changes are afoot

As I confront returning to work, I've been thinking a lot about how hard it is to be a mother - at least the sort of mother who has any aspirations for herself beyond the flourishing of her family.

It's hard to be a stay at home mother. The extreme division of labor - the roles for mother and father that seem to have such little overlap or flexibility - well, you know, I've talked about this here before. I do find myself looking around every so often, wondering how exactly I got to be a 1950s housewife. The crucial difference being, I suppose, that Mike and I can talk about it and consider together how to find a more satisfying sense of partnership in our relationship. But given our roles, it feels like the deck is stacked against us.

It's hard to be a working mother. I feel a deep attachment to my kids, a need to be with them and care for them. And man oh man, are they are wacko for me too. The kind of clinging to my legs, climbing on my back whenever I squat down to pull something out of a lower cabinet sort of wacko that can drive me batty. But what can you do? There it is. Is it about nursing? Spending nine months inside me? However it happened, they are attached.

I have been feeling ready to return to (part-time) work for months now. I've certainly been looking! But now that work is a concrete possibility, I'm confronting what it will really mean to leave my children in the care of someone else. I've got a bad case of maternal desire, and though it doesn't have to be duking it out with my desire to work outside the home, it sometimes feels that way. The truth is that Gabriel sobs nearly every time I leave the house. He knows something is up these days, but he's kind of always been that way. I feel a deep sorrow, anticipating what we both will go through when we make this change.

Is it worth enduring the pain of separation?

I miss my independence. I resent the way becoming a caregiver for dependent children has turned me into a dependent myself -- financially, certainly, but in other ways too. Every solo trip to the gym, every haircut, every errand that falls between the hours of 5:30 am and 7:30 pm requires some negotiations. (Perhaps this is why the old world abuela system seems to persist. Think of all those abuelas who have spent their entire adult lives as dependent caregivers! There should be World Abuela Day, when everyone is required to not only give grandma the day off, but to bring her to a massage therapist and foot the bill.)

And ugh, resentment can be so corrosive. Mike is an emotionally astute, supportive and caring husband who absolutely wants me to be happy (even if it means giving up homemade bread and all the other perks of having me at home). But his job is terribly demanding and engrossing, and he needs to work a lot. And we don't have an abuela to boss around (thank goodness, dear mother and mother-in-law, that you are not that person in our family!) or an au pair, or a maiden aunt next door, and so it falls on me.

I do believe working will help us balance out our roles and lighten some of those nagging, quiet resentments. Maybe it will send the children clinging to Mike's calves a bit more. Certainly it will reshuffle the family roles in such a way that I feel very good about; as the children get older I am aware that I don't want them thinking this is what men and women are supposed to do. And if I don't want them thinking it, that might suggest I don't want to be doing it myself.

So maternal desire and professional desire need not be battling it out after all! (Have I convinced you? Have I convinced me?) No, really - deep down I know it wll be good for all of us when I have meaningful work that requires me to leave my children for a few hours a week in order to do it. I won't have to ask permission to go. I'll use parts of me that long for exercise and exposure to the open air.

I only wish it didn't have to hurt so much.

crafting notes

This was the scene in my kitchen at 6:15 this morning.

Gabriel's idea - and he took such pleasure in his ability to identify colors and guide the little beads onto his pipe cleaner. Behold, fine motor skills! It is not surprising that the two kids ran downstairs and immediately started in on some crafting. We've been stepping it up around here lately - and it seems to generate more and more projects (perhaps because we are terrible about cleaning up and there are bits of markers, beads, paint, felt etc all over the place and accessible, to inspire the next round of creative work.)

Besides awful clean-up practices (or rather, the lack of clean-up practices) I think Gabriel's new abilities are inspiring him, and in turn inspiring Frances. And maybe inspiring me, too. Look what I just bought!


I purchased this from a lovely woman via Craigslist. She was my age, and told me she had received it as a present for her 15th birthday. She was only selling it now because she had upgraded. I admired her in so many ways. A true crafter! It took having children, and the joy of sharing all sorts of artistic and creative endeavors with them, to get me started. Unlike so many of my friends, blog readers, and mother, I just didn't seem to have it in me. I was exposed to knitting, quilting, sewing, and gardening since I was a wee speck in her womb, so there's simply no excuse for my indifference. When I was fifteen I wanted to read novels in our hammock all day, the pleasures of stretching out in the warm sunshine and deepening my tan being secondary to the pleasure of checking out of regular life and spending open expanses of time in a world made of words.

Oh, that still sounds so good, doesn't it?

But back to the sewing machine. What will I do with it? I don't know! But I am very, very excited to try it out. If any of you have any suggestions for a beginning sewer, do pass them on.

I also experimented over the weekend with stenciling using freezer paper, a method I learned about in Amanda Blake Soule's lovely book, The Creative Family. So many great ideas therein. I used one of her images - I drew a larger picture by hand, to fit the t-shirt we were working on. This is a gift for Frances and Gabriel's cousin Lily, who is almost four, and loves giraffes.



It's simple to do and very satisfying: draw an image on a piece of freezer paper with the shiny side down. Use an exacto knife or a tiny pair of scissors (think manicure) to cut it out. I did this on a piece of cardboard. Then place your stencil (still shiny side down) on whatever you want to beautify, and place another sheet of freezer paper underneath the fabric (in this case, inside the shirt) with the shiny side up. Iron for a few seconds, to make the stencil 'stick.' Paint using fabric paint, let it dry for a few hours, then unpeel and voila! Your transformed shirt (or tote bag or pants or dishtowel) is finished.

As you can tell, this is a mostly adult project. Between the knife and the iron, I thought it best to work on it during naptime. But Frances did enjoy painting in the stencil and helping to peel it away. And she also loved coloring in the giraffe that was cut away to form the stencil to make a little birthday card. And I have all sorts of ideas for gifts to make for the kids using this technique...

Finally, I found these pictures on the last 'roll' when I uploaded this morning. Check out Frances and her friend Henry, decked out in their kingly best, reliving the joys of a first real sleepover the next morning.

when in doubt, bake cookies

No new insights to report tonight. No charming anecdotes, no hand-wringing over sleep or peer groups or plastic toys. I am still feeling my returned health as a small miracle, and because of that, I seem to be reveling in the basics. I have been reading stories and singing songs all day, with renewed gusto. And now that my appetite and digestive operations are back on track, I just want to bake. And eat.

Just in case any of you are in the same mood, here are some delicious cookies I made today, sans small helpers, just for the smell and taste and overall satisfaction of it all in my quiet kitchen.

I had a can of pumpkin in my pantry, intended for some holiday recipe that was conceived and never realized. I had half a bag of determined, sturdy little cranberries in my fridge, having persevered in the same corner of a crisper drawer for weeks.

Muffins? Nah. Today, I am thinking about going back to work. I am anticipating a second interview next week for an intriguing job, feeling strangely peaceful in my not-knowing what the outcome to all this will be. Mike has been a patient and supportive listener for days on end. The kids were great this afternoon. Gabriel insisted on many kisses-on-the-lips from Mama and a million hugs from Didi.

Okay, so it's not just my health inspiring this mood. It feels as if someone opened a window wide in my life, and a new season's breeze is gently blowing us all about.

An occasion for cookies, if ever there was one.

This recipe is adapted just a tiny bit from Joy the Baker's Super Soft Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Cookies:

2 cups white whole wheat flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

2 eggs
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup canola or corn oil (I used 1/4 canola and 1/4 coconut, only because that's what I had on hand)
1 cup canned pumpkin
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup roughly chopped fresh cranberries

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

Stir the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and spices together in a medium bowl and set aside. In a large bowl, using an electric mixer on medium speed, beat the eggs and sugar until smooth and lightened in color, about 1 minute. On low speed, mix the oil, pumpkin, and vanilla until blended. Mix in the flour mixture to incorporate it. Mix in the chips and cranberries.

I used a soup spoon to drop these onto the parchment paper, then gently flattened the tops so they weren't quite so lumpy.

Bake the cookies until tops are firm, about 16 minutes. Texture will be cakey; cranberries lend a lovely tart bite to all that sweet softness.

If you are lucky, you can time this to be able to offer your toddler (or partner, or roommate, or co-worker) a warm cookie as he emerges from his too-short nap, rubbing his eyes and teetering on the edge of grumpiness - and voila! The afternoon is saved.

my return from the abyss

Dear readers, I am finally feeling better!

But what a terribly long and discouraging illness it was. Last Friday, I woke up, went downstairs to shiver on the couch under a blanket and watch the children do their morning thing - nibbling on cereal and enthusiastically greeting all their toys after the night's separation. After a bit I felt the then-familiar wave of nausea crash into me, dragged myself up the stairs to the bathroom, and huddled over the toilet until I finally threw up. But before I was done I heard Gabriel happily burst through the door behind me, exclaiming, Mama's here! Hello, Mama!

At which point I realized there was only thing to do - only one way to make it through this awful illness - and so I waited what seemed like an eternity, until the reasonable hour of 8:30 or so, called my mother, and begged her to come. But begging wasn't called for. She just came. She came with the makings of chicken soup, beautiful pink tulips, and other groceries I needed. She came with a bright and decisive attitude. She sent me to bed and took over everything. And she stayed for four days!

Usually when my mother comes to visit us, she's the grandmother, I'm the mother - and the host - and the children enjoy us accordingly. I make dinner, I change poopy diapers, I make sure there are clean towels (or at least try to) for my mom to use. My mom reads lots of stories, plays games, comforts and entertains, and brings treats. It works rather nicely, I think. But this time, when I opened the door to my mother feeling very ill and shaky, she walked through the threshold as The Mother. The Mother In Charge.

So I did what she said, and went to bed, from where I could hear her mothering my kids. She made them snacks, and tied shoes, and asked them to behave, and put the dishes away. She made decisions about dinner and baths. She was amazing. I sat and coughed in my haze and listened. Sometimes I came downstairs for a little and curled up on the couch and watched it all happen.

I was watching bits of my own early childhood - my mother at the stove, my mother on the floor building train tracks, my mother reading stories flanked by two small children who could easily have been my sister and me. This was so very familiar. I also had a sense that I was standing back and watching my own life with my kids; this was what we usually did. This was our life, and honestly, it looked pretty good. How nice to know!

I felt a continuity between her mothering and my own; I realized that what I do and how I do it with my kids is something I started learning a very, very long time ago. I wonder about Frances's far-off mothering. Will she hold her head just that way? Will she sing song after song with pleasure? Will she bring the same energy, and the same vulnerabilities to frustration, to life with her own babies?

(I also wondered about Gabriel, and how this chain of mothering will impact who he grows up to be, and how he fathers his children. I thought - am still thinking - about gender, and not without some sadness. It is harder to imagine him at the stove with trains at his feet as an adult - but of course my children surprise me all the time.)

And so, my mother gave us the extraordinary gift of her care. But she also gave me some perspective, and a sense of awe - I felt my own indebtedness to her, and to her mother and all the mothers who came before. Whether they were 'good mothers' or not, in ways that I am still unaware of, they brought me here.

And now, thank goodness, I am much better. What else has been keeping me from the blog? A delightful weekend spent with friends. Outings to Kinder Farm Park and the SERC, taking advantage of glorious sunny days.

And finally, a job possibility that has me very stirred up. There has been a lot of talking and a lot of thinking about this one in our house. Confronting change is never easy, is it?

what happens when a talking family loses a voice

St. John's College is known as a talking college. If you're not much of a talker, you might not last too long there. It occurred to me yesterday that we are a talking family. Boy, do we like to talk. I can feel some of you out there smiling to yourselves - is she only realizing this now? I know, I know, but it took me suffering a seriously compromised voice to figure out that I might not last long around here without it. Forget about tenure, Mama - you can't even sing us songs anymore!

I have the flu. It is, needless to say, very annoying. The most annoying symptom of all is a constant, hacking cough that seems to be triggered by speaking and singing. And breathing, come to think of it. I just cough all the time. At first Frances was sympathetic and told me I could snuggle with her whenever I wanted. That lasted a day or two, and then started the exasperated questions like: when are you EVER EVER going to stop COUGHING??? Why don't you stop that now? Do you LIKE coughing, Mama?

Well, no, I don't. This cough has made me realize that I read books, sing songs, and talk talk talk all day long with my kids. Gabriel is in a stage with language where he wants everything he says repeated back to him. A frog! A frog in a book! A frog in a book! he will repeat, over and over, louder and louder, until I say: yes, Gabriel, that's a frog in your book. I realize I usually read many, many picture books a day to both kids, not to mention a chapter of Little House in the Big Woods or Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle with Frances. And for the past week, I've been out of commission. What to do?

Here is my answer, at least with little Gabriel. I draw to him. We've been communicating with pictures like crazy. Typically, he finds a piece of paper and a marker and runs up to me with the look of a crazed addict in his eyes and pleads, DRAW A BUS! DRAW A BUS, PEASE! (At least he's polite). And then we sit down together and I ask him which colors he would like, and as the bus slowly takes shape he gets more and more excited. His little body shivers with pleasure and he yelps things like: WHEELS!!! WINDOWS! A BUS, A BUS!

I feel like a magician, a wizard, conjuring things out of thin air that have a reality for Gabriel that is almost startling. His response seems equivalent to what your response would be if I took some dried out markers and somehow made an actual purple and orange VW bus appear in my kitchen. And it would be filled with snorting, smelly animals poking their heads out of the windows, looking cheerful. That's his favorite - cats and horses and lizards and elephants driving trucks and buses.

Yesterday I made him some big pictures on a big sheet of brown butcher paper on the floor. He drooled with anticipation (and teething) all over the pictures, watching on all fours, as I made them. Another truck, another truck! Oh, there are never enough trucks! But who could deny this small boy just one more little truck...?

Can any of us really imagine living in a magic 21 month old world, where images are real and have a life all their own? I'm sure aspects of that world are scary; anything at all could happen. But that's just it - anything at all could happen. A horse could drive a bus. Right in your house!


Gabriel has an appetite for kisses and hugs the likes of which I have never encountered before in a toddler. He is teaching Frances how to really hug, something I don't think I could have done. He gives us all boundless love and affection; it is really extraordinary. Delighting him with my little pictures is a gift I happily give (especially as I feel too sick to attempt much else). This evening I was sitting on the couch with Frances, who was going to read a book (that's one way to solve my speaking problem with her). Gabriel came up to us and looked studiously at the cushions on the couch. He experimentally pushed his forehead into them, stepped back, and announced: a clunk. He looked up at me expectantly. You clunked your head Gabriel? Uh-huh. Do you need a kiss? He solemnly, vigorously nodded his head yes and stepped forward to receive it.

Ah, geez, kid. I'll draw you a thousand trucks, I'll give you a thousand kisses. Always.

all good things flow from twenty minutes on the elliptical machine

I have been wanting to tell you about my Sunday afternoon ever since it happened. It wasn't anything particularly special; just some happy time spent alone and some happy time spent with my kids. Happier still, at day's end I was reminded of how worthwhile it is to take care of myself. Duh, right? I know. But in the midst of full-time mothering, it's not always easy to know, or easy to do.

I suppose there is nothing new about what we did on New Year's Day, especially in the midst of a recession -- revisited the budget, talked about our priorities and how to spend accordingly. Up until then, I figured that joining a gym (plus availing myself of child care at a gym) would be prohibitively expensive for us. Instead, I go running whenever I can with Gabriel in the jogger, and practice yoga a tiny little bit on my own. (When, oh when, can a mother do a sun salutation in peace? Only after bedtime, at which point the sun has gone down, taking my motivation with it).

Sadly, since the ice, snow and very cold temperatures have arrived, I haven't gone running - both because of the slippery terrain and out of concern for one potentially frozen toddler. It's been a few weeks since I've been able to exercise. I am hardly the sporting type, but now I can say with utter confidence - it's very official - the sedentary suburban life is not for me. I notice the effect on my mood, my energy, the way I feel in my body. Not good, not good at all!

But a community rec center just opened near our house with rather reasonable rates, and after Christmas I had determined to put all my holiday gift dollars into buying a few months' membership.

That would have been fine. But what was even better was talking about it with Mike and putting a membership into the budget - figuring out that this was something we could afford, and not something I had to wait for my grandfather to send me his annual Hannukah check in order to do.

The fact that I am not earning any money to contribute to family expenses right now has made some of these kinds of decisions more complicated than I anticipated. Buying things for the children seems a no-brainer, but buying things for me? Making this budget together was a fabulous thing; already it has proved liberating. We budgeted things like a few dollars of petty cash for everyone each week, so that I can buy a cup of coffee without feeling guilty about it. I just can't buy 6 of them. No problem.

So! Back to Sunday, the day I left the children at home and headed out to the rec center to start exercising again. By the time I had filled out the paperwork and figured everything out, I had time for about twenty mellow minutes on the elliptical machine. I read Organic Gardening magazine and dreamed about the spring. I ran into friends. I watched a gang of adorable eight year olds playing basketball with a couple of dads. It really was perfectly lovely.

I drove home, and the children ran to meet me as if I'd been gone for a week. Gabriel waited patiently in the bathroom while I took a shower and we played a little "I see you!" game through the little clear bits of the curtain. I went to the kitchen, oozing contentment, and began chopping vegetables for dinner.

Gabriel took up his usual train tracking near the stove and Frances announced one of her bands was performing this evening. She was feeling a little wacky and began galloping with very heavy feet around the first floor, shouting/singing all kinds of outrageous songs, making up the words as she went in giant circles. Some of them were so amazing I had to put down my knife and grab the computer in order to document the lyrics:

This was delivered in a sort of little girl falsetto, with a lot of American Idol-style melisma:

I I I love you
I will always love you in my life
I love you in your dreams
I love you when you're awake
no matter if you're changed I love you
I would love you in a different state of mind
in my spirit
in my spirit
If I saw 10,000 people I would always love you you
YOU!!!!



There she is, singing on the run. And here is another song, more shouted than sung, to the rhythm of the galloping feet:

you are not suspicious!
I would love you if you were in a court of dishes!
I am not sincerely renowned
but you you are so magical and right
I would shine you in the eye
you love me!

At which point Frances paused for breath, broke out of her lunatic band routine, and said, Mama, this song has a lot of metaphors in it, doesn't it?? Do you know, that song was called The Metaphors of Magical People!

Now, Gabriel was completely mesmerized by this performance. He stood, frozen in place, a train car in each chubby hand, and each time Frances passed by a little open-mouthed smile registered on his face. Finally he found his voice and made a request. Dinosaur Song! Didi sing it! Dinosaur Song! And so she did:

I am a dinosaur
I come to eat you up!
I am a mean dinosaur!
I live far away in Austr-a-li-a!
DINOSAUR!

(an aside to me, mid-song: Mama, this one is hip hop.)

I wish I lived in Lancaster, very far from Australia
I wish there were no dinosaurs
I wish there were no dinosaurs
I love you
but I don't love you in a good way
DINOSAUR!

Gabriel and I both really liked the dinosaur song, but when I asked if she could sing it again, she told me no she could not, because it scared her too much to sing that song.

She was serious.

I know there probably isn't any connection between my inaugural trip to the rec center and the extraordinary, exuberant performance Gabriel and I were treated to that evening. Or maybe there was. It sure felt that way to me.

Finding a way to get back to regular exercise was a great relief. Even though money is tight, taking care of myself matters that much. Strolling in and handing over my credit card felt like a gesture of self respect. Later, at home, I was still glowing with that feeling. The children picked up on it, and Frances then self-respected herself all the way to an imaginary frenzied rock and roll performance that I actually would have paid to see. I would have taken the tickets out of the entertainment part of the budget, without a second thought.

come back, routine!

Happy New Year!

I just stepped out of the bathtub, making a little more room for my squirmy children and their toys. Nonetheless, they were sad to see me go. Why are you getting out, Mama?
Because I'm cold. And you two keep squirting me with the bath toys, and I'm wearing a pink turtleneck sweater rolled and tucked up to nearly my armpits and nothing else below and if your father (or anyone else in the universe besides you two, for that matter) were to see me just now I'd feel a little undignified. That's why.

I didn't say all that; I think I just said because it was time to get out. Then I got dressed and coaxed them out, all shivery and mottled pink, and wrapped them up in towels. They sat on my knees and we sang 'I love you, a bushel and a peck...' over and over until peace and happiness seemed secured. More or less.

It's funny, but at this moment, the happiest thing about 2010 for me is the fact that it will bring the return of preschool in but a few short days. Getting into that bathtub tonight was Mama jumping the shark - I would do ANYTHING to improve the mood around here. It's better than snipping and sniping, which is what I spent a good part of the afternoon and evening doing.
I realize that a break in routine for my eldest child is stressful no matter what, and with Mike home on his winter break and her snow-influenced long break from preschool, we've been enjoying a stretch of anything-goes family days filled with visitors and cookies and gifts. Sounds great, right? It IS! It has been! We've had grandparents galore, a singing and dancing smash of an aunt, an uncle with a hilarious gift for the accents of the British isles, a dear west coast friend, and long hours of drawing and reading and imaginary games with all the trucks and trains and little animals who arrived at Christmas.

Does this sound awesome or what?

And so a certain someone's grumpy and demanding attitude, her faster-than-the-speed-of-light launch into meltdown at the slightest obstacle or frustration has been...jarring. Okay, annoying. It's not just that she's suffering an excess of fun. Everyone starts to freak out when the fun is nonstop. I have been mindful of keeping things lowkey, maintaining lots of quiet, open time for things like Frances's latest book to emerge, Henry Maboo's Day.* It seems the very fact of our days not being like regular days rattles her nerves.

I'll spare you the details. Let's just say I'll have to seriously resist giving Miss Georgia an enormous bear hug on Monday morning. The joy I anticipate upon sight of her is not just about taking my kid off my hands for a few hours - it's about the way she and the rest of the children will restore Frances's equilibrium. (It's hard to cross one's fingers while typing, but I'm trying just now). I realize this one is bigger than me. My daughter is four. She has a world outside of her family - a pretty cool one - and she misses it.

Come to think of it, I miss the world outside my family too. Huh. Something in common! The bottom line is that it is hard to feel irritated with someone you love so completely. But the girl will have her preschool reunion soon - and the truth is we have managed some beautiful moments despite the stir crazies. Like the following, nearly too-cute to report on, but I can't resist:

Today Gabriel and Frances were having a hugfest. He went at her in a big bear hug and they wobbled and landed on the floor on their knees, laughing. Frances looked up at me with a big grin on her face and said: MAMA! We almost fell in love!!!
(I don't think she was making a joke - I think she believes falling in love must involve some actual falling down on the ground. Which, I suppose, it does, usually...)

*And here is the table of contents from Henry Maboo's Book:
(Maboo is his last name. You pronounce it MAH-booz.)


And the text reads (each line has its own page/picture):
One fine day, Henry dug up dinosaur bones.
One fine night, Henry saw a shooting star.
One fine day, Henry saw a garbage truck.
One fine day, Henry saw a butterfly.
One fine day.



Here's to many, many fine days and nights for all of you in 2010.