And with that, I jinxed us.

I knew even before the words had passed my lips that I had made a grave mistake. I should have known better than to utter aloud something that we'd never been subjected to as parents, but I just had to poke at the capricious, unknown puppeteers behind the irrepressible nature of toddler development.

"She's never actually told a lie."

Cue the malevolent laughter drifting in upon an unexpected breeze.

I was talking with another mom who was recounting how she'd had to exact a grounding sentence on her daughter after telling a lie. We went back and forth about the sensation of knowing with absolute certainty what a certain look on your child's face mean. Briar sticks her tongue in her cheek, sometimes chewing on it, when she has either done something bad or is in the process of considering it.

This discovery of cheeky shenanigans has actually been kind of fun as I am able to prepare, "Ok, Bri, what did you do?"

"Nothing," she answers with twinkling eyes.

Wrong question.

"What are you thinking about doing?"

"Umm, I was just thinking 'bout taking Avery's toy and putting it in the trash," eyes still twinkling but tongue clenched firmly in her teeth, head cocked and one foot hooked behind her ankle.

"You think that's a good idea?"

"Will you cuddle me?" Super twinkle in the baby blues with this.

What happened tonight was different, you see tonight Briar dipped her little toe into the waters of "Mom said I could." The only problem was that I didn't. And Dad knew it.

Bath privileges were revoked, after epic hysterics story time was eliminated and though I knew it wold happen one day, I hadn't wanted it to happen just yet. I had so enjoyed the existence I knew this morning of not yet. I knew I was lucky, knew that like the passion of early kisses and first dances, our place in child-rearing not yet sullied by lies was but a moment in the big picture.

I splashed with Avery in the bathtub straining to hear the voices down the hall. Sean voice was calm and even, Briar's was desperate and piercing. "Please can I take a bath? I wanna tell the troof." Avery looked up at me, "Bwy-uh comin?"

"No, honey. Briar can't take a bath tonight."

"You get in, Mommy? You get in wif Ave-ree?" She asked patting the water in front of her. She looked so small in the tub. Sean poked his head in the door. He explained how Briar had lied and that he'd said no bath.

"She has asked me seven times to take a bath and now she is asking you if she can get in." I looked at him. He didn't say anything, didn't ask me to back his play. I wanted to let her get in and have the night go back to normal. Bed time would be easier, Avery would have more fun and the crying would stop. He was still looking at me as a plaintive call came down the hallway, "Please mama, please can I take a bath?"

"Briar you are going to miss it tonight. You can't lie." And so I took Briar's spot in the bath and positioned myself squarely beside Sean in this stand off. He ran his fingers down the door, defeated but resolved, "Thanks, babe." He walked down the hall and told Briar in a quiet voice to go to bed.

"But I wanna bath!" then loud wailing and thrashing. I stripped out of my work clothes and Avery beamed, clapping her hand against the side of the tub. I swallowed the lump in my throat and I slipped into the water. There would be no letting it go, no saying that next time she'd lose the bath. We'd made a decision and neither of us liked it, but we agreed and that was as important for us as it was for Briar to learn about telling the truth. It never fails to knock the wind out of me how very wrong doing the right thing can feel.

Living up to it

The kicks in my belly grow stronger with each day, the ripples moving beneath my shirt have my thoughts turning to summer. Our patio out back, the playhouse and garden casting bits of shade on the wading pool. I imagine how there will be another person, a downy head against my breast and tiny fingers at my side, while Briar and Avery splash and squeal in gingham sundresses and floppy madras hats.

The girls desires and demands have changed so much, even in the last couple of months. They each yearn for independence, while still reveling in closeness, weaving their fingers in the folds of my clothes, clinging to shirt tails and burrowing in my neck. "Uh huh" and "mmm" buy me nothing but sighs. The cold slap of my own bad habits hit me as I ask for help with things, "In a minute" and "yup, right after I do something." My skin crawls thinking of how many times I've had to say that to them to have them be able to lob it back to me with such perfect inflection and off-handedness. And so it is that I try to be present, work to be aware of each request, each touch.

It's tough living up to, and I often fail, sighing with frustration and speaking in clipped tones as I struggle to juggle the many balls I've tossed in the air in the interest of creating the best situation for my family. The balls end up being obscured by mango scented ringlets and Pirate's Booty dust, stress and panic making me forget the motivation behind it all. Our girls, the blessing of keeping the ratio of sitter to mom falling strongly in my favor. Oh, the irony of trying to explain to a three year old and a 20 month old that you have to talk on the phone and work on the computer to be with them.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

"Mommy can get in trouble too."

More blank stares and then timid steps toward me from time out, wide eyes asking to climb in my arms. I feel not unlike what I imagine a bear in a trap must feel; core-rocking remorse and a chew-through-my-own-leg-to-loose-my-bonds determination. I take them in my arms and turn from the computer, if only for a moment.

I am restored.
And guilty.
A mom.

All Thumbs

I know I've not been the best blogger of late, what with the sporadic posts and rather vacuous content. Perhaps I can offer a bit of insight on the situation. The other day, as I did the working mom two-step, trying to answer emails, field phone calls and supervise projects for the girls, I was shown the light. Briar, blue crayon in hand and Avery with brown, asked to draw my hand, and, seeing as I happened to have one hand free, I let them.

I watched as my hand and the piece of paper sank into the ottoman under their intense tracing. They spent quite some time huddled over the paper making it just right. It was seeing my hand, in all its cornflower and burnt umber glory, that I understood my blogging malaise.



My digits are simply too large to navigate my MacBook keys.

Everything but the kitchen sink

I'll admit to having my moments in the past few weeks during which I have questioned the wisdom in removing everything from our kitchen but the kitchen sink.
While pregnant.
And working.
At a new job.
In the middle of the Adirondack winter.
After having gone down to one car.

To what I can tell you is my genuine surprise, I have survived, as has my marriage, though I will cop to more than one instance of complete breakdown and utter b*tchiness. Mmm-hmm, mama got pissed.

The dust, the splinters and my complete inability to keep track of anything from the bananas (back closet) to the coffee filters (in with the lobster pot) really started to get under my skin. Luckily we became the proud owners of a shiny oak floor last week and, well, the feel of the cool, slick planks beneath my feet is not unlike a good backrub - soothing, decadent, and not entirely necessary but richly deserved. This week the sink arrived, umm, when I fell in love with the farm sink look I didn't realize these mothers weigh well over 100 pounds, that said it is divine and I cannot wait to see it on a cabinet.

Speaking of cabinets, we've yet to pull the trigger on ordering which does two things, pushes back our schedule and ups the stakes of marital friction regarding the game of chicken betwixt kitchen and infant. What can I say, we like living on the edge. And, last night, after a day pacing on the oak I received a killer foot and back rub in flannel sheets. Neither of us thought much about the kitchen, in fact, the greater challenge seems to be coming up with a name for the Rockette emulating baby inside my belly.


Until we can show shots of yet-to-be-named-sister-to-Briar-and-Avery, here are pictures of our other baby, the kitchen.

Simulated Multi-Tasking

Ummm, note to self, playing Wii while pregnant may be fun, but the lumbering water buffalo portrait painted for observers may make it more of a spectator sport, or, given the slow nature of the movements, an insomnia cure.





*WARNING: PG-13 for obscene hand gestures.

Tomorrow

It's a simple word, really. A chance to delay, a fresh start, the next thing. What I forget sometimes is that it isn't a promise. Today I have. Today I am here, but tomorrow, that's not yet mine. It's funny because I spend so much of my time dreaming about tomorrow, fretting about it, and yet I rarely worry whether it will come or whether I will be there to meet it.

Whymommy has got a big day tomorrow. Today I am writing for her. Susan, who graciously shared her name with us, after she invited us into her life, is having surgery, a double mastectomy, to be exact.



She has two children, an adoring husband and brilliant mind. I am thinking of her as I type this, remembering the emotions I have felt as I've read her words and the ferocity with which I have lived when considering being in her shoes. You can put a fuzzy lens on it, but the truth is she has been in the fight of her life while raising two exquisitely gorgeous little creatures and coming to terms with an inability to do it all.

I'd be lying if I didn't say I've clicked over to her blog in fear that she wouldn't be there, that a guest would be posting in her name, but each day she has come. Weary and blue at times, but more often than not she has been an unwavering light forcing its way into every corner. Susan has changed the world, beating this beast of a disease back for more tomorrows then it ever thought she'd get.

Tomorrow there will be so many of us standing once again in awe of her courage and strength. Tomorrow, as I have done today and on so many yesterdays, I will pray that Whymommy get all of the tomorrows she so richly deserves.

Soaring Kicks

As surely as this baby grows inside of me, our girls are growing up outside of me. The walls echo with "Uh myself, uh myself" and "Not right now." Each kick that tickles at my belly throws a bright light on the fading milk moustaches that kiss their upper lips.

Briar's face lengthens by the minute, cheekbones emerging and revealing an architecture of beauty that already steals my breath, her strong legs lead up to hips and a waist that I can see traveling away from me, the arm of a suitor blocking her waist from my view. And Avery, oh how my Avery is sprinting. Sprinting to an autonomy of thought and movement that stuns me. She is without fear, which makes the moments she reaches for me all the more excruciating to bear.

The tangle of emotions, like bed sheets after a night of fitful sleeping, or perhaps lovemaking, seeming to come at once from passion and terror, tether me. One moment the ringlets that caress my face are all sweetness and comfort, the next they are cruel, taunting me with how quickly they'll be gone, in their place will sprout thicker, darker hair, the better to mask the baby within. I try to soothe myself with the knowledge that in some way my babies will always exist, beyond the eyeliner and independence, but it gets harder.

I can see now that as their bodies grow and as I celebrate their achievements, from walking to pedaling, each one takes them a step closer to lifting off. One day they will take flight, the speed of their ascent faster than my feet can carry me and surely faster than my heart can bear. It will be a triumph, both theirs and mine, but this morning as they sit at my feet, their foreheads touching and swirls of shapes that can only be drawn by a child's hand explode across the paper, I fear the velocity of our travel is more than I can endure.

Did he just...

So my new job requires that I dress a bit more like a grown up, no more scooting into work fifteen minutes late with my hair wet and my clothes in a state of disarray. I'll wait while you get over your shock. I have always day dreamed about being one of those women who always have it together: the right accessories, the flawless make-up and the stylish hair. I would take just one of those, but the truth is that when faced with a closet of stuff I always reach for the soft, frayed t-shirt that hugs my body in a familiar way, the jeans that hit the tops of my tennis shoes just right and maybe, just maybe a pair of earrings that make me feel a little dressed up.

This morning I knew I had to do it right, there would be Senators and Assembly People, CEO's and Task Force leaders. I also had appointments with several key people at the company I recently joined. I showered knowing exactly what I would wear:

I bought it for myself at a Babystyle near Seattle over the holidays. I had set out the nylons I would wear with it- a sassy diamond pattern, and my current favorite earrings. Everything went perfectly, no runs or snags in the hose, no breakfast smears on the dress, and my hair actually slipped behind my ear and whispered, "Shh, don't say or do anything, we are just going to fall into place and look exactly the way you want."

Avery actually galloped over to me, rubbed my leg and looked up at me with breathless excitement, "'S 'dat, mama? 'S 'dat?'

I laughed and told her how her sister had the same reaction one spring day to my freshly shaved legs.

"Mama, made an effort baby, she made an effort."

Anyway, the story. The title: Did he just...

I had a meeting shortly after getting to work. It was with a person in the finance department and let's just say me and numbers, we ain't too tight. I figured I'd meet him once and kind of be done. I waited in the lobby for quite some time, when he finally called me in I was primed for his numbers talk, anything to stop reading the Patient Bill of Rights poster on the wall.

We sat down and began a conversation that could best be described as fits and starts, through it all I smiled, relieved to not be sitting with jeans puddling at my ankles and a not quite long enough shirt gripped between chapped fingers, cuticles ravaged, because somehow wearing that dress and perfect accessories compensated for not following much of what he said.

I remember at one point suggesting he send me an email as other things came to mind. It was really an exit strategy on my part. He said he wasn't too keen on email. I nodded, trying to appear deeply interested and said that sometimes I relied a bit too heavily on it. He sat forward in his chair and confessed to not being good with email. Then he said, "I'm always looking for someone to help me with email. A tutor. A private teacher."

I laughed. "Well, I don't know that I'm a great teacher as far as the organization of email goes. It's more a chaos I enjoy losing myself in than anything I have a real mastery of."

He leaned in closer, "I could call you. Or you could call me. We could talk again if you'd like."

"Oh, of course. I think that's a great idea." Barreling forward somewhat oblivious, I asked a few questions and after a bit of back and forth we wrapped things up. I stood up to leave and shook his hand. We walked toward the lobby and I was already thinking about making a call on the way back to my office.

"Amanda?"

"Yes?" I asked turning around.

"Amanda, you can call me. Maybe you could come around again. We could, ah, we could talk about the, well, anything really. We could talk about whatever you like... If you'd like. Would you like that?

"Sure, I'll give you a call in a few weeks."

"Great, great Amanda. I'll talk to you then," as I walked to the door he watched me, standing in the middle of the hallway. Opening the doors and stepping out into the frigid January air it hit me...Oh. My. God. He hit on me. The numbers guy totally hit on me in all my 6+ months pregnant glory, granted, the silky belly was hidden beneath a trench coat, but still...

Update 2008

Avery is experimenting with biting.
Briar has discovered the bully card.
Our kitchen has walls, but no floors.
My belly's in hyper-pop & itches wildly.
I started my new job & don't have TB.
I now officially drive a mini-van.

There is so much to write and yet nothing.

Going to turn in early.

Seasonal Confusion

Poor Briar. We told her after her second Christmas, the first having been celebrated on the West Coast, that Santa was back at the North Pole resting. Since then we have seen no less than, oh, I don't know 320 plastic, stone and inflated Santas displayed prominently throughout town.

Briar: Oooh, there's Santa.

Briar: Oh, oh, there he is again.

Briar: Mama, he's not sleeping, but he's busy. He's here too!

Avery is rather unimpressed by the whole thing. The other day we were in the car driving to Melissa's house and the following exchange took place:

Briar: Ooh, lookey-dat! Mama, do you think that was Rudolph what I just saw in that yard?

Me: I don't know. Maybe.

Briar: Avery, do you think so? Do you think that was Rudolph what I say back there?

This was followed by a brief silence and then ~

Avery: Nope.

Sigh. A dreamer and realist.

Hanging by a thread

The longer Sean and I are together, the truer the stereotypes get. Rather than going into all the ugly details (nagging, belching, shoes, the history channel) I'll focus on one specific thing: home improvement projects.

Clearly we are gluttons for home owner headaches


masochists


and worse.


When we are at our busiest or


most physically limited


we chew off huge projects.


This past weekend we decided to address our closets. Seemed easy enough.

Isn't that always the way...You can do it, Home Depot can help...Lowe's, let's build something together. Yes, let's.

We assembled the tools and supplies we would need for hanging dowel, drawers and hooks. Of course before we did this we had to wade through three and a half years of hamper-stored clothing, which for me, with three pregnancies and different jobs meant an obscene amount of clothing that I am not wearing but must save for: later in the pregnancy, after the pregnancy, transition, nursing, nursing at work, out-of-maternity-but-not-in-regular-sizes work clothes, normal size clothes, bloated day clothes, skinny day clothes, workout wear for all the previously stated stages and so on. Sean had the clothes he likes, the clothes we like, the clothes I like, and the clothes we share. Intermixed in everything were clothes from the girls and their various sizes.

Oh, yes, the girls.


Did I mention we had no sitter?


Were not yet fully back on east coast time?


Exhausted, yet dying to get out in the fresh powder and build a snowman? Well, we didn't and we were, but this was the as-perfect-as-we-are-ever-going-to-get time to address where we dress.

It was a fascinating dance of working together and apart, Sean knee deep in dress shirts and mismatched socks, while I made sandwiches and cruised Noggin. I think we made it through with very few tantrums (the girls, I'm not slamming Sean) and a truly trivial amount of cursing (Sean, people, the girls are not yet trucker mouths).

We were just about to wrap up when I asked Sean if he could hang just one more thing for me.

"Sure thing, babe," he said with a smile.

I handed him a shelf with four hooks beneath it and he ducked his way into the severely sloped crawl space closet. After much banging and sighing and slipping and a few well-earned four letter words, he emerged, red-faced and sweaty.

"There you go, babe." He started for the other side of the room, raising his arm to set the hammer on the red armoire. I looked at the shelf and just beneath it saw the little Willow Tree piece we were given after Briar was born and which has never truly had a home.



I turned to Sean and saw him shucking the sweaty shirt he'd been wearing, he was moving toward a towel and the shower.

"Honey?" I cooed.

"Mmm-hmm," he replied.

"Babe, could you hang this for me real quick?" I held the base out in my hand, it had the kind of hole on the back that you hold over the head of the screw and then slide down. You know, it looks incredibly effective but is impossible to hang for the inability to see or feel the hole?

Sean looked at me, an entire novel's worth of internal monologue passing across his weary face, but those blue eyes and beautiful mouth smiled without hesitation. Setting the towel down he took the base from my hand and said, "Sure thing, babe."

I let him walk two steps before I said, "I'm just fuckin' with ya."

I think he considered swatting me, but instead grabbed me in a gentle I-know-you're-pregnant-but-you're-going-down-tackle.

Mama doesn't have anymore, baby.

We'll go until the trip, then it's time.

It was a promise I made to myself in November and as I made it I felt a relief so pure it made me sick. No more breastfeeding. Briar nursed for 18 months, allowing me two months before Avery's arrival to recuperate. Avery is now just shy of 20 months, the new baby will be here in seventeen weeks. I am loathe to admit defeat or the need for help, often to a fault. And though I am not sure that I am ready, I know that it is time. The last few weeks have been excruciating in their exquisite clarity, the reality of my physical limits tries my soul.

I am raw with mourning and fatigue. My breasts, for so long a source of energy and pride, nourishing two incredible girls, seeing them through from that first tentative suckle amidst scratchy, faded blue bed sheets and gawking nursing students to honey-hued moments carved in moonlight, burn as if in the last mile of a marathon. Whimpers in the night, gentle fingers at my side, and the silky head pushing against me and a whispered, "mowk" all make me cringe. The thought of nursing makes me burn, the sharp darts of pain that shoot from right breast, or the slow-building ache on the left, they radiate even before her lips are upon me. The baby inside turns, not a thrash, but not an easy swirl, either.

Last night as I carried Avery to her room I braced for what I knew was an inevitable milestone. An ending. My bare feet met the soft braided rug, the warm glow of night-lights enveloped us and we swayed together on the eve of a new year. I wanted the moment to go unmarked, just another goodnight, but for all its simplicity and purity, there is an inherent heartache in each moment.

Her little hands squeezed into my back, her head pressed against mine and then tilted, her dark blue eyes bore into me and she whispered, "Mowk," and smiled, as sure that she would nurse as she was that I loved her.

"No, honey. Mama doesn't have any more milk," I held my breath as she looked at me, her eyes searched mine, "No milk?" they seemed to ask. I rocked us side to side, my body oddly rigid, trying to hold us up, and then she laid her head upon my shoulder and twirled my hair against her face. I collapsed inside, relief and sorrow twisting, as her body formed to mine. Hearts beating against one another, she found solace in my arms, something I had hoped for, but had not believed could pass.

I laid her in her crib and cooed as she whispered, "mama" into her sheets. She pulled her knees to her chest and stretched her arms out, one hand clasping her baby doll's neck and the other pressing Cookie Monster into her beloved pink bear. "Mommy?" she called. "Yes, baby," I replied as part of our routine, "Mommy?" and then "Right here, baby." She sighed and declared contentedly, "Mommy."

I crept into the hallway and leaned against the wall, my bare arms pinching as I slid to the floor. I waited, willing her to call for me. Stop me, stop this. We can go back. I waited in silence. The eerie quiet of fresh snowfall rang in my ears, the muted voices of merrymaking downstairs and then the sound of her steady breathing. My forehead sank against the molding and I wept as she fell asleep without me.

I am so proud of her, of us, but the ache I feel on this first morning of a new year, a year without nursing my Avery, is unlike anything I have ever felt before.

I am bereft.

Love on New Year's Eve

Apologies in advance to my dear, sweet Red Sox lovin' pal in the trenches, but I fear Briar found love this New Year's Eve. (Sarah, he's a Mets fan...not quite Red Sox, but it ain't the Yankees) Dark silky hair, Hershey's Kisses eyes and a smile that could soften even the hardest of hearts, Carter has our Princess Briar swooning in her tights.





It's ten past one and she is still talking about him. It's frightening, but also kind of wonderful to see her starry eyed, cheeks flushed and what can only be described as twinkly. (Special note to Crystal: Look closely and you'll see a Flashdance-meets-Mad-Max-Beyond-the-Thunderdome-flourish upon her Disney Princess nightgown.)



Here's wishing you a twinkly new year filled with the kind of magic that makes your heart leap and stomach flutter. And, if you're lucky, the wonder of seeing life through the eyes of a child.