Feeding the Boy in the Pink Bumpo Seat

In Will's eyes, I'm hilarious.

Stream-carrots-out-the-side-of-his-mouth-kind-of-funny.

His deep little boy chortles, shaking Jabba-the-Hut-like chin folds, drown out the day.

Smiling into his sparkling blue eyes, I lose myself.

I'm head over heels in love with a boy.

A boy who thinks his mom is hilarious.

Today: In 6 words

"Well, that didn't go as planned."

Story of the day.

Story of parenthood, adulthood, teacherhood, Meganhood...

Story I can handle.

Just not today.

Return to Work: The Night Before

Dryer rumbling.
Dishwasher whirring.
Computer humming.
Children sighing.
Husband snoring.

Me. Sleepless.
Heart? Broken.

Tiny Dancer

When Claire burst out of her dance class in tears, I rushed her to the bathroom thinking she had an accident. In between echoing hiccups, she told me that she wanted to go home, that she didn't like the class, that she missed me. Brushing back hair from her flushed face, I tried to coax out reasons for her sudden emotional transformation. The little girl who had earlier bounced through the doorway in her Disney Princess tutu was suddenly, inexplicably clinging to my neck.

In between stall door slams and squeals from Jenna, who was barreling around like a puppy off a leash, Claire hitchingly shared her woes: "The kids were mean to me." "They knocked me over." "I don't like my teacher." My mind raced as I rubbed her back and grabbed at Jenna. What really happened? I fought to stop the irritated look that flashed across my face as the bathroom door swung in. Can't you see we need some space?! Torn between reactionary maternal fury and polite, rational thought, I offered our intruders a small smile and quietly ushered my expressive children back into the public eye.

Holding tight to two small hands, one pulling away, one refusing to let go, I made my way back to the dance class door. Responding to concerned parent inquiries, I found myself saying, "Sounds like someone pushed her down but she's ok" and assuring them that "Oh no, I'm sure nothing happened. I think it's just one of those days" while inwardly wanting to shake the children - I had my suspects!  - who made Claire cry.

Never one to quit (even when I should), I convinced Claire to try again and promised I would stay inside the room, even though it was expressly against class policy. Watching her pick up her princess wand and crown and take a brave, deep breath, my heart twisted. She looked at me with her big brown eyes and said in a sweet, clear voice, "Thank you for staying with me, Mommy." My throat closed a bit, even as I shot a look at the teachers murmuring about my presence. To hell with rules - I wasn't leaving. That is, until Jenna - so my daughter - had a similar thought and decided she wanted to twirl with her sister.

Scooping up her squirming mass, I tried to ease out the door without Claire noticing. No such luck. Immediately, her face crumpled and she launched herself into my arms. Pointedly, I asked her teacher about the situation but received no insight. Manners once again trumping Mama Bear, I thanked her for her time, murmured apologies and have-a-great-weeks to all involved adults and took my screamers to the car.

Two car seat strap-ins and child-approved snack and beverage distributions later, I slid into the driver's seat and sighed shakily. The rear view mirror framed a pink-cheeked dancer, eyes still wet. "I don't want to go back next week, Mommy."

"We'll see, ok?" I offered, stretching a hand back to rub her leg. Jenna pointed a chubby finger at her sister and yelled, "Caaaaaaaaare!" sparking a little giggle between sniffles. As I drove home, I worked the worry wheel - This was her first class without me. If she can't do this, how will preschool be? Am I pushing her too hard? Was this a bad thing to try?

"Look, Mom!" Claire broke through my thoughts. "My crying is all done!" She pointed to her eyes and grinned. With that, the curtain closed on our dance class drama.

Later, Claire spontaneously shared with my mom, "I cried at dance class today, Grandma. There were too many kids," a comment that added clarity to her feelings. No one had pushed her. Cautious Claire just felt overwhelmed by all that was happening and needed to find her comfort zone again.

It has been incredible to be able to communicate with Claire. At three, she is a chatterbox; experiencing her thoughts and worldview through her words has been one of the greatest gifts of parenthood. There's this little person living with us who is like us and yet so her own person. The move from point-and-yell-for-the-baba to "What are we going to do today, Mom?" has been amazing and yet, even with all of her words, we know that she still can't make us see and feel all that she is seeing and feeling.

The recognition of Claire as an individual was a powerful a-ha for me. That tug between intuitive connection and inherent separateness is beautifully, painfully humbling. I can only imagine the feeling grows more intense as children grow older...

There is so much that is "big girl" about Claire and yet, moments like dance class remind me that she is still very much a little girl. Watching her lose herself in imaginative play, sleep hard all cuddled up with her Moo and twirl without abandon in a pretty dress at story hour, Jeff and I are as awed by the recognition of her tiny, individual little being as we were by her entrance into our lives.

It's Claire's world and we feel really lucky to be able to dance with her in it.
 

And Baby Makes More...

In the past few weeks, I've visited three different hospital rooms for the world's best reason: meeting a new baby.

My husband's best friend welcomed darling twins, a friend had her second sweet little boy and my sister became a mom for the very first time to my absolutely beautiful-in-every-way niece. While the anticipation in the drive-overs, elevator ride-ups and down-the-hallway scurries was delicious, nothing compared to the moment when that hospital door opened and the world changed forever.

There is something beautifully intimate about a hospital room holding new life. Somehow, amid the medical tangle of clinical smells and beeping machines and bustling staff, there is a cocoon for each new family. After the chaotic and overwhelming adventure that is childbirth, that fatigued, awed retreat to a private space is an immeasurable gift.

Admittedly, I am a bit baby-obsessed, especially when it involves loved ones. Jeff has had to, on more than one occasion, pointedly tell me to stay put until a more appropriate time for a visit. I just can't help myself. There is such pure joy in the welcoming of a new life - and even more joy in witnessing the transformation of a child's parents and family.

It is amazing to me that one day, there is a child to be born and then the next, there is this brand new life that wasn't there before. When a baby is born, so are parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters. Perspectives, sleep habits, relationships, beliefs, lifestyles change. The world grows in love.

As a new mom, and then new mom of two, sitting in that hospital bed, I was grateful for the fleeting moments where the world was as tiny as I could make it. For a day or two, I could pretend that there was nothing beyond that threshold and attempt to process the new life the new life in my arms had brought to us. Each visit amplified our happiness, as we watched our family and friends meet our newest love. And when the lights dimmed for the night and it was just our little family again, we got to revel in the purity of this new beginning.

Visiting "new life" rooms is a fantastic treat, as I get to witness all of the excitement without facing any of the work. I love hearing Mom tell her birth story, while Dad (always busy with his computer, sharing pictures, working on correspondence, taking care of life) chimes in with extra details. I love proud Grandma on the couch who graciously lets me hold the baby for a little bit, even though it is her turn to rock. I love the wonder on each parent's face, the fatigued scruffiness of Dad and the fresh-scrubbed I-put-on-makeup-to-feel-better-holy-cow-I-made-this-life shine in Mom's eyes. I love the sounds and smells and movements of a newborn, the teeny-tiny diapers and hospital-issued swaddle blankets. I love the quiet, even when it's not quiet, of the room and the seemingly impossible view out the window (because how can the world go on when life is changing so immensely?)

As doctor-phobic as they come, I know that hospital rooms are not romantic. We were more than ready to go home on our release days, as have been all of our friends and family. And yet, in the middle of real life, there are tugs of homesickness for those early days in a small room that baby first called home.

We drive by our hospital often in our daily comings and goings and Claire rarely misses the chance to point out where she and Jenna and her baby cousin were born. I nod and we wave to the hospital (we say hi to almost everything in town). Inevitably, I glance at those windows and wonder about the lives that are changing within. A hospital is a keeper of many stories, but I'm drawn irresistibly to the stories of births - of babies, of parents, of families, of new beginnings.

Drawn so much that we just may have to find our way back to one of those rooms ourselves someday...

In the Driver's Seat

When I was in my early twenties, I bought a book called How to Be a Lady, a contemporary guide to polished presence. I thought it might look sophisticated perched next to the candles in my guest bathroom, but I also quietly hoped that it would help me define myself as a woman in the world. Eager in my professional and personal beginnings, I wanted to ensure that I had all of my bases covered.

Ten years later, I sold it at a garage sale, along with some earnest quote plaques, fancy wine bottle stoppers (is it a problem that I rarely need one?) and "going out" clothes from the same decade.

I did, however, read it. More than once. Among the author's many suggestions was the admonition that a lady never apply her makeup in public - especially not in her car.

One look at my minivan's driver's seat visor and my blatant disregard for said rule is immediately obvious.

"What ya doin', Mom?" Claire, the ultimate in backseat drivers, pipes each morning at the last stoplight before her caregiver's home. Bronzer brush in hand, I make comical wide-eyes at her in the rear view mirror.

"Putting on makeup," I offer, winking at Jenna, who giggles and pretends to wipe a brush across her chubby cheeks.

"But why?" chirps Claire. It's a common question in our house.

"Because that's what mommies do." I watch her look out the window, her thin blonde hair curling a little just under her jaw line. For a moment, her pure, childish grace overwhelms me.

I'm always uncomfortable with the makeup conversation, as I want my daughters to feel beautiful as they are, to feel strong in the world - to feel that their intellect, opinions, talents and hearts are seen and celebrated, that their worth is not tied to appearance. It's a weighty topic in a pre-7am world and one I don't know how to tackle with my under-3 pair. I swallow the heart tug and reach an arm around to tickle Claire's long legs, earning kicking laughter. The light turns green and I drive through the intersection and into the first emotional crossroad road of the day. 

After sweet kisses in a friendly driveway, I'm back in the driver's seat, tuning the radio from the girls' favorite CD to a livelier song that fills the silence. As the car shifts automatically, I negotiate my own internal shifts. Mom-mode transitions into teacher-mode, complete with final applications of lipstick and eyeliner. Parked in my usual spot, watching high schoolers attempt to parallel park and wondering about what my daughters will look like on their way to school someday, I glance at the mirror. My eyes look tired - and there are lines! - but my public face is finished. It's not coincidence that mascara is the last thing applied, nor that it's waterproof. 

Sometimes the weight of that driver's door seems impossible to budge. I sit in that seat, in between worlds, and breathe.  When I finally emerge, I tackle the day, carrying my girls' voices in my head, seeking to give others' children the best of me, as I would want the best for my own. I engage, question and challenge teenagers for eight hours, seeing now, with new eyes, the children they once were behind the stubble, acne and fake tans. I often laughingly, achingly, wonder how I can handle 150 of them with relative ease, but be brought to my knees by one two-year-old. At the final bell, after a last scurry to the bathroom where I can go in peace, I'm back in the driver's seat: one final song for Mom before the chorus of toddler chatter envelopes the car.

Home again, the shifts continue. Amid the flurry of dog, bags, potty, dinner, baths, books, and bed, I fight my way to find the groove, learning, sometimes in stumbling steps, how to do the dance of motherhood. It's good that I have a patient audience and lots of sticky, sweaty, sweet hugs along the way.

End of day, one final time in front the bathroom mirror, I look at a face life-stripped of makeup and picture the next morning. No matter how early that alarm is, inevitably I'll be finishing my face in the car. Yes, I'll be breaking a Lady rule, but I'm not as nervous about those as I once was. I am not perfect...but I am loved perfectly.

By two little girls, one slobbery dog and one amazing, best-friend-of-a-husband.

From my view in the driver's seat, that's a pretty great place to be.

Chasing My Inner Athlete

My in-laws just returned from a fantastic trip and gifted our girls with a beautiful set of handmade Russian nesting dolls. I was thrilled to receive them, as my sister and I grew up playing with our own set. I always found the doll within a doll-within-a-doll arrangement fascinating and strangely comforting. No matter how many dolls I opened, there were always more waiting for me; that final, solid doll, small, smooth and smiling in my hand, seemed like the perfect reward for my unscrewing efforts. Though the surrounding dolls were bigger and more vivid, she, the core doll, held everything together.

I thought of them tonight as I plodded sweatily through my run, thumb flicking through ipod song choices in a rather desperate search for inspiration. Somehow, I hoped, the right rhythm would move my feet, the right words would still my thoughts, the right tone would let me just let go.

Those first few minutes of my runs are the worse, as my 17-year-old self offers 33-year-old me snarky reminders of what "used to be," inevitably locking me in a stupid, stubborn battle over pace and distance. On a good day, I can quiet the competitive voices and lose myself in the run, luxuriating in the amazing space of time where I am responsible only for myself. On others, I have to fight my way through every step, knowing that, at the very (unpretty) least, I gained a small victory by even running in the first place.

You would think that my love for running - or, more importantly, my need to run - would ensure that I would be a regular runner all of my life. And yet, that hasn't been the case. Life has intruded along the way, with unspoken insecurities and fears often causing my running shoes to collect more dust than dirt. Any former athlete will tell you that the one of the hardest hurdles is getting back on track once you have stopped competing and working. It is a humbling, humbling process...

In the past year, my husband has lost a significant amount of weight. His transformation has been amazing to witness and I've met, for the first time in my life, the athlete he was in college. He rises early in the morning to swim, bike or run and has faced the challenge of reshaping his body, his mind and his self-image head on. He's been inspired and inspiring - and a complete wake up call for me. In the 10 years that I have known him, I have been the fit (or at least fitter) one. All of a sudden, my reality was redefined. I needed to find my inner athlete. And no one was going to unearth her but me.

As a new mom of two, I've learned a great deal in the past six months. I love my girls and have actually settled more naturally into motherhood than I did as a mom only to Claire. I have found my footing and love what life has become but in doing so, there are some parts of me that I've let slide into the background.

I think any mom will tell you that she keeps (the occasional?) score in her head. No matter how balanced a parenting partnership is, Mom is going to feel like she bears the bulk of the load and that Dad doesn't (quite) know what her day/heart/life/mind is all about. I'll admit it: I envied my husband's freedom to focus on his health and fitness. I was jealous of his time on his feet, on his bike, in the pool. I would sometimes grow irrationally frustrated with his fitness "ah-ha" moments and new running path discoveries, thinking that I had "been there, done that," so why was he an expert?

And yet, even in my crabbiness, I knew the truth: no one was going to get me back out there again but me. And no one would be a bigger cheerleader for me in that pursuit than my husband.

So, I've laced my shoes up again, purposefully carved out time during naps or bedtime and forced myself out the door. I even signed up again for a half-marathon. Who the hell knows how I'll actually do (racing makes me so nervous!) but I'm out there trying.

The other day, I went for my longest run since before Claire was born, finally letting go of my battle with pace and relaxing into the experience of the run. Crossing the driveway's finish line, I found my husband chattering at our youngest, her pajama-ed feet kicking away in the stroller as she oversaw Dad's garage organization. It was one of those scenes you capture with your heart's camera.

"How did it go?" he asked, taking in my panting form. Jenna blinked at me, curious and smiling.

"Actually, pretty great," I grinned.

And somewhere, deep inside, under all those other life layers, my little inner athlete smiled too.