Keeping House

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.

What We Leave Behind

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.

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.

Gluing the Pieces

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

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.

We're Getting Older in Many Ways

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?

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.

Tethered: Fresh eyes

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.

Sometimes They Break My Heart

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

 

 

 

 

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

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.

 

End of an Era

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.

 

wake in love

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?

 

why i love oakland #1

 

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!

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?

Wake Up, Idiot, She's 3

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?

 

I Hold Them in My Heart

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?

Busted!

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.

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.

This Bathroom is Small

“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.