this was before...and once again

“Bye Daddy!” Cara cheerfully called out as her father drove away. “I will miss my Daddy,” she added in the same tone, as she and her sister climbed with me up the steps of our apartment. “I live with my Daddy and with my Mommy. I have two houses now.” I felt a pang as I listened to her. This was not the life I had intended my children to have to contend with, and yet I had made all the choices. As we walked in the door and slipped into our now typical routine, I pondered for a minute how we had come to this place. Could I retrace the steps and somehow come to a better understanding? Would remembering my life from the beginning help me to make sense of it all? If nothing else, would it help me to better acquaint myself with who I am? Perhaps the secret to finding oneself is being able to, for a concentrated moment, take the time to look back over the past with the perspective of the present and watch the pieces as they came together.

My earliest memories are disjointed segments and in the form of dream images, still fuzzy and blurred around the edges. There are visions of front yards, with the view of the gates and the streets they each had. A remember broken plastic rulers, a particle board Cookie Monster puzzle, and a yellow terry cloth bathing suit. The sensation of being tangled in a mosquito net, while falling out of bed, or sticky cool aloe Vera being smoothed on to soothe sunburned skinned. I can close my eyes and once again be standing beside my parents’ bed as my mother holds ice to my ear lobe, in preparation for my first ear piercing; or standing next to her bed to wake her after another bad dream. There is that remembered idolization I felt watching “Wonder Woman” at the neighbors’ house. The abandon of running up the driveway, playing nearly naked in the rain, as drops of water ran into my eyes and mouth. How it felt to proudly ride my bicycle down a dirty road, without training wheels for the first time. My cheek on the cool marble floor, as I lay face to face with my soul-friend dog, Crystal; my fingers gently scratching her ears, as her warm tongue licked my nose. Rough bark under my feet and between gripping toes, as I fearlessly climbed to the top of a tree. The pictures parade past my mind’s eye, like scenes from a movie – in multiple dimensions. Any one, I could zoom in on and enlarge. Where then should I begin?

the haircut

It seems that every 4 year old wants to give themselves a haircut. Why is that? I remember back when I lived in suburbiaville, back when I used to hang out with all the other mommies, scrap-booking or watching the kids play in the back yard, and we would swap stories. All of our kids were within a few years of each other, but they seemed to do a lot of the same sort of things at certain ages. We all had walls that needed to be repainted, to cover up the marker, or pen, or crayon scribbles. There were juice stains in all of our rugs, and on most of our clothing. Our lives, at least for a while, revolved around what our children said and did, and it made up most of our conversation, well, that and our mutual husband complaints. So, I thought I was doing pretty good. I mean, I've been out of the official mommy loop for a while now, but I remember when all the little girls were somehow getting a hold of scissors and cutting their own or each other's hair. It was always somewhere around the 4 year mark, but I thought Cara and I had an understanding. The girls have never expressed much interest in sharp objects, since it seemed they understood the risks. At restaurants, they even automatically pass me their butter knives. That was something they started doing on their own. We were smooth sailing, until this week. Naturally, the event took place at their dad's house. I called him the day before the end of he weekend, to discuss pick up/drop off. Towards the end of our discussion, he tells me, "Well, you might be kind of shocked when you see Cara..." I felt a flutter of fear in the pit of my stomach, not knowing what to expect next. He explained that he had put her hair in a pony tail, per request, but she had been annoyed by the front short layers that would not go in. He said he only left the bathroom for a minute, but when he returned, their was hair everywhere. She had cut the offending chunks of hair off. When she came home the next day, and I saw her near mullet, all I could manage was, "Oh, honey..." I explained to her that we were going to have to cut it very short all over, to match the sides now. She said that was what she had wanted all along (yeah, good cover, Cara), and that she didn't like it the way she had done it herself. Learning lessons the hard way already - yep, her mother's daughter. My parents had the girls today, and I asked them to take Cara to the "place where the people cut hair" (as she calls it). It was funny, how when I first got home and saw her short, wavy cut, kind of boyish - but cute, I wanted to cry. Maybe it was because this is just another step in her changing and growing, moving away from me and into independence. Maybe it was because of my own apprehension, hoping that the kids in preschool won't tease her tomorrow. Or even worse, I remembered one little girl I grew up with, who had short hair, and how she always had to play the daddy or the brother when we played house. I wanted to cry for that. I wanted to cry, because I know she like having longer hair than her sister. I got choked up because the look in her eyes said she didn't like the haircut, that she didn't feel secure about herself. Losing that innocent, childish certainty of self. A confidence built mostly of ignorance, but precious nonetheless. I wanted to cry, but I told her she looked great instead, because I knew it was so much more than just a haircut.

musings on an April morning

(3/28/04)
Well, I am here now, at work. It’s Monday. It is raining outside. Dreary day, and I am already more than ready to go home or crawl under my desk and take a nap. This morning saw me leaving for work late, with Cara crying that she did not want me to go. Then, I walked into the 18th floor kitchen, and the cover of the Time Magazine caught my eye - a mother with a small, happy child and the title, “The Case for Staying Home” across the bottom of the picture. I gritted my teeth and fought the urge to put a post-it on the Magazine with something like, “fuck you” written in bold, red letters. If I had the option, I sure as hell would not be here. In a way, I was offended that someone would so tactlessly put that in here.

I thought specifically of Valerie, who sits next to me, and just returned from maternity leave. She is just learning the meaning of mommy guilt, as she tears herself away from her new baby girl every morning. Every 2-4 hours, she finds an empty conference room or office where she can use her breast pump.

There is the secretary on the floor above me who is due any day now. She walks through the hall with a hand always protectively over her belly.

Cara, my 4 year old, is so disturbed that I now work full time that she worries in her sleep and wakes up repeatedly, wondering when I am going to leave.

We take ourselves to court daily, building a case to come here, to work. This is not a career. This is not where we find purpose and meaning. This is our sentence. This is survival.

Outside, it is still raining.

Breastfeeding, Stretchmarks, and Motherhood

Let's talk for a moment about breastfeeding. What are my qualifications, you ask? I'm a mom. I have breastfed 2 children, and if I ever have any more children, I look forward to the opportunity of doing it again in the future. The benefits are countless.

1) Breastfeeding aids in the prevention of breast cancer.

2) It is scientifically proven to be better for children, both for it's physical nutritional value and contribution to healthy brain development.

3) Antibodies (see #2)

4) Mother and child bonding (once you get through the initial pain - cracked and bleeding nipples, the possibility of public boob exposure, and the occasional biting - once teething begins...)

5) Prevention of allergies (see #2)

6) Less diaper bag paraphernalia (like bottles and formula)

7) More constructive use of time (instead of needing to purchase bottles and sterilize them, heating water, mixing formula and water - usually resulting in some sort of mess)

8) Economical (booby milk is cheap)

Need I say more? Giving birth and breastfeeding is extremely empowering. Only a woman has the ability to create and sustain life with and within her body. Well, ok, we can't create completely alone. We do need a little help in the creation, but we do all the work. Not to mention, physical scars. I recently went bathingsuit shopping. Not fun, when you have stretch marks. Especially if you are partial to 2 piece bathing suits, and honestly, most stores don't carry a large variety of cute one pieces. I have a virtual road map of stretch marks lining my abdomen. My daughters ask me all the time,
"Mommy, why do you have scratches on your tummy?"
I very gently remind them, even to the point of pulling out pictures of me pregnant, that they are from them. Not in a blaming sort of way, more like a reminder of what I was willing to go through because of my love for them.
"It's squishy, Mommy!"
And I love them for it.

No matter what anyone says or what products claim to be able to do, stretch marks are genetic. Bottom line: if your mom has them, then you are likely to as well. I was prepared for mine, but I still fought them like hell. For 9 months, my bathroom constantly smelled of cocoa butter and other products that promised to "prevent stretch marks". Nevertheless, around 6 1/2 months into the pregnancy, my tummy started to itch, and then these little spots appeared. It was kind of strange to watch them gradually progress, as my stomach grew, from round marks to long jagged lines. It wasn't like I was huge, but I embraced my "battle scars." After Cara (my oldest) was born and my body started to recover, I was relieved when I realized that the stretch marks just fell short of coming out of the top of my bikini bottoms. A few months later, even before my hair had stopped falling out (another fun post-pregnancy thing), I found out I was going to be having another baby. I had already lost more than my pregnancy weight, and I thought that my stretch marks couldn't get any worse. Well...

The other day, I showed Cara which stetch marks were from her (all of them), and then I turned to Adia (my youngest) and told her, "See up here, the top inch of all of these is from you." Being a mother of two has stretched me farther - in more ways than one, sometimes farther than I think I am able to go. Still, the girls seem almost proud to own the responsibility for my stetch marks, and so I think I can bear them unabashedly. I bought a new bathing suit the other day. A 2 piece. I will show the world that I am empowered, and I hope I can do my part to empower the next generation of women.

so fast

I remember being a new mother, hearing everyone tell me to treasure every moment, because "they grow up so fast." But, I felt like I could just hold that warm bundle in my arms forever. Then, there was another one, and I could hardly keep up. Time flies when you're busy, and now my little girls are getting ready to go to preschool. So fast.

We were driving down the interstate the other day. Suddenly, there was a car coming across all the lanes and nearly ramming into the side up us. I slammed on the brakes and laid my hand on the horn. I could hardly take it off, I was so stunned. My shock and relief that we were not injured quickly turned to rage. Not road rage, but Mommy-rage. How dare that ignorant and completely oblivious driver almost run us off the road and get away with it. It was all I could do not to chase the driver down, drag my kids out of the car, and make him or her look into their eyes. Realize the lives he/she nearly cut short. It all happens so fast.

Roadtrip

We are getting ready to take a road trip. Nashville to Maine, to spend our vacation with my boyfriend’s family. They do this every year, but I think he usually flies up there. I keep warning him that it won’t be like the other trips he and I have taken together, since Cara and Adiaare also coming. Traveling with a three year old and four year old is going to b e new experience for him. Especially since up until recently he was the quintessential bachelor. Though he gets an uncertain look in his eyes, when I remind him of this, he is quick to reassure me (and himself) that it will be fun. I think he is remembering what it was like to travel, as a child, and still views things from that perspective. Still, I hope he's right. I hope it is fun.

I remember being young and taking long trips with my family. My sister and I would sit, cramped with all the baggage, in the backseat. It seems like we always had so much stuff. For a while, we would argue and push each other off our “side” of the seat. Then, after hours, or maybe even days, of being trapped in such a small space together, we would reach a point of extreme silliness. We would sing songs, loudly and intentionally off-key, throw toys or food, twist our bodies sideways and upside down, and drive my parents crazy with our screeching and laughing. Initially, they would be amused and relieved that we were no longer fighting. Mostly, though, I remember that they looked tired. Sometimes, my mom would sigh out of sheer exhaustion. This was about the time she would start nagging my dad about his driving, telling him to watch the road and stop messing with the stereo. Music was his escape on those road trips, while my mom simply craved a little peace and quiet. So, she was thrilled when I discovered my love for reading, and that driving and reading did not make me car sick.

Despite all the chaos, we were fine, and this must be the part that my boyfriend remembers. Only, this time, he gets to join me in the role of exhausted parent. We will do all we can to ensure that the trip is bearable for the children, to spare not just their suffering, but also our own. In the end, though, it all just makes you tired, and the arrival at the destination is that much sweeter for having survived the road getting there.

Bad dreams

Saturday morning, an unhappy Cara crawled into bed with me, "Mommy, I had a bad dream..." With her growing vocabulary, her descriptions of her dreams is getting really interesting. She crawled up in bed with me, I listened and reassured her that it was just a dream, and she fell back to sleep. Well, some sort of strange role reversal must have happened. Cara's dream had been full of bad guys and good guys, dialogue and even jail cells. Then, I closed my eyes and came face to face with a monster. Your classic running from the long snouted, snarling, horned, monster dream. Quite typically, at the climactic moment, I jumped and woke myself up. Cara rolled over, ready to talk again, and it was my turn to share a bad dream. There we were, 8:00 in the morning, talking about our nightmares. But there was no, "Don't worry, mommy, it's not real." No reassurances or distractions from thinking about it. She wanted to know what happened next. Did the monster eat her and Adia? Did I kill the monster? Maybe there were other monsters with him?

What happened next was that I woke up and realized I had been dreaming. It was all just a bad dream. Reality was snuggled up next to me, with her head on my shoulder and so much stronger than the monsters beneath my bed.

(forgive the Indigo Girl's lyric theft)

sleep and my priorities

My yawning is out of control this week. I’ve decided that either I’m not getting enough oxygen, or I’m not getting enough sleep. I do need to get back into my regular practice of yoga – with the deep abdominal breathing, but the lack of sleep is probably more likely to be the culprit.

How many 3 and 4 year olds do you know that still take 3 hour naps? My children do. They are smart strategists. Since I have gone back to work, they have figured out that the only time they really get to spend with me is in the evenings. So, they sleep all afternoon, knowing that if they wake up at 5:30, I am not likely to force them into bed a mere 2 ½ hours later. Even on those nights when I feel desperately exhausted, and I encourage them to run laps around the coffee table, the schedule stays the same. By the time we have completed or lengthy bedtime ritual, including whatever new excuses they have come up with to stall the process, it is after 10:00. There are still dishes to be washed, clothes folded and put away, toys cluttering the floor, bills to be paid, and that relaxing, alone time I have been craving all day. Sleep has fallen the bottom of my priority list. There is not enough time for sleep anymore. (YAWN) There I go again...

What about "Breakfast at Tiffany's"?

Ok, so maybe giving your kids coffee ice cream before bed is not such a good idea. In an attempt to quit drinking coffee, I have been buying coffee ice cream to treat myself for such firm resolve. (No, I don't want to know how close it is to the real thing. To me, it's not coffee, it's ice cream.) Of course, I couldn't hide it from the girls. They haven't touched the chocolate ice cream since. And now I"m wondering if it's a sign that they are going to be future coffee drinkers (with lots of cream and sugar - just like mommy) when they like to wait until the ice cream is completely melted and room temperature before eating it?

We watched "Breakfast at Tiffany's" last night. It seemed somehow appropriate, the decadence of drippy, melting, coffee ice cream, while watching Audrey Hepburn munch pastries outside of Tiffany's. Bedtime could wait. Then, after the movie, after the effects of the coffee ice cream had worn off, two sleepy little girls crawled into bed, the strains of "Moon River" still floating in their heads.

"I want a baby brother"

"Mommy I want a baby brother," Cara said to me last night.

We were sitting around the table eating dinner, or trying to at least. Instead of eating, the girls were distract me with every topic of conversation possible. Well, Cara was. Adia was just making silly noises and faces to make me laugh. Eventually, they brought up the usual, "Mommy, why aren't you and Daddy married anymore?"

"But, I want you to be together," Adia protested. "You don't have to fight."

It's a reoccuring discussion we have about once a week. It is not even that they like us in the same room together. Sunday, when Drew dropped the kids off, they practically herded him out the door. And, they actually really like my boyfriend. They think he's great and talk about him all the time (which I'm sure their Dad loves). There are no tears about it anymore, but now that they can carry on a conversation, they want to know about everything. As much as they have adjusted to going back and forth every week, they understandably would prefer if they could have both of their parents under one roof at the same time. In addition to that, they are also entering the "Why" stage.

I will say that last night, I think I came up with one of my best illustrative explanations yet. I asked them to think about the puzzles that they play with, and how sometimes, some of the pieces fit together and others don't. I told them that their Dad and I were like 2 puzzle pieces that you tried to put together, but they didn't fit. Then they asked me who I was going to marry next, when I was getting married again. I tried to impress upon them the importance of being careful, being sure about who you plan to marry. Not rushing and making a mistake, like I did before. Although, I made sure they knew they were not a mistake. That no matter what happened, even if me and Daddy didn't love each other anymore, we would always love them. That seemed to be enough for them, for the time being.

Cara smiled and said, "Well, when I'm 5, you can get married to somebody else and have a baby brother for me."

Adia chimed in, "And one for me too!"

When she is 5, Cara is going to be able to do everything. When she is 5, she is going to be an artist. When she turns 5, She is going to marry Cole (her "boyfriend"). After all, 5 years old is all grown up. Thankfully, after that, she dropped the baby brother bit. Then, it was back to complaining about how she didn't want to eat the food on her plate...