Jumping the creek.

The destination was unknown, as it always is with adventures.  Trekking through the dry, dusty cornfields that surrounded my childhood neighborhood in neat rows of swirls and lines, our ten-year-old selves passed over land that was meant for a farmer’s boots alone.  I liked walking on the tractor prints, hopping across the raised bubbles of wet dirt on my tiptoes, keeping my hand outstretched to feel the crinkly husks against my fingertips.  We scurried under barbed wire fences and walked past no trespassing signs.  We ran through a pasture where cows stared at us with their beady black eyes and picked through a pile of junk speckled with bullet holes.  But then we came to a creek.  One about 4 feet wide.  I stood back and watched my friends swiftly leap over the gurgling water to land with both feet planted in the long damp grass on the other side. 

“Come on, Ker!” they chanted urging me to jump.  I did that thing where you start to propel your body forward then at the last second hold it back at least two dozen times.  Close to tears, I listened to them tell me how easy it was, and I shook my head vigorously.  I couldn’t.  I wouldn’t.

“I will make a bridge for you with my body.  You can walk across me to the other side,” one of my friends offered generously. 

I agreed without a thought, and so she lay down, outstretched, her hands against one side of the creek bank, her sneakers planted on the other.  And I stepped onto her body.  Onto her back between her shoulder blades, down her spine, onto the squishy flesh of her butt.  And she sank into the cold water, belly first, my feet to follow.  We squealed and scrambled out of the creek in a frenzy, my fear lingering in the air above us, chilling my feet, her body, the entire march back home.

The fear I felt on the creek bank that day as a child was real despite the fact that even if I had jumped, the worst outcome would have been landing in the water like we did anyway.  It was real for me in that moment, a feeling I let paralyze and trick me into sacrificing my friend just to feed it.  That day, after we made it home, I didn’t think much more about the creek and my fear.  And in fact, the next several hikes we did, I managed to somehow avoid jumping whether it was leaning on my friends or walking the long way around to a narrower spot.  I succumbed to the fear and didn’t ask questions and simply moved on.

Over the course of my life, I have collected all kinds of fears.  They are moments, feelings or experiences I store in little capsules, some in my body, others in my heart, many in my mind, a few small but potent ones in my soul.  This year, from 32 to 33, has been quite a pivotal year in my collection process because this year, I have ripped many of my fears from their comfortable resting places.  I’ve shuffled them, tossed them in the air, torn them open, dumped them in front of myself, and waded through the mess.  It is the start of a long piece of work, but I’ve started challenging old and new fears, interrupting patterns to pay attention and ask questions.  By no means have I conquered my fears, but I’ve created a (messy) map toward doing so.

Part of my journey this year has involved saying goodbye to my twenties.  I haven’t been there for a while now, but I was still feeling the spillover of the protective bubble.  In my twenties, I wouldn’t have ever admitted it, but I felt somewhat invincible.  Now, I am faced almost daily with stories that rattle me to the core.  Stories of infant death, school shootings, and abductions.  These are stories that are dangerous for a person like me who spends a lot of time in her head spiraling about this or that.  What I know now is that the protective bubble is an illusion and that pain is something that everyone feels.  And while we may do our best to avoid inner friction and pain at all costs, feeling it, truly allowing it in, may open up moments of clarity about our inner world we would have never known otherwise.  Pain has taught me valuable lessons in living in the present moment, something I struggle with every single day and every single time I am with my phone and kids at the same time.  Instead of fearing it, can we embrace our own pain?  Or the pain of others? 

In opening a painful wound and exploring it, I have learned about one of my deepest fears.  This is a fear of dying from cancer.  Of experiencing what my dad and so many others are forced to.  It has always lurked within, but it resurfaced this year after having a health scare I won’t go into too much detail about.  Within this particular scare, there was a period of “unknown,” as there is with most health-related situations.  Have the tests, wait.  Wait.  Wait some more.  During the waiting time, I found my mind spinning to the worst possible scenario.  It barely even touched on “everything will be just fine” and went straight to “holy shit, I’m dying.”  I stopped eating, writing, sleeping.  I holed up, clung to Angus’s body every chance I got, and prepared for the cruelest possible fate.  And then after the waiting time, I found out answers.  Answers that in no way were even close to what my imagination had conjured up.  And this is when the work began.  There was no way in hell I could live my life how I did in those two weeks.  I had to get some kind of grip on this fear because it threatened to ruin me.

Since, I’ve spent a lot of time with this fear, learning about why it might exist and who and what inspire me stay alive even while dying – a stranger being one of the most powerful examples.  I’ve chosen to talk about it instead of stuff it somewhere deep and let it eat away at me.  I’ve been open about my dad’s experience and understand that his process does not have to be my own.  I’ve been working on trusting my body, the same body that endured two natural childbirths and nourished two children, to understand its vulnerability but also its strength.  I am being proactive with the food I eat and the way I move, but trying not to make these things obsessive weapons against cancer but more a positive way of life.  In the opening and receiving of my own narrative and the stories of others, I have healed in many ways especially in understanding that this fear deserves to be acknowledged but does not warrant a leading role in my life. 

In facing the unknown, by inviting fear to course through my veins, I have grown to understand what fear looks and feels like.  I can recognize it a mile away.  And even when I don’t, when it sneaks up on me and takes hold, I can better negotiate with it.  Instead of moving through my days fearing what my kids will one day say about me, I am generous and loving with them and notice beauty in the simplest of moments.  I try (key word: try) not to beat myself up for having a bad moment or day, for exploding with rage when Calvin pees in the trashcan instead of the toilet.  Rather than letting the darkness of my past haunt me, I write about it or speak it to listening ears, small victories I can revisit and feel proud of.  I fear often that I will be misinterpreted through my writing as “too this” or “too that,” but I keep writing, because it’s what keeps me alive.  Even as simple as in my yoga practice, I’ve let go of some fears.  I’m most definitely not the inversion type, but through the meditative flow, I’ve pushed my body and mind to find new places of growth or fall into child’s pose without judgment.  This year has been about facing fears and getting real with myself, and it’s a massive work in progress.

Angus and I went to dinner on my birthday and talked (uninterrupted) about what this lifetime is for each of us.  “What do you feel your soul has to learn in this life?” we asked each other.  We both agreed that this feels like a significant lifetime.  (Goodness, I hope everyone feels this way.)  But beyond that, for me, this life feels like a passage to something else, a discovery of some kind my soul yearns for.  I have been given so much, and what I choose to do with it all seems significant.  The thing with adventures is that the destination is unknown.  I understand that there will be more barbed wire and warning signs and glaring bystanders and junk to sift through.  And that one day, I will come to another creek, a really wide one with water that rushes fast and loud.  And instead of letting someone else be a bridge or taking the long way around, I will take the leap and cross it myself.  

33!

We survived one.

Yesterday, my second-born turned one-year-old.  This means several things.  It means that we have an almost walker.  The week of his birthday, Kyle took four steps to me in music class.  He’s capable of more but taking it slow, dropping to his knees after his short jaunts.  Being one means that we have a little human who is busy discovering new ways express himself, my favorite of which involves him popping off my boob and signing and saying, “All done!” with a toothy grin.  Glad I could be of service to you, little dude.  Kyle being one means that we are closer to weaning, which is both exciting and terrifying to me all at once.  I’ve read the blogs, the articles, all the stories about weaning and the emotions that come with, and I have to say, I’m a little worried.  But, we’ll cross that milk-stained bridge…  One is having two kids who (mostly) sleep through the night.  It’s no more purees or spoon-feeding.  It’s the cacophony of laughter, tears, and yells.  One is something we can say we’ve done.  A checkpoint.  A milestone.  A step closer to civil family dinners and vacations where the kids carry their own shit.

Our baby has turned one, and so has our family, our marriage.  Angus and I have survived a year with two children.  For us, that sentence means we survived the most difficult year of our lives.  Angus is the best father in the entire world, and I’d say I’m a pretty good mother, but this has been by far the hardest responsibility either of us has faced.  Harder than building radar for fighter planes.  Harder than teaching drug addicts about coping skills.  Harder than owning a start-up.  Harder than convincing unruly middle schoolers to care about Atticus Finch.  I often wonder why my brain lands on the word “hard” when I think of this past year.  Why doesn’t it say transformational?  Amazing?  Rewarding?  Why has it been so hard? 

I don’t know if these women exist, but let me first say, I am NOT one of them.  Our pediatrician, who is more like my therapist, says they are an illusion.  A figment of my overly active imagination.  These women I’ve conjured up (correct me if I’m wrong and you’re one of them) are the ones who seem to glide through the first year of two kids with a tired grace.  The mess who is me postpartum probably just assumes that everyone else does it better when in fact everyone is just as crazy.  So assuming you all will understand, I will go there.  I was a disaster.  Within the first few weeks, I had a sinus infection, which afflicted Kyle as well.  I had mastitis, which kept me in bed, barely capable of my only duty: nourishing my child.  Forget taking care of the older one.  He was daddy’s responsibility.  My butt.  Oh my poor butt.  Let’s just say that my butt turned one too.  And it was just all so much for me…the needy toddler, the sleepless nights, the early mornings, the Ergo that was a part of me, an injured foot, the hormones.  Oh, the hormones.  So much that Angus barely worked for close to twelve weeks.  The spirals of self-doubt, of wondering why I couldn’t after six months put two kids down for a nap at the same time without melting down.  I was freaking tired, but where was my grace?

People have been saying that this year went fast.  That I look amazing, like this year hasn’t aged me at all.  (Thank you, thank you.)  Despite what it looks like, I have sprouted at least a dozen more grays and inherited a bundle of new stretch marks, but more importantly realized so much about myself.  I’ve come to understand that everyone does this parenting thing uniquely.  Everyone’s capacity is a bit different.  Their standards, values, priorities vary.  Everyone I know is doing their best to guide little humans who will eventually shape our world.  I have realized that I need help doing it.  I don’t do well alone.  I need sweet friends, near and far, schools, nannies, family, and my husband.  And that’s OK.  My perfectionist tendencies can go pound it.  I’ve created a network over this past year that is working for me, that is helping me be a great mom.   I have come to understand that it is all right to be a mess, and for me, it’s best to reach out during the spiral, not after it’s bottomed out.

Of course, like everyone tells you it does, the months slip by and it gets better.  I will not use the word easier.  But we are here.  We made it.  My second born is one-year-old.  We have added another unique individual to our world – to our family – which is so amazing.  Kyle is a bright light.  He is easy-going, tolerant, and social.  He lets anyone hold him and loves shadowing his brother around the house.  He’s independent and smart, making up his own games in the playroom.  Kyle eats like a grown man and will not balk at anything, even the darkest and most bitter greens.  He’s funny and snuggly, a great napper and a sweet nurser.  And he rocks a super cool hairdo. 

Someone recently asked Angus and me what we were doing to celebrate Kyle’s first birthday.  I answered, “We are going away for the weekend…ALONE.”  It’s the truth.  We did, and it was ridiculously amazing.  Angus still has the valet tag on his keys because he can’t bear to forget our 24-hour stretch of being just us.  But, rest assured, we celebrated Kyle as well.  And it was during the birthday song, like it is every time, when the tears came.   Something happens to me during that song.  I love seeing my family and friends sing to my babies, the ones who were once physically a part of me.  I feel like they are singing to me too.  Celebrating us, that we made it this far.  It happened in short jaunts, many times falling to our knees, but we made it, babe.  We are “All done!”  We survived one. 

It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to.

Today is my birthday, and I didn't realize it until 6:00 a.m. when I was snapping at Angus to adjust the pillow behind my back so I could comfortably nurse my 5-week-old son.  "Happy birthday," my groggy husband said with a kiss.  Then he rolled back over and fell into a deep sleep.  

HA!  No way.  Rather, he closed his eyes savoring his last minute of quiet before I asked him to swaddle and bounce Kyle back to sleep so I could close my eyes and savor my last minute of quiet before hauling my butt out of bed to start the day on five hours of sleep.  Meanwhile, Calvin started chirping in the monitor next to my ear.  "A, B, C, D, E, F, G!" he sang to his stuffed animals.  At least this morning didn't start out like many others with Puppet and Llama in time-out, which then causes me to lay awake questioning our disciplinary tactics.

Anyway, so that was the morning.  The big birthday morning.  I could go into more detail about the milk stains, hormonal sweat residue, farting infant, boxer-clad husband, and defiant toddler, but that might scare some of you.  I don't want to be responsible for scaring anyone out of having kids.  

Now this would be the logical turning point for this post.  Where I say something like, "This is fucking hard but SO worth it.  Kids are amazing.  Kids rock.  Kids are God's gift.  I am enjoying every moment, even the poopy, whiney, screamy, plugged milk ducty, first hemorrhoidy, and postpartum flabby ones."  But, I'm not going to use this as a segway because, DUH.  Of course all this is true.  (Well, most of it.)  Isn't it a given that I feel this way since I was the one who said, "Yes, impregnate me.  Yes, I'll do two childbirths with no drugs.  Yes, I'll quit my job and be a stay-at-home-mom.  Yes, I'll fall in love with two other boys besides my darling husband.  YES!"  Isn't it clear that I'm in a state of bliss?  After all, I said yes.

When we show our weaknesses to the world, friends reach out.  When we say, "This is hard; this kinda sucks; I'm struggling," kind souls sympathize.   Uplifting ones remind us how lucky we are.  Supportive ones relate.  But the BEST are the ones who say, "You are RIGHT!  This does suck!  These kids are a pain in my ass!" 

So right now, you will be the best.  You will let me say, "No! Oh HELL NO!  You cannot possibly be hungry AGAIN!"  You will let me say this, if for no other reason, because it's my birthday.  And on my birthday I want to be ALONE on a deserted tropical island sipping beverages with high alcohol content while laying in the sun listening to waves crash on the shore.  Take me out of this moment and teleport me into another!  Please!

It's nearing 6:00 p.m.  I've been awake for twelve hours but it feels like a thousand.  Junior is snoozing in his swing, and Senior is playing with his Papa.  A meal is en route, a birthday lunch with a friend is complete, texts and calls have been received.  I'm settling into 32.  I'm saying yes, I'm saying no, I'm shrugging my shoulders.  I'm loving and hating.  Laughing and crying.  Leaking, wiping, feeding, cuddling, singing, soothing.

Living.

I dedicate this post to the itty-bitty dose of caffeine in my decaf Americano, for without you, this masterpiece would not have been possible.

On turning 31. (Better late than never.)

I have a picture of my tenth birthday in an old photo album somewhere in my basement.  For this particular birthday, my parents set up a wooden picnic table underneath an enormous oak tree that shaded most of our backyard.  Pastel colored streamers and balloons hung in the tree’s leafy boughs swaying in the light breeze of that late-May afternoon.  A silver boom box sat on the corner of the weathered table.  My best friend, sister and I excitedly awaited the arrival of my guests, and to pass the time, I hit “play” on the tape deck.  Early 90’s dance jams emanated from the speakers.  I danced under that large oak, swinging my hips from side to side and running my hands through my crimped hair like Madonna did in her music videos I wasn’t supposed to watch.  Soon my best friend and sister joined in; holding pretend microphones in our hands, we closed our eyes and felt the music course through our bodies, the wind brush our skin, and the blades of cool grass tickle our toes. The photograph captures this very moment  - little girls dancing, decorations hanging, guests en route. It captures a moment of absolute and pure bliss. It was my birthday, and although it wasn’t a huge over-the-top bash, I was the happiest girl in the world.

Really, I don’t know if I remember this birthday because I’ve seen this picture so many times or because it was that poignant of a memory.  It doesn’t matter, I suppose, because what I remember is the joy that came with turning another year older.  What is it about being young that makes us want to be older?  To young minds, being older means having more privileges and less supervision.  It means coming closer to being independent, which sounds so flippin’ cool when you’re an angst-filled teen with door-size New Kids on the Block posters plastering your walls. But, when do we make the switch?  When do we, as a culture, start freaking out over our age and grasping for earlier days?  Is it gradual or sudden?  Conscious or sub-conscious?  Healthy or detrimental?  Why can’t we embrace our years like a child does?  “I CAN’T WAIT TO BE OLDER!” we should be screaming from the mountaintop.

Recently, one of my friends told me something that struck me funny yet was so completely true.  “If you’re not older, you’re dead,” she said matter-of-factly as she sipped her cucumber mojito on our most recent “Mommy’s Night Out.”  We continued on to discuss the importance of celebrating every day of our lives and enjoying each moment, which, let’s face it, is tough in this busy life full of kids, careers, relationships, etc.  After our conversation, I began to consider how to embrace getting older versus fall into the stereotype of the bitter, aging American woman. I started to think about all of the big deal, joyous events, like my son’s first birthday and making the commitment to be a stay-at-home-mom, that have brought me to this birthday so grateful and content.  And then, inevitably, I reflected on all the pain and sorrow I’ve faced head-on this year, like my mother’s stroke and my father’s death, which has brought me to this birthday so grown-up and strong.  Then, there are all the moments in between, which I refer to as “normal,” and I realized that this is where I fall short.  What’s crazy is that bumbling around in “normal” is where I spent most of my life this year, yet I’m unable to define what traits I have gained from living through it.

Why do we blow through “normal,” sometimes at top-speed, juggling diapers, cell phones, appointments, and jobs, and neglect to remain fully present?  We’re all guilty of it.  We don’t stop and pay attention until something amazing takes our breath away or something tragic steals someone or something away too soon.  But when you stop and think about it, isn’t “normal” awesome?  Isn’t “normal” spectacular?  Isn’t “normal” WHERE IT’S AT?!  Sure, those really joyous moments make us happy and those painful ones teach us something, but think about what it would be like to arrive just as fully and intensely to every situation no matter how “normal” it seems.  I think this is the secret to embracing our climbing ages, and as simple as it sounds, it clearly is not, or more of us would be doing it.  My focus for this coming year is to discover and experience how beautiful “normal” is and truly appreciate how amazing it is to grow one year older in this life.

Just like on my tenth birthday, this year on my birthday, I danced.  Only it wasn’t under a tree with streamers and balloons, and it wasn’t to 90’s pop, and I don’t have a photograph to document the event.  But I did let loose and dance, next to my sister, a good portion of it in tears, celebrating this year and all the impressions it has left on my heart.  It was a real “normal” moment, and I was in it, all the way, one hundred percent. And you know what?  It felt damn good.