Girl Talk

Girl talk. As a high school teacher and coach, I live in a world of girl talk. There is no mistaking the animated chatter of teenage girls on a conversation roll - sometimes I swear I can hear it in my sleep. Listening to my daughter carry on in her crib at 3 in the morning, (she's starting to sound like a pterodactyl) I can only imagine what her version of girl talk will sound like down the hall one day.

Girl talk has become a bit of a lifeblood for me, especially now as I negotiate the new world of parenthood. I have a fantastic core of friends who have seen me through all of life's transitions and share with me honestly the stories of their own. Some can finish my sentences. Others live strangely parallel lives. Some tease me out of my quirkiness while others know just what to say or do to make everything feel normal again. Whether it's a 3 and a half minute voicemail message, a quick text, a random visit, a funny card, or a scheduled girls night in, these connections make me feel just that - connected. (That "on an island" feeling of motherhood has been surprising...)

In fact, it was an email exchange that finally pushed me to try a blog. After a particularly rough evening, I sat down to write my friends. What came out was a good-humored rant about life as I now know it and all the "poop" that comes with it:

It was a pretty productive day. We tried story hour at the library - my first time out with other moms. Claire was social and behaved. I had a decently cute outfit on. Claire got a library card. We visited family. Jeff came home from work and we went to the bank. That's went it all went to poop. Literally.

We get to the bank, sign in and wait to be called. Then someone decides she has to go. And it's bad. Like can't cover it up bad. So we go downstairs to change. We get settled at the desk and someone decides she is going to spit up (which she never does) all over her mom's lap. And drool over her cute new Gymboree fall outfit. Drool so much that she looks like she took a bath. Bank lady keeps saying how cute she is. She is actually a total flipping mess.

We finish at the bank. Jeff gets her all strapped in and she's happy. I decide to drop him off at home and go to the bookstore because I have a new gift card. A Halloween book for Claire would be nice, right? Because I'm all about literacy today. I decide to be go-with-the-flow-mom and take Claire in on my hip instead of in the heavy car seat. I grab Jeff's Diaper Dude because it is easier to have on over the shoulder. I walk to the store door and realize that Claire has gone yet again. And it's even worse than before.

So I'm in the bathroom and I'm wishing I could just put her in the shower. I strip her down and search his bag (why the hell did I leave mine in the car????) for an extra pair of clothes. All he has is pants so after we're all said and done, she's in pink pants and an orange owl top with no socks. I wanted to tell the lady at the checkout YES, I realize that she doesn't match but NO, we did not leave the house this way. I'm also falling out of my own top because I'm holding her and my boobs are bigger (not in a desirable way) and my shirt (the cute one) just doesn't quite fit right. (The muffin top - that wasn't in the What to Expect books!)

I walk out of the store and my phone falls out of my open purse and on to the street, where it is almost run over by a car. A nice woman saves it and comments on the precious cargo in my arms - "That's a lot for Mom to carry, isn't it?" I get to the car and proceed to hit Claire's head on the inside roof of the car. Delayed cry. The-maybe-she-didn't-even-notice-pause and then-all-out-mad-at-Mom-scream.

I just sat in the driver's seat. The self-assured mom-about-town this morning was gone. And right now, the how-in-the-world-did-I-get-here-mom is sitting here typing this while Claire waits for her bath and bottle and....thank goodness...bed.

Later, after I put my daughter to bed (my husband and I always slap five after she's settled in her crib - another successful day of parenting completed), I listened to the bings of my inbox, sipped at a glass of wine and laughed at the responses. It felt great not to be alone. Our girl talk has definitely evolved over the past 10 years but now it feels more important than ever.

Girl talk just might be one of the best parts of being a girl. My daughter is learning that early. You should hear the conversations she has with her dog!

Coloring Outside the Lines

My need for order started early.

I was the little girl who worried when her crayons went outside the lines of the coloring book. There was something so definitive about the the bold black outline around a picture that made me too nervous to cross it. I wanted my teacher to like my work. I wanted my work to be refrigerator and contest worthy. I needed to stay inside the lines.

I've always tended to stay inside the lines. While friends dove into the college search with a gusto, I had my dad draw a 3 hour drive ring on the map and concentrated on options well within the circle. When I started college, I taped a carefully sketched daily schedule to the dorm wall next to my bed so that I could live each day with a plan. While studying abroad in Italy or England sounded exotic, I marched determinedly through my no-more-than-8-semester collegiate design. As time continued, I kept my crayons far from life's bolded edge. An out of state teaching job in the beautiful West? I eagerly embraced a high school opening at my alma mater. A home with acreage in a little town down the highway? My husband and I set up a life in the heart of our hometown. Bold orange on the walls of my home office? How about a comfortable cream?

As a line follower, I'm also a list maker, agenda creator and life planner. Our shopping list is on the refrigerator, next to the meal plan for the week and under the calendar for the month. The day's tasks are on a post-it note on the kitchen counter next to the pen that crosses completed items off with triumph. My more spontaneous husband is patient...he has learned that there will be a momentary panic if he suggests something that isn't yet on my radar screen. He doesn't laugh at the typed lists that line the dining room table before a party. He knows that "we" need to "study" all options before making a final decision (the poor guy and his wedding and baby registry experiences!) and that there is an art (and a "right way") to cleaning the house. (Ah, the pleasures of a refrigerator that has all labels facing neatly outward...).

I'm learning that life doesn't always allow for neat lines. My 110 lb bulldog will track muddy paw prints in from the backyard and his short hair will inevitably find its way all over my home. A mom raccoon will somehow wiggle her way into our attic to have her babies. The dishwasher will billow smoke during a routine morning run. I will have a baby two weeks early and end up grading final exams in my hospital room. My daughter's nap schedule will fluctuate weekly and it will take me three hours to do one simple task. And that kitchen counter post-it? It might not have a single thing crossed off at the end of the day.

I asked my husband one night over a glass of wine how I had changed since becoming a mom. He smiled at me and said, "You actually sit down." While I feel like I run around like a crazy woman even more now than I did before, I knew what he meant. Having her showed me - quickly - that I couldn't have it my way all of the time. Her needs and her schedule are going to be the priority. And that has been a fantastic realization.

Tonight, I did the unthinkable. I literally colored outside of the lines. My husband brought home fingerpaint and blank canvases and we did a little family art project - our first. Our baby girl happily plopped her hands in the paint and scratched and slid and patted her way across each frame. Paint streaked her face, tinted her hair, splattered her little white onesie, and spotted her chubby thigh rolls. She giggled, she kicked and she played, throwing color everywhere. Delighted by her chortles, I scooped her up and helped her dance across a canvas, sliding her toes and swirling her feet through her handpainted designs. Hugging her post project, her rainbow toes left streaks on my shirt while her tiny fingers traced tracks on my shoulder. Watching her ride downstairs in her dad's arms to her bath, babbling all the way, I grabbed the Windex bottle to clean up the counter and smiled at the four sweet "art" canvases lined up to dry. She did her first art project and she colored with glee, not a care (or a line) in sight. I can't wait to hang her pictures up.

Tonight, I colored outside the lines - and I loved it.

Maybe tomorrow, I can do without the post-it.

Chicken Baby Poop

My mom can still remember clearly my first day of school: "You were so sad because someone called you chicken baby poop. I was upset, your dad was upset - it was our first taste of the real world touching our smiling little girl."

I've always laughed -albeit gently - at the story, wondering just how the innocuous phrase "chicken baby poop" could have sent a 4 year-old and her parents into a tizzy. Aren't there worse things in the world? (In fact, of all the insults I've encountered in my life, "chicken baby poop" seems almost cute.)

Yet today, as a brand new mom of a five month old little girl, I am beginning to understand how my mom must have felt when her pigtailed preschooler came home in tears. My daughter smiles with such complete abandon and unabashed joy that my heart breaks a little each time she babbles in my direction. And I know, fiercely know, that I would break someone in two for introducing even a hint of cruelty or judgment into her innocent experience. Intellectually, I understand that we cannot keep her from the world and I already know that my spirited imp of a daughter will gladly tackle all that life brings her way. (How is it possible for an infant to have so many opinions?) But to see the trust and wonder so clearly in her eyes...yes, I would do just about anything to keep them there forever. The first child to call her "chicken baby poop" doesn't have a prayer against this mama bear.

I wasn't emotionally scarred by my first day of school. If it weren't for my mom's story, I wouldn't have a memory at all of that encounter. And yet, "chicken baby poop" seems to be an appropriate theme for this particular time in my life. Not only because poop seems to govern most of my waking moments (pre-baby, my husband and I never imagined that so much adult conversation could center on poop) but also because it's time to stop being "chicken" about some aspects of my life. Motherhood does many things, not the least of which is stripping a woman to her core. Never have I felt so vulnerable or exposed. Never have I felt so inadequate or inexperienced. Never have I felt such fear, worry or uncertainty. Never have I felt so powerful.

Because now, it's not all about me.

There's a little girl watching and she deserves a mom who lives as she teaches. If I want her to be strong, independent and passionate, I need to be the model my mom has always given me. I've coached girls cross country for years but have been hesitant to do much racing in my adult life. Perhaps it's time to strap on the shoes, set an earlier alarm and face the watch. Maybe I can cross that marathon finish line to face a cheering, chubby face in her stroller. Perhaps it's time for this high school English teacher to step out of her comfort zone and let her fingers do the talking, sending her words out there in the world without fear of the response. If I want my daughter to value her voice, her mom needs to start sharing her own.

Perhaps it's time to drop the "used to" tag I tend to overuse, ("I used to race," "We used to travel," "I used to have so much to show for my day," "I used to fit in those jeans") and embrace an active verb like "am."

I used to be called "chicken baby poop." Now I am Mom.