From the Italian Lakes....

Dearest Clara,

I think one of the nicest surprises you can have is when you unexpectedly find yourself back somewhere that holds a special place in your heart.  Sometimes, places you loved just have a way of working themselves back into your life.  Six years ago, I met your father---long before he was your father, and before he was a husband even---in the Italian Lakes region.  Como . . . Lago di Garda . . . Lugano . . . we did them all.  But the one that's just a little more special is Lago Maggiore.  That's where he got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife, and it has been one adventure after another for us ever since.

We have always wanted to go back, but we never pulled the trigger on the trip.  We said we would go for an anniversary . . . for a birthday . . . for a long weekend . . . but somehow something always got in the way.  Yet on this trip, which was not at all about Italy, the little town of Stresa, where we stayed after our engagement, just so happened  to be on our way as we were driving from Austria to France.  We couldn't help but stop to spend the night---in the same hotel no less. And it turns out it was worth the wait, since we were able to come with you.

In thinking about our very first trip there, here is what stands out in my mind:

• Always have some cash in your pocket: Believe it or not, while we were out on the lake, taking the ferries from island to island, we ran out of money.  We didn't think much of it, but it quickly became clear that credit cards were not going to get us on the last boat. We weighed our options between panhandling and swimming to shore; the latter lost out.  We will forever be grateful to that total stranger, and your father always makes sure he has some cash in his pocket when we leave home.
• Eat a big breakfast: No one does a breakfast like an Italian hotel---chances are you already paid for it with your room so take advantage.  Pick good proteins and fresh fruits, and a little roll in your bag for later comes in handy.  If you enjoy a nice leisurely and full breakfast, you can often skip lunch and make the most of your day out and about.  And don't forget a good cappuccino. Or two.
• A passegiata every night: The lakes aren't exactly bustling with nightlife, in the traditional sense.  No clubs here, but you'll find nearly the entire town taking a walk along the lake every evening before dinner.  That's a party to be part of.
• Admire pretty things . . . just because they are pretty: In this region, there are so many beautiful hotels, some would even call them over-the-top.  And you'll find some of the decorations to be excessive, maybe even unnecessary.  Just admire them for what they are: adornment.  The region is so beautiful, you can't blame people for trying to translate the visual feast of the view into their everyday surroundings.
• Take time to do nothing: The pace of life is entirely different around the lakes.  Days are calm, and there is nothing to hurry for.  Take in the view of the lake, enjoy a long walk, read a good book, have another coffee.  Or just sit and be.  You'll have time for it all here.  There will be hardly any obligations here---enjoy that rare freedom.

All my love,

Mom

Girl Problems

Everyone thinks my 6-month-old daughter is a boy.  She is the spitting image of her father, so if they catch a glimpse of him before they decide which pronoun to use, the situation is compounded.  I don’t routinely dress her in pink---although I have to say it is a universally flattering color.  I don’t scotch-tape or Velcro bows to the downy tufts on her largely bald head.  I do consider her gender when picking out an outfit in the morning and never quite land on any particularly comfortable solution.  On one hand, I want people to understand “who” she is and identify her as a girl.  In this case, my impulse is to reach for something pink or even a dress.  Often, I will select a pair of neutral pants with a pink drawstring, a relatively subtle item, so I don’t feel like the pressure is getting to me.  On the other hand, I don’t want to kowtow to the notion that a baby girl should be a living doll.  After all, she is only MONTHS old: How could we possibly have any idea whether she will be “girly” or a “tomboy” or anywhere else on that spectrum in her style or proclivities? The question of gender identity never fails to excite debate.  Even within my own mind, I find it almost impossible decide how I feel about stereotypic gender roles.  Some days, I am strongly convinced that gender identity (sexuality, a separate issue, could be an entirely different and equally hot topic) is ingrained or at least some interaction of genes and environment.  At other times, I sense that the socialization of gender happens so early and is so pervasive in our culture that I am surprised anyone develops the free will to resist his or her prescribed role.  My own experience bears this out . . . while the baby is still in utero, before it even joins the party, the burning question is, “Do you know what you are having?”  People desperately need to begin with the categorization as soon as possible.  I am just as guilty of this as anyone, fretting over a “gender neutral” baby gift for my sister-in-law.

When I was pregnant, we ultimately decided to find out the sex of the baby.  In the abstract, I wanted to be one of those people who doesn’t need to know.  I pictured myself indignantly telling inquirers, “We don’t need to relate to the gender of this fetus.  You see, we are very progressive . . .”  In reality, I was struggling to “plan” for her without knowing.  It felt silly, but I wanted to decorate her room, buy her clothing and think about her future with at least this clue about who she might be.  And the whole process of growing a human being is so bizarre, I felt much less like an alien pod with a sense of this label and all the things it (not necessarily) implies.  Of course, we know that all bets are off when an actual person emerges from the womb.

In time, we may come to discover that Isadora is all tutus, all the time.  She might bedazzle her dresser and have tea parties with the dog.  It could also be the case that she adores trucks and machines.  Like it or not, these are preferences we most closely associate with one gender or another.  But what if she demonstrates an interest in astronomy, math, or dinosaurs?  How about ballet, cooking, or child care?  I want so much to be a parent that doesn’t automatically think of these as “boy” or “girl” activities.  I would love to have a girl who excels in the sciences, beats her father at chess and has an amazing arm.  More important, I don’t want to be surprised by the fact that she does any of these things.

As much as we’d like to believe that kids are a tabula rasa, it is virtually impossible to opt out of gender.  Frankly, most children initiate their own affiliation with one gender or another before a parent has the ability to influence this in the slightest.  I am constantly regaled with anecdotes from family and friends about how they dutifully tried to open the field for their female children by exposing them to a wide array of toys, games, clothes and experiences.  In many of these stories, the girls immediately and stubbornly chose and clung to princesses, dolls, fairies and the like despite the efforts of the parents.   This could be the effect of many factors outside the home or subtle cues inside the home or simply hard wiring.

Distilled down, the real issue for me is to ensure that our girl has lots of choices and feels secure making them.  Her mother does flowers for a living---an industry typically associated with and dominated by women.   As a young girl, I loved anything with glitter, rainbows, or sparkle and my favorite Muppet was Miss Piggy.  I also played many sports and was an academic decathlete.  I am aware that my modeling may or may not have much impact on how she develops.  I just hope that if there is a tea party with the dog, I get an invite.

On Narrative and Country Music

My son took his first unassisted steps this week. It was pretty amazing, particularly because he took them while giggling hysterically. We had to buy him big boy shoes, and once we got home and he was toddling around in them, there were tears. I try not to be too much of a sentimommy, (that’s sentimental + mommy, I think I just coined it) boring people with maudlin stories; however, seeing him in those shoes walking on his own made me flash back to a year ago this time when he was a writhing, yelping, mess of a baby. When my son was brand new, I spent a decent amount of time alone in the car with him. Often, when he woke at dawn (or just before), I would whisk him out of the house to try and foster an hour of two of uninterrupted quiet for my wife to sleep.  If the weather was nice, we often went somewhere to take a nice walk, but if it was too hot or rainy, we just drove around a bit.

I found myself one morning listening to the “today’s hit country” station on the satellite radio. I have never had a strong feeling about country music one way or another. I’m from West Virginia, so it’s always been around, but it’s not the first genre of music I choose (I do, however, have strong opinions about people who say “I like all music except country” because it’s a coded statement about rural people, the same way I dislike “I like all music except rap” because it is a coded statement about urban people). All of that said, I have a trivia maven’s knowledge of country music. I know who major stars are, I can identify certain key songs, but I am by no means a fan.

Last summer, though, I went all country all the time.  When my wife asked me what the deal was, I had a hard time coming up with an answer. Part of it was having something new and different to listen to. For a period of time, every single song I heard was new to me (which lasted about a week before I could easily identify which songs were in heavy rotation). But, more significantly, so many of the songs had actual narratives. Stories! Country music has always been known for its stories, and while it’s not true for every song, it seemed to be true for many.  I followed each narrative to its end, and in a time when I couldn’t often find a moment to finish a magazine article, much less a book, it was a little bit of comfort at a chaotic time.

I began to discover recurring themes and motifs, much like I am always asking my students to do. Last summer there were several different songs getting a ton of airplay that made passionate arguments in favor of back roads rather than the interstates. Multiple songs name-checked Hank Williams (both senior and junior).  One made fun of men who eat sushi, drive Priuses, and drive on the interstate. In the bleary-eyed days of early motherhood, I threw myself into music that I can’t say represents much of my worldview.

Except for one thing---my worldview does value narrative. A story, even one told in under four minutes that I can’t personally relate to, can be truly transformative. Sleep-deprived and at times overwhelmed, I was soothed by the narrative structure of country music. I hazard that there is no other genre of American music that conveys as many narratives as country music (somehow, Katy Perry’s story of “Last Friday Night” doesn’t have the same push and pull of plot as, say, Martina McBride’s song about breast cancer, “I’m Gonna Love You Through It”).

One day, about five months later, I realized I had stopped listening to the country channel and had gone back to my old stations. My acute need for narrative had passed somehow. Maybe it was because I was more rested, maybe because I was about to go back to my day job of teaching high school English, but it passed. I listen to some of the songs from that time, but more because they remind me of the early days with my son than because I really enjoy the songs. I’m grateful for the solace that country’s narratives brought to me. Oh, and for introducing me to Miranda Lambert’s “Baggage Claim.”  That one is just a great song.

Geraniums and Green Feet

My parents built my childhood home, the house my father still lives in today, in the early 1970's, for just over $30,000. My grandfather convinced my parents that a fourth bedroom wasn't worth the extra money, a decision that turned out to be ill-informed when I made my surprise appearance a few years after my two sisters. He redeemed himself when I was a toddler, by paying for the addition of an in-ground pool in the backyard. That pool came to define our summers. Days, weeks, and months were spent playing sharks and minnows and agonizing over the 15 minute wait to get back in the pool after each meal, swim lessons were held there for all the neighborhood kids, and countless bbqs were thrown together on a whim, with my mom firmly at the helm. For a city girl, she thrived in her yard and by the pool---both of which required a staggering amount of work, as my sisters and I are finding out years later. She weeded and edged, power-washed, and for her pièce de résistance, she mowed the lawn in her bathing suit and bare feet, as evidenced by the color of her feet all season long. She never had a good explanation for her mowing uniform, beyond It's hot out! What do you want from me?, but  told us years later that it was the only time she had to herself when we were little. It wasn't all work and no play, though. As we swam away our days, my mom entertained neighbors and friends with gin wedges and an endless supply of potato salad, melon, and veggie platters, making it seem as though they just appeared out of the ether.  Her open door policy was known throughout the neighborhood and beyond---what would start as a small gathering inevitably became, in her words, a cast of thousands.

My mom was famous for her bright red geraniums, transplanted from large hanging plants and placed  in pots around the pool. The years she tried something different---begonias, dahlias, petunias even --- were busts, and she always went back to her beloved geraniums. She surveyed those flowers daily, methodically---and, if you knew my mom, without remorse---getting rid of dead blooms with a flick of her wrist. There is an area of the yard, behind one corner of the fence surrounding the pool, that courtesy of my cousin became known as the "Geranium Graveyard," where the dead blooms went to spend their final days. It is only fitting that we plan to place some of my mom's ashes there, forever memorializing the spot. In the first few days following my mom's death, those geraniums came up in conversation several times. Family and friends wanted to make sure that my sisters and I would still plant them; no one could imagine the backyard without those pops of red.

We all chipped in to open the pool this year---my sisters and I, along with our significant others and my dad, with the help of neighbors who have themselves swam in the pool since childhood. My sisters took charge of the geraniums, and the good news is that all but two of the plants are surviving their first summer without my mom's care. The unfortunate ones are victims of my dad's valiant effort to water them using chlorinated pool water.

There have been barbeques and gatherings already this summer, and the youngest generation now whiles away their endless summer days in the pool, just as we did a lifetime ago. To celebrate the 4th, we invited friends and family over for what felt like just another Brady barbeque, but with me in charge instead of my mom. I grocery shopped, I straightened the house, and I made burgers, salads and snacks, all the while cursing my father and husband, who were relaxing and playing golf, respectively. How did my mom do it all those years?---this was the question I asked repeatedly throughout the day. But deep down, I already knew the answer. She did it because it was more important to bring family and friends together than to lounge by the pool;  she did it because it was always a few good laughs; she did it because she didn't know how not to do it. It's a burden and a blessing, this legacy of ours, but I don't have time to worry about that. I'm busy planning our next party.

What Are You Reading (Offline, that is)?

This space is usually reserved for books, sometimes magazines, but always the printed word. At risk of romanticizing the tactile pleasure of physically marking where you’ve left off (are you a corner-folder or a book marker?), feeling the right side lighten with every page flip, or getting the perfect crease in the newspaper allowing you to hold it with one hand while balancing a coffee in the other, I will say that print will always be cozier—in my mind, friendlier—than digital words. But some print publications are fleeting and I feel incredibly lucky to live in a time when an article I’ve read, dog-eared, carried with me even, can be shared via the internet.

***

I love books. I’ve loved them unrelentingly since my first wobbly attempts at reading—maybe closer to memorization—when I was still small enough to be afraid of the dark and was, thus, the proud owner of a flashlight, perfect for illuminating pages under my covers. In elementary school, I once got into mild trouble for reading a too-good-to-put-down-for-an-entire-school-day novel on my lap during an unnecessarily long lesson on soil erosion. So you can imagine my surprise when during a particularly tumultuous time in my life, I’ve found myself unable to give a book my full attention or to still my thoughts long enough to form my own sentences.

It was only during this past year that I truly released the notion that we would move west. We renovated our apartment to include an office big enough for daily work sessions with my business partner/best friend and co-worker/sister, settled our daughter in an adorable preschool, found a nanny for our son who puts Mary Poppins to shame, and helped my sister move from an apartment upstairs to one literally right next door. Life being what it is, we had only just settled into this routine that felt worthy of forever when my husband got a job offer in San Francisco—at a company he’d admired for years, doing exactly what he wants to do, with people who could aptly be described as awesome.

In some ways this move is a no-brainer. Even putting aside my husband’s opportunity, there is a lifetime of reasons why our family should settle in San Francisco. One of the first things that people learn upon meeting me is that I’m a Northern Californian. My husband and I got married in Napa. Our dog is named Tahoe. I refer to the Bay Area as “home” (I also happen to refer to New York as home, but that’s fodder for another time). My huge extended family spans the west coast from San Jose to Seattle, with three quarters of them living in the Bay Area; our holiday gatherings have been described as epic. But it was sudden and I’m sad (which is a huge step up from the first few weeks after this news when I would have said heartbroken).

While books, even some of my forever-favorites, haven’t soothed my anxiety or even temporarily diverted my attention from this looming change, essays and articles that seem to have been written with me in mind have found their way into my purse. I pull them out—all crumpled and soft from the friction of my wallet, phone, and stray chapsticks—and read snippets when I’m feeling particularly heartsick. They’re worry stones for my mind.

***

I’ve always been a loyalist—none of that flitting around from thing to thing for me. I excel at commitment. My upcoming move wasn’t even a topic of conversation when I came upon this article, “The Joys of Staying Put,” over a year ago. Apparently, there are people who live in their New York apartments for a lifetime, generations even (see also “100 Years of Staying Put”). These are my people, my tribe. This article may have been the catalyst for my decision to live not just in the same city or same neighborhood, but the same apartment . . . forever.

The funny thing is, our apartment isn’t even that great. I mean it’s reasonably sized by Manhattan standards, it’s a duplex, and it has a backyard. Oh, and our rent is below market in a neighborhood we love. It’s also what a good realtor would call “charming” or “full of character,” meaning it’s old, creaky, and will always have a thin veil of dirt, no matter how hard you scrub. None of that really matters though because we hear the birds chirp every morning and one of the neighbors with an adjacent yard plays classical music on his outdoor speakers most afternoons (though everyone on the backside of our block, at one point or another, thought we lived in listening distance of a great pianist). Only one other person seems to understand: the late and great Nora Ephron. Her brilliant essay, “Moving On,” about falling in love and leaving an apartment, is everything I feel. Like one of her movies, I read this piece and find myself laughing through my tears.

Now I’m in what Thomas Beller calls the “In-Between Days.” We technically still live in New York, but we’ve been traveling to and from San Francisco. Our count of the New York days we have left is close to single digits. Every experience has the potential of being characterized as “the last”—last impromptu backyard grill party, last day of pounding lattes and never watching videos of animals doing funny things in the office, last run up the Great Hill. Then there are the saddest ones of all—last stroll through an empty wing of the Museum of Natural History while our daughter makes up elaborate stories about the exhibits and our son interjects with animal noises, last family walk during off-leash hours where our little ones scramble up the rock they’ve termed “the mountain,” and the kids’ last ride on the double-swing my husband hung in our backyard (the one baby Jack is only just big enough to hold on to himself). There’s a real danger of letting every moment become too precious to be real.

Despite my temptation to squeeze the life out of our last days in the only home I’ve known for my adult life and to document everything we do prior to our move for posterity, I’m trying to remember that I don’t have to. I should be marveling at my luck. Unlike Joyce Maynard, I’ve fallen in love with a place that in all likelihood will remain right where it is for the entirety of my life and my kids’ lives too. In Maynard’s essay, “Paradise Lost,” she describes her grief and finally acceptance when rising waters slowly submerged her home and haven on Lake Atitlán. Her surrender to the reality of life came when she realized "The idea that any of what we have will last forever is a dream." If we hadn't changed our life by deciding to move across the country some other circumstances would have. We'll cry, we'll move, and then we'll visit an ever-changing New York through our ever-changing eyes.

Lessons from traveling...

Dearest Clara, We are still on the move---one week into a seventeen day trip.  This time around we have been taking you on a bit of a sentimental journey though you are much too young to remember these places or even understand their significance.  But don’t worry, one day we will certainly take you again.  In the meantime, we will take lots of pictures for you to remember this by.

We travel a lot, whether for fun or for work---it is a bit the nature of the job we signed up to do.  But even if we hadn’t, I have a feeling we would continue to move about anyway.  Traveling can open up the mind to so much, but it certainly can be draining as well.  Keep these things in mind when you find yourself on the go---my bet is that you’ll take after your parents.

• Don’t pack more than you can carry: I think this is rule number one.  If you yourself can’t carry it, you probably don’t need it.  My rule of thumb is one roller board and a folded duffle inside for the trip home (inevitably, you always come back with more).  But remember, you shouldn’t be dependent on anyone when it comes to just carrying stuff.
• Ask for help when you need it: That being said, ask for help when you need it.  Some days, your bag will be too heavy, or you’ll find yourself lost.  I always avoided services that booked taxis or brought bags or any countless number of other things, insisting that I do it myself.  That’s a good way to start and a good way to learn, but at some point, it’s okay to get some assistance.  It’s how others make a living, and sometimes, a few dollars more can save you lots of time and frustration and back ache.
• Move around with confidence: You won’t always know where you’re going, but you should always look like it.  You will build confidence in your own abilities to get to where you need to go, but you’ll also stave off any unwelcome attention that finds its way to the lost and unaccompanied.
• Be a gracious traveling companion:  No doubt you will come across myriad of personalities while traveling, and not all of them the nicest.  But traveling brings out funny things in people: some might be sad, upset, coming from or going to a place they would rather not.  Give people the benefit of the doubt and the space they need, and don’t take travel outbursts personally.  Be as gracious and patient as you can, the day will come when you need the same from others.
• Remember your documents and your wallet: I used to worry the entire way to the airport whether I had packed everything.  But my mother always used to ask if I had my passport and my wallet,  and then told me not to worry, anything else you can buy.  Always be able to identify yourself, and always have a couple of ways to get money where you’re going and you’ll always be set.
• Leave something to come back for: When you really love and enjoy a place you’ve visited, leave a little something to return for.  A museum unseen, a picture not taken, a personal item you forgot, a coin in the fountain . . . my mother always said that you should always “leave something to come back for”.

Over the years, you’ll find all of your own little bits of advice to make traveling easier.  You can always start out by laying out what you would like to take, and then taking half the clothes and twice the money.  Drink lots of water, travel with a shawl, and wash your hands a lot.  And of course, send your mother lots of postcards.

All my love,

Mom

On Inequality

The night before my son was born, my wife and I were in the hospital at the beginning of a very long process. It was June 24, 2011, and the New York state legislature was preparing for a vote on a bill that would legalize same-sex marriage in our adopted home state. The timing was pretty remarkable. My wife and I have been married since 2008, when our immediate families joined us at City Hall in Toronto, Ontario for our wedding. It was a funny limbo to live in, to be married in Canada, but not at home in New York. When we drove into Massachusetts, and said “married!” it often caused us to chuckle darkly. It’s weird enough to be able to buy beer in grocery stores in one state and not another, but to have your own family status legally change based on state boundaries is beyond weird.

The vote in the legislature was going to be close, and both of us had contacted our state senator, Steven Saland, a Republican, to state our hopes that he would vote for equality. In fact, I had called that very day while my wife packed up the last of her things for the hospital. I felt as though he might not even believe me, leaving a voice mail saying, “I’d like my son to be born to two married parents and you could make this happen.”

Of course, the ending of this story is well known.  The bill did in fact pass, and Senator Saland was one of the swing votes. His wife of forty-six years, according to him, “certainly lobbied him,” reported the New York Daily News. How fitting that my marriage was legally recognized partially because of the bond and influence within another marriage?

The moment when the bill passed, as we were up late in the hospital room felt almost ethereal.  Our son was about to enter the world at a remarkable moment in history, and not just History-with-a-capital-H but in our personal history. It felt fated, and I don’t feel that way very often, but even my cynicism couldn’t deny a certain sense of destiny.

Now that a year has passed, however, I no longer feel the blissful surprise of the legislature’s decision. I’m not satisfied with feeling as though I only have a handful of states in this country I can ever live in, with so many others officially off limits (I’m not taking that particular step backward). I realize how quickly this year passed and I know that the years will keep flying by and soon my son will have questions.

There’s no easy way to explain inequality. Why do some people have so much and others so little? Why do women still not make as much money as men for the same jobs? I teach Elie Wiesel’s Night to tenth graders every year and there’s always at least one who asks, “but why?” as the concept of a Jewish ghetto is introduced.  I have honed an answer to that question over time, but it never feels convincing. How will I explain to my son that our state sees us as a family, but our country does not?

I suppose I could show him all of the various tax returns that we had to have prepared: separate federal returns (which mean that my wife, in the eyes of the federal government, is a single mother), a joint “dummy” federal return to inform state returns, and a joint New York return.  I could explain that many people have had to endure a lack of family equality for as long as the United States has existed. We could talk about the Loving v. Virginia decision that will likely inform any decision the Supreme Court makes on the issue.

Fortunately for me, our little boy is not yet concerned with such things, not when there is water to splash and trucks to make go “vroom-vroom.” Someday, though, he will be. I am grateful to Governor Cuomo and New York’s lawmakers for validating our family and setting an example for the rest of the country, but I hope that this inequality, one that is anathema to what I believe to be “American,” is rectified before today’s children are adults who are appalled by the generations before.

I Have My Hands Full

by Jennifer Moore People always smile at me when I am with all three girls.  A baby on my right hip and the two older girls both holding part of my left hand. They say nice things. They say, in a kind way, "You have your hands full." I smile back. I look into their eyes and I feel like I can see them thinking . . . of Back When or of Some Day. I feel blessed and I feel like I never want this time to pass.

I let the girls play outside in the mud and the wet grass and puddles, between rain showers Saturday afternoon. I opened the kitchen window to converse with them while I was making dinner. Elizabeth, my five year old,  showed me it was raining again, her tongue stuck out to catch the drops. Maren, my toddler, ate sliced cheese from an ice cream bowl and then left it by the birdbath, her jacket out front by the wilted petunias.

Tonight, with the older two mostly in bed, I sat in the rocking chair with baby Vivie. She fell asleep in my arms. I had been up since 6:22 am. I had cleaned numerous potty training tinkle puddles, run last minute errands, managed a timely birthday party drop off and pick up with all three, coordinated most of 3 meals for 4 or 5 mouths, searched for unicorns and unicorn crowns and horse reins and American Girl hairbrushes, soothed tears and even discussed, a bit, where lightening comes from.

We sat in the rocking chair, baby Vivie and I, in that green grey light of 8:42 pm on May 26th and the birds were chirping still, a bit too loud, as if their mother would be shaking her head, "Girls, girls, it's quiet time, let's slow down, no flying, no singing . . ."  I decided not to get down on myself for that basket of clean laundry still sitting in the corner. Instead, I focused on her breathing, the rhythm of her little baby sweaty chest against mine. The thumb in her mouth made that sweet sucking noise and her other fingers stroked the ridge of my collarbone from time to time, little reflex nudges checking to make sure I was there.

Fifteen minutes later I got up, put the baby in her crib. I grabbed the five pairs of "da da da da Dora" underpants the toddler had worked through from the hamper, hand washed them in the bathroom sink. From her bedroom, Maren screamed, "I have an orange thing on my arm!" It was the skinned elbow from the other day in the park, on the play date, on which she wore a dress and her big sister's rain boots on the wrong feet and she fell on the paved path, running with half a peanut butter sandwich, which, when I went to rescue her, had asphalt rocks mixed into it. The scab looked dark orange in the almost dark room. I fetched a Band Aid and after I put it on her, she clutched my hand so hard, loving, like she was holding a baby bunny, and in her wonderful, trademark, scratchy voice, "Mom, your hands cold, you okay?" She didn't let go, concern. "Oh Bug, it's just from the water, Mommy washed your underpants. It's okay." And then I felt tears welling up---the happy sad kind. "It's okay, Mommy." Oh my perceptive one.  "Thank you, Bug. I love you." "I love you, too, Mommy." The sweetest sleepy smile, her Great Grandma Zora gap front teeth peeping through.

Yes, I have my hands full. Heart, too.

(Image: Mary Cassatt, Mother and Child, 1890)

New Normal

by Alison Schramm

My parents – and especially my mom - have always made extra-ordinary efforts to visit me and my husband in New York. I’ll admit that I’m skilled at lining up visits regardless of the occasion, but truthfully, my mom never really needed any convincing. Occasionally she flew, but more often than not she drove, always with her handwritten directions taped to the dashboard. She drove down with my dad, with my sisters, with friends, and because nothing was going to get in between visits with her baby, she even drove the oftentimes torturous 350 miles from Rochester by herself. The car was typically loaded with groceries – always with some type of pork product, as my husband loved to point out – and beer and wine. I joked with her, “Mom, it’s New York, there are grocery stores here,” but it was wasted breath. She came to help us move, to help celebrate birthdays, for girls’ weekends, and for everything in between. All of these visits were variable, but there was one that was more or less set in stone each year.

For the last six or seven years, my parents have made a summer trip to New York. If you’re sitting there thinking what an awful time to visit NYC, what with the tourists and the humidity and the smelly garbage, you’d be right. But for my dad, this trip is about one thing: going to a Yankees game. To say my dad has a healthy appreciation for sports is an understatement. The Browns, the Yankees, Syracuse basketball, Notre Dame football, anyone holding a golf club - the man does not only watch, but truly enjoys most sporting events, a trait shared wholeheartedly by my husband.

My mom, on the other hand, was a sports fan in that way many wives are, myself included. The Yankees play approximately 162 games per season, and my mom probably watched close to 150 by virtue of living with my dad, or as she liked to put it, being a hostage in her own house. Despite this love/hate relationship, she could rattle off the starting lineup for the Yankees on a moment’s notice and liked to provide her own color commentary on each of the players and their personal lives. I was home one Wednesday night and somehow wrestled the remote from my dad, just in time to catch Modern Family. I was shocked when my mom told me she had never watched an episode, but in her now infamous words, ”If it doesn’t have a ball, we don’t watch it.”

Last weekend marked our first Yankees outing since my mom died. A small milestone, comparatively speaking, but I missed her every step of the way. Before the game, we stopped for lunch at Dominick’s, an Italian restaurant on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, and truthfully, the real highlight of the day for me. Dominick’s is the kind of restaurant where the waiters recite for you the menu, where the red sauce is the star, where the table clothes are plastic, but most importantly to me on that day, the kind of restaurant my mom would have loved.

As we ate, I thought about how my mom would have oooh’ed and aaah’ed over each bite of chicken parm, one of her favorite indulgences. I was reminded of a conversation I had with my sister the week before. She was matter-of-fact, and told me how during a particularly difficult day, and after months of thinking to herself, “Mom would love this,” she decided to change her way of thinking. She said from that point on, she has repeated to herself, “Mom LOVES this,” and it’s changed everything for her. So I tried it on for size, over our Italian feast. And then this past weekend, when we were all together for Father’s Day, with the kids running around in the side yard, I said it again: “Mom LOVES this.”

This is my new normal. Baseball games with my dad and husband, holidays with my family, keeping my head up each and every day. It’s the new and it’s the old and if I’m being honest, I have no idea where it’s taking me some days. But one thing I do know -

Mom loves this.

From The Sound of Music....

Dearest Clara, We're having a bit of a homecoming this week you might say . . . Vienna, Salzburg, the mountains, the lakes: all of our Austrian favorites are on tap as we head off for vacation.  When Americans come to Austria, they can't help but think of the Sound of Music, much to the bafflement of many Austrians.  They just don't get why we like that movie so much, but how can you not? Love stories, hero stories, gorgeus mountains, all set to cheery music? It's the recipe for a winner.

I've been watching this movie at least once a year since the age of five.  I remember when I first saw it, I could barely make it through the first half, and most of the storyline was lost on me.  But so much more comes out of that movie when you get older---not only does Captain Von Trapp become more and more handsome, you start to notice different characters in a new way.  Here is what I've learned over the years from this movie:

• Some parts of a party are for children, and some parts of the party are for adults: I am always almost as excited as Gretl when she exclaims "My first party!".  The Captain lets them attend and perform, but when the guests are seated at dinner, the children sing their way upstairs, which always struck me as a nice balance for everyone involved.  So please don't be upset if mommy tells you to go to bed halfway through a party.
• Bow out gracefully: Unlike many people, I think the Baroness von Schraeder gets a bit of a bum rap.  And as I've gotten older, I've actually started to feel for her---after all, she thought everything was going swimmingly until a would-be peasant nun from the hills, half her age waltzs in and turns everything upside down.  I give the Baroness a lot of credit for putting up a battle for the Captain, but more so, for bowing out gracefully when she sees the battle is lost.  She is, even in heartbreak, a pretty decent lady.  And she's got some of the best lines in the movie.
• Sometimes those closest to you will hurt you the most: We want to love and trust those closest to us, it makes natural sense.  But sometimes those we love and trust turn out to be influenced by something else more than us.  Between Liesl and Rolf, and the Captain and the Butler, we see that it is sometimes those closest to us that can hurt us the most.
• Your favorite things will be your most comforting things: When the dog bites . . . when the bee stings . . . all things that can make us cry.  But I love how Maria and the children sing of simple things that they love, like brown paper packages tied up strings, and schnitzels, and ponies. Keep a list of those things that make you smile, you can call on those memories when you can't call on me to keep you company when things might be a little saddier or lonelier.
• If you're afraid of something, you should probably go back and face it: I always loved how Mother Superior calls out Maria for hiding in the convent.  She tells her that if she joins the religious life, it must be for the right reasons.  She makes her face her fears and really explore what she was meant to do, even if it meant a loss to her convent.  I think everyone should be so lucky to have a mentor that really makes us look at what we want and need out of life, and then helps us find the courage to face it.

All my love,

Mom

Tide Pools

I was at the beach with my good friend and her daughter the other week. The sun was hot, I was sporting my high waisted bikini that I was finally brave enough to wear. The breeze was cooling and salty. It was one of those rarely perfect days where the tide had pulled out slowly and left little tide pools in its wake. They made perfect pools for toddlers, and instead of shooing them away from the larger waves the whole time, we got to stand there and chat, and have a conversation. In eighteen months of friendship, both of us having kids, I think this was the first time it was possible. We, of course, chatted about more kids, when was the right time? It seems that as soon as your first one is walking people start asking about the second one. Has it always been this way, or are family members just nosier nowadays? They were trying for a second and we were . . . on the fence. I was complaining,

“It takes SO long for them to start doing things. When I pictured being a mother, it was to do fun things like art projects and trips, they can’t do that for YEARS. Plus the sleep deprivation is maddening . . .”

“Yes, but it all goes so quickly, before you know it, they are doing this:” And she pointed at my son and her daughter in the sand, completely entertained, playing with each other, oblivious to the adult world. “Besides, you don’t want him to be lonely.”

Loneliness was a common argument I had heard against the only child. I have a sibling, a brother who is five years younger than me, and I still remember feeling lonely. Or, if not lonely, just bored. But I was a fairly introverted child preferring to read books and squirrel away in my bedroom upstairs than interact with other children outside.

After the loneliness argument, the other opinion I heard always revolved around what a joy siblings were to have. “My sister is my best friend!” My friend was thoroughly convinced that three was the perfect number. She was one of three kids and really liked that atmosphere. Do you just choose what you are used to? My husband is seven years younger than his brother, so in many ways both of us had the benefits that only children have. We played by ourselves a lot, had different opportunities. How do you know when you are done?

At first I thought three, maybe five kids? And then I had my son, and I thought for sure one was enough. But something happened that day at the beach; I could see the other side. I could see those fun things that I had pictured myself doing with him were just around the corner, through a hazy fog of the infant and toddler years. I once read a New York Times article that described children as a ‘back-end investment’. It was even accompanied by a great little chart. You put all the work and toil in, in the beginning, and it gets easier over the years, and the ‘pay-off’ is supposed to be when you are older and they are caring for you.

Maybe you just trust that you can weather the storm, and what will be left when the sand settles and the water pulls away is a perfect little tide pool. Each one a different size, unique and beautiful.

The Cost of Convenience

by Breanne Martin Convenience is one of those things that is such an American ideal that challenging it sometimes causes people question your sanity. The problem is, when I think about the things that were created in the name of making slow processes go faster, I can't help but think that we've lost something important. Fast food, bought and consumed without leaving the car, takes the place of meals made out of real food and eaten around the table with loved ones. Exhaust-billowing vehicles get used to complete local errands that could easily be enjoyed from atop a bicycle or on foot. Thousands of dollars are spent on recreational vehicles used to power through the outdoors when a silent tent or a mountain bicycle might have sufficed. Heaven forbid we complete a routine task in a way that takes more time or worse, muscle power.

During a recent trip to the grocery store on our steel bicycles, my husband and I were carefully loading our week of food into our panniers, balancing unclipped helmets atop our heads. As we worked, the cashier puzzled at our slow method of covering the five miles between our house and the store, finally commenting, "Well, at least you don't have to walk!"

Thinking of the two functioning cars that we intentionally left in our suburban garage, I marveled that our society has become so dependent on gas-powered vehicles that it would be inconceivable that we might choose to use a bicycle to pick up some vegetables from the store. Little did he know that while I loathe grocery shopping in general, completing the task via the outdoors makes it something I savor. By the time I return home, my cheeks are rosy with exertion; I'm perhaps a bit breathless as I pack the bags in the house, but I'm aware of my body, motivated to feed it something real and delicious.

Born and raised in the SUV-driving, Costco-shopping suburbs, I am a newcomer to the idea that slow is better. Little by little, deliberate, laborious routines have had to painstakingly wrap themselves around my tendency to rush things, slowly rooting me into the here and now. After all, I finished my four year college degree in just more than two years---if anything, I am gifted at rushing things.

The truth is though, when I think of the most incredible times in my life, I am keenly aware of the time and work that went into each of those memories. The hours-long meal we ate with new friends in France, the grueling process of hauling literal tons of dirt in a wheelbarrow to create my own expanse of organic garden, the three months of pedaling a bicycle across the European continent. I could have hired a landscaper to tend to my yard or ridden a train across Europe, but tackling these endeavors using my own muscle power and without a time schedule etched them into my whole being in a way that will always be with me.

Things that move slowly force you to reduce the number of things you can accomplish, forcing dedication to the task at hand, and adding meaning to processes that once seemed inconsequential but somehow necessary. Hurried errands morph into a chance to get moving and experience the weather. Regrettable combo meals give way to cherished memories around a table, and social media falls second to the joy of a real conversation.

One of my fondest childhood memories finds me sitting in my grandfather's kitchen, eating French toast only moments out of the skillet, smothered with his home bottled apricot jam. I never liked jam much, but always knew there was something different about the stuff that came from grandpa's storage room. Of course, the store-bought jam we ate at home could never have rivaled the stuff that is carefully made by hand and spooned into enough jars to last the winter, but of course, I've never made my own because I don't know how. I keep saying I will ask my aging grandfather to teach me and spend the weekend driving to his house to visit and learn, but I just haven't seemed to find the time. When I get there, I know he will drop his plans and spend the weekend sharing his secrets to jam and life---he's never been much for convenience. He's 80 years old this year, and suddenly I'm keenly aware if I don't slow down and make time soon, I'll never get the chance.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

Today we're lucky enough to present the Pretty Mommy edition of our "What Are You Reading?" column. Our pal Michelle LeBlanc is the tastemaker behind the impeccably curated shop, Pretty Mommy---but we don't just love her for her good taste. Michelle isn't afraid to be honest that figuring out how to run a thriving business while raising two small children comes with daily challenges. We love that she's willing to share the parts behind all the pretty.  Here, she tells us what she's reading, and pulls in two of her friends to join in the conversation. Michelle LeBlanc, Pretty Mommy I have to wax a little nostalgic about summer reading . . . growing up in the hot climes of the southwest, I spent many a long morning combing the shelves at the local library, taking home stacks of reads . . . lounging in the cool a/c with classic movie star bios, some trashy romantic lit that I snuck in under my mother's nose, the latest Sweet Valley High installment, and a hippie beauty-at-home recipe book for concocting face masks out of oatmeal & honey, patchouli oils and rose water toners . . . then finally coming out of my cave at dusk to brave the heat and track down some ice cream . . . oh to have those lazy days!

With two littles underfoot, my reading time these days is pretty much limited to short snippets of magazine reading (Bon Appetit for wishful cooking & Entertainment Weekly for indulging my pop culture obsession), but one week every summer we escape with the in-laws to a cabin whereupon I let the relatives keep track of my kids and I dive into  something with just a touch more depth (but only a touch mind you, there's nothing so awful as a downer book in the middle of summer vacation, no?) So to that end, I just ordered Seating Arrangements by Maggie Shipstead . . . Amazon's description calls it "deceptively frothy" . . . sounds right up my alley!

[Editor's note: Hey look! One of our favorite people, Robyn Virball, recommended Seating Arrangements in the May 18 edition of What Are You Reading? The author happens to be Robyn's friend, which makes her a friend of ours.]

Jenna & Cary, Ace & Jig Some current favourites are The Glass Castle and Half Broke Horses, both by Jeannette Walls. We scrounged a third-hand (dog-chewed) copy of The Glass Castle off of a friend and since then Cary and I have both read it, and now the same copy is being devoured by the second of our interns! Some serious recycling going on. It's a fast-moving and fascinating read, and her no-nonsense literary style  really appeals to us as busy mamas (she cuts to the chase!). The story is a memoir of the author's life and her unbelievable family and the follow-up Half-Broke Horses  is a true life novel which relives the tale of her heroic grandmother. As you may guess, we are drawn to stories of strong women.

Cary also reports that she is currently reading Vaclav & Lena by Haley Tanner about the immigrant childhood in Brooklyn.

And last but not least . . . we are both so thrilled to have reached the stage where we can enjoy reading chapter books with our eldest. Cary and Alice are reading The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett and James and I are reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.  It's so fun to revisit these favorites from our childhoods.

Jennifer Murphy, Jennifer Murphy Bears & dull Diamond I'm crazy for The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. The dreamlike quality of a life weaving in and out of real and unreal spaces takes me away in the summer . . . seems like the perfect daydream---charged with vivid plots and characters.

The F Words: Holly Ivey

Those of you who know me even a little know that I am, shall we say, interested in my hair. Invested in it, even. (Obsessed with it? Perhaps.) Today, folks, you will get to know the amazing woman who's been nurturing that investment for me for the past seven years, my incredible stylist Holly Ivey. Holly is pretty much the coolest chick I know, and she's a spectacular businesswoman, to boot. After working for years as a stylist as other people's salons, Holly broke out on her own a few years ago, and is now the owner of her very own business, Holly Ivey Hair Design.

In addition to being a wizard with the scissors, Holly is an artist, and, more to the point for our purposes here today, a talented home cook. She's been making me drool with pictures of her food on Facebook for ages now, and so I've asked her to share her thoughts about cooking, gender and life in general with us today. Enjoy!

Tell us a bit about your day job. I make people feel better about themselves with aesthetic maintenance of the length and color of the hair. (I'm a hairstylist!)

How did you learn to cook? I learned out of sheer necessity. The "great recession" entirely changed our "situation"and it became mandatory to start eating at home 95% of the time. Problem was, we were spoiled by all the great food we ate at all the fabulous NYC eateries we frequented. I'm almost completely self taught, and learned from a combination of my personal bible A New Way To Cook (by Sally Schneider) and the bits and pieces I picked up in my 10 years of working in food service. Religious devotion to recipes eventually led to improvisation. And now, I wing it a lot for quick weeknight dinners.

Do you prefer to cook alone, or with friends or family? ALONE! I don't mind a sous chef helping me chop and cleaning up behind me as I go. But I'm a basket case if I'm distracted.

What’s your favorite thing to make? Hen of the woods (or maitake) mushrooms. Alone with some arugula, tomatoes, and Parmesan for a quick, satisfying meal, on a burger, in a pasta with a touch of cream, thyme and sherry, tossed with Brussels sprouts and Dijon then roasted . . . they're easy luxury with tons of flavor.

If you had to choose one cuisine to eat for the rest of your life, which would it be? Italian. Very simply, without hesitation. Italian.

What recipe, cuisine or technique scares the crap out of you? Deep frying is intimidating. It makes such a mess and I don't know what to do with all that oil. I do not bake. Baking is on par with brain surgery to me. Anything that requires standing over a pot and stirring endlessly is not appealing either.

How do you think your relationships with your family have affected your relationship to food and cooking? Cooking is not something my mother had time for when we were younger, so when I entered the real world my abilities and taste buds were limited to plain and bland. Because I didn't spend time in the kitchen, I didn't appreciate how much work and care went into a good meal and how fleeting the moment of payoff is. A few years ago, toward the end of my grandfather's life, he was subsisting on Meals on Wheels and quick deli meat sandwiches he could make for himself. The one gift I could give an elderly man who had everything he needed was fresh, homemade, flavorful meals. Filet mignon au poivre. A homemade bolognese with fresh ravioli. In-season asparagus right off the grill. Then we sat down together and ate and talked . . . being able to cook gave me those moments.

Even today, home cooking is strongly associated with women’s traditional place in the family and society. How do you reconcile your own love of the kitchen with your outlook on gender roles? It is, in many ways, considered women's work by a lot of people. But I NEVER think about it that way. My years in the restaurant business showed me almost exclusively men in the kitchen. A few of my friends' husbands do the majority of the family cooking. When I watch the Food Network men and women are completely equal. I do the cooking because I'm the one who's home. But when I have a day that I just CAN'T do it, my husband does without hesitation.

Tell us a bit about the recipe you’re sharing. When did you first make it, and why? What do you love about it? I first had the inspiration for this recipe at a bar/music venue on the Lower East Side called Pianos. It's a flavor sensation.

Red Wine Burgers with Bacon & Mushrooms You can make your own hamburger patties, but for convenience, Holly uses Pat LaFrieda's pre-made patties. They're available via FreshDirect, and are often on sale!

2 hamburger patties 2 tsp. garlic powder 2 tsp. onion powder 1/2 bottle (good) dry red wine Kosher salt and cracked black pepper, to taste 2 bundles maitake mushrooms, roughly chopped 1 tbs. thyme, minced 4 slices bacon 2 hamburger bun bottoms (or English muffin halves, or slices of bread) Dijon mustard, to taste (Meg likes Maille)

Prep work Before you leave for work in the morning, remove the patties from the freezer. Place in a shallow, rimmed dish. Sprinkle with the garlic and onion powder, then submerge in the red wine. Cover with plastic wrap and leave to thaw and marinate.

When you are ready to cook dinner Remove the patties from the marinade; they should have a purple, marbled look to them. Pat dry with a paper towel, then season with salt and lots of black pepper.

Heat a cast-iron skillet over medium high heat. Add the bacon and cook, turning occasionally, until most of the fat has rendered out, and the bacon is crisp. Remove the bacon to a plate covered in paper towels, and set aside. Discard all but 1 to 2 tablespoons of fat from the skillet and return to medium heat. Add the mushrooms, thyme and a bit more salt, and let cook down for about 7-10 minutes. Set aside.

Return the skillet to medium-high heat and cook the burgers for 2-3 minutes per side. Allow to rest on a plate for 2 minutes before serving.

While the mushrooms and burgers cook, go ahead and toast the bottom slice of bun, bread or muffin for your burgers. Apply mustard to the toasted bread, then add two bacon slices to each, then the burger, followed by half the mushrooms. (A slice of tomato doesn't hurt, either. You can also add avocado, Gruyere, caramelized onions...)

Serve open-faced, alongside a spinach salad or freshly roasted corn on the cob.

Serves two.

From San Francisco...

Dearest Clara,

It’s funny how quickly a week can go by---especially if you find yourself moving from one coast to another.  Last week was New York, but this week is San Francisco.  Luckily, my next flight will bring me home to you, and the one after that will take us on vacation together.  But before we get too excited about sunny summer days, let me share a little of what I’ve learned over my San Francisco visit:

• Always wear layers . . . Since we’ve returned to the US, I believe we’ve been to California three times, and we’ve ended up having to buy more clothes on two of those times.  This time I finally nailed my packing list!  The weather is not quite as toasty as the one hundred plus degrees I left on the East Coast, and it changes . . . a lot.  First it’s foggy, then its sunny, then its raining . . . then who knows.  And there can always be a chill in the air, especially a night.  Be prepared for all of these situations by wearing layers so that you can put on and takeoff as you need to always stay warm!
• Don’t underestimate the value of local products . . . I think you can give San Francisco a lot of credit for making Americans proud of American food products---and especially of American wine products: wines, cheeses, produce, fresh breads. This city and the areas around it have gotten so creative (see below) about pushing the envelope of what they put on the table and  they're proud of the fact that they can get it there themselves.  We take it for granted here on the East Coast, but I think this really started right here in San Francisco. It's easy to get caught up in imports, but sometimes, you can find it just as good at home.
• Choosing healthy is not weird . . . I love this about San Francisco, and about California generally.  I’m not a vegetarian but if I were, it wouldn’t be a problem here.  If you want a healthy option, you can always find it on the menu and no one seems to think less of you for choosing it.  It makes choosing healthy an easy shift and not a production.  Choose what you know is good for you proudly.
• Everyone could use a little more time outdoors . . . When people move from San Francisco to the East Coast, I know they are always going to miss the outdoors.  Even for people who don’t consider themselves “outdoorsy,” they often appear to be so to us.  Hiking in the hills, camping on the beach, windsurfing on the ocean . . . they may spend a lot of time in the city but people from San Francisco certainly know how to appreciate and protect the areas that surround it.
• Be creative . . . When I go to New York, I’m always impressed by the pace of life, but when I come to San Francisco, I’m amazed by the creativity.  For example, one cab driver was developing his own app to monitor parking rates, another friend developing a new form of digital photography.  If your heart is in invention, this is the place for you---and we could all use a little inventive spirit in our daily lives.  In San Francisco, just because things used to be a certain way, doesn’t mean they have to stay a certain way. Remember that in anything that you pursue.

Lots of love,

Mom

From Six 'til Seven

By Carey Swanson I've woken up twice to my alarm clock in the past almost-a-year . . . two times when my sleep was pierced by an abstract beeping sound that made me flash back to another time in my life. Considering the fact that I get up for my job as an assistant principal at 5:45 am on a good day, this is pretty amazing.  Other than those two days, the other 360 or so mornings, I've woken up to the squeaks and cries of my baby's internal alarm clock, calling out for food at the earliest early hour, the latest late hour, the time when most people are in the midst of sleeping.  Yes, she wakes up darn early!

This time period is a little bit of a blur most mornings---half-awake feedings and seeing if Zoe will let me fall back asleep before the beeping that tells me it is time to get out of bed rather than time to wake up. And from a little before six until close to seven, I have my first daily hour of parenting. In between pumping, eating the breakfast that my stay-at-home husband amazingly makes each morning, packing up my laptop, making sure I have the bottles and pump pieces I need for the day (I've messed this up 3 times in the 9 months I've been doing it, which I think is pretty ok), and getting dressed, I play with my child. I bring her into the bathroom while I'm doing my hair or washing my face and tell her what I'm doing: "I'm putting some concealer under my eyes; that makes me look less tired. Now I'm putting on deodorant, you probably won't need this till you're 12, but I'll be on the lookout to let you know if it is earlier than that because I don't want them to have to tell you at school, that is totally embarrassing even though I pretend real hard that it isn't."

Zoe is all laughs and smiles in the morning; she sits in her little chair at the table while I eat and pump, and offers us toys. She wanders around the living room, in her new little drunken old man waddle, while I check the weather, check my work phone, and call for substitutes if needed. And when it comes time for me to put on my jacket, she suddenly clings to me. And when I place her in her dad's arms and grab my bags to go . . . she cries. Sometimes she just sniffles; sometimes she wails. I can't bring myself to sneak out while she's distracted, so usually I make it worse: going back for kisses, finally making it out the door only to realize I've forgotten my phone, and disrupting her all over again.

* * *

Barring any parent events or late night meetings, I am almost always home from work on the dot of six o'clock. Whether I'm rushing out to the train at 5:30 or hanging on for a ride, six o'clock is pretty much guaranteed to be the switch from being responsible for the needs of 20 teachers and 300 children to being responsible for the needs of one lovely little baby.

I love making the switch. I walk in the door to the best greeting in the world—my husband usually yelling, "Mommy's home" while Z freezes from wherever she is and laughs, and these days, waves. (She's grown into this---it used to be immediate tears and demands for nursing; this is much improved.) And then, for the next hour, I'm a parent again. I put away the day's bottles and my things, hug Zoe for as long as she'll let me (usually just one hug), and feed her dinner while my husband makes ours. Or I play with her in the living room and hear about the boring stuff that only I want to know: What time were her naps today? How much did she eat and when? Where did you guys go today? I like to hear the mundane details, to picture the trips to the playground or the farmers market or the park and to know if the afternoon nap went early or late as I calculate how many extra minutes of play time that buys me.

Sometime close to 7 she gets sleepy, even though she has started to fight it and attempts to hide it from us. I’ve done my homework and read my sleep books. While I don’t have a real stance, I've made a camp somewhere in between the eight different approaches to sleep. I know that keeping her up any later is selfish—my baby does better when she goes to sleep early. Plus, we have the always-the-same-time, dark and early baby alarm to think of the next morning. And so right around seven, we start getting ready for bedtime. We change into pajamas, read a story, and cuddle if she'll let me. By between 7:30 and 8, she is asleep and I'm on the couch leaning over my laptop, or on a good day, watching bad tv.

I don't mean to imply that I'm not a parent in the 22 hours other than those between six and seven (and on the whole weekend and every vacation!). And I know that the mommy guilt I feel about squeezing a day into such short blocks of time is just for me---not a reflection of my daughter’s needs. I’m a working mother, which is something I believe in, and in doing this I am the bread winner for my family, which makes me proud. I know kids are in day care and with nannies and with stay at home parents, and I truly believe all of these are completely valid options. Zoe is with her dad all day and incredibly well cared for, which means I have no reservations about how she spends her time. In a world full of gender norms and high expectations for what it means to be a mother, however, what I can't seem to escape are my reservations about how I spend mine.

But, for now at least, from six 'til seven is my baby's time.

(image by alexkerhead on flickr.)

Max

(Editor's note: This is part two of Leigh Anna's exploration of losing her dogs. Part One, Samus, can be found here.) 2011 stunk. It has taken me many months to even get to the place where I can write about this without completely losing it. Some of you already know how my little family was rocked this past year when little Samus, my sweet boxer dog, passed away suddenly. Little did we know that just 7 months and two days later, we’d be saying goodbye to our other sweet baby, my dear boy Max. From the beginning, I was absolutely in love with that boy. We drove 4 hours in the pouring rain one night to Memphis to pick him up. He was so fat, with so many wrinkles. I was so excited . . . and a little discouraged when I tried to get him to sit in my lap on the way home and he just moved to the other side of backseat. We had a dog that didn’t like to cuddle, or so it seemed.

Max quickly became a mama’s boy. Contrary to my observation on that ride home, he loved to cuddle . . . and boy was he lazy. Samus wanted to play all the time and all Max wanted to do was lay on the couch. The only issue we ever had with him was potty training. He was HORRIBLE! He would leave a trail through the house . . . he didn’t know how to stand still while peeing! I would get soooo mad! I finally resorted to buying toddler undies for him and that was the only thing that finally worked. He was so cute in those undies.

 In 2007, Chris and I decided to quit our jobs, move to Atlanta, and go back to school. The day we moved, we noticed Max wasn’t feeling too good. Within two days, he stopped eating and we knew something had to be wrong. We took him to the vet, where they started running tests on him. We left the vet without a diagnosis but they were pretty sure he had Lymphoma. The test would take two weeks to find out for sure.

My boy got so sick. He didn’t eat for those two weeks and lost 10 lbs. We came so close to losing him . . . the test finally came back and it was a huge blow. He not only had lymphoma in his chest, but it was stage 4, B cell, the worst kind. They advised us that most dogs with that kind of cancer only last another year at best, with chemo. But we couldn’t lose our baby without trying to help; he was only 5 years old. We started chemotherapy immediately and after 6 months of treatment, he was in full remission. Max was a trooper . . . my miracle dog. We got lucky and the lymphoma never came back.

 When we lost Samus, our world was turned upside down. We all grieved so hard for the loss, Max included. He slept by the front door; he’d wake me up laying on my chest at 3 am just staring at me; he’d drag us up and down the alleys and streets looking for her; he would stop in his tracks when he heard another dog that sounded like her. It made us so sad to see him having such a hard time with losing her.  That’s one reason we decided to get Rilke, 6 weeks after we lost our girl. Max needed a buddy as much as we did. He was so good with her . . . she was such a playful puppy . . . but he never got mad at her. I think seeing the two of them together, I really started to notice how much Max had aged.

This past Thanksgiving came and went quietly. That Saturday, we woke up to a beautiful morning. The temperature was supposed to be in the 60′s and we knew that it wouldn’t last much longer. We decided to take the dogs out to Fire Island, a beautiful state park beach that allows dogs in the winter months. It was Rilke’s first time to the beach and we were all excited as we packed up in the car and headed out. It was absolutely gorgeous outside and we were just so happy to be together. This photo was from that day . . . I had no idea it would be one of the last photos I would take of my sweet boy:

We had hiked about 2 miles from our car, down the beach, when our world came crashing in on us. Max had been so happy, running, sniffing, playing . . . when all of a sudden, he fell over and started having a major grand mal seizure. Right there where the water hits the sand, on the most beautiful beach, my dog was dying and I felt so helpless. People came running from everywhere, and Chris and two other men started giving him CPR. After what seemed like an eternity, he started breathing again. Someone called the rangers for us and they came and picked us up in a SUV to take us back to our car. Max was awake but out of it for sure. We took him to the nearest pet hospital, only to have them tell us things like cancer, brain tumor, epilepsy, infection . . . our wonderful trip to the beach had gone so bad so quickly.

We did a few tests to check his bloodwork and rule out an infection. They said the only way we would know if he had brain cancer would be to do an MRI, which would cost thousands. We hoped for the best, got a prescription for anti-seizure meds and went on our way. We felt so lost, and I was just a ball of nerves. That night we cuddled him and loved on him and he seemed ok, just tired. The next morning, we went for a walk, ate breakfast, and he had his smoothie and two treats. His head seemed to be bothering him, he kept scratching and rubbing it. He laid down in the sun, on the bed, probably his favorite place in the world, and went to sleep. About 30 minutes later, he woke up, had another seizure, and passed quietly in Chris’s arms.

That weekend was horrible. But . . . looking back, both of us had seen it in his eyes. He lost a part of himself, a spark, when Samus passed away and he never got it back. Even though losing Samus was heartbreaking, it made me appreciate Max so much more those last few months. I am thankful that he didn’t seem to suffer much; I am thankful that we were with him, that he spent his last full day on the beach, and that he didn’t die in a hospital. I am also thankful that I did not have to make the decision with either of my dogs. God knew that would be a decision I just could not have made.

 I loved Samus dearly, but Max . . . that boy was MY boy. I loved the way he woo-wooed when he was excited, the way he demanded a treat around lunchtime every day, the way he nibbled on a toy, the way he said “I love my mama,” and the way he made me massage him every night. He was spoiled all right, but he was one of the best relationships that I have ever experienced and if I could do it all over again, I would in a heartbeat. I’ve had dogs my entire life but there was just something special about my relationship with Max. I would have done just about anything for that dog. Looking back at these photos, I feel like I was at my happiest when he was by my side . . . or in my lap.

After losing both of our “kids” that we have had for the past 9.5 years, Chris and I just felt lost. Our whole family dynamic changed. Now Rilke was the only dog, and we had only spent a few months with her. She still doesn’t know the kind of things our other two had learned through the years---it’s like starting completely over. But I am so thankful we got her when we did or else our house would be way too quiet. We have since added little Bronson to our family. It’s not the same around here . . . but I hope one day we’ll have the connection with the new ones like we had with Samus and Max.

Once again, in 2011 I was reminded that I need to appreciate the time I am given. I am so thankful that I got to experience Max’s amazing personality and be loved by him. Time goes by in a flash . . . 9.5 years of my life was gone in 7 months and 2 days. I am trying to remember that and really live my life in a way where I have no regrets and really love on my friends and family as much as I can. In the end, that’s really all that matters. I miss you dearly Max . . . I still think about you every day. I hope you and Samus are running and playing on a beach up in heaven somewhere. One of these days, when I close my eyes for the last time . . . I really hope you two come and tackle me with kisses. Call me crazy, I don’t care.

Samus

Sharing my life with an animal is one of the greatest joys I could imagine. There is nothing better than coming home after a long hard day and being met at the door by my dogs, wagging their tails and giving me kisses. . . it instantly erases all my stress, at least for a little while. My husband, Chris, and I don't have kids, not yet anyway, so I treat my dogs like they are my kids. People say things change when you have actual children, but I hope it doesn't. I love knowing that I am giving my dogs the best life possible and that they are loved and appreciated every day.

Nothing could prepare me for the loss I would feel when my first two dogs, Samus and Max, passed away. When we lost Samus, Chris and I spent the next three days in bed, crying our eyes out. Seven months later, Max passed away too. Our home had changed forever. Looking back, we realized just how much Samus and Max had affected our lives. They taught us about patience, unconditional love, and what's really important in life.

What follows are my thoughts on the passing of sweet Samus. I will be sharing Max's story tomorrow.

I’ve tried to write this piece about 5 times now. Every time I see that title, I just tear up and have to walk away. Chris and I lost our baby girl two weeks ago. It was sudden, unexpected, and heartbreaking. We don’t know for sure, but we think she had cardiomyopathy, a condition of the heart, where it just gives out without warning. We knew she wasn’t feeling good, took her to the vet, and her heart rate was at 300 beats per minute. They tried to fix it but nothing worked and after a few hours at the vet, she basically had a heart attack. Chris and I had to hold her the last few minutes while she was passing . . . it was just heartbreaking; there is no other way to describe it. It tore us both to pieces, having to watch something you love so much, go away forever.

Samus came into our lives when she was 6 weeks old. Chris and I had a terrible fight about what kind of dog we were going to get. My heart was set on a boston terrier . . . I even went out and bought a book about them! Chris finally dropped the bomb on me that it was his turn, I had chosen our first pets (cats, they were insane!) and he wanted a boxer. I was SOOOOO mad! That all changed the day he picked me up from work with a newspaper in his hand. He had the ad circled and was determined that it was the day for us to add to our family. I agreed and we drove straight to the breeder’s house. Inside, Samus’s grandmother climbed up on the couch beside us and we knew these had to be the sweetest puppies ever. A few minutes later, all hell broke loose as the puppy gate was removed and we were tackled by 10-12 little baby boxers. Chris picked out our little girl and we named her Samus. I fell so deeply in love with her within that first hour, I just never expected it. I’ve had animals my whole life but this was our first puppy, and she was perfect.

Well, she was perfect in every way but one . . . she was CRAZY!! Chris and I could barely keep up with her the next few months; she had more energy than both of us combined. We decided that she needed a buddy to keep her company while we were at work, so 4 months later, we got Max. They became best friends immediately, and stayed that way for the last nine years. The only flaw in our plan was that Max was the laziest dog ever and spent more time on the couch with us than playing with her!

Chris and I knew that we would lose them one day . . . but it didn’t stop us from loving them dearly. I am so thankful for the fact that we loved her so much, and because of that, I have few regrets. She was spoiled rotten. Every Christmas and birthday, I would go to goodwill and stock up with bags of stuffed animals. We would give them to her all at once and and watch her roll around on the floor in bliss. Max couldn't care less about the toys; they were all for her. Her favorite had to have been the frisbee.

Losing her was one of the hardest things I have ever gone through. For me, it rated on the same level as losing my brother 12 years ago. I knew it would be difficult, but I don’t think I was quite prepared for the amount of grief I would feel. I realized through all of this just how much you can learn about life from a dog. She taught me about joy, love, and losing. Losing her made me look at life through a different lens and I am trying to hold on to that and not go back to the way I was before. I was able to look back at things that had happened the last week, month, year, and see that things happened for a reason and everything worked out like it was supposed to, even though it wasn’t what I wanted. Even looking back at when we got her, I didn’t want a boxer, but God put one in my life anyway. Looking back, she was exactly what I wanted and what I needed in my life, I just didn’t know it. I am so glad that somehow I was chosen to be her mama.

Losing her also reminded me of the fact that no one is promised another day, not you, not me . . . not anyone. I learned that I need to accept things the way they are and concentrate on the joy in my life, not the bad things. And I learned that I need to appreciate my friends and family a little bit more every day because it might be the last chance I get to tell them how I feel. We never thought that on Easter Sunday, when we spent the afternoon in our favorite park, lying in the sun, that 24 hours later, she would be gone forever. I loved her so much, and I still do, and I am so sad she is gone.

I’ll end with this, an excerpt from a poem by Danna Faulds that I am trying to take to heart:

“Do not let the day slip through your fingers, but live it fully now, this breath, this moment, catapulting you into full awareness. Time is precious, minutes disappearing like water into sand, unless you choose to pay attention. Since you do not know the number of your days, treat each as if it is your last. Be that compassionate with yourself, that open and loving to others, that determined to give what is yours to give and to let in the energy and wonder of this world. Experience everything, writing, relating, eating, doing all the little necessary tasks of life as if for the first time…pushing nothing aside as unimportant. You have received these same reminders many times before, this time, take them into your soul. For if you choose to live this way, you will be rich beyond measure, grateful beyond words, and the day of your death will arrive with no regrets.”

I miss you Samus.

One of the Worst Parts About Getting a Divorce: Telling Children

Telling people about the divorce was excruciating.

Even after it was no longer 'new' news to me, it was still sad to tell people who were hearing it for the first time.  A year later, some people still hadn't heard---perhaps they were old friends returning to Brooklyn for a visit.  And then I'd have to tell them.  It was heartbreaking every time.

But nothing compared to telling children about the divorce.

Nothing broke my heart more throughout the entire thing.

We had some nieces and nephews.  We had close relationships with many of the youth in Brooklyn---mainly through church.  And we knew my boss's sweet children very well, too.  I hated telling them all.

Soon after the divorce, I went to St. Barth's with my boss and his family.  My ex-husband normally would accompany me on those trips, as well.  But this time it was just me.  The children (and all their friends) were very confused about why he wasn't there.  One of the children's parents had told them that we had "broken up."  I guess this was the best way to explain it to a 5-year old girl.  Another little girl said to me, "Mara, my friend told me that I wasn't supposed to ask you something . . . but is it ok if I still ask you?  Is it true that you broke up?  It just can't be true and I don't believe it, so I had to ask you."  She was the saddest, sweetest little 5-year old ever as she asked me this question.

I told her that it was true.  But that I was doing really well and that I was still really happy and that I was going to carry on and still have a good and happy life.

The youth in Brooklyn that we knew were teenagers.  They looked up to us a lot---and I hated having them see a divorce firsthand when they needed as many good examples of marriage as they could get.  But I decided that I would do everything I could to show them that marriage and living a good life were still as important as ever to me.  They often heard me talking about how much I valued marriage and how important it was to be a good spouse.  And they were very much on my mind as I moved forward and decided how I was going to live my life.

And now a lot of them read my blog :)

What has it been like for you to explain divorce to kids?  Do you have any tips for others?

(photo:  Jeanloup Sieffe, 1963, via Mignonette)

From the Blueberry Patch in Virginia...

  Dearest Clara, This past week, I just couldn't stop thinking about strawberries.  I guess I read too many articles on picking your own fruit because I packed us up in the car and insisted that we pick our own too.  As it turned out, we were too late for the strawberries, but it was the first day that the blueberry "patch" was open, so blueberries it was.  I thought that blueberries grew in bogs, like cranberries, but that just goes to show you how much your mother knows---it turns out they were potted in large planters in a field.  You turned out to be a much better at picking than I, although I was much better at putting them in the basket.  You (perhaps like your father) seemed to be concentrated on eating them.  But the whole day out at the berry farm got me thinking about a few different things I hope you'll remember:

• Take the time to learn where your food comes from: Our experience so far has been mostly living in cities, and it's so easy to think that your food just comes from aisle six of the supermarket.  But food is a little more complicated than that---someone had to grow it, to pick it, to take care of it, to package it. Don't take that for granted---knowing where your food comes from makes you appreciate what you put in your own body.
• Gathering your own food takes tremendous time and care: After about an hour in the blueberry patch, we had barely half a bucket to show for our work, yet when you go to the grocery store there are cartons upon cartons of berries.  If you're not in charge of providing your own food, make sure you appreciate those that do.  It's not something many people do.
• Make time for the countryside: When you live in the city, it's especially important to make time every once in a while to visit green space, farms, small towns . . . these are an important part of what makes living in the city possible.  Not only will you see where our food and animals are from and meet the people responsible for it, but you'll hopefully notice what fresh air should smell like, and what green grass should look like.  It's easy to get caught up in the pounding pavement and speed of the city, but that's not all there is out there in the world---plenty of people do just fine without it and bring something completely different to the table.
• The best part of gathering your own food is eating it . . . with friends: We may not have picked all that many blueberries, but we added to our stash at the farm's general store, and we added raspberries and blackberries too---enough for snacks on the way back, and pancakes for breakfast, and then some. Blueberries have never tasted better.  When you have the satisfaction of eating what you grew or collected, it's best shared with others, so always bring home extra, even if you buy it.  After all, it's still straight from the farm . . . and that tastes a little different than straight form aisle six.

So what's next for us? Peaches? All my love, Mom