Hey Mama

Briar: Hey Mama?

Me: Yes, baby.

B: Mama, can you wiggle it?

Me: Can I wiggle what, baby?

B: Can ya wiggle your stuff?

Me: My stuff?

B: You can do it, wiggle your stuff, mommy.

This exchange took place as I read an email from work. 'Wiggle' is Briar's term for typing. I am relishing the day we are out in public and she let's people know how her mama can wiggle her stuff...and Daddy, oh my, but Daddy simply has no idea the fun in store for him : Hey Daddy, wiggle your stuff, k?

Happy Birthday me, indeed.

Birthday Suit

Mine's a 34 year old smile.

Yup, it's my birthday. The sky is a brilliant blue, storybook clouds peppered overhead, a musical breeze pokes its head through my window and the air is already hinting at the advent of autumn, a gentle crackle of new beginnings tickles my ear. It is a truly splendid day.

The girls serenaded me this morning, Sean began lavishing me with attention beginning last night when he came home with beautiful, almost too beautiful to use in fact, mugs and bowls. The girls frolicked in the tissue and bag while I reverently ran my fingers along the grooves in the pale blue bowl.

Last night we slept beneath the quilt my mom sent, cheerful and bright with brilliant, multi-patterned squares, each with a pinwheel shape within. It was divine, and this morning I spent 30 minutes on top of the quilt, lazing in that syrupy place between sleeping and waking.

We have no plans, the gift today is a feeling of genuine gratitude for time. A walk with the girls, sharing the wonder of a patch of moss or a cardinal perched nearby. Falling asleep, my head on a soft jersey pillow case, my body wrapped in Sean's arms and waking to the rustle of leaves outside our window and the promise of hot coffee downstairs.

From the bottom of my heart, my gift is my wonderful life.

We're Up...

After two nights of fitful sleeping with mews barely as loud as a whisper piercing my soul, Briar has turned a corner and is feeling almost herself again. Almost because there is still a translucence to her skin and an impossible sweetness to everything that she does, that is too good, too sweet. Not my girl, for she is more. More alive, more intense, just more. I love her as sweet, gentle and tender, but it's her fire that delights me. Her iron will, her strength of purpose and direction even when it involves pens, a white wall, teeth and my favorite book. She is my Briar, in the mend, but not quite back. Brace for a post on the return of my spirited child.



And then there is Avery. Down. Sniffly. Weepy. Spacey. And still, so very still. God help me but this blighted train of toddler malaise is taking its toll on me. Her wide blue eyes slay me, usually so impish and smokey, now turn downward, glassy and threatening to run over at any moment with the not quite tears of feeling bad. Fix it they say. And then she laughs, determined to enjoy every moment of her sister's antics, to soak up extra time with me. Home from the sitter's again today, we three sat eating popsicles - Briar's a treat for good behavior, Avery's to soothe her throat and quell the coughing, and mine? Mine was to keep me from gathering them both in my arms and holding on for dear life...

Like No Other

Among the items consistently left off of the Things that will forever change after you become a parent list: A kind of helplessness that steals your very breath




I feel restless, my hands desperate to help, I search her face for some sign, some indication of what I can do, but there is nothing. I sit with her, those wide blue eyes, glassy and still, her cheeks burning with fever, the delicate skin marred by flurries of angry looking rash. Her soft ringlets lay flat, sticking in clammy swirls along her brow. She has no appetite to speak of, crying softly and then, worse, slipping into silence and drifting far away, unable to sleep, but too weary to play.

We are trapped, she and I, each wanting to escape this day, with its gloomy sky, but we cannot. Avery sleeps in her crib, her little arm, dimpled elbow high in the air, cradle her baby doll, offering a kind of comfort and safety I cannot for Briar. I smile despite my heavy heart as Avery wiggles her bottom and looses a dreamy giggle from her perfect little mouth. Briar whimpers,

"What is it baby, what'cha need?"

"Can you cuddle with me?"

"Of course I can baby girl, of course I can." I cannot clamber into her bed fast enough. I wrap my arm around her as she snakes her own beneath my neck, I kiss her face. It only lasts a moment before she turns, quietly sobbing.

"So hot mama. I'm so hot." She kicks the covers off and pushes her pillow away. My brow furrows and I wish for the wisdom to understand what to do.

"Mama, will you cuddle with me? Can you hold me like a baby?"

I nod, choking back the tears that threaten to fall. This is but a glimmer of what is ahead, of broken hearts and dashed hopes, of gang ups on the play ground and missed chances on the field, of times that I can do no more than stand near, ready to catch her, to answer a cry for help, but mostly to let her find her way. Helplessness. I realize it is part of the bargain, the price to be paid for the superpower of magically fixing ripped pages, of turning mistakes into even-betters, but that is little solace today. I try to cuddle from a distance, letting her know I am within her reach, but she cannot be still.

Avery moans in the other room. The phone rings. My tears fall in earnest as I absentmindedly rub Briar's back, the bumps of her spine seeming more pronounced than usual, more fragile, and then,

"Mama?"

"Yeah sweetie?"

"Mama, I love you. Thank you for taking care of me."

"Of course baby, it's my favorite thing to do."

And then she closed her eyes. She was asleep. I sat watching her sleep, the rhythm of her breathing even, the color on her face mellowing with the rise and fall of her chest. I closed my eyes as the panic that had gripped me all morning loosened its grip ever so slightly, and I said thanks.

Use it or lose it

We live in the Adirondacks, it's literally a twenty minute drive to what is arguably some of the world's most beautiful terrain. I will own not getting out there nearly enough, which then entitles me to gloat, gloat, gloat about having mustered the wherewithal to pack up all the accoutrements necessary for hiking when you have two kids in diapers, a dog and a husband who gets very bear like when his blood sugar dips below a certain level, and head to the mountain, Buck Mountain to be exact.

It's a place Sean and I have hiked often, first as an escape from the blistering, back busting Williamstown years, later with dear friends on New Year's morning pre-kids and marriage, and finally it has been a place that has never failed to bring us back to knowing this:

Life is sweet.



I've said it before, you can choose happiness, and, being lucky enough to know where I consistently find happiness, I did. And do. Sunday we made it out to the trails that free us of our burdens, awakening a carefree spirit that doesn't dwell or mope, we walked taller and smiled brighter. The girls on our shoulders and chests, holding our hands and running ahead, devoured every minute of the wild adventure. Together we chirped at birds, squawked at squirrels and talked about shadows and moss, the mountain and the sky. They scampered and squealed, and served as a reflection of our own joy, and passion. It was one of those moments, relevant to anyone with a heart beat, that lets you know that at a particular moment in time you are doing exactly whay you were meant to be doing.



It was hard, it was inconvenient, but damnit it was the best thing. And typing this today, I am able to feel again the enormity of letting go and simply being. You may not have the Adirondacks, but you've got something.



Go there.



Be there.



Just enjoy being.



And breathe.

Suburban Musical

The doors are thrown open, curtains billow like sails along the windows, and the hanging pots drip with water, the blossoms bursting with thanks. My fingers dance across the keyboard.

peck, peck, peck, rat-a-tat-tat

Dogs barking, girls screeching, and the men of the neighborhood soldiering behind lawnmowers, the air crackles with purpose and potential. The sky overhead, only yesterday dark with rain, is blue as far as the eye can see. The sun bathes everything in her triumphant glow, the storm of yesterday but a blip on our Adirondack summer screen.

We have no plans, just enjoying this crystal moment in suburban bliss - coffeee on the patio, red double stroller brimming with organic goodness from the farmer's market, and our girls napping in diapers upstairs. Sean's hand brushes mine and my heart skips a beat. The lines of his arms, golden and strong, are so familiar, whether holding the girls or reaching out to me. I sigh, sinking into my chair as the heat of the rocks we so laboriously laid, warms the backs of my legs.

A plane flies overhead, a car door slams, birds whistle through the trees and Ella leaps through the doggy door, clicking her way over the patio to where we are. I smile. We are, in good times and bad, part of a bigger picture. A violin in an orchestra, a shade of green in a painting, a clear tenor in a grand chorus.

In this moment here feels like the best place in the world.

And with the dawn

All the good in your life is reinforced with one goofy face, one sticky mug. Yesterday's post is followed by today's and the knowledge that no matter where we go, there she is.

Buy. Sell. Bye Bye.

Two years ago, while I was pregnant with Avery, we put our house on the market. The move was motivated by a couple of factors, first the market was going great guns and we'd put a lot of effort (read: money, sweat and tears) into the house, it seemed shrewd to cash in on the equity we'd built. Second, our sitter lived 7 miles away and had agreed to take Avery when she arrived (no small thing for a sitter to take on two under two). I was still nursing Briar so it was 7 miles to the sitter, 7 miles to work, 7 miles to the sitter at lunch, 7 miles back to work, 7 miles to the sitter to pick Briar up, 7 miles to get back home. I suppose if you are used to a 30 minute commute that sounds whiny, but here's the thing we live 1 mile from work, we were driving 210 miles a week, compared to 10.

My employer was incredibly gracious and turned a blind eye to my extra long lunches, which allowed me a full 60 minutes with Briar and 20 for travel. He also forgave me my tardiness as any route between us and the sitter ran smack into the bus route, meaning a 10 minute drive was 20 no matter what you did (trust me, I tried). Should I even go into the grocery store at 6pm issue? Near dinner time, lines for days and no hope of getting dinner done and Briar to bed before 9.

We had been driving around our sitter's neighborhood and found a house that had the privacy Sean yearned for, a wide open floor plan as opposed the the many parlored labrynthine set up we have in our current house. The fact that our sitter's son was a realtor made it seem as if the heavens above were telling us to sell, sell, sell. So we hammered a sign in the corner of our lot. What followed was a year of sheer hell.

Our neighbors ostracized us for having the temerity to leave. Our realtor abandoned us for weeks at a time as he went out on his boat and did other I'm-rich-and-have-other-priorities gallivanting. We couldn't call him on it because he was our daycare meal ticket. We had a kitten and I was pregnant, which meant Sean had to manage the kitty litter, not a good pairing of person to chore. The market tanked, seriously, like headlines in the paper about the end of the boom. We'd scramble out of the house for rainy open house after hail stormy open house, each time arriving home to different neighbors scampering guiltily out of our home. I felt violated, alone and broken. We kept the house on the market for a full year as the gentle folks who accepted our offer on their house agreed to wait through the winter.

Spring brought new buyers, a couple from Saratoga with their shiny red Porsche and full price offer. Hallelujah. No more scrutiny, no more stuffing laundry under beds and into the dryer. We made arrangements with lawyers and bankers, movers and friends. Avery had arrived and the boxes were packed. Then came the call from our realtor, his voice bubbly and near a giggle.

"Amanda, you are never going to believe this." He rushed breathlessly through the phone.

I imagined a second offer, or some other magnanimous gesture from the seller's of our new home.

"What is it?" I asked resting my hand on Sean's wrist and smiling.

"He's dead."

"Who's dead?"

"The buyer, your buyer died." And then there was silence.

"What do you mean he died? Are you joking, Mark?"

"No. I am beside myself. I cannot believe this is happening to me." (Guffaws of disbelief pelted my ear, Sean smiled expectantly.)

"Ok. I don't know what to say."

"His wife still wants the house."

"Ok."

"Thing is she isn't a signer and technically this is caught up in the estate, so legally we can't do anything until that all gets sorted out." He laughed some more, sounding almost giddy about the drama. "I have to find out what happened. I dont' think he was sick and he was so young.

My stomach turned. This poor man, he wanted our lamp, loved this house and fought with his wife to get her to agree to an older home. Our house. Our neighbors.

I collapsed as I recounted the situation to Sean. We spent the next two months trying to honor our offer to the sellers of the other house but the market's nose dive had turned into a plummeting blur of falling prices and lowball offers. We took the house off the market and tried to make our peace with things. Our neighbors continued to snub us and it felt at times as if they huddled on porches speaking in stage whispers about how foolish we had been. It rankled me that they had been through our home, had touched our things and drawn opinions of our taste, knew which chairs we favored and which shampoos we used as we bathed. Wide open and broken, I was simply raw. We had detached emotionally through the sales process, falling out of love with our home. We needed to repair our relationship, but I feared that I couldn't.

Avery was a blessing as she demanded focus, so too did Briar. It was late fall when we removed the sign, Halloween was a tight rope, as we took Briar trick or treating through a neighborhood we no longer felt welcome in. Thanksgiving came, and Christmas too. We burrowed in with the curtains drawn, reclaiming our intimacy and rediscovering the wonder, the whimsy in the flourishes of trim along corners and the grandness of the woodwork framing the windows.

Months passed, but still people insisted on rehashing the sale.

"Decided to stay, huh? What happened?"

"No nibbles?"

"Are you still selling?"

"Was it the price?"

"So, you still moving?"

"You had an offer, really?"

"Dead? Was he sick?"

Just yesterday, nearly a year off the market,

"Are you guys staying?" This from the guy who visits next door every other weekend. Figure at least 20 times driving up and seeing no sign in our yard.

"Yup. We're staying." Nearly $20,000 later in siding and doors, decking and stone, window dressings and light fixtures, and a lovely new sitter just blocks from our house, we made the decision to stay. There are moments though when I wonder, a call from yet another realtor wanting to list our house, the constant and defiant acceleration instead of brake lights in front of our house, screaming teenagers beneath Briar's window at bed time, gawking neighbors and pooping shepherds. Sigh, I suppose this is life, and we must decide what we can live with and what we can't. For now I really like my unfolded laundry on the couch and Ultras by moonlight on our stone patio. Today, I am at peace, and that is more precious than anything.

Singin' trucks, poop and pot

The other day I posted a video over at The Wink in response to a post at In the Trenches of Mommyhood.

Demonstrating the lightning fast speed at which toddlers figure things out, Briar has since learned the power of the all mighty dollar, who usually has the coin and, alas, the true purpose of the singin' truck She slo manages to absolutely mortify me with a Kids say the darndest things closing sound bite. Enjoy.

Shopping List*

As suggested by Briar:



Popsicle pops
Turkey
Princess food. And Pony food. And Dora. And Diego.
Cheese
More cheese. And the 'nother kind of cheese.
Corn and more corn
Corn for Avery
Tomatoes
Juice
More tomatoes
Grapes and bananas and peaches and brown asparagus



*Edited to add photos demonstrating the use of Crayola markers to illustrate the colors of items, when she handed me the brown pen I asked what we could get that was brown, her response?

"Brown uguh-spare-nagus."

The Game is Changing

I still tiptoe into their rooms to watch them sleep, sometimes by the eastern sun filtered through Briar's pink sheers, others by gossamer beams of moonlight sneaking through the leaves to kiss Avery's face. Stories at bedtime are tender, soft pads of little fingertips trace circles on my legs, or pull ringlets toward rosy lips and point to beloved characters. The hazy moments after lifting the girls from their beds we cuddle, little cheeks resting on my chest, my fingers slipping through the silky tendrils that catch on their eyelashes. It is bliss, and my love for them threatens to eclipse all else, until play time.

To be clear on playtime, it is the time between 6am and 7pm. Thirteen hours, interrupted only twice a day, an hour long morning nap for both and a two hour afternoon nap for Avery. A bit more simple math gets us to 10 hours during which both girls are 100% on me. They run and chase one another, their favorite obstacle course, a door. An easily 75 year old door with a beautiful glass window and a crank chime. They zip back and forth trading sides, at random intervals turning the handle on the door, the clang of the ancient mechanism making my teeth rattle. When I close the door they scatter, Avery to find the phone and Briar to the computer.

"Mommy, I need Einsteins." Briar declares, two shades shy of a whine.

I start for the computer as Avery gums the hard plastic antenna casing on the cordless phone.

"I'm comin' baby."

"I just need the Einsteins!" Full screech as iTunes opens.

"Ok, be calm, it's coming."

Beep beep beep do do do beep. Seven tones in fast sequence. Redial. Shit I lunge for the phone, the dog jumps up at my sudden move, crash. Damnit. I crash into the bookshelf, books and toys tumble down, four of them squawk, at least two beep.

"Honey, give me the phone."

"No."

"Sweetie, mama needs the phone." It's ringing.

"I. Just. Need. The. Einsteins. IjustneedtheEinsteinsrightnow!"

"Ok." My reply muffled by the continued beeping and sputtering from the brightly colored pile of toys at my feet.

"Hello." The voice is coming from the phone.

"Heh-roe." Avery chirps with delight.

"Avery, give me the phone."

"Hello..?" Again from the phone.

Weird Al Yankovic loudly rapping I'm just so white and nerdy blares from the speakers and then there is crying followed by a glass shattering scream, "I just need the Einsteins! I don't want this one"

"Briar, hang on. Avery, phone." I snap. Briar quietly sobs, Avery passes me the phone.

"Aw, hell? Is anyone there?" My god why has this person not just hung up?

"So sorry, wrong number." I pant as I lower the phone to hang up.

"Who were you trying to call?"

"What?"

"I said, who were you trying to call?" She asked very pointedly.

"No one. It was a mistake."

"You didn't mean to call me, or you didn't mean to call?"

Avery is chewing on the cord to Sean's amp and Briar is wiping tears and snot from her face and systematically deleting each icon from the dock of our iMac.

"Baby, please stop, I'll fix it. Ave, stop biting, no no no."

"What was that?" She asked. Oh my god lady, have you never heard of a kid grabbing the phone?

"Nothing. I have to go. My daughter dialed the phone. Sorry to have bothered you."

"Oh, ok. You have a nice day."

I hung the phone up as Avery banged Sean's guitar against the wall, Briar was sucking juice from her sippy cup through a t-shirt of mine as if to filter the red juice that seeped through, soaking and surely staining.

"Stop. No more banging, no more juice. Just stop." My bark hung in the air, the harshness smacking me in the face.

"Girls, Im sorry. We just need a minute. Let's slow down. Ok?"

"Mama can I jump?"

"Dump. Dump."

"No babies, no jumping. How about a little cuddle?

They come at me as I get down on my back, Briar is the first to touch me, she wraps her arms around me and molds herself to my body. I hold my hand out for Avery and as she grabs it I feel all the tension slip from my body. This is right. These are my girls. Briar's face is pressed against my chest, Avery's full weight is pressing into my side as she leans against me, claiming me as passionately as Briar. And then they wrestle.

Again, there is bliss.

Hot, Sticky, Quiet

I moved to the Northeast from the Pacific Northwest, hailing first from rainy Eugene, and later the desert of Yakima. I remember when I first arrived nearly everyone I met, upon hearing where I came from, said, "Oh dear, do you think you'll be able to handle the winters?" First, who says no to that. "Why no, I actually think it will be more than I can handle and I'll have to turn tail and head for warmer parts." No, no, no, not my style. So I'd shrug and say, "Should be fun to find out."

As luck would have it my first few winters were nothing to write home about and I was able to set my chin in its stubborn jut and think silent, smug thoughts. The fiercest weather hit ironically while I was on a trip out west. Friends shoveled the roof of our soft top Wrangler and plowed the driveway and sidewalk of the house we rented. Since then we have had our share of winter storms and sub zero temperatures, but I've never felt it was too much. It doesn't hurt that we fortuitously landed ourselves in a house surrounded by men desperate to use their snowblowers as often as they can. Unfortunately my weathering the Adirondack winters does not mean I am without complaints and "Oh my god how will I ever make it through this?" moments.

I am ready to say here and now, the thing that sends me to the very edge of living here, to a near breaking point is...

The g*d d*mn May to September humidity.

I had no idea that such insufferable steaminess existed outside of Grisham novels. If I felt that I looked at all like Ashley Judd in A Time to Kill I'd keep my trap shut, but I don't, I look more like an ear of corn that's been pried open at the store and discarded- frizzy, slightly dirty and completely undesirable. 2 feet of snow in the space of an afternoon has nothing on sweat dripping down my skin and my hair drying in a kinky helmet before I've even shucked the towel from my body.

It is at these times that I am grateful for three things, first, that I have tiny connected ear lobes, for I know if they were larger and detached, they would stick to my neck and make an awful sound as they slowly pulled from my gummy neck, second and third, my girls and the distraction the responsibility for their care and comfort provides.

Recently we discovered the power of the popsicle pop. It is our salvation, that and AC at bedtime. The best part? They're willing to eat the banana popsicles that are about as unappetizing to me as the skin-like film that gathers on genuine hot cocoa that's been sitting for too long.

Overlapping Lives

I have certainly done my share of lamenting certain indignities of neighborhood living. The past three years have been a whirlwind as we've had babies, started a business and worked seemingly without rest on our lovely old house. There are moments though, when it seems as if it is the neighborhood itself that is flavoring our lives, enlivening with sweetness and muting any bitterness.

The other day, amid a flurry of productivity, laying stone and building planters, feeding kids and corralling animals, I went to fetch the hose. I took to the the task much like a child would a chore, shuffling my feet obstinately and following a meandering path in every direction but where I was supposed to go. Three bliss filled minutes of aimless wandering in the yard gave me knew life and I made for the hose. I looped the emerald green coil over my arm. The smell of the water conjured up memories of the tree lined street I grew up on in Eugene, Oregon.

Onyx Street. After the frequent downpours we raced superballs in gutters, the plentiful rain catching in dams we'd craft from brambles and leaves, makeshift obstacle courses guiding the blurs of red, yellow and green. We never grew tired of the chase up and down the street, the wet hems of our pants racing upward, eventually soaking us past the knees and forcing us inside for snacks and warmth. Sunny days were for racing on our bikes. A motley group of ten speeds, banana seats, and big wheels. No matter the bike or the child who rode it, each was pedaled with ambitious ferocity, digging deeper to break through and inhabit the moment, become the wind.

Sheridan Street. A hot Adirondack day thousands of miles from Eugene, beneath a canopy of brilliant green leaves, I looked up and saw a father and son. The man stood behind, one hand on the seat of the bike, the other out beside him, whether for balance or to silence the world, protecting this moment, I wasn't sure. Determination and fear waged a battle behind the boy's wide set eyes and his mouth was set in an "o" prepared to shout for his dad to hold on. The dad matched his steps to the spin of the tires, a moving safety net, and then, every so often slowing to pause in shadows as the bike was carried by confident pedaling. I watched reverently, keenly aware of the magic I was witnessing.

Slow loops from one side of the street to the other, parent behind child. The end of an era as inevitably the steps slow while the steering straightens, and then stop entirely. A parent stands in the street beneath a canopy of green and watches a child pedal away.

Nice Job, Friend

See that button over there on the right, the one with the sweet border collie face? That's our friend Jon's book. The book that is sitting at 15 on the New York Times Bestseller list. Jon is off to Canada today as part of his book tour. We are looking forward to more porch sitting and sheep herding when he gets back.

Until then, we offer our congratulations!

How for Why

"The what if's will kill you," it's something Sean used to say to me quite a bit. I'll admit to the occasional panic about the girls or what might go wrong on an airplane, but other than that I keep it in check. It's been that way since I gave birth to my Briar, stronger still since we had Avery. Life is just much simpler knowing that the single most important thing is taking care of our girls. Period.

Briar's arrival was lightning fast, the nurse had barely said, "You're going to feel an almost involuntary need to push," to which I responded tremulously, "Ah, ok, I think I'm having that now, can I push?" and bam, she was out. As outstretched arms passed her to me, I accepted her perfect form, long, lean limbs each with five fingers or toes, and her little face, both new and familiar, into my arms and my soul. My eyes locked on her, I tried to surface from the thick, hazy shock of her presence, I had created life. The weight of responsibility settled gently upon my shoulders, rooting my feet to the earth. For the first time in my life I felt as if I belonged somewhere.

When I held her to my breast she suckled without hesitation, we were two, each drawing life from the other. I traced my fingertip along her skin, tremors rocking my exhausted body as I held her, the heart I'd heard on monitors beat against my chest. Tears streamed down my face as I saw myself in her, then there was Sean, and my mom, my dad. She was everyone and no one who'd yet been, and she was here. Finally.

I spent a year focused on nothing but the next moment with her, the next kiss, the next coo. I said once that I lived her. It was true then and still is now, with a twist. Avery has sidled in and planted herself among us. She is beside me and above me, inside and everywhere. Where her sister was slender and lean, Avery was full and robust. Her arms held me as much as mine held her. Our falling in love was so different from what I experienced with Briar, but bore the same traits of devotion and clarity.

Nearly three years since I first held Briar in my arms, and closing in on the end of breastfeeding Avery, I am amazed by the life we have lived in this short time, and all that has yet to be. I do not question why I was given this extraordinary blessing, instead I focus on how I shall honor it. How I can live each day to be the best mama to these two precious girls I have.

I recently came to know a woman who goes by the moniker WhyMommy. Lately she has been writing about her recent diagnosis of Inflammatory Breast Cancer. She is my age. She has two children, one is 3 the other just 6 months old. No doubt she loves her boys as I love my girls. She has not asked for pity, has not railed against the universe. She has not asked why. She has talked almost exclusively about how.

How she'll beat this cancer.
How she'll stick around for those boys.
How she'll fight the desire to curl up.
How she'll allow family to share her burden.
And how we, her blogging friends, can help.

No pity.
No why's.
Just how.

How we can check ourselves.
How we can share stories.
How we can support.
How we can stand beside her as she kicks this cancer's ass.

If you love my girls, her boys, or some other little ones, go visit WhyMommy. Post a comment, or just read her story. Be reminded of how precious life is and how you can live inside of each moment. She is the purest example of life lived fully.

How we love you WhyMommy, how we do indeed.

What I got, mama?

Today is the 4th of July, which means that I have been actively playing the role of mom for close to three years, more if you include the following-every-rule-and-heeding-every-piece-of advice-received-from-strangers-and-read-in-magazines 40 weeks of pregnancy. I am not ashamed to admit that some of the more subtle cues offered by Briar were lost on me,

"She's a little night owl, just doesn't want to go to bed until 11." This said cheerfully after she writhed in our arms howling beginning at seven each night and ending as she passed out from exhaustion four hours later.

Neither of us really understood what she was saying until she was nearly two, now her sister at one declares, "Poop" and "diaper" with perfect clarity. "Wow! So much better at communicating." This from Briar about us.

Yesterday I had a truly remarkable moment as I heard Briar call from the other room. Her throaty voice traveling from the dining room to where I sat in the living room, Avery resting between my legs,

"Mama, what I got? What I got, mama?"

I knew, without a shred of doubt, that what she had was something I wanted nothing to do with. My three years of being a mom have included the earning of certain badges and I have the What I got, mama? badge emblazoned on just about every shirt I own.

Instinctively I lifted Avery and set her off to my side, away from the direction of Briar's voice. I turned my body and shouted to Sean to come immediately, having learned a thing or two himself during these years of parenting, he came without hesitation. Briar rounded the corner, lit from behind, arms outstretched, and rushed toward me,

"What is it mama? What've I got?"

The smell hit before my eyes and brain communicated the reality of the shape moving rapidly toward me.

Poop. Fresh, hot, and plentiful.

"No, Briar. No!"

I sprang from my seat and fervently prayed that my hands met an unsoiled surface. Bingo. I raised her in the air, my hands upon her waist, and scanned her body.

"What have you done? Briar! We don't do this, we don't touch poop." I sprinted upstairs, slamming the door behind me and calling to Sean to stay away. Briar, face crumpled in a mix of horror and despair, flailed in my arms trying desperately to hold

"Honey, it's ok, you were bad, but we just have to clean you, ok." As we entered the bathroom she began to kick and grab at my arms, her fingers catching on my arms as the poop clung to my skin. I recoiled.

"Mommy, save me. Mommy help," screaming. I thrust her into the bathtub and started the water as she continued to flail and beg for help. The water blasted icy and fierce, I silently willed it to heat up, which it did after what seemed an eternity. I began to spray her. The intensity of her protest, the desperation of her screams tore through me. Hot, prickly tears blinded me as I held her down.

"I have to wash you, honey. Be still." She wouldn't stop and every time I considered stopping she would swat at me, sending bright orange splatters against the green tiles of our shower. I put my head down, resolute to handle the task at hand and move on, both of us tortured as we were by our own actions.

I rinsed the last suds from her body and shut the water off, her wide blue eyes scanned my face, her mouth set in a tiny oval as if poised for simultaneous kiss and "I'm sorry." I scooped her in a towel and carried her to her room. I wanted to hold her tight in my arms, soothing her and apologizing for having scared her. It was clear in her face she wanted to go back ten minutes and not explore the contents of her big girl Dora diaper.

I made do by gently patting her dry and dressing her in soft fresh clothes. I spoke in hushed tones and explained why she mustn't ever do this again, she looked back at me and solemnly promised that she wouldn't. I think we both knew in that moment that she wouldn't, but she will do other things, and I will have to clean up. I hate that part of being a mom, literally loathe who I am in that moment even though I know she is a part of me that must exist.

I have learned, there are sentimental badges for these milestones and, more importantly, there is another side. There is a, "Remember when you stuck your hands in your own poop?" for me, and for Briar it is a "Remember when you gave me that sippy cup and I refused to drink from it and you got really mad and said I had to have a time out and then when you took it away you realized it was milk from like a week before and just dumping it out made you gag, remember that?"

I Wanna Check You

I was on my way to a quarry in Whitehall, Sean was meeting me there. We were going to pick out stone for a patio we will be building this week. It had been some time since we had done a joint project, always too busy with work or spending time with the girls, to tackle anything beyond hanging pictures. We were giddy with anticipation, both for the finished product and the labor it would take to do, time together.

The radio was tuned to a country station and a rich, chocolatey voice melted from the dashboard, filling the car with a melody that curled around me like wisps of campfire smoke. Driving away from the setting sun, the windows on either side of me open halfway, I took a deep breath and felt the tension of the day slip away and through the windows, leaving me deliciously molded to the seat of the Jeep. My hair, fastened in a low pony tail beneath my cap, tickled my neck as the wind whistled past. My fingers drummed the side of the steering wheel and my mind wandered.

I smiled thinking back to the year we spent fixing up our house, demolishing and gutting the upstairs, tossing debris through the window as late as we dared, and then sitting on the porch sipping frosty bottles of beer. Dumpster upon dumpster of lath and plaster, rolls of gold carpet, and more wallpaper than seemed possible. It was a sweaty first year of marriage, but it was as romantic and profound as any whirlwind trip and dates laced year. Going back to our beginning with this project ignited a flurry of butterflies in my belly. Brad Paisley crooned about wanting to drive out into the country and park. In a second I was back to the early days with Sean, his horror at my taste for country music. And then back to the present:

"Have you heard that song about ticks?" He had asked me with a dirty smile.

"Ticks? Song?" Incredulously.

"Yeah, it's pretty great." He chuckled.

I’d like to see you.. out in the moonlight
I’d like to kiss you way back in the sticks…
I’d like to walk you through a field of wildflowers…
And I’d like to check you for Ticks

I looked in the mirror as I listened to the song. It was pure, silly country through and through, unapologetically ridiculous and impossibly infectious. I loved it, more so for thinking of Sean hearing it for the first time and thinking of me. The skin around my eyes crinkled and bent, eruptions of lines like a child's rendering of the sun framed my familiar greenish eyes. I watched my lips, turned up at the sides, kind of crooked, as if saying, "Hey eyes? You havin' as much fun as we are?" My eyes twinkled in response. In that moment I loved my reflection, worshiped the emerging landscape of my happiness and experience upon my face.There was a smattering of freckles across my nose and bits of hair danced to and fro above them. Sean loved those freckles from that first summer. Sean.

We've known each other for eight years, I was not yet 26, he was just 23. We're by no means old, but older indeed. Two girls, a house, and a life. These lines on my face, the first of many still to come, and this silly tick song, just a hint of all the experiences we have in store. He loved the girl at 26 and the mom at almost 34. And I know without a doubt he'd love to check me for ticks. It's simple, but it's sweet. And today, dirt under my nails and sweat caught in my wrinkles, I worship the life that I have.