Journey into motherhood. To my son, on his seventh birthday.

Dear Cleveland,

I want to wish you a Happy Birthday. I want to go buy you a bagel this morning and take you to the park and the beach and to meet your dad at work for lunch. I want to let you tear into one gift, even though you have to wait until Sunday for your party. I want to watch Lucie and Coco give you big hugs as you all put on party hats because we do party hats in this house. And balloons. Because birthdays are awesome.

Before that, I want tell you about becoming your mother.

Every time I look at you, I’m flooded with the specks and stardust of fuzzy mommy memories that we’ve made together. I think a million little things about you, and I want you to know.

****Before I was pregnant with you, I was afraid of motherhood. I was lost. I was unsure of myself and my purpose. I was technically an adult, a married professional 20-something woman who was supposed to have it together. The world saw me that way. I saw a fraud. I was too scared to fail at everything, and so never tried anything. I went to graduate school. Then I went again. I had a good job. I married the one. we had a mortgage and a joint checking account and still I didn’t know. How to be me. How to love fiercely.****

And then we made you.

[At this point, you might do well to thank me, since you know, with a bit of help, I created you and nurtured you and bore you and have managed to keep you sustained for seven years.]

Don’t thank me.

Instead, let me thank you.

Thank you for giving me a pregnancy that was challenging enough to make me feel accomplished but not so hard to break my spirit.

Thank you for giving me a full belly. I needed permission to take care of myself. To eat well, to exercise. As my belly grew, the fear I had of a growing belly vanished. I was no longer afraid to take up space, as I had been in adolescence.

Thank you for the pain and persistence of your delivery; for those fast gripping moments of grunting and sweating and pushing and tearing at the neck of my hospital gown. I learned then that calm and chaos can exist together. I relearn this daily.

Thank you for all the “good-baby” ways that you were when you were tiny; eater, sleeper, quiet, happy. I believed in those moments that I was good, too. So my goodness grew.

Thank you for giving me confidence to open my mouth when in the past I might have sat by silently. To push the pediatrician for the ophthalmology referral. To tell your father that yes I really did think I knew enough about reading to teach you to do it myself.

Thank you for being anxious, and nervous, because you’ve forced me to confront my own anxiety. I didn’t feel entitled to manage my tics and worries when they were just my own, but our shared experience compels me to be my best self. Not only for you. For me, too.

Thank you for being a big brother. I always wanted one growing up. Watching you with your sisters and brother only confirms for me what an amazing gift you are.

Thank you for screaming (sometimes). It gives me practice at lowering my voice.

Thank you for your impatience. I need to know that no place is worth getting to so quickly that I shame you in the process. We can slow down.

Thank you for your frustration. When you feel defeated, I am given another opportunity to craft in you a place of possibility.

Thank you for being easy, and hard.

Thank you for being born, because, when you were born, I was born, too.

I made you.

And then you made me.

Happy Birthday. Now, go play with your lightsaber and remind me for the 58th time exactly what kind of cake you want. Exactly. (Vanilla, just like your dad).

I love you,

Mama

We're all right

 The reason I post to this blog so infrequently is because it’s hard for me to finish posts. They get long. Really long. And by the time I’m wrapping up, I start to think I’m sounding too preachy or something. I table them. They sit. Then they become outdated. Anyway, tonight I’m resolving to write and post this within two hours. It’s Thursday at 9:06PM. Let’s see how I do…

Cue actual post…

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“You’re basically a single parent.”

These two phrases, in no particular order, are what I hear most often. There was a time when I used to hear how cute everyone thought my kids were. Not anymore. Now, before people notice if they’re cute, they just notice the numbers. And me. Alone.

I do a significant amount of parenting alone. Let’s say 90%. Ack, 90 sounds high. Let’s say 88%. It’s full-time for sure. And I work hard. And I don’t get paid…in actual dollars. I get paid in milk spills. And messy hugs. And just one more book, mom. Et cetera.

I get why people make comments. And I know these are meant as compliments to me and I do my best to be gracious.

(btw, it’s 9:13, and I’m doing pretty well so far).

I’d like to address these two phrases.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

Four children. Busy husband. School. Poop. Household minutiae. If I manage to make a treat to send in to preschool for Lucie’s birthday, or knit a hat for a friend’s newborn, or put up a blog post, I hear this from all sides. “I don’t know how you do it.”

I also don’t know how I do it. But I don’t know how lots of people do lots of things.

I don’t know how someone with four kids and half our income living in San Diego does it. I don’t know how parents of twins do it. I don’t know how parents of a child with chronic illness do it. But I believe that we are challenged in life and parenthood to stretch and bend. Mothering has bent me in half at times, but it hasn’t broken me. (I may update this last statement once Lucie hits adolescence in two years.)

This is me:

I’m not particularly organized.

I’m not at all decisive.

I’m an anxious person by nature.

I avoid conflict.

Sometimes I avoid my children.

Sometimes I eat my feelings.

I am not superwoman. I used to try to be. I worked for pay and I worked at home and I resented my spouse’s schedule and resented our nanny, and was short with my children and ate poorly and slept very little and drank soooooo much coffee. I was unhappy.

These days, there are two things contributing to “how I do it.” The first is in the choice. I choose to stay home with the four children I chose to have. I’m not a slave to my life.

Second, I am not alone. My social network is broad and bountiful. And bicoastal. I have a number of caring acquaintances, and a few very close friends. I have an amazing family full of awesome woman whom I look up to. I make a lot of phone calls to those important people. [Aside: I believe the phone call has become an underappreciated art, the way letter writing became decades ago. I’m happy to text with my babysitter or a quick question about directions, but if I wanna talk, you’re gonna get a phone call. And people also seem so receptive. I think the world is probably lonely for more phone calls. ]

And I’m married for goodness sake! Not only am I not alone, but I have a life partner with whom I chose to have children. Phil is busy. Really busy. But he’s my man. He is with me. Sometimes things are against me. The kids, our internet speed, dinner. He always has my back.

(FYI it’s now 9:47 and I’m losing confidence…)

And there’s that pesky second phrase.

“You’re basically a single parent.”

No.

Nope.

No I’m not.

My single parent friends are probably confused and insulted that anyone would think I’m a single parent. Even if I don’t see Phil for a week, I’m not a single parent. Even if he deploys for a year, I’m still not a single parent. As long as we are married, I’m not a single parent. I do most of the child- and home-related labor, because that is my current role in our marriage. There was a time when I worked outside of the home and Phil was a more active parent. That time may come again. For now, I do most of it.

Why? Because Phil is rather busy doing his job. He is providing for us, and offering himself up to his patients and colleagues in a demanding and often thankless role. His job is hard. We miss him and he misses us. Sometimes he doesn’t see the kids for several days. When he's home he's usually eating or sleeping or showering. It's basically like a YMCA and he's the only patron, God bless him. 

I don’t know how he does it.

(Okay it’s 10:16, and I gotta wrap it up and do a read-through for clarity, preachiness…And now it’s 10:28 because I got a snack and watched a little Hulu)

Even if we can’t see each other or talk about something, he’s still my husband. Even if I find myself agonizing over a decision and realize that I’ll need to act before I can seek his advice, that’s not the same as knowing that the buck stops with me, and I have no backup. Even if my decision wouldn’t have been his decision, he will support me. I am not the only parent. I know that every kiss and hug and punishment and encouragement that I dole out has two people standing behind it.

I am not a single parent. 

I don't know how they do it.

There you have it. 

It’s 10:52 (I made it!) and I hope you made it, too! I have to pump and take out my contacts and go snuggle with my little man Lolo, since as it happens, his dad’s working overnight tonight.

All our love from the sunny side of the country.

Five Things

As usual I’m stewing around thinking of all kinds of things to write about, and only managing to type out a few. With all the uncertainty in my life and in the world, I realized today that I can be deeply and wholly thankful for many things, big and small. Here are five things that tugged at me today.

1) Quiet Time

With four kids, having a daily quiet time at our house is essential, and it’s a habit I want us to continue indefinitely. So with two nappers, two non-nappers, and a mama who needs some mama-time, how do we do it?

Consistency: Every day that we’re home, the babies go down for naps and the big kids pick a room (separate since they share a room to sleep) and books and toys to take with them. I aim for two hours/day, roughly from 1:00 – 3:00 (please know that usually one hour of this is taken up with baby-care on my part…you do what you can).

Autonomy: The big kids get to pick which room (up for grabs are their bedroom and the spare bedroom, and sometimes my bed or the playroom depending on where Lolo is napping). They also get to choose toys and books, and I usually incentivize with the promise of something screen-time related, because most importantly, this time is…

Screen-free! The kids know this so it’s not even a question. And I do the same. I won’t even read a book on a tablet during this time so as to remain a dignified enforcer.

And I’m a stickler about enforcement. There was some negotiating at first, but now quiet time is so entrenched in our routine that, as soon as we finish lunch, my big kids head off to their respective corners of the house and get started. If all goes as planned, I get to read a book or close my eyes or do the dishes or simply bask in the sound of silence. If nothing else, I can usually poop alone.

(Cleveland c. July, 2009. This is also my #tbt for the day)

2) Library holds

I love putting books on hold at the library. It’s like Christmas every time the email comes saying something is ready for pick-up. A little sliver of literary bliss. Something I do only for myself.

3) Christmas cards, or holiday cards, or whatever…

I used to find these somewhat self-ingratiating and obnoxious. Beautiful pictures of you and your family and your doggies and weird updates about your lives that are strangely personal and yet totally generic. Blah!

I think distance has changed me. This Christmas, I thrilled opening every card we received. Living so far from so many people we care about, it’s been a true gift to hear from everyone and get lots of pictures of family and friends to adorn my kitchen. I’ve loved the perfectly posed photos and the quirky ones, too! And handwritten notes are always extra special. If I didn’t make your list this year, PM me and I’ll happily share my addressJ I promise to return in kind.

(Card courtesy of my amazing friend Jill and her awesome small business Bella Carta Boutique, at www.bellacartaboutique.com)

4) Kids who care

Yesterday Cleveland faced a small challenge being nervous to start something new, and Lucie totally stepped up to ease his fears. She was kind and composed and genuinely wishing him well. It was very sweet. And moments like this are everywhere in my life. When Coco spontaneously pats Lolo’s head and kisses him while I’m nursing. When I call to Lucie to find her shoes for the fifteenth time, and Cleveland comes down the hall holding them out for her. These things happen.

(Cleve and Lucie then...)

 (...and now)

(then there were three...)

(...then four. Poor, poor Coco)

[The other s*** happens, too. The screaming and the bickering and the name-calling and the colliding in the hallway to see who can get there first. And lots of times I ask again and again to puleeeze just do what I asked like seven times ago! But sometimes, they just do it the first time.]

When that happens, it’s magic.

And that’s number 5…Fleeting Magic

I’ve been thinking about this since I first held Lolo in the hospital back in August. I have a grade-schooler, a preschooler, a toddler and an infant. Four different kids in four developmental stages who all need and want and love in their own ways. And time is ticking and however it went down today, it’s sure to be different tomorrow.

Our lives will get less crazy. There will be less crying at some point, and, I’ve been assured, less pee all over my bathroom. One day, they’ll all be continent and able to blow their noses and tie their shoes and won’t ask me to do. Every. Darn. Thing. We’re “in the thick of it right now”, as people like to say. I couldn’t survive if I couldn’t step back and chuckle at how nuts it is. I hope I always remember how it feels to walk into the kitchen and find something crunching beneath my feet because someone got the cereal down all by herself this morning. I’m not in love with crayon drawings on my couch, but I’ve never been more in love with Coco’s face than when I caught her doing it. 

They say youth is wasted on the young, and I certainly wasted my own. Everyday, I’m given the gift of time to revel in theirs. And a pity it would be to squander that. 

...

Obviously I could've written about coffee, but, c'mon, that's a gimme. 

The One Resolution

I’m making one New Years resolution and I am asking for your assistance.

It’s not about a flatter belly or ditching the baby weight, or exercise.

It’s not about “me time” or reading a book a week or perfecting my posture or reaching spiritual enlightenment.

This year, and for the rest of my existence, I resolve, as a woman, person, and most importantly, as a parent to

Yell less and hug more.

I need accountability. I need to believe that I can do this. Again. And again.

I need to be reminded that my children are children. Not just children. Children. Their hearts and minds are born of dreams I cannot fathom. Within their corner of the world, they have imagined a reality that is beyond brilliant. Their spectrum glistens with possibility.

Everyday, without meaning to, my world slowly kills theirs. My reality infiltrates the brilliance. I remind them not to do. Sit down. Be quiet. STOP IT!

And I shout.

I raise my voice and I watch my words, my tone, my cadence chip away at their virtuosity. 

Diminishing. Extinguishing.

I have shouted to such a degree that I’ve seen my daughter’s eyes bug and her lip quiver. My gravelly shrill screams have induced spontaneous tears in multiple children at once. 

How can I sit confounded at my children’s propensity to scream at each other? They do it to get attention from me. To be heard. When I mutter “demons” under my breath, I must remember that the demons in them are my own. The pathology of their behavior is familial, and it isn’t here to be easy on me. This is my work.

I am the parent. I am here to lift them up, to widen the boundaries, to rid them of "I can’t" in favor of “I can”...“I will”...“I do”...“I did!” I am meant to inspire. 

There will come a time when they no longer launch into my arms at every opportunity. They will stop wanting me to hold them, fighting for a place on my lap. I mustn't squander these moments. 

Hugs. Hugs. Hugs.

Smiles.

I am not a perfect person or a perfect parent. But I believe that I am the perfect parent for my children. We are divinely matched to do amazing things. Today, this is my work. I've done a lot of different work in my life, and I'm certain that this is the very best kind.

Fortunately, my colleagues are adorable.

I appreciate your support.

Happy New Year.