An F in Home Ec isn't an F in Motherhood

Details, they often fall to the wayside as I try to manage huge undertakings. Sometimes it doesn't matter, other times like, say making a sweatshirt in seventh grade, they matter. A failure to address the details equates to an 28" neckline on a crew neck sweatshirt (Thank you Jennifer Beals, for making that ok.) Other times the details are things like an over-the-top 1st birthday cake, still nothing that wounds me, but oh the judgement, "You mean you didn't throw a big party?" and "She didn't have a cake?" and my favorite, "Oh, there wasn't a theme...wow." Give me a break, I thought the breastfeeding for 20 months, the organic diet, the delicately laundered clothes and bedding and the exposure to books, music and the outdoors was what it was all about, not Dora and a birthday crown.

That's not what got this started, it was actually hearing Avery whisper, "Licious."

She looked at me, a bright green cilantro leaf clinging to her raspberry colored lips, a rug burn scab winking at me just beneath her nose, and bits of shredded cheese and ground turkey falling from her little hands. My heart, broken and mended so many times over, I'd thought by this time was stronger, simply shattered as she shined the entire her light of her being on me and said, "Licious, mama. Dat food 'licious."

Looking into those eyes, so blue and wide, I saw the reflection of a thousand decisions shining back at me. I saw the late night talks with Sean, the yearning to have a baby. My frantic worry that bringing another baby into the world would be unfair to Briar, my belly already swelling with the soon-to-be-blue-eyes before me. Watching her reach for another fistful of turkey I remembered my own reaching, questing to find a way to be home more.

I have not chronicled Avery's life like I did Briar. I've never made scrapbooks or kept consistent journals for either one, there are no "Baby's first year" albums kicking around our house. There are stones collected along the banks of the Hudson sitting on shelves, there are crumbly twigs gathered at the feet of the gnarly storybook tree at our favorite park and there are threadbare shirts, collars stained with strawberry and tree sap. The notes I've gathered on her life cannot be read in tidy chapter form, they are etched in my being.

I know, even now as licious echoes in my ears and sparkling rivers of sinfully ripe, organic Bosch pear juice run down her bare arms and wrinkle the emerald construction paper she is coloring beside me, that I'll forget that word, the throaty sound of it passing over her glistening lips. I'll lose my grasp on the rhythm of her words, may struggle to remember if it was Avery who sounded like she was from Boston or if it was Briar.

I have ferreted away in drawers and boxes, scraps of paper upon which I've scrawled notes. I hope that it will be enough, That as their cheeks hollow and their limbs lengthen and they seek out clues, a way to gain entry into the parts of their lives that they don't remember, that I'll have enough. I hope that my choice not to follow a uniform method of documenting their milestones, will be ok. I hope that Avery will know that I catalogued her first years differently than Briar's because of the way we connected, less dreamy gazing and worshipping, more giggling staring contests and dueling. Perfectly, exquisitely distinct.



And then, just as I fear that I'm wrong, that I should have written it all down, we have a moment, the kind that I cannot imagine if I lived a thousand years, that I could ever forget.

She's just crawled into the room, a bright pink plastic fork in her hand. I call to her to bring it over onto the carpet. She keeps crawling, I call her again and she stands, bumping her head on the drawer from which she's taken the fork. She stands gingerly, "Uh bumped my head. Ah bumped my head on'a drawer." I look, my brow furrowed, "Can I kiss it for you?"

"No. My do it myself," she says with an emphatic blink. Then she stops, thinks, her eyes looking upward, and the realization hits that she cannot kiss her own head. The familiar sensation of my heart splitting in a thousand hairline cracks. She walks to me, head bowed, "You kiss'a my head, mama? You kiss it and make my head better?"

And I do, bending forward I kiss that silky head, pressing my lips hard and squeezing my eyes closed as the tears threaten. She stands taller, returning my kiss with an impish twist of her head and a ,"Das'a better on my head, mama. I yove'a you!"

I never said I was Grizzly Adams

Ok, so a wildlife expert I am not. I think it's kind of a good thing because it means that I can get breathlessly excited about spying a turtle in the pond at the park or spotting a rabbit in a field. I was on the phone just now and something caught my eye out the window...

"Oh my god. Oh. My. God!" I squealed to my coworker.

"There's, umm, there's a, a, a hawk in my yard. Or an eagle, well not an eagle, but really maybe a hawk."

She was unimpressed but characteristically delighted by my propensity for being excited by what some might consider the mundane.

"I am so taking a picture of that...winged creature. It's in my backyard!"

So, I'll now share the photo with you. If it's an a common parking lot speckled pigeon please keep it to yourself. I'm treasuring this as if I'd happened upon a unicorn.

Ropin' the Moon.

It plays in my head a little bit like a song, this concept of not knowing yearning before kids. I never knew what it felt like to want something with all of my being, to be consumed by the pursuit of something purely for the purpose of bringing joy to another person. I understood the things that would make me happy and I worked toward them, but I never persisted with the single minded focus that I do as I strive for my girls.

Fixing the house, structuring my schedule, creating memories, they are all fueled by an unabated hunger to delight the girls. This isn't to say that I indulge every whim, but when there is room for magic, opportunity for awe or the potential to ignite wonder, I seize them.

We were at a friend's house recently and the girls were enthralled by the old piano sitting in the study. They would spring from our arms to go and caress the keys, broke from the meal to make it sing. The only thing that brought them greater joy than tickling the ivories was having someone there to watch or play with them. Their peals of laughter floated up from their perch on the bench and danced pinging off the walls. Our conversation and eventually the entire tenor of the day, became laced with the infectious enchantment of two pigtailed little sprites.

Later the same day I posted a picture from their recital as my screen saver. Sean warned me that if I didn't change the picture we would have a piano by the end of the month. I laughed, seeing him so moved by their joy touched me in that irresistible way that only dads devoted to their daughters can.

From the first time Sean put headphones on my pregnant belly, we had dreamt of having a piano. Now we knew that girls had the music gene. It seems such an essential thing, this nurturing of passion, particularly musical or artistic, and so the yearning began to burn. I had looked casually for months, scanning classifieds and online auctions, but never taking it too seriously.

A piano for our girls. How could we possibly afford it? Where would we find it? How would we move it?

"Mama, is that the piano we were playing?" Briar asked pointing at the screen and interrupting my reverie.

"Yes, baby, it is. You were making beautiful music." I said with a smile.

"Can we do it again? Can we go to Debbie's and play with that guy to the piano?" She asked, remembering Harold and his playing with a twinkle in her eye.

"Not today, honey." I said, trying to hide any hint of the ache I felt. How magic to have a piano, to have their fingers run across the ivory instead of the keys on a Mac keyboard. I set my computer aside and called to the girls to play blocks with me. Everything we built represented a piano to me.
Keys.
A bench.
Pedals protruding from a base.

Later, after bedtime, I scoured the internet, poring over Craigslist listings within 300 miles. Bleary eyed and defeated after a couple of hours, I was poised to turn off the computer when I found one: Upright piano. Must go. Redecorating, the listing was less than a hundred miles away. Sean had said he'd love to get an old upright like Deb's. I clicked on the link.

Dark and tall with areas worn and light. There were four spindles along the top with two matching on either side down below. The bench was dinged and plain. It wasn't perfect, but it could be ours. I called to Sean and had him look. At first he was unimpressed, but over the next day or two he called the picture up time and again.

"Know what, babe?" He asked.

"What's that?" I answered.

"I like it. I really like that piano. Let's go for it." He was smiling at me.

"Really?" And he nodded.

We drove to the people's house to see it. They were a couple with two preteen kids. "We bought it for them but they never really took to it." They stumbled over each other, talking about how one took up flute, the other drums. The excitedly ran for the music books, "Your girls are how old?" the young girl asked. "Nearly two and three and a half," Sean answered.

"Oh! We have Disney. And kids books. And so much." The four of them were quite a sight bent over the cardboard box rummaging through as if it were gold dubloons and jewels within a treasure chest.

"This came from a music store in Burlington, we think it may be as old as being made in the 1880's," the mom told us breathlessly. "The man we bought it from had bought it for his kids."

We arranged to call a piano mover to transport and then tune the piano. Writing a check and shaking hands we headed back to the car. It felt like Christmas morning. "Can you believe we are getting the girls a piano? This piano that has been played by so many other children? And that it travelled from Burlington. I know it's not a perfect piece, but I love that it has this history, has been loved. Did you see how excited they were? Can you imagine the girls, the looks on their faces?" I looked at Sean and found him just shy of laughing.

"What?" I asked. He kept smiling at me. I realized I'd been talking a mile a minute and that I was grinning. "Wha-aat?" I asked again.

"You. It's just amazing to see you this happy. I am really excited for all of us."

I beamed back at him and said, "This just really feels like the right thing to be doing for our family. I just can't get over how good this feels."

"Me too, babe. Me too."

Driving home there was a full moon in the afternoon sky. I smiled as I thought of us ropin' that moon for our girls and the faint sounds of a piano tickled at my ears.




Updated*
Thursday the girls sat rapt, as the movers traversed three and a half feet of snow and ice to deliver the piano. It was a sweet, sweet day.

Mightier Body

My Dear Body they asked us to write, mightier body is what came to mind. I'd write a letter, but my body and I have a long history of skipping stuff like that and going right from thought to body.

We've been through a lot, this body and me. We spent a terrifying afternoon together when we were about 8. We'd been at the park playing, carrying out trademark moves of daredevilry on the monkey bars. A fateful misplant of one foot led body and me to discover a startlingly bright and robust trickle of blood between our legs. I was certain that my body had failed me- that my period had arrived. We fled home to sit together on the floor of the bathroom in terror and regret. If only we'd been more careful...(we were still fretting 3 years later as the milestone of first period seemed to be passing us by.)

We held hands and stuck close as everyone around us started using body as self, the size of chests, whether it was girlish and propped up with foam and lace, or brutish and puffed up with bluster and bravado, became the gauge for popularity and inclusion. We didn't fit. Body still wanted to carry my across the blacktop, I still wanted to occupy it, we fit, but only with each other.

As we began to be interpreted by other people in ways we didn't intend we grew apart. I came to resent my body for its strength and size, my body paid no heed to my desire for smaller calves and bigger boobs. The less I ate and the more I worked out, the bigger my calves and smaller my boobs became. Body and I slipped into a grim downward spiral of light blue pills, intestinal cramping and brittle hair. The numbers on the scale got smaller and smaller. My body was slipping away, and with it, the greatest strength and friend I'd ever had.

It was touch and go there for a few years. Camel Lights and Ex Lax playing recurring roles between half-hearted attempts to find my way back to content. I sought out things I wished my body was and silently berated my body for not being as lean or willowy.
"Thick."
"Awkward."
"Over-sized."
"Inferior."
The thoughts slashed at me with razor sharp intensity. I was relentless and exhausted by my own self-loathing. I desperately tried to break the cycle, journaling, working out, reading, crying.

I had fleeting moments when my hands caught hold, if just for a moment, to the oneness of my youth. I would remember the way my legs carried me across the field, the burn in my lungs and shaking in my legs making me smile. Fatigue was an accomplishment, not a failure. It was during one of those periods when I met the person who would accompany me back to the girl with the wind in her hair.

I'll never forget the moment, alone with my body, having spent months reconnecting, studying, listening and care taking, when it clicked. My body. My beautiful, wondrous body. I was staring at my reflection in a mirror as I learned that my body was carrying another. A daughter. I knew in that moment that it had to end. There could be no more hatred, no more running away.

More than four years have passed since that day and in that time, with the exception of a few understandable pregnancy induced oh-my-god-I'm-gigantic moments, I have loved my body. I'm not sure if my calves are any slimmer or whether my boobs ever had that wished for growth spurt, but as I look at them, I love them. Two daughters have been caught by a doctor's arms pressing against my calves. These daughters have been nourished and soothed at my breasts. And as I sit here now, one leg tucked beneath me and my body preparing to once again nourish a daughter, I love this body. It is stronger, more beautiful. It is mightier than I ever knew.

And it is mine.

You're Mine, Chump.

Yo, faucet!





You can run, but you can't hide.





Behold, the 30 week, 5 day belly.

Nothing like a man...or three

There is, to this sappy mom of two girls and counting, nothing more swoon-worthy than a grown man (or three) going gooey over little girls.

Special thanks to Rui and Harold for delighting our girls so today.



Deb was pretty special too (as usual).

Wrapped 'round their pigtails

Wintry days and flyaway hair lull me into a false state of autonomy. Out of the blue the girls relent and let me fasten their hair in pigtails. And, once again, they own me. Completely, and deliciously.

Excuse me, you there trying to do it all...

Yesterday was a long day between my "freelance job" and the way demands from it pecked away at me from my first cup of coffee to bedtime; my "regular job" which had impossible situations highlighting how despite my best efforts there are some things that I cannot fix; and my "dream job" sitting off to the side receiving unacceptable-to-me bursts of attention as the hours allowed. I found myself growing more aware with each tick of the clock of how many dishes sat at home, how empty the cupboards were, and how I longed to be with Sean and the girls.

They had all been napping as I dressed. The entire upstairs was closed in from the cold, curtains drawn, blankets stacked high and lights dimmed. I left no note, made no preparations for dinner, the idea of them eating without me sliced too deep to address with a cheery note and a gaily colored stack of dishes. The world outside was dark, the air biting and the terrain treacherous from the ice storm, as I made my way to an event that required my time, but had none of my heart.

I tried not to imagine what I was missing, how the girls, so accustomed to having me home at night, must have been asking after me. I ached for the time usually spent catching up on the day with Sean, knowing it would be lost in a blur of bedtime (if I made it) and trying to get dishes done and laundry set for the morning.

Dinner was a torturous affair as I sat with three engineers and four empty chairs. My cheeks burned as I wracked my brain for small talk that did not involve potty training, time outs or my increasingly ripe and in the way breasts and belly, which seemed to be the fifth person at the table. We discussed at length whether the white vegetables on the plates were parsnips or turnips, the merits of hockey and, yes, potty training.

Blessedly the moment came when the evening's festivities were officially drawn to a close with a quick round of applause. I hovered for fifteen minutes making sure the loose ends were all neatly tied into pretty bows and then bolted. I pulled into our driveway just shy of eight o'clock. I shuffled wearily up the cement steps in our garage and cleaned the ice from my shoes before walking inside.

Walking into the front part of the house I could hear the sounds of Mulan coming from the computer. I tiptoed in to see the three of them cuddling in the chair by the computer. Briar was curled in Sean's lap, while Avery sat perched on his hip. I stood behind the chair watching this perfect tableau, slowly making my way closer and slipping my hand over the chair back and into Avery's hair.

She leaned back at my touch and her head rested in my palm. I tousled her hair and held her hand for a moment before Sean turned and looked at me. His eyes were drowsy and he gave me a love-drunk smile. Avery turned, finally realizing it was me who had been touching her, and climbed in my arms. Briar turned, smiled and then snuggled in closer to Sean. We stayed that way until the credits began to roll.

"Daddy, it's a slow song. Will you dance with me?" She asked as she stretched to a standing position. He scooped her in his arms and caught Avery as she too, leapt in his arms. I settled in the chair as they twirled to the music. The girls faces bobbed, leaning into tickle his whiskers and then out again, noses crinkled and eyes twinkling. The house rang with peals of pure joy.

"Daddy!"

The tension of the day slid from my limbs and landed on either side of the chair, out of sight and all but forgotten. The credits ended and a new song began.

"Dance more Daddy? You dance more wif us?" Avery asked holding his face in her hands while Briar looked on in delight. I felt as much a part of the activity as if I'd been dancing myself. Realization and emotion collided, a simultaneously jarring and soothing clap.

They are complete.
We are complete.
Even when apart.

Not together. There it was. The girls had passed an evening with Sean. Daddy. They had danced and wrestled, feasted on macaroni and watched a movie together. On a night while I had imagined them missing out, they had, in actuality, been getting more than if I'd been there. This was not a situation of missing mom, but of getting dad.

Their hair fanned out behind them as Sean dipped them, their hands, with fingers still ever so plump, clutched his arms while they careened around his strong torso. His face was as trouble free and open as I've seen it in ages. The tears scorched my eyes and the lump in my throat threatened to make me whimper as wave upon wave of emotion engulfed me. I hadn't the energy to hold them. I wanted him to hold them, wanted them to want it, and they did. I watched them dance, absolutely dazzled by their rapture. And his.

I wept the happiest tears of my life as I realized that the girls were better off for having Sean and this time. Tonight as I type this on the tail end of Valentine's Day I smile knowing that I am better off for having Sean too.

I love you, baby.

A boy named Sue

We certainly wouldn't name a son "Sue," but would we name a daughter "Lou"? Maybe.

Ok, not literally, but this name thing, it ain't easy. Sean and I have to cop to not wanting to pick a name that is on any of the "Top Baby Name" lists. We thought we'd done pretty well, but I got a comment about 6 weeks ago from another woman who had two daughters named...

Briar and Avery.

Her Avery came before her Briar, so at least our names weren't entirely replicated in another family.

We have had a list going very casually for about a month, but in the last couple of days have gotten very serious. I'm not sure where the sudden focus on naming this fantastically kicky little creature has come from, but I am thankful for it just the same. The response to the name post has made us realize that perhaps one or two of the names sitting high on the "maybe" list are soon to be making an appearance on some of those "Hot Baby Names" lists. Or perhaps you are all just incredibly savvy, with impeccable taste and no plans to have more children, so the names are safe.

Doubting that.

So where does that leave us? Do you even care? Good grief.

I don't know anything more than this- we will be choosing a name that means something to Sean and me. Avery's middle name is taken from the theatre where we met. Hearing it paired with a name we chose and bestowed upon a life we created together is what makes it so absolutely perfect. I am so looking forward to a day not so far from now, when we will meet this treasure of ours and begin an affair of loving her and reveling in the blessing that is being parents to our girls.

For all my fretting, I am thrilled to be sharing this with you all and thank you each for caring about our girls and the stories I tell.

No daughter of mine is going to be called Ginger!

Apologies to the Gingers of the world.

And further apologies to all those people who think that because we have daughters with names beginning with "a" and "b" that our next should have a name beginning with a "c."

It ain't gonna happen.

So far she won't be called:

Claire - makes me think of Judd Nelson in the Breakfast Club
Chloe - already taken by someone I know
Cleo - makes me think of the strung out sister from ER
Cressida - not sure why, just too much name I think
Calla - just can't seem to fully embrace it

Nor will she be called:

Ginger - too inviting of male fantasies
Laurel - too reminiscent of the comedian
Elysium - too many syllables
Clover - too well suited for a pony

And these too have fallen to the wayside:

Sydney - we think this was on a recent tv show
Evan - loved it in '04, not so much now
Pansy - my desire for a flower or spice name is trumped by my desire to not paint our kid into a she-must-be-cheerful-with-a-name-like-that-corner
Poppy - not fair, see above

Names we aren't ready to say no to...

I'm not quite ready to share, but I will say we have candidates beginning with:

D
L
R
S
T
V

And the "v" name isn't Vanna, despite the way the end of this post resembled the final round of Wheel of Fortune.

Saturday Afternoon Elixir

I'm sitting in the big chair in the girls room, legs crossed, laptop nestled beneath my belly and between my knees. Both girls are asleep on their backs, each facing away from the wall and toward each other. I trimmed their bangs this morning, Briar's forehead is a seashell pink, dusted by two sandy arches, Avery's an ethereal milky color, her brows like artist's strokes of charcoal. The light coming through the white panels and pink sheers is soft, the world beyond a brilliant white, silent and serene, as inch after inch of snow falls in impossibly tiny flakes.

We've spent the morning making Valentine's, wood puttying nail holes in the trim work in the kitchen, and slurping chicken noodle soup through straws. I've yet to shower, and somehow sitting here, watching them sleep, still clad in my pajamas and bed hair, I feel as refreshed and pampered as I can ever remember feeling. Perhaps it's the way the simple magic of the entire day clings to me like the snowflakes glimmering on every surface outside.

Avery came to me as I began to wake this morning, hauling her little body up into bed and then on top of me. She slipped into her favorite mold, laying her neck against mine and burying her face in the side of mine, while running her fingers up and down my arm whispering, "You ahm, you nayck, you showduh." We stayed like that for some time until Sean popped his head up and offered to take Ave downstairs. Later, after I'd fallen back to sleep, Briar squealed, realizing that she was all alone. She sprinted to our room and rushed to my side of the bed, her relief at seeing me had her collapsing into my side, her palm outstretched and cupping my face.

I find myself wanting to stay until they wake, to be there to witness the gentle rustle, lips pursing in a cross between a kiss and a question, knees popping up beneath bright fleece dotted with princesses and monkeys. I imagine the delight on their faces as they realize I never left. The anticipation warms me from head to toe and it is all I can do to keep myself from kicking and shrieking, waking the neighborhood with my delight at being mama to Briar and Avery, and soon another.

Should have known better...

It is a rare occasion when I truly make the deliberate decision to create a harbor for Sean and I to have time alone while the girls are at home and awake. Tonight as I was getting dinner ready I asked Sean if he wanted to have a snack in the kitchen or in front of the news. Shrugging his shoulders he said, "Makes no difference to me." Not missing a beat I said, "We'll probably be able to talk more if we stay in here," so we did.

Snacking on chips and salsa we talked about the day and worked out hiccups we'd both had. Before long I had the girls' dinners dished up and cooling on the table.

"Let's just eat dinner now," he said, a mixture of mischief and eagerness in his voice. We laughed and chattered on as we dined on leftovers and slices of fresh cucumber and carrot sticks. We were laughing about something when Briar scooted in, cheeks glowing and eyes twinkling. She clambered up into her seat and began crunching on a cucumber as she watched us, her head swiveling back and forth like a tennis spectator.

"Hey guys!" She exclaimed breathlessly.

We turned and smiled at her, "What sweetie?" Sean asked.

"Avery's sleeping in the chair," she squealed as she crammed a handful of macaroni and cheese with peas into her mouth.

We nearly dropped our silverware as the reality of the time (7pm) and the implications of a sleeping toddler with a normal waking hour of between 3 and 4am hit us.

Shit.

We dashed to the living room to find Avery, limp and chapters into a serious state of REM. Her chest rose and fall as gentle crescendos of snores slipped from her parted lips. After a few moments of watching her, Briar looking on proud that her declaration had been met with such delight, I scooped her in my arms.

We went, as Briar would say, "like a family" into the kitchen to sit down to dinner. Avery stayed awake, planting kiss after cheesey kiss upon my face and neck between bites. She's upstairs now and I am sure my wake up call will come much closer to 3 than 4 tomorrow, but it was worth it.

Dinner with Sean, squeals of satisfaction from Briar and sleepy kisses from Avery...I am blessed indeed.

Small Talk, Big Ass

Last night was the big, fancy annual event I put together for the Chamber. The decorations, purchased on a shoestring budget, looked magnificent, the girls were happily ensconced in a Governor's Suite at The Sagamore with Nana and Ciocci Jeannie and standing on Sean's arm, he in a dashing brown suit and me in a silver party skirt and daringly low cut black top, I felt incredible.

My responsibilities for the evening had settled down to moderate surveying of the room and the occasional huddle with band members and wait staff. Sean and I were strolling the room arm in arm and chatting with guests. It was a wonderful mix of business and pleasure, and remarkably, we sailed brilliantly through the different snippets of small talk with everyone from bank presidents and CEO's to entrepreneurs and politician's wives.

And then it happened...

After a little back and forth with one of the aforementioned bank presidents, and several other businessmen, talk inevitably turned to my pregnancy.

"Is this your first?" the bank president asked.

"No, we have two. It's our third." I answered.

"Wow, how old are the two at home?" he asked.

"Three and about 20 months," I answered.

"Sooo, do you know what you are having?" A woman asked.

"Yes, another girl," I said with a broad smile.

"Wow, four girls?" the banker asked.

I hesitated for a moment before saying, "I thought you were the banker. It's our third."

Everyone laughed and then another man standing with us said, "It's a scientific fact that with families with three daughters or more the divorce rate grows exponentially."

Silence.

What the hell do you say to that?

"Hmm, I didn't do well in biology, but I don't think I had anything to do with determining gender," I said lightly.

Sean jumped in and said, "It was my escape clause."

"Seriously, way more divorces."

More silence.

We all tried to laugh, but honestly, it was awkward. I didn't think to ask how many daughters he had...