Premature Spring

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!

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

**** 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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!!

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.