say?

Otto is laughing at Boo and Raspberries, flipping over onto his belly at every chance, doing push-ups and breakdancing (the wave?). He’s working on some teeth. He’s also sleeping longer stretches of 5 or 6 hours. They’re happening mostly before I go to bed, but I know it’s a start. After three plus weeks of travel, sleeping in a small bed with him, and sharing a room for all four of us, he became a boob monster and baby who needed too much parenting to sleep. So instead of following the progress to a likely place of jiggling or nursing for 45 minutes before bed every night, we started crying it out. He’s 3 month’s younger than Stella was when we did it to her. He’s never really cried more than 30 minutes in his whole life, but I don’t want to get to that awful angry place we went with Stella before we finally caved and let her ~~cry to sleep~~ learn to sleep on her own. Ideally, we would have completed the job before the Vovos (grandparents) arrived, but we didn’t. For naps and nighttime he usually fusses and/or cries for 5 or 6 minutes- but it ranges from 1 to 14 minutes. It is hard to listen to, but I do believe it is ultimately good. Or else my kids will need years of therapy to undo all of our parenting mistakes.

It’s so hard to know what is “right.” It’s also hard to let go or stop worrying about what is “right.” Every parent chooses her own way to teach, discipline, feed, clothe, diaper, talk to, or even play with their child. Of course we want “the best” for our kids. But that judgment varies widely. I have spent countless privileged hours researching schools, sleep tactics, diaper choices, baby carriers, recipes, and even toddler chair and table heights. I have stayed up hours later than is good for me, twisted my neck and shoulder out of whack, and lost actual face to face time with my husband or kids or even other people. Sometimes I think it pays off. We end up with a product or routine that works for us. But how can I really know if I wouldn’t have been as happy (or happier?) with something entirely different?

I need to remember that every time we let go of our expectations or fears, something good happens. Like with diapers. I wanted Stella to be out of diapers before Otto was born. Then soon after. Then I gave up. That’s when she mounted the toilet at my Mom’s house. It is the same thing with preschool. I stressed so much in the beginning, found a fantastic school, stressed more about it, missed the deadline for mailing in our deposit, kicked myself, then got waitlisted at our “inferior” neighborhood school because we’re not a “working class” family that wants 5 days/ week. So I just gave up. Then a new school opened that I think we’ll love when we see it next weekend. Will it be perfect? Will it be right? Will it be better for Stella than Montessori or any of the half-day (which doesn’t work for a working couple like us), wait-forever pay-a-fortune schools in our area? I don’t know. And I think I don’t care- as long as she loves it.

The Brazilians have arrived!!

2007-06-12T16:24:00.000-07:00

After 30 hours of travel, my in-laws are here. Most of my friends think I’m crazy or lying when I say I have been eagerly awaiting their arrival. They will live with us for the next three months. Three whole months. In this time I will return to work, Stella will learn more Portuguese, Augusto and I will have weekly date nights and a night away, and we will coexist in the kitchen, living room, and daily stuff of our lives.

I get along with my in-laws. Well. I always have. The initial language barrier probably smoothed the way. It’s hard to argue when the English conversation is limited to food and sights. We have since switched to Portuguese, which actually makes us have accidental debates which spin off of a minor misunderstanding. Augusto and Auri are gracious people. They don’t occupy much space. They clean up after themselves (and us). They LOVE their grandchildren. They can play with them for hours, listen to any pitch or volume of screaming, and hold them for an hour forgoing a potty break. There are the expected debates over sweets and bedtimes and the daily “No, I’ll do it.” But it is overwhelmingly good.

I do speak from experience. When Stella was 2 months, they lived with us for 8 weeks. When we hugged goodbye at the airport, I sobbed huge, attention grabbing tears second only to the crying many years ago when I had to leave my sick grandmother in Baltimore and I couldn’t convince anyone at the airport to give me a change of ticket for less than $1000. So this time I suggested they stay longer.

The fridge is a little more packed than I like it and I’ve already said no to half a dozen grandmother-suggested sweets in less than 48 hours, but I am NOT complaining. We are so grateful they are here.

Midwives Misunderstod.... Again

2007-06-02T21:58:00.000-07:00

Every time Augusto puts some midwife news from the SF Chronicle in my To Read pile by the toilet, I feel dread. Truthfully, the dread follows naïve excitement- ooh! Somebody is paying attention! Quickly I come to my senses. I remember that only a select group understands midwives. The mainstream media is not part of this group.

Glaring from the pile is the headline “Fewer options for those who seek natural births: Midwives becoming less popular as cesarean sections gain ground.” The empathetic (?) journalist covered the upcoming closure of Homestyle Midwifery. Homestyle is a popular, personalized in-hospital midwifery service. Contrary to the headline, I actually met two people in Hawaii who delivered with that service. After we passed on our homebirth practice, my former partner, Cynthia Banks, worked for Homestyle for a couple of years. She is an excellent midwife, and she loved that practice. Then California Pacific Medical Center came in, took over St. Luke’s Hospital, and the well-loved, extremely safe midwives are done.

It’s all very sad, but what is worse is that the media can’t get it right, so the general public doesn’t understand, and with the pressure of OBs who are threatened midwives will steal their normal birth- big business, i.e. medical systems like CPMC, follows suit. Let me state two facts:1.Midwives are autonomous providers. 2. Birth with midwives is safe. The article gets it wrong on both accounts. It’s a common misconception, as follows:

1. “For doctors, the decision to allow a midwife to handle the birth or to intervene medically is often a matter of weighing the potential risks against a woman's wishes during labor. The vast majority of births are trouble-free, but few doctors want to risk complications just because a woman would prefer to avoid a medical procedure, physicians say.” Doctors don’t decide to ALLOW a midwife to do anything. We have our own patients. If they meet set criteria for having a low-risk pregnancy, they choose us. When there is a concern of complication with a woman’s health, we consult with a doctor. That means we ask for their opinion, consultation, guidance, or to take over care of the patient- whatever is appropriate.

2. "Some women may say, 'I'm willing to risk a little in terms of safety to have the birth I want.'” Dr. Elaine Gates, vice chair of the obstetrics and gynecology department at UCSF made that statement. Birth with midwives has been shown over and over again to be as safe as or safer than birth with OB-GYNs when you match women of similar risk in similar settings.

It’s really a shame that midwifery is so misunderstood- since the research also shows that patients of midwives are overall more satisfied with their experiences than patents of doctors.

The Attack of Everything

2007-05-30T14:39:00.000-07:00

The end of the Attack of Snot is near. I hesitate venturing into the subject, but what would a parent’s musings be without snot? There’s so much of it everywhere.

“Runny nose, Mama!”

“Just a second, I’m getting some paper.”

“Runny nose, Mama!”
“Runny nose, Mama!”

“OK, blow”

Day care allows runny noses, but no other ill children. No fevers or coughs (although a few sneak through). Definitely no puking or diarrhea. Stella’s runny nose is nearly constant- usually clear and allergy related, I believe. But this nose is impressive. Rivers of yellow-green snot. And she spiked a fever of 106.2. You read it right. 107 is seizure-zone, so I was just a bit freaked when I took her back to the ~~vet~~ pediatrician (she’s 2 ½ and I keep saying it wrong). Yes, back. We had been there in the am and were told to watch and wait, but by the time we got home her fever was climbing faster than I could find the office number. Thanks to ibuprofen, it went down that fast too. But the doc said get your butt here ASAP, so I lugged sleeping infant in car seat and roasting toddler on my hip the thirteen stairs to the car, 10 minutes to the office and a long lot from the car. She improved while we were there and found that she doesn’t have a septic kidney infection (cheer!), but probably has some resistant sinusitis that’s in our community. While we waited for her Augmentin and probiotic, she explored the lobby barefoot. I forgot her shoes at home. Nothing gets disapproving stares like a barefoot child in a medical setting. Add the unkempt hair, unshowered mama, and all three people in messy clothes- certainly not “outfits.” We looked like a mini old mother and the shoe or whatever it is.

I was apprehensive about the big-gun antibiotic, but more apprehensive about the wacky high fever. I was also making decisions on 5 hours of breastfeeding-interrupted-jetlag sleep. I didn’t even have time to get my caffeine. It was one of those days that makes me the woman who is always in the center of a crisis. You know that friend or cousin who has some shit happening every time you just call you say hi.

“Hi, Friend, How are ya’?”

“Well, not so great. My car got broken into when I was at the DMV trying to replace my lost license and then I couldn’t get anyone to care for the kids so they’re here with me while I’m giving the police report. Shit- I just dropped my keys in the mud! I gotta go.”

Yeah. I’m THAT friend these days. Every week it’s something new. I hate to hear myself speak. While we were dealing with Stella yesterday, I completely ignored the cat- not the one who got sick and ran away/died last month, but the other one who has a rectal mass and can’t make a bowel movement. She looked so miserable this morning, trying to poop in vain, crying out. She’s lighter than a week ago. Which was lighter than two and three weeks ago. Her skin is tenting with dehydration. She wobbles. She’s had two enemas just so she can shit (that’s added some lightness to the conversation: California Freaks Give High Colonic to Cat). What an embarrassment for the fastidious cat. I have an appointment for her tonight. This might be it. I don’t want to say goodbye to her too, but I hate seeing her suffer- and know it won’t turn around. The vet says it’s cancer. Inoperable. And I’m not putting a 16-year-old cat through chemo or some other miserable treatment. The kids will be up soon and they will simultaneously need me for everything, so I’m going to go pet the cat and/or bury my head in the unused kitty litter.

Today Stella’s temp is lower and her mood improved. But her nose is still flowing.

“Runny nose, Mama!”

“You know, you need to learn to do this yourself...OK, blow.”

“Mama, runny nose again!”

Pay for Shade?

2007-05-28T23:50:00.000-07:00

Last night we returned from 9 days in Hawaii. I didn't mention it before because I have this thing about announcing to the world that we're going out of town. My husband is that way when I shout it across the street so the neighbors know to look out for our house. He is sure some opportunistic robber will over hear. I think he's too paranoid about the street thing. But I'm like that in my blog. Crime is up in our hood. We're both a little jittery.

Anyway, Augusto had a conference at the Ritz in Maui. The Ritz- I KNOW, what luck?! How could the kids and I not tag along? By coincidence, friends with kids the same ages as ours were staying nearby. A few of the days we all went to the beach as one gear-toting hoard and took turns with the kids. Travel with other families is fantastic. Every time we've gone somewhere with another family or more, it has been a huge success for all involved. Even when the kids aren't playing well together, we adults can share responsibility for redirecting, imagining creative games, cooking and all the other parenting jobs. It also shakes up our own family dynamics, so we end up having less stupid bickering and more overall quality adult time. I can't recommend it enough.

Hawaii was lovely. The sun was out. The views were stunning. Our marble bathroom had a separate room for the toilet. The ocean was warm and seemingly stocked for our snorkeling pleasure. There were two major exceptions to the loveliness: 1. the food and drinks at the resort are too expensive for a person of regular means to consume on a daily basis; and 2. guests are expected to pay for shade. Yes, I said pay for shade. So we tired of kid grilled cheese (pool bar, $5), instant oats (brought from home), and baby carrots (Safeway in Lahaina) while we kept moving to stay in the wispy shade of the tall palms. The Ritz has cabanas for four people and pairs of lounge chairs with awnings. These can be reserved for $75 and $50 per day! They do not provide any other umbrellas at the pool or beach. I can't get over either of these ridiculous features of the Ritz. As I nursed Otto under a shade tent made by stretching a kanga from my Oakland baseball cap to my knees, I scanned the pool menu thinking I must have missed the one affordable item (chips and salsa $11, chicken sandwich without fries $16, cup of coffee $5). I imagined the staff gathered at some planning meeting, wringing their hands, whining and cackling..."If they'll pay $300 and up for a room at a resort a 10 minute drive from the nearest hotel, we can charge $13 for a Mai Tai and $15 for a mediocre Pinot Gris no problem. And why the hell not?! Get 'um for all they're worth. Hey, let's charge for SHADE while we're at it. It'll be hilarious!"

Adventures at Longs Drugs

2007-05-17T16:29:00.000-07:00

I was browsing the clearance section at our local Longs Drugs when I spied the home highlighting kit. I was there on a separate mission, but got distracted (as I can when I am shopping only with Otto (which is pretty much like shopping alone)). I have colored my hair only a few times in my life once I stopped using Sun In-- in, like, 1986? Once I had a semi-permanent copper last until it grew out. And when Stella was an infant I got a choppy cut with high and lowlights. And that’s it. So, being in my funk and finding a kit for only 5 bucks- as opposed to the nearly $200 for the last job- I bought it. I thought it might add some juice to my mojo. Perk up my spirits. I followed the directions to the letter- including cutting off a strand of hair for testing. I decided on 20 minutes for a few tastefully, yet artfully, placed shocks of blonde. I didn’t want to look like the box’s eager co-ed with the zebra head, yet I did want the effect to be noticeable.

Well, noticeable it is. Yup. Woo hoo.

What a mess. Brassy. Splotchy. Cheap like 5 bucks. And I look exactly like the girl on the box, plus 15 or 20 inappropriate years. It’s not a pretty sight. But as my friend Karen of Great Hair Knowledge said, “A hair accident always makes for a good story. You could just say you were passed out drunk and you don’t know how it happened.” I suppose I never had my share of hair accidents. In retrospect the Sun In was a whole era of accident, but I was blissfully ignorant.

The family hasn’t noticed, or maybe they’re being polite. But at least now I have something lighter to complain about.

I Write Poems Sometimes.

2007-05-15T15:28:00.000-07:00

I write poems sometimes. Usually in the winter and after some major life event. Pregnancy, birth and parenting have been excellent muses- along with my mother’s cancer, tensions with my husband, and trips to Brazil. When the summer arrives I turn the soil and rip out the ever-persistent Bermuda grass. Keyboards and scraps of paper for poetic flashes get shuffled down the priority list. Garden bolts to the top. This funk keeps me from doing much of anything- and keeps me inside complaining about it in this forum. Poems are bubbling inside.

Before the funk, I gardened like mad. And the garden does look smashing- a wonderful place to sit and watch Stella play. The day my grandfather died, we were featured on a “green” gardening tour. Our garden is tolerant of the Northern California summer droughts and winter rains, is free of pesticides and fertilizers, and has clover instead of grass for the lawn. We have a Trex deck. We ripped up concrete and built walkways and raised beds, used years of broken plates for a mural on a retaining wall. Having lived here only 5 years- and being novice gardeners- the plantings still have room to grow, and the aesthetic is definitely “home grown.” But I am truly pleased.

Perhaps I can work through my loss with some off-season poems, celebrate life with the veggie beds, and move back to my big dog self. In summer camp one of the counselors said I was like a ball- I always bounced back quickly from whatever problem. I hope her assessment holds true today.

So Long, Old Friend

2007-05-14T12:31:00.000-07:00

My grandfather, 72 hours before he died. He was so happy to see his great grandchildren.

Reduced to Bones

2007-05-14T11:48:00.000-07:00

The cat hasn’t come home. It’s been over a week. The constants in my life are sneaking away one by one. It started in pregnancy when a good night’s sleep gave way to multiple trips to the bathroom. Then there was the baby and everything that went with her. Movies. Dinners. Free arms. Down time. Total focus on any one task- instead of one ear/ eye/ nostril trying to make sure everything is all right with the baby. Then the second baby- ditto all the above. These disappearances came with the (mostly) joy of family.

But now my grandfather and the cat. And my hair is falling out again. It’s amazing, my home is packed with toys, my car jammed with kid stuff, and my schedule filled with parks and playdates and cooking healthy food- yet I’m feeling small. Like I’ve been shaved or peeled. In the middle of so much vibrant and joyous noise, I am less. I’m not used to being less. I’m always the one who is more. The one who is too much, actually. The big wet nosed dog knocking down the skinny old ladies. That’s me. Not these anxious, complaining naked bones. I am grating against everything without my slobber and fur.

An inventory of what was lost

2007-05-09T21:25:00.000-07:00

What six, eight weeks can bring. Augusto went to Japan twice, and I got to try single parenting for nearly 20 nights. I took the kids to Baltimore on my own for part of his trip, and passed another parenting milestone- air travel with two. I am amazed at my ability to keep everyone fed and clothed (not necessarily clean). It’s all dependent on organization, sacrifice of any personal time, and a glass of wine a few times a week. I am completely convinced that being a primary caregiver should be a prerequisite to the presidency- or air traffic control.

The high of accomplishment is over and now I am stuck in a funk. My 93-year-old grandfather died on Sunday. He was assembling an IKEA chair. I loved him so much.

An inventory of what was lost:

A wise, handy, loving old guy how didn’t want to die for fear of missing something.
Our orange cat, left home 4 days ago after a rapid onset illness.
Fear of parenting alone
Daytime diapers!!

What was learned?

My strong urge to visit family was worth heeding- my grandfather met his great grandson 3 days before he died.
I regret shooing the cat off my desk nearly every evening for the past 3 months.
If I can handle two kids for 2 weeks on my own, I can do just about anything
Wait to let the kid potty train; they’ll do it quickly when ready.

I saw two women in stirrup pants yesterday. I need to make that odd sighting into a sign that things are looking up. That, and Otto found his toes.

Day care makes kids act out?

2007-03-26T12:46:00.000-07:00

Of course I’m screwing up our kids. If I were a stay-at home mom everything (except my sanity and personal satisfaction) would be perfect. Now it appears that kids who spend more than 10 hours a week in the care of someone other than their mothers act out more in the 6^th grade. So what about SAHDs or grandma? I haven’t read the study, only the news (which is an amazing fact in itself).

We all love Stella’s 12 to 20 hours a week of day care. She even woke up once at 3 am crying to go there. I just can’t think it is that bad for her. All over the world children are raised by communities of people. Even 30 years ago in this country a mother had the help of her mother or mother-in-law on a regular basis.

I’m gonna let it go.

Or not.

Rain!

2007-03-21T21:45:00.000-07:00

The rain finally did the watering for us. We put in trees and plants and a clover lawn in the past few months. It’s usually the best time in Northern California for planting- because we get so much rain. But rain has been scarce this year.

It rained yesterday- just enough to wet the roots and be reason for Stella to wear her rain boots. She stomped around in some puddles and our clover got a little taller. After 12 years in the Bay Area, I finally feel the rhythm of the local seasons. After years of needing to check the calendar to know what time of year it was, I now notice the tiny wildflowers of spring and brown hills of fall. There were many times over the last decade I would be dumbstruck on the street, smelling… fall? Or was it spring? Or thinking a summer storm was coming, but it was only the thick of summer fog lowering the sky and lifting the leaves. I would search my brain for some answer- like trying to find a lost name, just on the tip of my tongue.

My children will know these seasons like I know those of Maryland- where a tree of flames means back to school sales and crocuses don’t fool me of summer any time soon.

Make the Headlines

2007-03-13T19:51:00.000-07:00

It was a murder-suicide kind of day. The kind of day that brings out the mean mama in me, that brings me closer to other mothers of two-year-olds. You only need to say, ”It was a two-year-old morning,” and I know what you mean. It seems we’re having a two-year-old month.

Things that happen right before a tantrum:

I won’t let her apply my husband’s sample of musk deodorant all over her face.
She can’t get her sock on.
I won’t let her take a paper bag of nails to daycare.
She doesn’t want to change her poopy diaper.
I won’t let her rock her brother so vigorously his head flings around over his body.

Two. It explains everything. So I call my husband and try not to sound too desperate when I ask how long until he gets home because I gave her lentils when she wanted oatmeal and the baby is crying and I’m trying to cook risotto and the ants invaded the cat food and I’m dehydrated and have a headache the size of Texas and if he doesn’t get home soon there will be a murder-suicide. He knows what I mean and steps on the gas- the other direction!

It Finally Happened

2007-02-27T15:43:00.000-08:00

It finally happened. I fell while holding Otto. It wasn’t anything like I had feared. He was strapped into his car seat, there weren’t any stairs or vehicles involved, and no blood (his or mine) was shed. It did shake the shit out of me. I’m so glad it didn’t happen with my first. I was so nervous about everything with her, it might have sent me packing.

So there I was, a carefree second-time mother, entering Stella’s daycare via the forbidden old herringbone brick driveway (not on the required, level sidewalk). Out of nowhere, an unset brick grabbed my shoe and sent me in one direction and the shoe in another. Otto and his seat went on a third trajectory despite my valiant efforts to prevent such an event. I landed on the ground with a dirty palm and bruised knee and saw that Otto was there too, in his car seat on its side. He wailed, and I gathered him and my shoe as quickly as possible. When I got into the daycare I checked to see that all four of his limbs were moving independently and there wasn’t any blood. Then I handed him off to the daycare provider and washed my hands and caught my breath.

A friend fell on the stairs while her five week old was in the sling. She turned and broke the fall with her arm- which broke. It was the desired result, of course. I ran into her at a café with her cast and slinged baby. Stella was just starting to walk at the time, so her accident ruffled every fear I had. I realized it was actually possible for one of them to come true. Seeing her arm reminded me of the power of mothers to save their children from some harm, but also scared me to the core. As I was leaving her, she asked her male friend to crane her full breast out of her shirt for her baby to nurse. He had to use both hands to do it. Now that amazing sight- on a busy street- almost made the fear worth it.

It's Only a Joke!

2007-02-21T15:02:00.000-08:00

"Do you know what this is?"
"Brain Sucker."
"Do you know what it's doing?"
"Starving."

Stella and Otto, only 5 weeks into their sibling relations.

Celebrity Watch

2007-02-21T09:55:00.000-08:00

Britney Spears shaved her head and checked into (and out of) rehab. I have no doubt about it. Her two kids are HOW close in age? And she went from famous kid with a kick-ass play life to divorcing mother. You can’t get out of being mother no matter how famous you are (unless you check into rehab, I guess). Britney’s youngest is right at the point where all of my luxurious pregnancy hair started falling out. That nearly threw me over the edge (without the second kid and crash into reality life). Our cleaning lady mentioned it, “Your hair is everywhere.” “I know, it’s all over the bathroom,” I said. “No, it’s all over the house!” she replied. I think she thought it was cancer. I wanted to shave my head every morning. I was a little less drastic and got a short mommy-do. But I considered it when I couldn’t shower and/or stand the sight of myself. Actually, I couldn’t stand the feel of myself- leaky breasts, sweaty pits, tangled, dirty hair. Shaving seemed the quickest way to sustained cleanliness and a sense of style. Yeah for Britney for doing what I was too weak (or sober) to manage.

I hope as I approach the next hair-falling out phase, I hope I will get through it drug-free. I also hope the pop star gets better soon.

News and Confessions

2007-02-17T21:00:00.000-08:00

He took it! He took it! Otto took milk from a bottle! It took us five days to get around to the big attempt, but he sucked it up without complaint. We were waiting for the “perfect opportunity,” a.k.a Stella not around and Otto hungry. We should know by now that perfect opportunities of any kind rarely present themselves. So finally we had a relaxed Friday night with my visiting father putting Stella to bed. Otto woke from a nap, and I sneaked off into hiding. Augusto presented him with the warmed milk and gave the thumbs up.

This victory means the Habitrail run is a little shorter and dinner and a movie or a professional massage are in my foreseeable future.

Other breaking news just in: Otto smiled and cooed repeated times today despite the fact or because I am a bad mother. This is the confession: Sometimes I put him to sleep on his stomach. He sleeps so much better on his stomach. Truly better, longer, quieter. I preach Back To Sleep to my patients and even use a logo-adorned official sleep sack. But Otto is loud and gassy and loves being on his belly. And I am full of excuses. If he’s not on his belly he grunts most of the night. He sleeps through it, but Augusto and I are kept awake. I figure I slept on my stomach because my mother was told if I slept on my back I would choke on my spit up and die. People thought hormone replacement therapy was safe. People thought caffeine in pregnancy was dangerous. Research can be refuted a decade later. And we don’t smoke or over bundle or do any of the other things that are associated with SIDS. So at 3 or 5 in the morning when I’ve had a little sleep and am therefore not sleeping so deeply the rest of the night, and when Otto is grunting loudly enough to wake the neighborhood, I just roll him over. Does it worry me? Of course. But I do it anyway.

Pumping Gold

2007-02-12T16:13:00.000-08:00

I pumped the liquid gold for the first time this morning. We’re in the 4 to 6 week-window for introducing the bottle, so we needed something to put in it. I was anxious because pumping for Stella was, at best, like bad scheduled sex. There was no romance and little reward for a bodily function so intimate and dependent on a delicate mix of hormones, timing, mindset and physical stimulation. I could pump four times in a day and get a grand total of 3 ounces. This time I am determined to get it going early so I can develop a fine relationship with the Passionate Sucker, (a.k.a Medela Pump-in-Style) and, more importantly, pack the freezer with the products of our love so I can go to work or- imagine! - a movie and leave Otto behind.

He is four weeks old today, and the honeymoon is over. Two weeks ago I told a friend how much better it was with the second child. I told her that I didn’t have that postpartum sense of doom that my life was over. My former life ended with the first child, so there was nothing left to lose. What a relief! This theory still holds true, but I have the other doom that I had forgotten: The Hamster Wheel Effect. Any mother knows it- and then forgets it so that she has a small chance of wanting to have more children. Nurse. Burp. Change. Soothe. Nurse. Burp. Change. Soothe. Pretend to go to bed at night. Nurse. Burp. Change. Soothe. It’s a prison. I’m just grateful I have a husband who is helpful when he’s around, a freezer stocked with food from good friends, and a predictable post-milk smile from this little guy.

Tonight Augusto will try to give my ounce and a half to Otto and thus give me speck of light at the end of my Habitrail.

It WAS the Real Deal

2007-01-31T21:54:00.000-08:00

It’s been two weeks since those irregular contractions. Our son is two weeks old. At 2:30 pm, just after I last wrote, I tried to take a nap, but lay awake noting every twelve minutes on the clock. After an hour or so, I called Augusto and asked him to come home. His commute can often take more than an hour, so I wanted to be sure he was on his way. I chatted with my neighbor about her plans for a Sunbrella hot tub cover. Every few minutes I paused to lean over her compost bin or kitchen table and breathe a little bit. Stella would be awake soon, so I dashed back inside and was greeted by her waking-up sounds. I brought her downstairs and got her snack ready, then my body let loose. The contractions were three to six minutes apart and took my full attention. I made sure Augusto was close then called the midwives and our friend Libby to pick up Stella. Augusto and Libby arrived at 5pm, just two and a half hours after I had laid down for my nap.

By this time I was burying my face into pillows, towels, and blankets while digging my still-humid pedicure into the rug. The sounds from my throat were curious- somewhere between a Gregorian chant and a large animal near death. While Augusto installed our car seat in Libby’s car, Libby slid her fingers across the small of my back. The light touch gave some relief from the band tightening on my middle.

When Augusto and I were finally alone, I waddled to the bathroom for the epic emptying of my bowels. At 2-minute intervals, I threw myself onto my hands and knees and made the dead animal chant then climbed back up to the toilet for more. Augusto ran the tub and then ran around the house. I could hear his feet stomping down the hardwood at a hare’s pace. Run to get water. Run to get the phone. Sprint for the phone list. Race back to stroke me when the contraction comes again. The baby’s head was low, but my dilation was unclear when I checked at 5:30pm. We paged the midwives. The tub didn’t provide the relief I wanted. With contractions on top of one another, all I wanted was one moment of rest. I also wanted to pee. The need to go was so strong- yet I was completely unable to sit on the toilet or release any pee in the tub or anywhere else I tried. A little after 6, when one midwife had arrived, the bright orange rug on bathroom floor called to me. I lay down on my side and stayed there until the end. I still couldn’t pee, but the contractions spaced out enough to drink some water and rest for a glorious minute.

Pressure. I felt pressure. Two contractions later I was pushing. We had just decided to check my dilatation, and I had only half-jokingly declared if I was 2 cm, we were heading to the hospital for a c-section. With only the tip of her finger inside my vagina, our midwife felt the head. Since I still needed to pee and the head was right there, I reached around my belly and felt his head myself. It was exciting to know I was close, and my hand between my legs gave a grammar school relief to my peeing urge. I could feel his head descend with every push. The feel of his squishy scalp over his firm skull made me forget everything else. It helped me focus on the task of getting him out. I pushed until my labia burned, then I puffed air until the burning stopped.

A few minutes into it, the other midwife arrived, and I gave her detailed directions on where to find and how to turn on the camera. I was vividly alert and knew exactly what to do. I instructed my husband to hold my leg in just the right place. I knew just how much to push each time. I asked for water when I wanted it. I smoothed my fingers over my baby’s head as he emerged a little more with each effort. There was no fear. No doubt. There was only the strength of each push and the burn as my body stretched to accommodate our second child.

At 6:37 pm, in our house in Oakland, Otto squeezed out with a tiny cry. His father, joyous with laughter, lifted him to me. Otto blinked his eyes and looked at my face, my breast, my belly that had been his home. He was pink, and warm and calm. I was elated.

Correction: Prodromal Labor

2007-01-15T14:21:00.000-08:00

It’s prodromal labor. That means I can’t announce that the baby is coming anytime soon- but there is something going on. Cervical ripening, descent of the baby, etc. Yesterday’s contractions slowed and stalled, and I knocked them out completely with 2 glasses of yummy red wine. After months of near tee totaling, I was wobbly-legged after dinner and the hot tub. I went promptly to bed. About ten times I was woken by a tightening in my belly and back, had to do some deep, slow breaths to keep comfortable, then went back to sleep. Today has been much of the same. While driving to get kitty litter I was gripped by one powerful contraction that made me plan an exit strategy if a second came along. The bleeding continues, so I can assume some change in my cervix, but it is too high and my sciatica is too bad for me to be able to do an accurate self-dilation check. Not for lack of trying! I know it won’t help me predict the future, but I am curious what these irregular, tolerable contractions are accomplishing. Here comes one now…

Early Labor?

2007-01-14T09:13:00.000-08:00

Stella was born two days before her due date. When this boy’s due date came and went two days ago, I felt late. Over a 48-hour period this week at least five people called to see if I had had the baby yet. I snapped on the last one. Obviously we will let everyone know when he is born. I even have the birth announcement layout already done. It was a set up, though. I was convinced that I would have him the first week of January- and told people about it. What a mistake!

Well, to anyone paying attention, I am in some kind of early labor right now. I’m not going to call anyone right away or get my mother worrying so early in the day. But from 7 to 8 am I had regular light contractions every 3 minutes followed by some bloody show. I came downstairs to announce the good news to the family, and Augusto told me that the midwife had just called and said we shouldn’t go into labor today because she has two other clients laboring. That call killed the regularity of my contractions, but the blood still spots an hour later.

No Vegas, No Baby

2007-01-08T23:43:00.000-08:00

I didn’t “let” Augusto go to CES in Vegas because I’m almost 40 weeks and don’t want him to miss the birth. Well, I’m still almost 40 weeks. In retrospect, he could have gone, but I didn’t want to risk it. He had some very important meetings and was only going to be there 12 or 24 hours- but that was too much for me considering once you’re in Vegas, there’s no getting out after midnight. I willed the baby to pop, tried the tricks I know (short of castor oil or an enema). The baby is break dancing in there right now- and posterior. I lost the beginnings of the mucous plug over the past 4 or 5 days and have been having more intense Braxton Hicks. But no labor. So he’s pissed, but hiding it well. And I am just relieved he didn’t go.

Despite months of practically ignoring the pregnancy and drawing a blank each time I imagined being the mother of two kids in diapers, I’m really ready now. I want to meet him on the outside. Stella is ready too. She digs the birth videos and talks all the time about him nursing and being born. It think it’s just papa that could use a little more time. He thinks I’ll go a week late. I hope not!

Making Room

2006-12-08T15:47:00.000-08:00

We jetted my belly across the equator and back in October, washed & sorted Stella’s 0-6 month clothes, and installed a new hot tub. Work ends in a week. I’ve given my well wishes to patients who will deliver while I am on leave. I have not forgotten that it took three months to learn how to get out of the house before noon with a newborn, yet I have the idea that I will be able to sew and write when Stella is in day care and I am home with our son. Thus we are cleaning out a closet. A closet that shouldn’t be a closet. It has a window, heating vent, phone jack and overhead light. We cleaned out this same closet before Stella’s birth and rapidly stuffed it with more junk. So we begin again. Mostly it involves me nagging my dear husband to recycle his 2002 Wired collection and 1991 box of Hustlers (after we take an amused look). I don’t remember 1991 being so 1980’s- but it WAS! What a horrific realization. At least it is my own and not my kids pointing it out in 15 years. Anyway, I have big plans for this closet/ reclaimed room. It will be my craft nook. No, My Craft Nook. It will have a small table under that sunny window upon which I will leave quarter-made quilts, pieces of collage, and tangled balls of yarn. And when I have 8 minutes to myself I can go in there and pick up a project (or a Hustler!).

I think it all means we’re ready. I think Stella is a ready as possible. She knows where her brother is for now (and will one day wish he had stayed there, I’m sure). She diapers and feeds and swaddles her dolls several times a day. We used her language to teach her about birth: I delivered her stuffed hippo from under my shirt/ between my legs and made a lot of pooping noises. Of course it has become a favorite activity- with or without the hippo. We want her there when the little one is born. For the labor- probably not. She is a worrier- and a toddler- so one of our generous friends will entertain her and bring her home for the final moments.

Now we dive into holiday entertaining and being entertained. And we wait.

Winter Hide-Inside

2006-09-25T11:48:00.000-07:00

I’m writing so erratically! I think I’m a Winter writer. Spring and Summer are for gardening, lazing. Winter is for hunkering down, thinking, and putting pen to paper with a mug of something hot. Most people I know mourn the shortening of the days. I welcome the shift in light. When it starts getting dark earlier, I haul my butt home to get on with the evening. This response is perfect for nesting. I was just getting started on the Winter hide-inside when Stella came. This time I might have until mid January to hunker down and write, clean deep into closets, sort the kitchen junk drawer, rip pages from old Vegetarian Times and Sunset. A Winter baby makes perfect timing for quintessential nesting behavior. I feel so Crafty. So Mrs. Good Housekeeping. If I weren’t so excited about it I’d be embarrassed. This drive is a far cry from ripping up the Berkeley chaparral on a mountain bike or belaying at the gym. But that life is on hold for now, and I AM excited… knitting, singing Wheels on the Bus, making soup, repairing dog-eared maps- these things wake me up. I am a driven pregnant woman, making spells to bring on the Winter.

Finally

2006-07-20T14:10:00.000-07:00

Finally! I feel connected to this pregnancy. I don’t know if I was holding out to pass that magic date when we lost the first or just being a normal mom of a toddler, but I am relieved to have finally arrived. I have been feeling flutters for a week now- much earlier than before. I also look farther along than my almost 15 weeks. I have made it to this place twice before; I guess my body knows where to go.

Now I have to reconcile having a boy. It looked likely on the ultrasound, and my intuition said BOY within a week of knowing I was pregnant. I love the idea of a 20 year old son. But a little boy? I’m so used to having a girl. I guess that’s the reason we decided to find out this time. To prepare. The wonder of Stella’s gender was great throughout the pregnancy (although I knew she was a girl all along). Now we get to try another way for this fluttering boy.

I have more joy and energy now that I’m out of the first trimester. I have more patience with Stella and find her charming again. She says “baby” when she plays with my doppler, tries to hear her own belly.

Relief

2006-06-07T22:40:00.000-07:00

I’m beyond Hello but not into the reality of pregnancy yet. Stella consumes me now. She hangs onto one of my legs like a skilled climber and says my name in so many variations I can’t pretend I don’t understand her. We went to visit my family for two weeks. I had visions of reading books, paying bills, sending letters. I actually brought all those things in my luggage- only to lug them home again untouched. Stella would not just play with Grandmom while I put my feet up. Oh, no. She needed me MORE in Baltimore than Oakland. So much for a vacation and time to connect with the baby within…

The best day so far this week was Monday. I worked 10 hours and although tired on the way home, I was actually smiling. I felt good. Then I realized I haven’t felt good in a few weeks, and 10 hours away from Stella cured me of my furrowed brow and bitchy outlook. I love my toddler so very much, but I get used up- especially with the pregnancy hormones. I’m not making excuses- I know I am perfectly normal. But I still felt guilty for my post-work-happiness, and sad for the smile-free days.

G4P1

2006-05-13T16:27:00.000-07:00

How different this is than the first pregnancy. Well, third, really. The first I aborted when I admitted I couldn’t be a student and single mother to a child borne out of love to man who left for his own adventure with prostitutes in Ecuador 24 hours after the positive result. I mourned that one for years. The second died of accidental causes 14 weeks and 4 days into a terribly desired pregnancy. The third was dear Stella. We held our hearts secreted away until we passed into the 16^th week, the realm longer than I had held any child. We burst into the 5^th month buying baby things practical and frivolous, no longer tense around a stockinette cap or three-snap onsie.

And now number four. I have called my parents and told some friends, but I have not jumped for joy or shed a lump-throated tear. It’s not because I’m holding my breath. We now have proof that it all works. I’m not thinking about the challenges of two. I am certain they will come. The bulk of my pregnancy with Stella, I couldn’t will time to move fast enough to meet her. Now I pray these next 8 months will be slow and gentle. And we want this baby for our family. We had regular sex despite exhaustion just to get right here.

On the cross trainer this week I read a 2005 Utne Reader essay about a father’s experience of his wife’s pregnancy and birth. In full view of the other exercisers, I sobbed on the machine and then remembered that in the coming Winter I will bear a child again. I realized I hadn’t even greeted it yet. So I balanced on the machine, placed my hands on my shiny capoeira pants and said “Hello.”

Clean Kitchen

2006-05-09T22:22:00.000-07:00

From the 6:08am call, “Mamae?” to my current half-eye-desk-slump (the hiss of the monitor at my back), it has been a jam-packed day. Clean kitchen, design cabinets, learn about new spirituality, take brisk walk near lake, clean kitchen, finish odd, but satisfying book, lend car to friend’s father, clean kitchen… Mostly I shuffled Stella from diversion to diversion while trying to hold down intelligent conversations with a carpenter, a poet, and a blogging neighbor. She does not like being ignored or sitting second in line for my attention. She has mastered a wrinkle-nosed purse-lipped “naooo” tied in with a Chinese finger grip thing that really sends a hint as to how she feels about it all. One other thing on my Packed Day List: see two pink lines on the pregnancy test and place them in front of my waking husband. I think that will add a few more “naooo’s” to Stella’s world- and a few more wipes of the kitchen in mine. We’re due in January 07. It’s just not real yet.

Word Salad

2006-04-26T21:58:00.000-07:00

I know it is completely unethical to share any details from patient appointments, but I just have to. It took me a few minutes of careful redirection when determining the reason for CL’s visit today (not her real initials). A few mind-warping minutes of wondering if it was too late for my coffee or if I needed to practice focusing a bit more. I couldn't understand her (English) description of her chief complaint. She said her vagina was "sweck" and "swappy." She rolled those terms out like everyone knows them. She is not a teen. It is not some new generation thing (please correct me if I am wrong). I have been privileged to learn “dukie” (noun, shit) and “nut” (past tense of the verb to ejaculate), and a rash of other terms previously unheard by me but understood in context because I am somewhat smart (and it is my job to understand my patients).

Anyway, it took me those few minutes to realize my patient was completely nuts (not to be confused with nut). She went on to describe “you know, when you do [some reference for a drug] and get that white flowing feeling when it overflows over your underwear, when your skin is following one direction and the rest of you has gone to [a place or mental state].” Have you had this problem before? “ Well, I’ve been taking in a lot diamonds and properties and that usually makes it sweck. I shouldn’t be telling you, but I’m pulling it all together now- you know when all the parts just get in line?’ Are you sexually active? “Oh yeah, but my husband is so gorgeous and famous, he has sex for cigarettes or necessities sometimes. Women can’t resist him.”

CL had a simple yeast infection. I had a fabulous time talking with her in her unmediated state. I used to work with mentally ill adults, but never doing GYN care. It’s a whole new menu of word salad. And I love word salad. That’s where we are with Stella now. “Mama can take Baba for nana, Sweetie.” “Did you make coco? I think your diaper has uh-oh in it.” “Put down the watering can, Stella.” “Agua!”