Future Shock

A few weeks ago, I had a conversation with a friend-of-a-friend, in which he essentially said this to me (and I am paraphrasing here): “You know the main reason my wife and I decided not to have children is because I think the world is falling apart at the seams and we, as a species, are doomed.  I didn’t want to saddle another generation with this mess.”   My jaw fell slack and my response was an awkwardly managed and strangely delayed “Oh, MmHmm . . .” Having rather recently procreated, myself, I am, perhaps more sensitive to the insinuation that having children might be a selfish act and one that a reasonable and humane person would sacrifice, based on the state of the planet.  And yet, I was also surprised by my initial instinct which was to reply with, “I totally hear you and I mostly agree!”  Part of the reason for the bungled response was pondering whether the mother of an infant should be concurring that having children is crazy, all things considered.  It should be established that this person works in an industry that bears intimate witness to both the real impact of climate change and the barriers to spurring governments, individuals, and cultures to reverse course.  He also described a feeling more generally that he enjoyed a measure of freedom, loved to travel, etc., but his main thesis really stuck with me.  It got me ruminating about the rationale for having children and where we are as a society—you know, nothing heavy. In some ways, despite clawing my way to motherhood against tough odds and having a singular focus about it for years on end, I can utterly relate to the idea of not wanting children.  Like any haughty adult enjoying the relative ease of life and limitless possibilities that come with a child-free future, I have fantasies of coming home at the end of the day and flitting off to a movie or hopping a plane to Bermuda.  The beginning of the end of my first marriage started with a conversation in which my ex-husband declared he had decided he didn’t want children because, “What if I want to just, like, go to Costa Rica?”  At the time, he had never traveled outside the United States, save a solitary surf trip to Mexico, and he didn’t even have a driver’s license.  But this straw man danced around in my head and the phrase “Costa Rica,” eventually became code to me for “noncommittal.”

The other problem with this, obviously, being: When was I ever a person who was able to come home at the end of the day and flit off anywhere or hop a plane to anywhere?  Let’s face facts: I plan things.  Basic work-life functions and my own overdeveloped sense of responsibility slash free-floating anxiety have basically ruled this kind of behavior out for me a long time ago.  This truly has very little to do with newly caring for a living being.  I have always been more attracted to a cozy evening curled up with magazine, husband, and domestic beast than to painting the town.  I have a knitting phase in my history, I have hosted more than one “game night” at my place . . . you don’t need further elaboration, of this I am sure.

Traveling with children is a bit more intimidating, although I do have the goal of providing as many diverse experiences as possible for my kids.  While I realize that taking a child to a place that is inhospitable, inaccessible, dangerous, etc. is no longer in the cards, (which it never was for me, either, frankly) I don’t think my only option remains a Disney Cruise.  I have lots of examples in my life of people picking up and exploring exotic places with one, two, three (!) kids, even living abroad in somewhat “colorful” circumstances.   And the people I know who have gone down this road range from families with endless resources and major job security to those working with a shoestring and cobbling together freelance gigs to make it work.  So, let’s strike that from the list.

Now on to the issue of the world and how it appears to be unraveling.  There is no denying that we are in crisis with the environment.  But, how do I know that my kid won’t be the person who develops some sensational new technology that quite literally saves the world?  I worry much more about the way our politics, culture, and social norms have degraded.  Here again, I like the idea raising a person who might contribute positively in these areas, even better than we have.  And to experience the children of our friends and family and see what lovely, tiny human beings are all around us, I am increasingly confident that we can tip the scales in the direction of progress.

There is no doubt that some element of child rearing is profoundly narcissistic.  By definition, you are creating and shaping a person and then offering that person to the world in your likeness.  This is true whether or not you have biological children.  Then again, I still submit that if all of us out here---imperfect, but kind and loving (sometimes snarky)---raise children with good hearts and strong minds, there are larger benefits than just how it makes us feel to be loved and see ourselves reflected.

From Berchtesgaden, Germany...

Dearest Clara, When we lived in Vienna, one of our favorite getaways was in the mountains, just across the border in Germany.  We spent so many weekends there---we took you for the first time when you were barely two months old, and we absolutely had to go back during our return trip this summer.  There is something about these mountains that keeps drawing us in, and I suspect we’ll be going back for years to come, even though this wouldn’t be the type of place to top most people’s “places to go list.”  All the better I say, it just leaves more of this gorgeous landscape undisturbed for those of us in the know to enjoy!

Berchtesgaden can be a tricky place.  It’s so beautiful that you want to think it was laying here so peacefully forever, but the truth is that it had its role in a darker side of history.  And visiting there presents somewhat of a quandary about how to reconcile those two things.  For me, what I’ve learned over the years is that will always be your responsibility to know the history of the places you visit.  But be sure to separate the past from the future that any place is trying to build---by being aware of both, you’ll be able to feel out what your assessment is of the present.

In addition, I’ve learned the following from this charming mountain town:

• The view from the top is always worth it: There are no shortage of hills and mountains in this area, some that you have to walk, some you can cheat a little and ride a gondola  to the top.  I think so often we breeze through places like these and just take the time to see the town and move on, but the real treat is what you see from the top of the mountain, not the bottom, so make sure you always plan for a few of these jaunts when you come across elevation.
• Tradition should always have a home: When places are small and not on the beaten path, we are quick to write them off as closed and narrow. But some people work very hard to preserve their traditions.  This time around we stumbled onto a parade of local villages, all with families in their local variations of national costumes . . . all handmade. there are very few places where such craft by hand can survive.  Know when to let people keep their traditions.
• Beef should be expensive: This sounds funny right? But in the hotel that we always stay at, they often have “filet of local heifer” on the menu and the translation has always made us giggle a bit.  And it happens to be the most expensive item on the menu by far.  This is common in many alpine areas, even though the meat is local to the region.  But it takes a lot of time and resource to raise animals that are out on fresh pasture, with space and cleanliness and natural foods.  Of course there are faster and cheaper ways of raising animals, but ultimately, animals are living things and should be respected as such.  I guarantee you it doesn’t taste the same when you take a shortcut.  You won't be able to take the long way as often though.
• Change can come quickly: Much like near the sea, the weather in the mountains can change in what seems like an instant.  Many times we’ve started out in sunshine and watched black clouds roll in, erupting the mountains into flashes of lightning.  A little extra preparation and know-how will protect you in places where change is the constant.
• Protect what’s still clean: Near where we stay there is a beautiful lake which is one of the largest and deepest in the country, but is also the cleanest.  In fact, you can drink water right out of this huge body of water in any place on the lake.  That is a rare gift that this water has been taken care of so well over so many years.  When you find these pockets of clean air . . . water . . . land . . . it is your responsibility to help keep them that way---when you find pockets that have strayed, you still have to do your part.

All my love,

Mom

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.

Lessons from coming home...

Dearest Clara, Coming home from a trip is always a bittersweet moment, a mixture of relief that you made it safely with a touch of sadness for an adventure completed.  I’ve never been good at all of the activities that are supposed to take place after a trip: the laundry, the photos, the getting back into the swing of things at work.  I alternate instead between reliving the memories of where we’ve just come from, and dreaming away into planning the next adventure, the next trip.

Nonetheless, I still love the familiarity of home, wherever it is for us at the moment---here is what I always do when I arrive at ours:

• Tell people you are coming home a day later . . . or even two: The minute people know you’ve walked in the door, the world will start turning just as fast as it was before you left.  Tell others you’ll be home just a little later, and enjoy the quiet time that comes with no one knowing you are there.  Use the time for whatever you need for yourself.
• Don’t go back to work on a Monday: A boss of mine told me this years ago and I’ve stuck to it ever since.  There is something overwhelming about coming in first thing Monday morning with a list of things to do and a line of people to see you a mile long.  Come in on a Tuesday;  the week can start without you just fine.
• Drink lots of water: Whether you came home by plane, train, or automobile, I guarantee you didn’t drink enough water on the trip.  Drink lots, more than you think you need.  It will make you feel better and help ward off any unwanted souvenirs.
• Unpack on the first day you are back: Unpack at least a little . . . if only to throw your dirty laundry in the hamper (that alone should be the bulk of your suitcase anyway).  If you don’t start unpacking the first day, you can bet that your suitcase will stand there for at least a month before you touch it.
• Write it down: You think you’ll remember everything from your travels, and you think your photographs will be enough, but it is amazing how quickly the details start evaporating the minute you walk in your front door.  If it was important to you and you want to remember it, write it down, even if it is just a quick list in a notebook.
• Have a “coming-home” routine: Order dinner from the same place, take a taxi from the same stand, spend the first evening taking a bath or reading a magazine . . . whatever makes you feel relaxed and comfortable.  Since our home changes so often, we can’t always rely on the structure itself to make us feel like we are “back”.  Rather, the routines that we have developed over time have become our sense of home, our sense of arriving back where we belong.

I know you will travel far and wide over the coming years, and on your own---probably much further than I will ever go.  Enjoy every adventure that comes your way---but don’t forget that being at home sometimes can be just as beautiful.

All my love,

Mom

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.

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)

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

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 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.)

From New York, New York

Dearest Clara,

This week has been so much hustle and bustle . . . but I guess hustle and bustle is what you get when you’re in New York.  That city just never stops---and that’s a good thing.  Every time I head up, I always end up being exposed to something new.  You just can’t avoid it in New York.  That sense of always experiencing something new there makes it hard to pick out single lessons, since I feel like they’re different from every trip there.  But maybe, that’s what New York is all about.

• Try something new every time you go: You could probably live an entire lifetime in New York City and not repeat a meal, a hotel, a theater . . . there are not many places like that in the world.  Take advantage to do or eat or try something you would never do at home---that’s what you came to New York for!
• Look for a few favorites: New York is always changing but there are a few things that will always be there for you:  a dark corner bar, a bench in Central Park, a Sabrett’s hot dog cart, the holiday displays on Fifth Avenue . . . Find a few things that you love in New York and try to incorporate them into your trips---sometimes, you’ll just need that little bit of the familiar.
• Pack your thicker skin: This city gets a bad reputation sometimes.  Here, things move fast, and here, things can move on without you.  Sometimes, nothing can crush you like this city---you’ll probably cry at some point.  I did.  It’s okay---it happens to everyone.  New York can definitely be tough---but stick it out.  New York is also full of sunshine and second chances.
• Always look up: there are some great surprises on those skyscrapers: art deco details, people going on about their daily lives in full glass windows, billboards as far as the eye can see---this city can do amazing things with heights.
• Marvel at the little logistics: I can never stop being fascinated by how this city works.  How do they manage to provide water . . . and heat . . . and trash pick up . . . and emergency services . . . and dry cleaning . . . and some of the best food delivery in the world . . . you name it---I am always amazed by how well everything works in New York---there are so many cities that are smaller or less populated or more spacious and don’t run with nearly the efficiency of New York.  And as always, whether it’s the subway driver or police officer, appreciate those that make this city somewhere we can go and enjoy the gifts that all of its other citizens bring.

One day you’ll “be a part of it” too.  I can’t wait to hear what you think.

All my love,

Mom

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

Thank You, Kindly

“Beautiful . . . enthralled . . . raving . . . wonderful . . . stunning . . . brilliant . . . gorgeous.” Last week I opened my email early Monday morning and found not one, but TWO lovely notes from a satisfied bride.  Just that Saturday, we had done her wedding florals and she apparently wrote the first “thank you” the very next day.  Then, after becoming concerned that the initial note may have gone to my junk mail, she wrote yet another, similarly warm letter.  She wanted to make absolutely sure I had been properly thanked.  This happens much less frequently than you might think.  I proudly pictured her making certain to fire off these emails before jetting to her post-wedding brunch.  In my elaborate fantasy, her new husband was calling out, “Janie, let’s get going, we are going to be late!” and she replied with, “Just give me one more minute, I simply MUST let Sarah know how fabulous she is!”

I found myself turning this bride’s sweet words over and over in my mind and it energized my work for the remainder of the week.  ‘This is why I do this,’ I thought.  I tried to access that sense of fulfillment during several decidedly lower moments during the work-week and even in one instance of standing over the changing table, with a fresh bathrobe suddenly soaked in poop.  Ironically, her wedding was only a small, intimate affair, for which we did just a few precious arrangements and yet it was one of the more immediate and glowing responses we have received to date.  The power of her generosity and this kind of communiqué cannot be underestimated.

Growing up, my parents were not terribly formal about much of anything and bucked societal convention in ways that were often spectacular, at times mortifying.  But, when I received a gift from a friend or relative, my mother would place a note card, envelope, and ink pen (she abhors a ball point) in front of me on the dining room table with the expectation that I write a personal “thank you.”  Just before my Grandmother passed, we were organizing some of her papers and found a prime example from my “thank you” canon.  I must have been about six years old and I was demonstrating my gratitude for a Chanukah gift.  In quaky script, I had seemingly offered a stream of consciousness communication that included the sentence, “OK, I have to go now, my stomach hurts.”  So, clearly, I hadn’t yet understood the precise etiquette involved in such a letter but I promise there was a solid “thank you” earlier on the page.  I imagined my Grandmother having a chuckle at my wording but perhaps being filled with the same tender feelings I experienced upon receiving this bride’s emails.

Throughout my adult life, I have endeavored to acknowledge the people around me with verbal and/or written “thank yous” whenever possible.  I have done this for gifts and deeds, alike.  Even though we operate almost exclusively in an internet age, I have traditionally resisted writing electronic thank yous and have instead opted for a carefully chosen, hand-written card.  I labored over my wedding thank you notes to the extent that they were sent out in (somewhat belated) spotty waves.  It always feels important that I write something personal and capture my genuine response to each treasured item.  Although many people find writing thank yous daunting, I generally relish the meditative process.

I am ashamed to admit that for the first time in my life, I dropped the ball on thank yous when our baby was born.  The bounty bestowed on us from friends and family has been truly overwhelming and continuous.  For a while there, even massively pregnant, I managed to stay on track with diligently recording each gift and responding in kind.  I wrote notes and letters and made phone calls.  This went beyond my being compulsive (although there was certainly some of that), this was me authentically intending to return the kindness and make our appreciation evident.  Toward the end, things went a little haywire with finishing my wedding season, entering into the Holidays, and preparing for a new life and I failed to record some things that came in the mail.  The slippage escalated and compounded when I lost one of my master spreadsheets matching names and gifts.  Ultimately, I gave up altogether and became convinced that slighted friends and family all over the country were preparing to weed us out of their lives.  At one point, I recalled that a close friend who recently had TWINS had been prompt with her thank yous and I sank even lower.  No excuse, Sarah.  No excuse.  If anyone still waiting on a thank you is reading this piece . . . thank you?

Perhaps the most significant thank yous, in my view, are the daily acknowledgements in relationships.  I try assiduously to thank my husband for something, anything at least once a day.  If he says something kind, puts away the clean dishes, walks the dog, anticipates my food craving . . . I make an effort to tell him I feel lucky to be with him.  He invariably says something like “I live here, too,” or “You don’t have to thank me for that.”  Sometimes he uses it as an opportunity for bombast and mild teasing, “WHAT KIND OF HUSBAND WOULD I BE IF I DIDN’T . . .”  But, I know it gives him a boost and lends value to the small tasks that frankly make up the majority of a life together.

My sister once told me that the secret to a happy marriage is “choosing someone you can eat dinner with every single night for the rest of your life.”  At the time, I thought that was absurdly unromantic.  Now I understand that it speaks to not only compatibility, but a capacity to do the mundane together and be grateful to be slogging through with the person sitting across from you.  I want my husband to hear about that gratitude as much as I am able to proffer it.

My recent experience with this gracious bride reminds me to be voluminous with praise and recognition.  There are countless people who do not just do enormously nice things for me all the time, but provide a series of tiny kindnesses that get me through the week.  The ripple effect of a hand wave when someone lets you into her lane on the FDR to a beautifully crafted missive on letterpress for a huge favor from a friend is undeniable.  This is hokey, fine.  But, a well-timed and well-executed demonstration of gratitude is totally free and can shore up even the most jaded among us.  I don’t always recycle appropriately (I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW A MILK CARTON IS A PLASTIC) but I can take a brief moment to thank the guy for toasting my bagel to perfection.

198 Days Without You

Field trips, recess at the park sprinklers, warm weather and bag lunches are all signs that my son's first academic year is drawing to a close.  This morning the parent association held one last breakfast and a special conversation with parents and the directors of the upper and lower schools. I felt pretty nostalgic as I climbed up the windy staircase to the music room remembering all the special memories that make up my son's first year here: the first day of school jitters, his first tooth falling out at recess, the numerous play dates with new friends from school, a weekend caring for two ducklings, and the class home visit.  I engaged in every moment possible of his first year in the 4-5s class as if I was re-visiting my own first year in kindergarten.  Yet, there is something very momentous about this first year that goes beyond the milestones of the 4-5s curriculum.  In this same year, my son and I also just about complete one year as a family together.  So in reflection on the past year and the year's struggles, accomplishments, fears, joys and risk taking, I write this brief letter to my son, Diego. Dear Diego,

A year ago today, I sat in my office anxious, scared and missing you deeply.  You see, your papi and I had separated, and I moved back to New York City to take the big job that would provide for you.  Remember when you lived with him in the apartment so you could stay at the JCC preschool last year?  Well in that time, I rented a room to save enough to secure the apartment we call home today.  In those painful and lonely seven months, I missed you every day. At any moment whether I was at work, on the bus or in the grocery store, tears would stream down my face as I questioned whether I had made the right choice to leave you and miss out on the little four year old child you were growing into.  I missed your last tot Shabbat, I missed your end of the year preschool musical production and the parent committee meetings, and all the little moments in between -- but I did it anyway for us.

It is true I doubted myself every day for those 198 days without you.  But today I write this letter to tell you it was the right choice at the right time.  You know why I know this?  Because I see you and me today and we have grown tremendously with a sense of independence and interdependence in our new home, community and life.  The first few months in our home you were afraid to sleep alone in your new room and you missed your father.  I comforted you and slept next to you to assure you of my love, trust and security.  You cried daily at drop off at your new summer school program missing the rhythm and routine of the JCC; but each day I came to pick you up, I found you smiling.  We took adventures over the summer on the subway to parks with sprinklers and neighborhood stores.  By fall, you began a new school less fearful and more certain of yourself and your surroundings.  You no longer cried at drop off and came home tired from a hard day of play in the 4-5s class.  I marveled at your ease in adapting to our familial changes and your resiliency, but this is not to say we did not have our challenging moments.  You challenged me daily for months about wanting to live with your father and not with me.  Our biggest challenge was your hospitalization on your fifth birthday for a severe asthma attack postponing the birthday party you were counting down the days for. You rebounded quickly and we celebrated weeks later at Wiggles and Giggles with all your friends and loved ones.  Onto the holiday celebrations of November and December, you traveled back and forth from Virginia to New York splitting your time over the breaks to enjoy the customs and traditions from your multicultural parentage.  By the New Year, you became a pro at your school routine and would inform me daily of your after school activities and which buses and trains we should take in the morning to school.  I marveled at seeing you become so confident and alive in your environs.  Into spring, we began cooking together, painting together, and going to tee ball practice together which has resulted in some of the best memories this year.  I think your proudest moment was when you led three classmates to our home traveling on two trains and a bus for the annual class home visit. This very milestone in your 4-5s class allowed you to share with pride your culture, family and home life with your classmates. We enjoyed eating apples, grapes and crackers, touring your room, creating a collaborative art piece on the chalk board, break dancing to You Spin me Round by the Chipmunks, and your favorite part -- jumping on my bed.

I remind you of all of this mi niño lindo, so you never forget how much this year has meant to me after spending what seemed like eternity without you.  I most recently threw out the calendar I had meticulously crossed off each day that passed in your absence.  I held onto it like a medal of honor because I needed that visualization so I could see the progress I was making toward having you back in my life.  And now, I can say goodbye to that marked up and wrinkled calendar and those 198 days without you.  Today I proudly celebrate the many more days and years I have with you.

I hope when you read this letter one day, you will begin to understand and feel through my words the depth of love I have for you.

Te adoro y  te amo, mi hijo lindo y querido.

Tu mami para siempre,

Judy.

Why I Didn't Breastfeed

When I found out I was pregnant, I had just turned twenty-two. I had moved down to Florida after graduating college in Chicago and started dating my now husband. We hit it off right away and went on this amazing two-week long vacation down the East Coast. We spent hours in the car talking, finding out every facet of the other’s life---all of our wants and dreams, hopes and fears. After the trip, we were pretty sure we would get married. After six weeks, SIX weeks. That was before I even knew I was pregnant. At our wedding, my husband’s friend James gave a toast. He talked about how just a year earlier, when five of the engineers, including he and my husband, were cramped in a too-small office under lots of stress, they played “Would you ever”? The question was: Would you ever marry someone after only six weeks? The oldest employee (who had been married already for over twenty years) said he would, and he did. He and his wife were married after only a few weeks. Every other person said, No way, that’s crazy! And then the question came around to my husband. “Yes, when you know, you know.”

And then, a few weeks later, amidst throwing up daily several times a day and watching bad television, unemployed lying on the couch, reality hit me: OH SHIT, I AM HAVING A BABY. I didn’t know how to escape, didn’t know if I wanted to escape. If there’s something my generation is defined by, it’s this attitude of feeling lost without a purpose. Before getting pregnant, I was just floating along. I’d quit my job and moved in with my parents. I was considering graduate schools, and thinking about moving to the west coast. I thought in some naïve way, that this baby would give me a purpose. I would wake up everyday thrilled to take care of this little human being, pack lunches, and dry tears. I would have a job, and it would be mother.

Except you are pregnant for nine (practically ten months) and during that time I didn’t have a job. I was depressed and spent most days in bed looking at blogs online and shopping. My body turned on me. After weeks of throwing up and being sicker than I had ever been, the weight just started to pile on. 5, 10, 15 pounds, all the way up to 50 plus pounds as the due date neared. The truth is I stopped looking at the scale towards the end. The first time the nurse weighed me above 150, clunk . . . clunk went that second weight, I started to cry. Never in my life had I had the two clunks. Boom, boom went my old life. By the time Charley came, I had gone from a size 4 to a size 14.

Even though I only threw up in the first trimester, the entire pregnancy I felt sick. I had heartburn, my body hurt all over, and I couldn’t sleep. The only things I wanted to eat were sugar and carbs (hence the weight gain). I couldn’t even look at a vegetable without feeling something rise in the back of my throat. I was miserable and I wanted my body back. I wanted to have sex with my husband, without this giant belly. I wanted the old me back. The labor took hours and hours; I had an epidural and then Pitocin, then the epidural wore off and the Pitocin increased. It was terrible. But even still, immediately after giving birth, shivering under warmed blankets and tea from the missing heat in my body, I felt better than I had the whole pregnancy. It was amazing how quickly it took for me to stop feeling sick. As soon as he came out, the apple juice tasted fantastic, the air felt cooler, I was comfortable; I could have run a marathon. Then they handed me this squirming tiny alien, his eyes closed, and I tried to breastfeed. And PAIN, PAIN, PAIN, he was tearing apart my nipples! Just as I had started to feel better and like myself, he’d attached to me like a clamp. The nurses didn’t know why he wouldn’t latch properly. They kept trying to reassure me it shouldn’t hurt and I’m telling them, through my tears, it does, it really does. And just like that I gave up.

Psychologically I couldn’t do it. Truthfully, I’m uncomfortable around breastfeeding. I admit it. I’m a woman, and a mother, and breastfeeding makes me embarrassed. Am I just a product of our society’s fascination with breasts as being purely sexual and disgusted with breasts for their biological purpose? I want to feel that it’s natural and amazing, I read blogs where women profess their love for breastfeeding---“I’ll be doing it till he’s five, or in college, it’s so easy!”---and I think, good for them, that sounds wonderful, and then they whip out that boob in front of me, in my living room, and I have to turn my eyes.

Maybe it’s my age. I talked to a breastfeeding friend recently who mentioned how her mother-in-law was a huge breastfeeding advocate, but didn’t breastfeed her first child. My ears perked up. I want to be a breastfeeding advocate, I’m intelligent and educated. I read the studies about how it’s better for everyone: better for the mother, healthier for the child. I hear stories of how women lost ALL of their weight within weeks; it just came right off! (Mine didn’t, still hasn’t, hello permanent size 10). And I wanted to do it, wanted to try it, I really did, but I just . . . couldn’t. My friend said her mother-in-law had her first baby at age twenty-two and didn’t want to breastfeed. She felt like it was her body and she didn’t want to share. She wanted her breasts to remain sexual, not utilitarian. A light bulb went off---that’s me! That’s exactly the psychology of it. After watching my body morph into something it never was, and being so sick and depressed for so long, I wanted my body back. I wanted to own it, be in charge of the weight and my breasts. I wanted to just be me, not just mom.

We are a naked family, and sometimes I’ll take a bath with my son, just for fun; it keeps him entertained. Lately when he sees me naked, he is fascinated with my breasts---wants to touch them, pour water on them---and I think dammit, he’s a male, how did it start so early? Because he wasn’t breastfeed, will he just be obsessed with them as he gets older? Or did it really not matter? And when he reached for my breast, just like he did when he was only a few hours old, a pain shot through me, and I thought, don’t touch me.