pre-dawn confession

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, not that stormy, but it was dark, owing to the bizarre power outages in Annapolis last night (it always feels ominous when this happens, our new normal). And out of the inky blackness, after many hours of waiting, came my knight in shining armor. Which is to say my husband, wearied from fighting off a cold and the accumulated hours spent in icky car dealerships, and he was driving a shining silver minivan.

We did it. After many days of deliberations, research, money talk, values talk, and test driving, we said goodbye to our trusty little Fit and bought a minivan.

And at 4:30 this morning I was wide awake, wondering if the power was back on, wondering how I can possibly finish all the holiday preparations, and more than anything contemplating what it would be like to drive the kids to school today.

I'm thirty weeks pregnant, and if I didn't completely believe that this baby will soon be joining our family before, the enormous gleaming vehicle in our driveway makes it all undeniably real. She's worth it, yes? A brand new person, someone who I hope will, with her one unique and precious life, increase the portions of goodness and beauty and truth in the world? She merits a minivan.

Eventually the sun will rise and I'll get a good look at this thing. Happy Solstice, my friends.

the gloaming

My children don't know what happened in Connecticut on Friday. In a way, I still don't know what happened. I can only bear to absorb tiny bits and pieces at a time, and for now I think I am saturated. I haven't read any more news today, nor have I indulged my public radio habit in the car.

You'd think that in the light of unthinkable violence like this, I'd hold my kids tight and tell them how much I love them. But that wasn't what happened for me - the shock and grief were so great, and I felt myself withdrawing, hiding away, becoming irritable when they asked for something twice. That is one of the strangest things about grief: at a time when we need each other the most, we isolate ourselves. At least I know I do, sometimes. I just finished  a novel in which the protagonist patiently and tenderly cares for his dying mother for many months, and when she does die, he asks his friends and daughter to give him one week. One week in his bed, alone. When the week is out they can come get him and bring him back to life. 

So I suppose I am lucky the weekend was busy, because part of me wanted to take to my bed. Away from my kids and their need, away from my responsibilities, awash in my white comforter, with only the view from my bedroom window to distract. It is a selfish impulse.

But that didn't happen; too much to do. Saturday passed and still Frances had not discovered that something was terribly wrong in the world. Then at church this morning, one of our priests prayed at the opening of the service for the children who were killed, naming them all, slowly, deliberately. I could feel so many others crying with me, and was grateful that we went to church that morning after all, even though I hadn't wanted to.  You can't hide away when you're smashed seven in a pew. You can't turn away from pain and grief when they are a palpable presence, held by everyone in a room.

We went to lunch at an older couple's house that Mike works with. They filled our kids' glasses with undiluted juice, offered seconds on sweets, and brought out a box of toys from when their children were young. We came home, crafted, went on walks. Before we went to our neighbors' house for dinner, Gabriel and I took clippers outside to cut back the raspberry bushes. The day was grey and moist, and even though it was just four in the afternoon we could feel the evening rapidly rushing in. I realized it's almost the solstice, the twilight of the year.

We admired the red branches' soft, dense thorns, the ring of pale green surrounding the white center of the branch that was revealed when we cut through at a thick-enough spot.

At Taco Sunday Katie let the children wear her reading glasses while we talked and they played school. She offered Gabriel his first bite of lobster (a hit), then later she and Chester surprised the children (and us) with tiny individual cups of Ben & Jerry's for dessert.

We were fed and cared for all day, and it was a fine reminder that everyday expressions of love are a powerful thing, a source of healing and light in the world that cannot be undone. I cannot conceive of the grief so many are going through right now, but I can imagine the love and care and help surrounding them. And so even if my kids do find out about what happened, or begin to ask questions, after today I feel more hopeful about their ability to bear it.

Mr. Rogers' mother advised him to "look for the helpers" when scary things happened in the news when he was a child. Look for the caring people in this world. No matter the depth of tragedy, you will never have to look far. It's no small thing.

12.12.12

Frances tells us that today, the twelfth day of the twelfth month of the twelfth year of the twenty-first century, at 12:12 pm and 12 seconds, her entire class let out a bit whoop of happy amazement. Then it was 12:12 and 13 seconds and they got back to second grade business.

I do think she may always remember that moment. It is the kind of thrilling stuff that drills indelibly into a seven year old's brain. At dinner tonight she earnestly pitied her poor baby sister who will join us in 2013, long after the possibility of such magical dates has expired, at least for their lifetimes.

It seemed like a fine day to share some of our latest favorite things. And so, in no particular order, I present to you a snapshot of what is bringing color and depth to our lives on this oh-so-momentous date:

1. Arcadia. I find this novel captivating. It pains me to put it down, which I sadly must do often. I wept through the first chapters as sensitive, mystical little Bit, the protagonist, makes his way on a commune in upstate New York. The prose is perfect, and Groff - with amazing accuracy - captures a child's magical understanding of events (including the severe depression that renders Bit's mother unreachable - particularly heart-wrenching for this pregnant mother who has recently returned to clinical work).

2. Daniel Handler on Fresh Air. A really and truly delightful conversation. Could he and Terry have hit it off any better? I listened at the gym and laughed out loud far too often, which was sort of embarrassing.

3. A sincere longing for open time to mosey into holiday projects with the kids. Until the end of next week though, we are on our regular schedule, in which the downtime together that I am craving seems in short supply. So stringing popcorn, making ornaments, and rolling pinecones in peanut butter and birdseed will have to wait.

4. The return of granola. I haven't made it since I became pregnant, which would have been, oh my goodness, some twenty-nine weeks ago. My family has gone without for a long time. Maybe it's some kind of third trimester-induced desire to nurture, but I couldn't stand it for a minute longer today and finally filled the jar back up just before Gabriel and I went to pick up Frances. (My simple bare bones recipe is here).

5. Sufjan Stevens' Songs for Christmas. This music has become forever associated with the season for me (some of the songs are achingly, transcendently beautiful - listen to his original Sister Winter sometime) and now I hear he has a new box set of Christmas songs called Silver & Gold. Oh my. I don't think we can wait for Christmas morning, because I imagine these are songs best spooled out slowly over days...in the meantime though the same old melodies are feeding my soul, and helped give me patience as I put the lights up on our fussy tree this afternoon.

6. The return of the Spy Network.

The children found their old box, folded and creased and - at least I thought - rendered unrecognizable by the ravages of life in the garage over the past few months. But no. An innocent venture in search of a hammer led to a fantastic discovery: Look, it's the Spy Network!! Then before I knew it the two of them were lugging it through the kitchen and down to the playroom, cleaning it out, posting new rules, and placing important spy items inside: my kitchen scissors, tape, a telescope (really? from where?), and the big heavy red dictionary. Why does Frances need the dictionary, you ask? Why, because it has morse code in it, of course.

7. Fresh cranberries. Fold them into nearly any baked good and it will be that much better, tart and fresh. Seriously. I made banana buttermilk cranberry muffins for Mike's last classes earlier in the week (I am still feeling rather proud of the nice gesture) and happily there were extras for us.


Now. Will you tell me what is floating your boat today?

preparations

With the addition of a new part-time job, life feels a bit more slippery these days. I can't quite get a handle on where I'm supposed to be and what I'm supposed to be doing, and my mind quietly emits unbidden reminders of strange and unrelated responsibilities at odd times of the day: what will we do for teacher presents? Have I called that friend back? When will I be able to exercise again? What will we do about the car that is falling apart? Frances needs socks. When will I get Frances socks?

But despite the occasional buzzing in my mind and some family-wide growing pains, I have been amazed of late to notice that Christmas is happening despite it all. We are getting ready. Friends brought the children their presents early and Frances has been wearing her beautiful Christmas dress and new sparkly red shoes ever since. We've baked cookies. The kids have been making secret packages for their friends, the contents (and outer wrappings) of which may be trash to some, but hopefully will be treasure to the receivers. We just came back from practicing for the pageant. I got together with friends last week to make ornaments.

Gabriel and I brought up the holiday boxes and he went nuts digging through everything, finding bits of ribbon and boxes, the holiday storybooks, the stockings, the lights.

Life has this way of carrying us along, which I find immensely reassuring, given the sense I have every so often of ineffectively thrashing about. All will be well, and all will slow down: most immediately during the holidays, when we will all be off of school and work and can luxuriate in pajamas together. And soon, so soon, this new babe will arrive and set me straight. Teacher gifts? The preschool coop schedule? All these obligations will settle down in a heap like so many worn-out puppies, and we will return to the essentials: eat, sleep, touch, breathe.

Gabriel tried to push his way into Frances's room after she yelled at him not to come in as we got ready for bed tonight. I gave him a hard time about not respecting privacy, and he wept bitter tears, telling me that she will never, never let him in her room to play with her.

Have you told her you like to spend time playing with her in her room?

But she - sob - won't let me anyway!!!

I convinced him to ask her to talk about it. We knocked and she reluctantly admitted us. We sat down on the bed together and Gabriel humbly, heartbreakingly told his big sister that he liked to be with her in her room, and could he sometimes? Frances wrapped her skinny arms around him and told him yes, yes. But knock first, okay? Then they climbed into bed to read together and told me to go downstairs please.

See what I mean? Sometimes all it takes is a gesture, a nudge, and life carries along the rest. Tiny Christmas miracles, everywhere I look.

words for aliens

It's happening. Gabriel is entering the magical time when the connection between spoken words, stories, images and written symbols on a page is becoming real. He strings together letters to label and title his drawings. He asks what the word he has written sounds like, and when I say heelohzackillsss he laughs in a goofy way that is nonetheless tinged by awe. Did he really create that sound, just by putting all those letters together??

We experienced this before with Frances, in a different way that was just as delightful and mesmerizing. It's a happy discovery, learning that it doesn't really matter how many children you've witnessed opening to the power of reading and writing - it is just as incredible, every time.

Last night at Taco Sunday Gabriel made a Book of Aliens. Each page was numbered and depicted a different planet with its inhabitants. Each planet was labeled and as we looked through and added to his book this afternoon, he explained: These aliens are from the planet R-E-S. How do you say that, Mama?

I think Tintin taught him about using word bubbles with his pictures. In the Book of Aliens, on different planets aliens alternately say "hih," "ih," "hie," and "hii"- and Gabriel was beside himself when I pronounced them for him, more or less, as "Hi!". Did he really write Hi??

Pretty close, kiddo. It just gets better and better from here on out.

life in the current

Last week I started a new job. I'm being a therapist again, after more than four years away from clinical work. The counseling center where I've started seeing clients is slowly generating bookings in my part-time schedule and so the re-entry has been blessedly gradual. On Tuesday morning I had a great second session with someone, spent way too long on paperwork, ran home to relieve our excellent babysitter, hung out with Gabriel for a bit, and visited with a new friend who is also a clinical social worker and stopped by to give me a crash course in a particular clinical problem while the boy watched a video...then it was time to get Frances, drop off both kids at a friend's house so I could see an Eastport Girls Club family, get everyone home in time to throw together a quick dinner, and oh my goodness by the time the kids were in bed and a work call had been made I was so very exhausted.

Yesterday was yoga class in the morning (after far too long away) followed by a happy surprise collision with Mike at home before he went to class and I went to pick up Gabriel. Then my dear boy and I raked leaves in the backyard. Or rather, I raked and he attacked the piles with a very big stick.

He charged the leaves with such gusto! Clearly there were all kinds of imaginary opponents lurking in the leaves, invisible to my limited eyes. I'm lucky Sir Gabriel was there to keep them at bay.

I was filled with a kind of crazy euphoric gratitude that afternoon, thinking of all the supportive people in our lives, the opportunity to do the work I trained to do, the growing village this town has unexpectedly become. After we picked up Frances I spontaneously suggested we invite one of her pals to come out with us for hot chocolate. Which we did. At the cafe we ran into more friends and the kids earnestly - and hilariously - performed magic tricks over and over for me. The big kids did not exclude the little kid one iota. And I felt so content I do believe I might have been glowing.

Then today I somehow completely missed the fact that the calendar said I would be at a meeting and taking Frances to gymnastics at 4 pm. Eek! Midway to gymnastics I had to pull over, apologize profusely to Kate the stood-up babysitter, apologize to my colleagues, apologize to the children who desperately wanted to play with Kate, and then head back onto the road only to slide into the parking lot and run Frances into class late (much to her well-articulated chagrin).

But even as I rushed her in, it occurred to me that this is what approaching balance in one's life is like. You don't actually ever get to a particular spot where all things are in their proper places. Balancing isn't being perfectly still, when you think of it - it's shifting and swaying ever so slightly, executing gentle movements that realign one's weight and center over and over. There are too many moving parts in a living body for stillness to make any sense, and there are too many moving parts in a family to ever really settle into a fixed approach to daily life. Even when jobs and schools stay the same, the very fact of so many people living and growing together ensures the need for adaptive movement and change. Kids are potty-trained, develop a new fear, or meet a new best friend. Marriages grow, friends come in and out, illness visits, community unfolds, babies are born! And each part has to shift to accommodate the moving, glorious whole.

Maybe it's pregnancy, or rejoining with people in the unique environment therapy allows. Or maybe it's the season - the last leaves lingering, poised in golden light, all of it about to give way to winter. There is so much change in the air, and - second trimester hip issues notwithstanding - it is extraordinary to realize I can move with this current. That we all can.

stitches and poky

 

Last night, having returned home from a lovely, full few days in Pennsylvania, Gabriel dug through a new bag of hand-me-downs and delighted in the discovery of footie pajamas pants. Just pants with feet. Genius. He enthusiastically pulled them on and his big toe stuck right through a hole in the end of the right foot. He looked at my plaintively.

Mama, could you sew the hole shut? Right now?

It wasn't too too late so Gabriel followed me to the closet where I keep the sewing box and then helped me pick out some thread. I sloppily sewed up the hole with the pajamas still on his feet. He watched, mesmerized.

Mama, can I sew too? Please??

No, because it's bedtime, but maybe tomorrow we can do some sewing. 

And with that answer, instead of protesting, he looked off into the middle distance, his eyes gleaming with private crafting plans for the morn, then he ran up the stairs and dive-rolled into his bunk bed.

Fast forward 11 hours. The sky was just beginning to brighten and Gabriel was wide awake in his bedroom. His first words to me: I think we should make some clothes. Or maybe a doll, and then clothes for the doll. And then we could make a little pillow for the doll to sleep on. Okay?

This all sounded overwhelmingly ambitious to me at 6:45 am, and I told the boy he had to wait til we got home from church to get started, and geez louise Gabriel, sewing takes a lot of time and effort! But lo and behold, he and Frances basically accomplished it, and much more, before the day was over.

 

After church he fished scraps of felt out of the craft closet and said he'd like to make a bunny. Frances was sitting nearby and I could see her ears perk up at these words. Her too, please! So we drew a template together, cut out pieces of felt, and I sat with the kids and offered assistance while they sewed their front bunny and back bunny together. Watching the needle slide in and out, Gabriel named his orange bunny Stitches. Frances declared her blue bunny was Poky. 

After the bunnies were complete, they immediately came to life. And as you know, living creatures have a lot of needs: food and drink were procured, small toys, leashes and collars (we spent a lot of time with two adorable puppies over the holiday), as well as little beds for the bunnies to sleep in. Scraps of felt were pinned and tied to the bunnies before they came outside to play, serving as makeshift clothes in case they were cold.

I watched Gabriel tuck in Stitches tonight before I said goodnight. I was so overwhelmed with tenderness watching him, thinking of my 17 month old niece Louisa who put her favorite stuffed toy to bed over and over just a couple of days ago at my mom's house, sweetly covering him up on the floor with a dish towel, just as Frances used to do at that age. In their own way, my kids are still playing that game. I'm so glad we had the time and space today to let Stitches and Poky come to life. It's a welcome, warming surprise to realize that my big kids are--sewing skills notwithstanding--still pretty small.

giving thanks

The director of Gabriel's preschool emailed me this picture a week or so ago, a sweet reminder of Halloween morning, when Bug Boy and Laura Ingalls trick-or-treated in a nursing home.

Yesterday I was chatting with the checker at Trader Joe's and comparing Thanksgiving notes. We agree that it is the best holiday. We agree that you simply cannot skip the dinner rolls, even though they are completely superfluous, because too many people are attached to them and Thanksgiving is not the time to challenge anyone about food. We agree that the more the merrier, and unexpected or new guests are always excellent additions. In my mind I was remembering Thanksgivings past with friends who were relatively new at the time, but he had a much better example to share.

"Once my partner and I invited a lady we met at the bus stop," he told me with a grin. "She told us her name was Queen Elizabeth, so that's what we called her." He explained how they knew she would have nowhere else to go, and gave her instructions on how to get to their house. To their surprise she showed up on time, and apparently proceeded to get outrageously drunk. I made a little quip about how I guessed Queen Elizabeth can do whatever she damn well pleases, and he laughed. We wished each other a happy Thanksgiving and the kids and I were on our way, navigating the loaded cart through the crowded parking lot, my mind already on how to unload groceries, exercise and shower in the 45 minutes I had before it was time to leave for early dinner with some new friends that evening.

But my mind kept returning to Queen Elizabeth. My little joke downplayed how extraordinary his story was. Talk about radical hospitality! Would I invite a crazy lady at the bus stop to our Thanksgiving dinner? No, I would not. But thank God for people who do, with grace and humility and humor, so that they can teach the rest of us.

I am noticing these sorts of kindnesses everywhere these days. Lynann sent me that picture from Halloween, just because. Danielle brought us a bag of sweet potatoes from her garden. When Gabriel suffered a freak neck injury this past week and I was in a quandary, unable to leave his side but due to attend the Marco Polo Expo - a much-anticipated culmination of the second grade's hard work and creative efforts - I frantically texted two friends at 7 am who drop their kids off at a school near our house. Could one of them please come over and stay with Gabriel while I went to the last half of the Expo?

They both came over. I rushed off to Frances's school and was greeted by a buzzing room full of kids and parents. When my daughter saw me she raced to the door with her big brown eyes aglow and explained breathlessly that Delanie's mom and Maggie's parents had been listening to the story she wrote, and she got to show them her Mongol-inspired felt ger, and now I was finally there and she could show me! The parents in question grinned at me, appreciative of her enthusiasm, and I could not stop the tears from stinging in my eyes. I missed so much of it. So many big-hearted adults had stepped in. Frances was so happy I was there. During Marco Polo Jeopardy (kids vs. parents) she climbed into my lap and insistently volunteered me over and over - I eventually answered Travel for 200 points - though of course the kid team won, by a gazillion points. They were just awesome.

When I came back, my house was filled with the sounds and harmonious energies of two chatting moms, a newborn, a three year old, a two year old, and Gabriel, who was gingerly sitting up for the first time in over 24 hours, playing with his younger friends. What a happy scene! What a joy to see my boy feeling better, surrounded by people he cares about and who care about him!

What would we do without the countless kindnesses that surround and support us, making the work of being a family so much lighter? This Thanksgiving I am grateful for the generosity of strangers, friends, and family; for so many who show me by their quiet example how much sweeter life is when you are willing to give of yourself.

And you? Where does your gratitude flow this year?

stories for children

Last Wednesday after school, we brought a friend of Frances's home with us for a play date. Wednesday is library day for the second graders, and in the backseat between Frances and Gabriel she proudly showed them her loot: a book on vampires, complete with terrifying fanged images from early Hollywood and bulleted lists of ways the unfortunate child who crosses a vampire's path might defend himself. The girls joked about stringing up garlic around the house. Gabriel was silent.

Until I pulled into our driveway, upon which he climbed out of the car, took one look at me, and burst into tears. "This is too scary," he moaned as he smashed his face into my thighs, embarrassed by his reaction but far too overwhelmed to keep it inside a moment longer.

Since then he's insisted on an escort to and from the bathroom, is quick to startle, and has spent a lot of time on my lap. He's reluctant to venture away from the house or his immediate family. He hasn't said a word about vampires, and I doubt it's even about vampires anymore - he's just left with a lingering sense of fear.

The most restorative activity that seems to heal this perceived tear in his usually safe and loving world is sharing stories. More, more and more stories. Over this lovely relaxing weekend, Mike's parents visited. We had more downtime than usual, and so I spent a good portion of it in the backyard on a blanket, reading from Isaac Bashevis Singer's Stories for Children. 

The stories in this collection are intense, strange (or at least I should think they would be to Gabriel) - about the supernatural, God, death, justice, nature, art, family, and come to think of it, everything that really matters in this life, usually played out with a cast of characters that includes good and bad Jewish spirits that haunt the streets of Polish shtetls. I love reading them with Gabriel. They are rather long and yet he sits motionless through them, barely breathing, and when we finish one (often with tears in my eyes, feeling emotionally exhausted) he pauses for a bit, then turns to me and asks for another.

This is the antidote to ridiculous faux vampire nonfiction (and lots of other nonsense kids encounter out in the world). These stories are about the truth, and children are so good at recognizing the truth! We read a story about Naftali the storyteller, his beloved horse Sus, and their long journey together. We read another about a poor orphan boy named Menaseh who falls asleep in the woods and dreams of a beautiful castle where he finds his parents and grandparents waiting for him. Though they show him its wonders, they quickly send him back to the living world, where he wakes to meet a new friend. The story ends after the two leave, when "among the undergrowth and wild mushrooms, little people in red jackets, gold caps, and green boots emerged. They danced in a circle and sang a song which is heard only by those who know that everything lives and nothing in time is ever lost."

At the end of the collection, in an epilogue titled Are Children the Ultimate Literary Critics?, Singer writes,

No matter how young they are, children are deeply concerned with so-called eternal questions. Who created the world? Who made the earth, the sky, people, animals? Children cannot imagine the beginning or end of time and space. ... Children think about and ponder such matters as justice, the purpose of life, the why of suffering. They often find it difficult to make peace with the idea that animals are slaughtered so that man can eat them. They are bewildered and frightened by death. They cannot accept the fact that the strong should rule the weak.

The child is often a philosopher and a seeker of God. ... If I had my way, I would publish a history of philosophy for children, where I would convey the basic ideas of all philosophers in simple language. Children, who are highly serious people, would read this book with great interest. In our time, when literature for adults is deteriorating, good books for children are the only hope, the only refuge. Many adults read and enjoy children's books. We write not only for children but also for their parents. They, too, are serious children.

From one serious child to another: may the week ahead be safe, happy, and healthy for you and for your dear ones, filled with good stories that satisfy the seeker and philosopher in all of us.

all saints and superheroes

Yesterday morning was a special All Saints Service at our church. Every year the church invites a dixieland jazz band to play, and the music is perfect - painfully, joyfully so. There were baptisms, there was a tuba, there was Lazarus emerging from the tomb, and there was a beautiful sermon about, in large part, the holiness of tears. I suppose that's a good thing, because good gracious, despite my best efforts I think I cried through the whole thing.

It was a big day for Frances, who served as an acolyte for the first time. That means she wore a red robe with one of those white angelic blousy get ups on top and carried a candle on a long pole in the procession leading into the church, during various parts of the service, and in the recession at the end - not far from the jazz musicians walking us all out to the raucous strains of "When the Saints Go Marching In."

She looked so small and solemn in that red robe! She was a good foot shorter than any other children participating in the service that day, and even though most of the time - she is my first, after all - she strikes me as impossibly old, long, lanky, and sophisticated, while we were in church I was reminded (thank you!) that she is just seven. She's a little girl.

Saturday was hard. I brought Frances to a superhero-themed birthday party for one of Gabriel's classmates and though I offered to take her elsewhere with me for awhile, she couldn't resist the balloons and cupcakes and opted to stay. But that is a hard spot to be in--bigger sister in a room full of wild and wooly smaller boys--so she eventually felt left out and pouty. And I was short-tempered with her persistent negativity, and then, and then...the day seemed to unravel from there. We arrived late everywhere, there was way too much backseat bickering, my messy, chaotic house resisted all efforts to tame it...basically, push back everywhere I turned, from animate and inanimate objects alike. And so late in the day, when a shelf of books in Gabriel's room dislodged after I bumped it with the vacuum and all the books went sliding to the floor, I sat down and cried.

It was fatigue, frustration, the stuff of everyday life weighing a little too heavily, but mostly it was my inability to get through to Frances, to circumvent all the junk cluttered between us. It was the grief I feel after the initial smokescreen of anger has worn away and I am left empty-handed, bewildered and sad.

Reading together at bedtime helped (it always does) and I do believe she felt good about herself after carrying that candle without setting anything on fire the next morning. After church she and her brother donned their fabulous party favors and played in the backyard, Gabriel deep in a fantasy superhero world and Frances somewhere else entirely, humming and talking quietly to herself on the swings while her cape fluttered behind her.

Tonight she was put on the spot in a group of people, and when I tried to quietly help her out after a short moment of awkward silence, she looked up at me with flaming red cheeks. Angry tears instantly formed and filled her eyes, and I knew I had made a mistake. I felt desperate to do something, to distract and somehow save her from those hot tears that would only make things worse if they managed to overflow. After she had a chance to settle herself I apologized for trying to help when I knew she could speak for herself just fine. She listened, then told me I had embarrassed her terribly, and that she was mad. Later still she ran up to me and silently hugged me around the waist (or where my waist used to be) as hard as she could. I stroked her hair for awhile, then she ran off.

Push, pull! Much later, she patiently explained to me that even though I think of her as an outgoing, talkative person, sometimes she is actually really shy. And that when a person is three or four or five years old, they can be more extroverted without feeling embarrassed, but now that she is older she feels embarrassed all the time.

Why?

Because now I know how you're supposed to act. I know when I do things the wrong way.

Oh, my thoughtful girl. When I see her twisted up inside herself it is hard to step back and let her find her own way. I think of Jesus calling to Lazarus in the cave: Come out! Lazarus had to do the work and get up and walk, but it was in response to a loving voice. How might we be a pathway for that voice that beckons to Frances, calling her forth when she is scared and uncertain, keeping her inner superhero hiding in the shadows for fear of doing things the wrong way? How to give her the courage to be her own extraordinary, idiosyncratic, perfectly lovable self?

To put it more plainly, how to endure the pain of loving our children so very much? How to find the strength to stay close and stand apart?

storm fever

 

You might notice that in all of these pictures the lights are on. It was a hurricane miracle! We never lost power, and bid adieu to a mere tree branch or two. Our neighbors were not so lucky; an enormous pine tree in their front yard came down, crashing into their upstairs guest room window.

So we are feeling immensely grateful for the relative ease with which we slid through this storm. The challenge really amounted to entertaining two children who were stuck indoors for roughly 48 hours. On Monday we played-per the kids' request-Home School. (Home schoolers out there might enjoy the exotic novelty it held for my kids, and the fact that it wiped me out, completely).

First assignment: map making. Real or imagined countries welcomed. Per Frances's suggestion, I recreated a map of Europe. "Maybe it will help you with geography, Mama." I am pathetic in that regard, but at least for today, I can tell you exactly where Belarus is.

What else? Math problems, lots of stories, yoga, crafting galore, Jack o' Lantern Carving 101, indoor gym class led by Mr. Papa, and Frances took the opportunity to master headstands. She spent about 30% of her waking hours over the past two days on her head. I joked that with all the blood flow going to her brain, her thinking should be at peak levels. She then proceeded to solve a number of practical problems we presented to her (how can we get you to eat a healthy lunch at school? how can I find more time to exercise?). So Frances is working on becoming a licensed headstand counselor and will be putting out a shingle shortly. Either that or writing the book on headstanding for better living.

We also made slates (one is a prop for a Laura Ingalls Wilder Halloween costume) by slathering wood pieces with chalkboard paint. They proved enormously entertaining! Frances convinced me to teach her cursive letters and I am certain this will backfire once she starts flaunting it at school.

So, all things considered, Sandy was kind to us. But oh my, am I ready for all of us to get back to our routines! The bickering is driving me batty and the kids miss School at School. Mike misses his students, I have work to catch up on, and we all are in need of some serious fresh air.

Hopefully trick or treating tomorrow will restore us. Happy Halloween, friends!

bug boy's mama (re)learns a lesson

Gabriel wants to be a superhero named Bug Boy this year for Halloween. His superpowers are those of an insect: he can float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. No wait, that's someone else. Well, in any case, he can fly, jump, sting, and buzz, and he might also wield a sword on occasion, if the situation called for it. 

My son has been conceiving the costume for weeks now, and long ago he told me that Bug Boy's symbol is an enormous stag beetle which should boldly emblazon his four year old chest. Hmm. All these details were making me nervous and the more I put off realizing them, the worse it got. Finally after school yesterday I announced we would work on his costume.

I brought the laptop to the kitchen table, hunched over it, and started scouring the internet for images of stag beetles that could be easily translated with felt and hot glue into a costume centerpiece. Things were not looking good as I clicked away, and my optimism flagged. Meanwhile my little boy was sitting next to me drawing a whole page full of amazing bugs.

After way too long, I noticed what he was doing. And suddenly felt pretty ridiculous.

Gabriel! Do you think that big mean ant could be Bug Boy's special symbol?

He looked up at me and smiled, nodding proudly. Yes. 

There it is. We cut it out and used it as a template for bright blue felt, then hot glued it (the glue is like a bullet that comes out of a gun!) onto an old red turtleneck. Gabriel's ant is far better than any Internet-inspired beetle I could possibly have come up with.

When we first started researching how to make his costume - which also had me staring at a screen, falling down various online crafting holes - Gabriel got frustrated with my inaction. He marched right up to me and said, Mama. We don't need more ideas from the computer. What we need is ... democracy!!

The minute he made this declaration we both nearly fell out of our chairs laughing. Too much exposure to election coverage on NPR, I suppose, because he delivered that line just like Mitt Romney. It was deliriously silly. But now I realize he was right. At least when it comes to art-making, we do need more democracy and less internet around here! The citizenry have plenty of excellent ideas. If only I'd remember to ask them first.

observations

Are you ever in the midst of your day, and you notice a hopeful, happy feeling on the edge of your awareness, and you think to yourself Now what was I happy about again...? What is that thing that gave me this feeling to begin with, that thing that is coloring everything so brightly and that I've somehow momentarily forgotten, though its effect lingers on...? (It also works the opposite way, at least for me: I notice a dragging, depressive cloud is hanging about me, and I have to rack my brain to remember the concrete source of my heaviness).

This afternoon I went on a luxuriously long, solitary walk in the sunshine and though that in and of itself was more than enough to justify my buoyant mood and springy step, when I noticed how happy I felt I just knew there was something else behind it that I was forgetting. As I rounded a corner of the walking trail around the Navy stadium, it hit me: the cape. I had just made Gabriel's Halloween costume cape out of a yard of shiny, satiny red fabric that he picked out at the fabric store last week.

Now, I am a very rudimentary sewer. And my inclination is to sew the way I cook: fast and loose, sloppy with the measuring. I am constitutionally unable to follow a recipe without making at least a few alterations. (Those of you who know how to sew can see how my success rate with sewing projects would be, to put it mildly, unimpressive.) But this cape! It is gorgeous. Even though I made it sloppy-style, sans pins and measuring, in less than an hour. (If you're curious, instructions are here).

It does feel good to make something beautiful all by yourself! But when I considered the cape as a potential source of the all-is-well feeling that carried my feet along, I knew that couldn't possibly account for all of it. This well of happiness was deeper than a superhero cape could dig. What was that good thing on the edge of my mind...?

And then, as I stepped onto the Poplar Trail, it hit me. Of course. We are having a little baby girl! Soon we will have a new person in our family, a new person to nurture, to puzzle over, to want to strangle, to delight in, to tell jokes with, to marvel over and to watch grow. She was the reason that everything was brilliant and beautiful this afternoon. Aha. How satisfying.

Last week we had a little scare: a cyst in the baby's brain turned up on our ultrasound. A very small percentage of babies with this particular cyst turn out to have Trisomy 18, a serious chromosomal disorder, so we were sent for a level two ultrasound to look for other indicators. A few days passed before we were able to have the second ultrasound, during which I tried my best to table my anxiety. The morning finally came, and I kept it light with the genetic counselor who diligently searched for signs of birth defects in either of our families. And then, after a long ultrasound (which I did enjoy, immensely, seeing her little body wriggle around like that), the doctor came in and said there was no cyst. He shrugged, smiled, and told us our baby was perfect.

For a second I felt irritated by a medical establishment that looks so extraordinarily hard for problems in pregnancy and fosters unnecessary anxiety, but mostly I felt relief. Happiness. Our baby is perfect (which I now realize she would be, no matter what the ultrasound turned up - because she is ours).

I still feel worried sometimes, and as ever I harbor a host of emotions about bringing this third baby into our lives. But somehow hearing that doctor say your baby is perfect helped me to fully and completely welcome joy into the mix. Exuberance. I feel those little karate chops and it is no less miraculous than the first time around. A new person is growing inside me! 

getting in the way

After two well-meaning checkers leaned over their registers at the store this afternoon to quiz Gabriel on his plans for Halloween, and he - with a world-class pout on his face, arms crossed, and eyes downcast - mumbled something about being a superhero named Bug Boy, we walked off across the parking lot and I asked him how he felt about talking with grown ups he didn't know.

I don't like it! Grown ups should not talk to me.

Why not?

Then came a moment, as he climbed into the backseat, replete with a weariness that a four year old should not yet know: silence, then a deep, heaving sigh, followed by eye-rolling. With these gestures he basically said must I explain the obvious to you? Again? ...and then resigned himself to the task.

Mama. I only like to talk to kids my own age who are my friends. Younger kids hit and kick because they don't know better. Older kids tease and taunt. And grown ups are just...annoying.

A world run and inhabited by four year olds! Can you imagine it? I sort of can, after a day of apple-picking with Gabriel and his friend Wyatt yesterday. There would be a lot of bathroom humor. I mean, a lot. Playing with sticks would be required for at least 2 or 3 hours a day (consequently half the citizenry would be missing an eye). Most of the time would be spent in make believe, everyone's clothes would be impossibly dirty, and hugs would abound, whether or not both participants were interested in a squeeze just then.

Gabriel and Wyatt hadn't seen each other in a long time and so the excitement level was high for our orchard adventure. On the way there, the boys talked pee and poop and cracked each other up for nearly an hour, after which point (thank goodness) I successfully introduced a game of 20 questions. That worked for awhile, until they started asked questions like "Is it an animal who...poops on your head?"

Oh man. Funny stuff. I admit, it was hard not to laugh, watching them delight in each other. They sprinted past the Braeburns and Staymans with sticks, pretending to be ninja samurai warriors and occasionally diving under trees to avoid enemies invisible to these old eyes. They spent an hour chasing each other through the straw maze, guffawing like mad. And the only challenge on my end was keeping their impulses towards naughtiness in check.

They seemed to want to push the envelope with me constantly. They'd encourage each other to disobey. At first I was a little baffled. What were they getting out of it? Then at one point Gabriel wandered over and sat down in my lap, clearly needing a break. Wyatt looked at him with horror, as if he'd been betrayed. Gabriel!! Come back here! he called from the lip of their pretend witches' stew pot, bunches of grass in his hands. Come on!!

Then I got it. I was a threat to their twosome. When you want to identify so completely with a friend, parents really get in the way - even if they're not literally in the way. The very fact of a parent's love can cramp your style, even at age 4.

And so it begins. We provide the security, the unconditional safe space in whose confines they can grow and hopefully become the people they are meant to be - yet part of that becoming will inevitably involve a thousand moments of distancing, rejecting, and separating from the love we offer. They come back and go away, over and over, practicing.

I am tickled by Gabriel's capacity for friendship. So much so that I didn't mind being the bad guy yesterday. But oh my, did it ever feel good when he snuggled up next to me for a story at bedtime!

 

say yes

This weekend the weather was fantastic, but the golden light that colored everything and everyone wasn't just about the perfection that is October sunshine. Last Thursday I went to the annual fundraiser for the nonprofit I work with, Seeds 4 Success. Some of you may remember when I wrote about meeting the executive director last November, how we shared so many connections and then later discovered that our parents had been friends in Dallas when we were babies and toddlers, so many years ago.

My family left Dallas when my dad got a job as the associate minister at the Unitarian Universalist church in Providence, RI, which put an end to backyard hang-outs with the Snells. Thirty-two years later, I was heading towards a table full of enticing appetizers at a fundraiser when a man with gray hair and a warm, open face reached out and touched my arm. 

"Meagan?" 

I was feeling inclined to love everyone at this event - all supporters, staff, and volunteers at one of the coolest nonprofits ever - so I figured he must be a friend, albeit one I didn't recognize. Then he told me that before the party, he couldn't quite remember my mother's face, but the minute he saw me he knew just who I was, because I looked so much like her.

And then I knew exactly who he was. My dad's old friend. Jess's dad. Bill. 

Oh! It was a gift, it was extraordinary, to hear him and his wife Laura tell stories about spending time with my parents when they were nearly ten years younger than I am now. How often do we hear first hand about our families before we were old enough to remember? My mom, at home with a toddler, apparently developed a penchant for hot dogs. She told ghost stories. My grandfather invited them to a party at his house and the guests included all three of his wives (two exes and current) who apparently all got along amicably. Bill and Laura were astounded. Who wouldn't be?

It was already as if God had given me an unasked for, unanticipated gift when I met Jess and learned about our family connection. The gift grew and grew on Thursday night, and it gave me a shivery, charged feeling. At a certain point  I realized my mom was coming into town on Friday, and I asked what plans Bill and Laura had for the weekend. 

Not much, they said - just their granddaughter's soccer game on Saturday morning. Which was exactly what my mom had planned on Saturday morning - her grandson's soccer game. Addison and Gabriel's games turned out to be at the same time, on adjacent fields, and my goodness, we were all able to stand around together in the chilly sunshine and talk! The amazing thing is that we did nothing to put this all in motion. We only had to say yes, to agree, to accept the gifts we were being given.

It's strange to think that if Jess and I hadn't connected, all those grandparents would be cheering along the sidelines in another town, another time, thirty years after starting a friendship with babies on their hips, and not recognize one another. But maybe not - after all, Bill recognized me, a perfect stranger. They'd probably have figured it out.

Later during the weekend, when all had settled into more regular routines, I was thinking about our meeting on the soccer field and was visited by a vision of my dad there with us. Loose-limbed, goofy, laughing at the sweet absurdity of four year olds chasing a ball straight off the field, cheering a little too loud for Gabriel, poking ridiculous fun at Frances when she complained of boredom, giving big bear hugs to Bill and Laura. It hurts sometimes when my mind goes there involuntarily - imagining what life would be like today with him in it. It's not hard at all, which is a kind of comfort, because I still know him so well. And thanks to meeting Jess's parents over the weekend, now I know him just a tiny bit better.

Oh dear. Telling you about that has me crying. A bit of lighter news: Frances made pancakes all by herself. She was so very proud! And both kids ran around in bare feet in the warm weather on Sunday, looking sweet and summery while I did yoga on the back deck and stared up in triangle pose at the green boughs moving gracefully in the wind above, and just like Amos the mouse, I felt thoroughly akin to it all. 

nitty gritty

Our kitchen floor - more than any surface in our house - is regularly stomped on, slid across, spilled on, and generally abused in every imaginable way. Yet, mop-averse mama that I am, I rarely pay any attention to it. Like, almost never. It's a sad state. (A certain friend of mine and loyal reader with hard-working German roots would be horrified.)

But we have - in theory - two small laborers who live rent-free upstairs and I decided it was time to give them the job of cleaning the floor. The last few weekends, I've set them up with soapy buckets and, per their request, played "It's a Hardknock Life" at a startlingly high volume, over and over. Then I leave them to it.

It's wild. They get sopping wet, they dance, they slide, they use every dishtowel and rag in the house, and it takes about an hour. Yesterday, things got so out of control at the end that I had to send them upstairs for a five minute time out, during which I hastily pulled out the mop, ran it over their uneven work, and hid it behind the fridge before calling them back downstairs. I didn't want to demoralize them.

Because despite their crazy approach to cleaning, they do take pride in their work. This year is our most scheduled yet with children, and in keeping with that, we have introduced regular chores in a more routinized way. It's a good thing, and they have taken to their new duties relatively well, but...for a sometimes lazy mama, it can be a daunting enterprise, this chore enforcement business.

Because let's face it, when overseeing a four and seven year old, one has to tolerate sloppiness, slowness, incompetence, and dilly-dallying taken to stunning heights. I believe in chores. I believe in shared family responsibility for the work of maintaining a home. I believe in the dignity of domestic endeavors! But lord, it can be tedious to impart these values.

So, can we get down to the nitty gritty? The challenge seems to be finding tasks that are realistically accomplish-able yet require some effort and will impart that real feeling of pride when done with care. I will tell you what our kids do. Then will you tell what your kids do, how you approach it, and if you ever go crazy in the process?

Right now, the kids take turns every morning putting away the silverware from the dishwasher (this works pretty well), set the table most nights, and help clear. Bed-making is nonexistent, but mostly because I can't figure out how to teach them to make their rather challenging beds (Gabriel's is a bunk bed with difficult tucks, and Frances's is a day bed with the same problem - metalwork on three sides. Advice welcome on this one.) On weekends they pick up their rooms (torture) and attempt the above-described floor cleaning.

Please weigh in! I can't be the only one of us interested in reading about the chores other kids are doing, and with what degree of success/family harmony. Our investments of time and energy at this age will - hopefully - pay off later. So...how is it working in your house?

her favorite brother

About a month ago, Gabriel changed his tune. For weeks he'd been praying fervently for a little brother (usually while his sister sat next to him, face screwed up tight, hands clasped, praying just as fervently for a little sister ... which made a charming scene, two miniature duelers silently, furiously competing for God's attention). But then, out of nowhere, he decided he wanted a sister too.

Huh? Mike and I suspected this was yet another case of Gabriel deciding it was best to placate his big sister's passionate desires and minimize conflict. Probably if he prayed for a little sister too it'd be in the bag, and then his Didi would be so very happy!

Well. We have an ultrasound scheduled this Friday, at which point we will likely know whether this baby is a little brother or a little sister. Last night before bedtime we were all on the big bed talking about it, and Gabriel set us straight about why he changed his mind.

"If it's a brother, I won't be Didi's favorite brother anymore. But if it's a sister, I'll still be her favorite."

Oh. Mike and I looked at each other, speechless. These two have been a pair for so long! The impending change is already rippling through all of  us in ways we are quietly discovering and absorbing, one moment at a time.

golden

Here is our boy, nearly four and a half years old, proudly wearing his Ravens jersey and a cluster of heart-shaped temporary tattoos, presiding over everything he carefully assembled that we would need to give each other manicures at our pretend spa. Nail buffer, oil, acorns (obviously), nail file, clippers. Soon he found a bottle of blue nail polish in my bathroom. After I painted his tiny nails, he sat back on the living room floor and quietly admired his chubby hands. He's old enough to file his own nails, and young enough to savor the sparkle of nail polish without fear of disapproval.  

We are in one of those golden moments with Gabriel. Creative expression is at a marvelous fevered pitch, independence and pride in accomplishments inspire the most charming grins, and as always when Gabriel is in a good way, he is heart-stoppingly affectionate. He asks for hugs, he tells us he loves us. At bedtime the other night, as I stood in the open doorway about to leave, he said simply, Mama, I had a good day with you today. I can't wait to have another one tomorrow. 

...Oh my.

I mean, don't get me wrong. There are still tantrums, infuriating fights with his sister, and refusals to put on his inside-out shorts the right way (I like them this way, okay??) before school. But most of the time, most days, he shines.

Competency is the name of this happy game. When a new developmental leap in on the immediate horizon, my kids get seriously grouchy. But once the kid is in midair, or has landed neatly on the other side, happiness and equilibrium return. These past weeks I hear "Mama, look what I can do!" about six times a day, and for the most part it isn't the least bit tedious. I share his delight in being able to construct a paper scabbard for his paper doll knight's sword, and in hopping the entire length of his classroom at pick up time, and in identifying every question mark on the page of a book. It's awesome what this kid can do.

(And I haven't even told you how he mashed the bananas today into a smooth-as-silk puree for banana bread!) 

I've been doing this long enough to know we will keep on cycling through times of struggle and change and times of equilibrium, from disorganization to reorganization and back again. Growing up can be so relentless in that way! Babies sometimes move through these states in a matter of days (keeps you on your toes), but with big kids - every so often - we get to sit back, relax, and savor a moment that goes on and on. Gabriel, your golden glow is a gift. It lights up everyone around you.  

my desperate late night plea for antibiotics

Since I put out the call for home cures, and since some of you gave me great suggestions (both here and on the Facebook page), I thought I'd update you. It's not pretty. After days of trying just about everything - including steaming, neti potting, drinking apple cider vinegar (awesome), eating many cloves of raw garlic (more awesome still), pouring hydrogen peroxide in my ears, and drinking gallons of tea - I hit a wall. The pain in my ear and jaw was driving me batty. I called an urgent care place last night and practically begged them to a) tell me antibiotics wouldn't hurt my baby and b) prescribe them, right now, please.

The P.A. I saw was very nice and reassuring, and told me not to worry, that amoxcicilin is safe, especially in the second trimester. (Oh, my nurse/doctor/health care professional friends out there, I have lingering doubts. Was she right?) She also told me to take some Tylenol, which I did. Oh man. I'm not proud, but this morning I feel so much better.

It occurred to me last night that every post on Mothering discussion boards and other similar sources of hippie mama insight that I scoured in the early days of this infection told a similar story to this one: lists of all the fantastic natural home remedies various women tried ... before eventually heading to the doctor and taking antibiotics. It's a little discouraging. What are reasonable expectations for us to have of the healing powers of garlic, teas, essential oils...? Should we consider these things more preventive than curative? I suspect if I had been taking garlic the moment I felt a cold coming on, things might have turned out differently (garlic is the only thing that seemed to at least temporarily help with symptoms).

I'm so interested to hear your insights on this one. How do you think about health, prevention, and healing in your family, and the place of medicine in all of it?

sunday morning

The quiet, slow Sunday morning feeling only comes in fleeting moments since I've become a parent, but that just makes it all the more precious. Now that school is in full swing and Saturday mornings begin with soccer games played by hoards of adorable, easily-distracted four year olds, Sunday mornings are in fact the only time that the Sunday morning feeling can spread slowly around our breakfast table. And here is the miracle: it does! Even though church begins at 9! There's about an hour every week during which all of us can lazily linger over breakfast in groggy, subdued harmony, and yesterday we rose to the occasion splendidly.

The scene: leftover whole wheat muffins that revived nicely when toasted and spread with lots of butter, perfectly cooked hard-boiled eggs*, lukewarm tea, and the Sunday paper spread in every direction. Mike and I read all about the 47% while the children made faces at each other and only interrupted me with requests for egg-peeling assistance once or twice. They are big enough that they tolerate me reading the paper in front of them. They are big enough that they read the paper themselves! (See more on the experience of marveling at big kids while anticipating a very tiny one's arrival in my last post. I detect a theme developing...)

During these moments that Velvet Underground song always begins to hum in the back of my mind. I've never paid that much attention to the lyrics. For all I know it's another prettier-sounding take on heroin. But doesn't it suit the mood? I played it for the kids, who were completely indifferent. After that we rushed to get ready for church and put the breakfast dishes away and hastily wipe milk moustaches off small faces and the magic disappeared. Just like that.

But it didn't go far. Later in the day I announced I wasn't feeling so great and needed quiet reading time, and - again, shocking - rather than protest the kids found their own things to do. For a long time. Frances made the masks you see above, which I must confess took my breath away when I wandered into the kitchen and saw them arrayed like that.

As we head deeper into life with older children, may I always remember that inner peacefulness, creative expression, and sanity itself depend upon unscheduled time together! The Sunday morning feeling is balm for our busy days. Here's hoping we can find a bit of it tomorrow.

*                            *                            *                              *                          *

*How does one make a perfect hard-boiled egg, you ask? It is so beautifully simple that even though I've been making them this way for years I still get a little thrill of satisfaction when they turn out so nicely. Place eggs in a pan of cold water (enough to cover) with a lid, heat until water boils, then turn off the heat. Leave them undisturbed for eight minutes. Voila! Yolks are a bit soft in the center, which is how I like them, but you could leave them for another minute if you want them to be firm.

And one more aside: I think I'm coming down with a sinus infection. This is tragic. My fear of the lingering pain is so great that in desperation I just ate an entire clove of raw garlic in little bits, swallowed like pills. No vampire problems here tonight, but dear me, pity my husband when he gets home from teaching. I googled natural remedies for a pregnant woman and that one kept coming up. The neti pot, steaming, lots of water - these things I've been doing, with little result. I'm sharing all this in case one of you knows of a miracle cure that the internet hasn't heard of yet. ...Do you? Would you tell me about it? Please?

growing

I woke up this morning to the sounds of my husband and children in the kitchen. I checked the clock, and though it was already seven I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow, relishing a quiet moment of observing my family unobserved. I love to listen to them. I love the sound of them getting along just fine without me. 

Of course, as I made my way to the kitchen a few minutes later, hearing Gabriel joyfully announce my presence with an excited Didi! Mama's coming downstairs! was also rather nice. 

There was no school today and we had minimal plans. So in the morning, after a long pajama-clad putter involving a few rounds of Uno and a desultory attempt at Memory, I packed us a picnic and we went for a hike. 

It was a beautiful morning. The kids brought their favorite birding guide, admired raccoon prints in the mud near the water, and pondered the wisdom of trail blazes. Once their attention was drawn to the red marks on the trees, they were compelled to imagine different and better systems of orienteering. Could you perhaps dig holes in the ground, and put big painted rocks in them? Or make flags and stick them along the trail? Or plant a special vine that only grew along the trail? Mama, wouldn't that be better than painting a tree? 

(Why is reinventing the wheel so tantalizing? And is the affliction worse for us Americans?)

I kept realizing how extraordinary it is to have big kids. It didn't even occur to me that anyone would run out of steam and melt down on the trail (which would have been likely a mere year ago). The whining was negligible, and our conversation ranged all over the place. And here I am, marveling at these independent hiking partners, with an avocado-sized little baby growing inside me, a person we have talked about and dreamed of for years, who is already drawing me back to another way of being a mother just as I am being delightfully tugged into big-kid-dom.

I remember the deep sadness that struck me at the end of my first pregnancy, as I mourned the impending loss of being just us. Mike and I would never be just us again. And then when I was pregnant with Gabriel, I cried on more than one occasion, worrying over the attention that Frances would necessarily forgo, the imbalance we were introducing to our happy trio. I confided those conflicted feelings to wise friends during both those times, and was reassured in a deep and lasting way by their strikingly similar advice: yes it will all change, and no you will not for a moment regret it.

I overheard Mike explaining why we decided to have another child to a friend of ours over the summer. He said we had more love to give. Yes! That is the truth. But already I am realizing I will have to lose the family we are in order to become the family we will be. I have to walk through that door, and feel the sadness that comes with changing. There's no way around it.

But it is all tempered by experience with these beloved, zany kiddos. The world will change, and I will not for a moment regret it.