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. 

Dear Sister, I'm Sorry.

Sibling love can blossom early as it did for my boys.  The way they looked at each other – no, saw each other – in that first meeting was magical.  “That’s your brother,” I remember telling Calvin. “Isn’t he cute?”

He nodded.  “I made this.  Here you go, Tyle,” he said leaning over to place a homemade card next to his brother’s tiny, swaddled body.

For Calvin and Kyle it was almost as if they’d known one another before, maybe in a different lifetime; they were connected instantly in that soul-tugging way.  Their first meeting is something I feel so honored to have been able to witness as it deeply affected me and solidified my bond to Kyle knowing he was accepted without question by my firstborn.

The memory I have of meeting my own sibling for the first time is probably my earliest one.  I knew I was going to the hospital to meet my baby sister, and I clutched my dad’s hand as we walked down the endless hallway with green tiled floors.  When I saw my mom in the bed cradling Katy, my heart threatened to leap out of my chest.  Holding a stuffed red dog we bought in the gift shop just moments before, I climbed onto the bed and placed the dog next to her.  When it was time for me to go, I protested.  I did not want to leave her yet, for I just met her.  My dad gave me a ride on his shoulders, and I cried all the way to the car.

Sibling love grows in fields wide and lush where the bottom-feeder weed, the vine that wraps through the field like a snake, is rivalry.  There is something innate, cloaked within the undeniable love that siblings share, about rivalry and the behaviors that come with it.  Rivalry can be helped or exacerbated depending on the parents’ involvement, but it exists in every sibling relationship I’ve ever known, including that of my own boys.

Just as I’m reentering the playroom after peeing in semi-peace, Calvin snatches a matchbox car from Kyle’s pudgy palm, and I hear the roar of one-year-old dissent.  “Give that back to him now, please,” I say.  “You can’t just take a car from Kyle when he is playing with it.”

Calvin gives the car back to his brother, pouting dramatically.

Then this happens which I’m not sure is much better than what happened before, but I’m in shock, so all I can do is stand open-mouthed and watch:

Calvin: “Kyle, can I have that car?”

Calvin answering for Kyle in a high-pitched voice: “Sure!”

Calvin takes the car from Kyle.

Kyle roars once more.

In observing my own boys, seeing the role Calvin plays as the older brother, I have started to understand at a new level some of the pain I caused my own sister.  Most of it we can laugh about now, but some of it cut deep – figuratively and literally.  I have a scar on my hand from my sister.  It involved church camp of all places – a flashlight beam in the eyes, a warning, another flashlight beam in the eyes, the final straw.  Her nails dug into the back of my hand between two veins causing a mark that looks a lot like a bite.  It is a well-deserved scar.

My fingers hover over my keyboard, for they don’t want to keep record of the worst.  I am uncomfortable writing about the things I once said and did to the one I now call my best friend.  She knows these regrets.  We’ve analyzed to death why we tormented each other, and luckily we’ve moved past it.  But just in case I will say it once more: Dear Sister, I’m sorry.  I love you.

It is love that outweighs the rivalry, the snapshot moments that exude so much love that you forget about any contention that may have existed seconds before.  The moments like this morning when I’m scrambling to make breakfast, pack Calvin’s lunch, and start our Crock Pot dinner for tonight, and the boys are on the floor crawling around, pushing stools, throwing old Play Doh – making a mess.   They crawl over to where I’m chopping fruit for a smoothie and both kneel, bounce, and yell just to hear how their voices blend together. 

There is one my mom documented in a journal about my sister and me in the bathtub.  We are splashing around, really getting it going, sending the laps of water up the sides of the tub like we are in a tumultuous ocean.  I fill up a cup with water and dump it over Katy’s head.  She laughs like a maniac, so I do it again and again.  “She likes it, Mommy!” I say as water cascades through Katy’s white blond hair and over her naked body.

The ups and downs of loving and hating our siblings would drive us to a breaking point in any other relationship.  But with our brothers and sisters, we feel a bond that keeps us coming back for more.  Maybe it is that we shared the same woman’s womb, and if we didn’t, maybe it’s a past life that draws us near or something else entirely.  It’s kind of mystical and hard to write about because writing involves words.  Relationships like these can’t always be explained.

Before the sun is up, we lay together in bed.  There’s Daddy, who’s a separate entity on the left side of the bed.  And then there’s us.  We are one, limbs intertwined, heads resting on each other, the youngest suckling at my breast, the oldest wrapped up in my opposite arm.  Sweet boy reaches across my chest to find the hand of the baby.  Their fingers lace together and twist around, feeling one another, the many stories they’ve created before this one.  Their hands do a dance together in the dark above me.  

We are brothers they seem to sing, we are brothers for life.

Community, Redefined.

Community: “a feeling of fellowship with others, as a result of sharing common attitudes, interests, and goals.”

Google has defined what I feel with my mama friends well.  We are a community.  We are parenting with similar principles albeit different styles.  We share love for our own children and the children of our dear friends.  We have a shitty morning and then meet at a park in our yoga pants and suddenly, everything is better.  We teach our children how to share and collaborate with one another.  We push another mama’s toddler on the swing so she can nurse her baby.  We share snacks.  We swaddle and bounce a newborn on an exercise ball so her mama can take a break.  We love.  We give.  We all do it.  No one is exempt, and we ebb and flow into different roles, supporting one another.  We are a community.  One of the best I have ever known.

Sometimes I wish we were a true community.  That we fell into Google’s second definition: “a group of people living in the same place or having a particular characteristic in common.”  Sometimes I long to be living in a different time.  One where we women could sit around our fire stirring porridge, sharing stories, and calming the young.  Where we could offer our breast to our best friend’s babe if she wasn’t able to without society calling us crazy.  Where we could birth together, celebrate together, mourn together.  Like really together.  In this place, we could find a kind of support that nowadays we can only dream of. 

But here we are, and it’s 2014, and we’ve created a beautiful community that fits within society’s social norms.  We celebrate birthdays together and actual birth days.  We laugh over our parenting mishaps and the fact that our 3 ½ year old still craps his pants daily.  We cook each other meals: rich Indian curries, tangy gazpachos, buffalo chicken sandwiches on buttery biscuits.  And, we love on each other’s children.  We hug and kiss them and celebrate them.  We correct their wrongs with compassion, and open our homes to each other, learning, growing, doing this together.

But what happens when crisis hits a community like ours?  When it digs its sharp claws into the safe bubble of love we’ve created with each other.  What happens when someone falls, loses, crumbles?  How do we pick up the pieces? 

I don’t know if I have the answer to this question yet, but good heavens, we’ve been tried and will be again.  I know other communities out there fighting a similar battle, and I look to them to find answers.  I know what I went through with my dad and how my community united.  Thoughts, prayer, meals, texts, cards, flowers, gifts, words, moments.  None of it feels like enough, does it?  I find moments where I literally feel like I could reach inside my chest, yank out my heart, and give a piece of it to my friends to sustain them through tragedy.  Here you go, my dear.  You need this more than I do right now.

I love my mama friends and their big hearts.  I love how they care.   They care deeply, and it is steadfast.  I don’t know how a community like ours endures through heartache so raw, but I am finding this out.  And in the end, we will survive and support and share in celebration once again because we must for the sake of the little ones who’ve brought us together.  We will stand by each other and offer the best support we know how to give, no matter how simple it may seem.  And in doing all of this, we will create something we never knew possible.  I promise you, we will dropkick Google’s ass out of the park with our definition of what it is to be a community, and to be a part of something like that – that’s special.

Love you.

I'm Too Shy.

What I love about language is its ability to tell a story.  Each of us gets to use language to tell our own unique story.  We might use some of the same words, but despite what Webster says, our definitions vary.  There’s no way they couldn’t.  When we speak, hear, or read certain words, our brain conjures up an image almost immediately.  Most likely, this association is based on a past experience, our perspective molded and shaped by the life we’ve lived.

It’s been a long time coming, but I finally confronted my own story.  The words that make up my story are “sensitive” and “shy” often with the adverb “overly” in front of each.  I am not sure when these words took on a negative connotation in my mind.  Perhaps it was when a teacher said to my parents at conferences, “She’s so shy.  I am worried there’s something wrong with her.”  Maybe it was the million times I felt my face flush in response to sarcasm or an off-the-cuff remark.  Or it could be watching in awe naturally extroverted individuals climb up the social ladder.  It is clear that somewhere along the way, along the path of my story, I got confused.

Interestingly enough, “sensitive” and “shy” are the same words that I have used to describe my 3 ½ year old son to his teachers and new friends.  When he hides behind my leg as we enter his classroom, I have found myself saying, “He’s feeling shy today.”  When he was at a birthday party and burst into tears in the bouncy castle, I explained to a friend, “He’s a super sensitive kid.”  His teachers don’t say this.  They say he’s kind, compassionate, a good friend.  Other kids’ parents say, “I hope my son turns out just like Calvin.  He’s such a great kid.” 

It really hit home when the other day Calvin wouldn’t say hello to a friend we ran into at the store.   When we left the store, I asked, “Buddy, why didn’t you say hi?”

“Because I’m too shy, Mommy,” he said.

Cue heart exploding into a million pieces.

What came next was of course me profusely trying to redefine “shy” so that his impressionable little brain didn’t think he was anything other than perfectly amazing.

“Sensitive” and “shy” are two of many adjectives that describe my son.  Wrapped up in them is so much goodness.  Calvin is sensitive to others’ feelings.  He pats the back of an injured pal, shares his toys beautifully, and hugs and kisses his brother incessantly.  He’s sensitive to situations.  “It’s OK Mommy.  No biggie,” he tells me when I spill pancake batter all over the countertop.  “You’re hair looks beautiful today, Mommy,” he says on the once-in-a-blue-moon days I manage to wash, dry, and straighten it.  "Daddy, you need to take turns with Mommy.  Tonight it's her turn to read me books."  In Calvin’s shyness is his ability to assess a situation before he jumps in – discernment, a skill our world could use more of.  He’s rarely loud and unruly and focuses well.  He takes it all in.

What I don’t want him taking in is the language of my story – the definitions twisted by my past associations.  That’s my problem to fix.  It’s my job to embrace my own adjectives and see all of their good.  That teacher who told my parents there was something wrong with me – she has her own story.  Those kids who called me “big eyes” on the bus and laughed as my face grew red – they have theirs.  And even those seemingly confident extroverts whose rise appears effortless – of course they have theirs. 

I encourage you, dear reader, to think about the words you use to tell your story and the story of wee ones who are learning to formulate their own.  What adjectives can you redefine?  In places society has defined as weak, where can you find strength?  Language is our gift to pass on.  Let’s work on telling a story that is positive and empowering.  One that will eventually become a past association that moves us toward a place within that feels like home. 

200th post.

In honor of my 200th post, I've given my blog a mini-makeover which is always fun.  I've been meaning to do it, been meaning to get back to regular blogging.  Auditioning and making the cast of Boulder's Listen to Your Mother show was a boost I am so grateful for.  My novel has pretty much been taking over any time I have to write, but I'm in need of a break - a sit-back and stew over what should happen in the end kind of break.  It's the kind of break that I think will be hugely telling of whether I should finish or start something new.  I guess it's an intimidating break because the idea of starting something new and putting aside the 50,000 words already written kind of makes me want to hide away in the mountains Thoreau-style.  The writer's life.  How glamorous it is.  As much as it stresses me out, I love it.  I love Wednesday mornings when my boys are taken care of by lovely people and I get to sit at a coffee shop furiously writing down all of my latest thoughts.  I store them up over the week, dozens of iPhone notes and Post-It scrawls waiting for me to assemble and weave into my story.  It's really exhilarating, especially when it just works.  I am excited to get back to this space, to write from my heart about this place in life.  

Along with the makeover, I have some new ideas for the blog.  I'm not sure how they'll take shape yet, but I am hoping to publish here some of my shorter fiction pieces.  I am excited to do this but also nervous.  Writing fiction is way more vulnerable for me, so sharing it will be an interesting process.  I will also be writing more articles about living in "the middle place" and of course bringing up issues that strike me.

Back in 2009, with some hesitation, I started this blog.  My intention then was to keep record of my (mostly random) thoughts about life.  In honor of "200," I went back and read through my blog archives.  There were posts I didn't even remember writing - some that made me flush with the realization that I knew basically nothing about life.  I see a girl with a rosy view (not that that's horrible) and zero responsibility besides herself.   Garsh, I kind of find her annoying!

I thought about deleting some of the early posts and starting fresh, but then I realized that there's something really beautiful about seeing my changes and growth through written word over the past five years.  In 200 posts, I have grown from a child to a woman.

I've started my dream job, left my dream job and created a new dream job.  I'm not a teacher in the traditional sense, but when I write with young adults, my heart soars.  I've almost written a novel.

I'm fulfilling my dream to be a stay-at-home mom, business owner, writer.  

I've lost my dad and gained two boys who have my heart.  

I've had two natural childbirths and still have a husband who is over-the-moon excited about sleepless nights and early mornings because he gets to do it with me. 

I've distanced from some friends and grown closer to a few I couldn't live without.  My sister lives here and is my best friend, and I am going to be an aunt.  I have mama friends who get what this is all about.  

My boobs have migrated, but I've nourished two humans.  I feel wrung out in a good way after yoga, and I've rediscovered swimming.  I actually took a dance class...many dance classes.  (HA!)  

My weaknesses are wine and chocolate (whose aren't?), but I've added green smoothies.  I'm gluten free now and miss dumplings the most.  My Crohn's has been in remission for eight years, and I'm not on any meds.  

I have learned that spirituality for me comes in the shape of a yoga pose or a trail and to let others find their own.

There's more.  Of course there's more.  But for now, I'm looking ahead, thankful for the past 200, but excited for what's to come.

Holy Guacamole!

I just found out that I have been chosen for Boulder's Listen to your Mother show.  I am SO honored and excited to be a part of this amazing tribute to motherhood.  Check out a show in your city on Mother's Day.  More to come on this.  I swear.

The Body War.

The strange thing about Facebook is that you can have a link to a cancer survivor’s blog bookended by an ad for Western wear and a photo like this.  This, in case you didn’t click, is the photo of fitness guru Maria Kang, six-months postpartum and completely ripped, which has been circulating the Internet like crazy causing debate among women mainly surrounding the tagline above the photo which reads “What’s your excuse?”  When I first saw this photo, I reacted like a lot of women probably did: with an eye roll and a bypass.  I also had a baby six months ago but look nothing like this.  Overall, I’ve been focusing on patience, as this will be the last time I give birth, nurse a baby to sleep, and work to rebuild strength lost through an amazing pregnancy.  But I’ll be honest.  There have been moments of real frustration, of throwing a pair of jeans across the room because they don’t fit, of cursing my feet that have jumped to a size 12, of looking in the mirror and feeling sad.  And I am not alone. 

I have a lot of beautiful friends.  Like seriously beautiful.  Like they have no idea how beautiful.  And these beautiful friends sometimes talk about their bodies and how they’re not so beautiful.  And many times these beautiful friends talk about their bodies this way when their beautiful children are present.  This is hard for me to hear.  It’s hard for me because I was one of those children who heard way too many adults complaining about their bodies.  In college I had major body image issues and hid it from my friends and family.  To this day, many people don’t know how badly I struggled.  Thankfully, I had help of a few who were aware and managed to overcome this kind of existence that made me feel so trapped.  At last, I was free.  I moved to working with young adults with affective and eating disorders on an inpatient unit and saw the extremes of what it is to be imprisoned.  I knew nothing until I saw these young women (and men) and heard their stories. 

All this body-talk got me thinking.  We, as women, have a narrative, don’t we?  Or at least if we don’t, society has one for us.  The story is predictable, and it’s getting old.  Society has made us into these uber body-conscious beings, but we seem to have forgotten the basics.  What is the role of our body?  It’s a fourth grade health class question.  Our body protects and moves.  It houses our mind, heart, and spirit.  It can hold and nourish another being.  It can scour Earth to look for another one to take care of.  It experiences a wide array of sensations.  It grows old, and it dies.  It is ours for one life, this one.  And yet we are at war.  So many of us are at war with our bodies.  Our wars vary, but in each one, the body is an enemy.  Many of us have a choice whether or not to go to war.  Some unfortunate souls do not. 

Many months ago, I began following a friend of a friend’s journey with breast cancer.  I do not know this woman personally, but I was touched by her story because, like so many others, I have held a loved one’s hand as he battled a relentless cancer.  When I hopped on Kara’s blog as a reader, she was undergoing chemotherapy, fighting alongside her amazing husband, four beautiful children, supportive friends, and loving community.  Since, she has learned that her cancer metastasized and is in the process of dealing with a new reality.  In her most recent post, she talks about her attempts to embrace the present moment despite a yearning to create spaces where she will be remembered.  I have started this next sentence a thousand times because it will be the one in which I try to describe her and what her story means to me.  Grace, beauty, honesty, courage, and strength all seem to be good adjectives, yet none of them quite encapsulate this woman.  She is living well in the face of a tragedy.  Her body is dying, but her hope and spirit remain alive.  I hope that you will read her words for yourself and get to know her.  Kara is forced into a war she doesn’t want to fight.  And here we are complaining about our muffin tops. 

I know, I know, it’s all relative is what you’ll say.  And yes, eating disorders and negative body image are real problems that aren’t easily fixed.  But, cancer.  Cancer.  Cancer sucks.

I don’t think you need cancer to be a hero, though I think Kara is the one of the greatest I’ve ever “known.”  I don’t think you need to always love the way you look to be a hero.  And I don’t think you need to plaster bikini-clad photos of yourself on the Internet to be a hero.  I do think that being a hero in this war means that you have awareness and desire for change and take steps toward a new kind of existence.  An existence where we celebrate our bodies more often than criticizing and over-examining.  I think being a hero in this war means that you are supportive of your comrades and understand that we cannot fight alone.  As a collective group of women, we must – we must – create a counter-narrative to the story that’s already written.  Use positive affirmations, use self-talk, use inspirational people like Kara to move you.  Whatever you do, come home a hero.