here comes christmas, ready or not.

Well, my christmas tree is not up and I've done almost no shopping. How did it come to this? And now anxiety has gripped my throat so that I can't breathe deeply. It seems I believed making graham cracker houses and chocolate dipped pretzels and cut out cookies were more important holiday activities than shopping. Which, come to think of it, they are. Except now it's December 21st and in 4 days I still have to have gifts for kids and parents and in-laws. Cousins and nieces are simply going to have to receive their boxes after the holiday. Same for the video card I'll be sending out electronically..... there's no way for holiday cards to find themselves done and addressed and mailed. A simple impossibility. Perhaps I'm learning to acknowledge my limitations.

I hope I have pictures of the projects we've been doing. One of my favorites is the outdoor ornaments Frances and I made the other day. The idea came from this blog, and they used cranberries; I didn't have cranberries, and getting to the grocery is yet another activity that's falling off my list, so I used limes which are green and celebratory, I figured. I did use the Artful Parent's learning curve--for example, I put one lime slice in the muffin tin and then water just to cover it. I froze those for a while, then added the yarn and another lime slice, then water to the top, then froze all. Don't they look lovely?

Note that I said Frances and I did this project; I've started to leave Clark out of some of these activities, and without much guilt. He was part of the graham cracker houses (in retrospect, I should have just bought the damn gingerbread house kit since I was not going to commit to baking the gingerbread myself. The graham cracker houses were not as easy as I expected) but I spent a good bit of time saying, "Clark, sit down. Please stop shaking the table. Okay, only one more piece of candy. Don't sit on the table, Clark. In your chair. Could you please stop moving for a moment?!" Man, he makes me nutso sometimes. Constantly in motion, constant activity, constant throwing of things. Constant, constant. In the end I just released him: "Clark, go. Go play over there. Legos. You want legos?" and I finished his house.

Good enough parenting. That's the aim, remember?

addendum

When my husband read the last post, the one about the woman at airport security with two tiny children, he got rather irritated with me. Since he was with me at the airport he of course knew the whole story, and he called me out for the part I neglected to include, which I didn't because the post was already long and I didn't think it was necessary in order to make my point, when in fact it makes the point even stronger and clearer. Also, Mitch felt I was unfairly ragging on dads, on men, when the problem is much larger than that, as you will see.

So. After the dad came and took the boy from me, and after I'd put my shoes in the plastic bin and my backpack on the conveyer belt, and after I'd walked through the metal detector, I sat down on a bench to put my shoes back on and generally organize myself. That was when I noticed the mom in the middle of a circle of security folks who were helping her take the baby wrap off, patting her down, going through her suitcases. (of course they were.) I stood by the entrance to the terminal to wait for Mitch, and the little boy tried to dart by me (unwatched as he was for the moment, because his mother was needlesstosay dealing with other shit). I sort of blocked his way, trying to keep him in the general security area rather than running loose in the terminal, but he was determined and going toward something specific, and when I turned, there was his grandmother. I assume that's who she was; in any case a woman older than his mom who was smiling and holding her arms out to him, and he clearly knew and trusted her. 

So not only had the mom been left by the dad to deal with both kids on her own, but the grandmother (we're going to call her that for the sake of simplicity) was there somewhere too, not helping. Again, I know nothing. Maybe she too was dealing with passports and hassle from TSA and no one meant to leave the mom by herself. But I don't think so. If that were the case, then why was the grandmother not over by the mom and toddler just then, while the mom was being patted down, trying to do as they asked and hold out her arms while also holding the baby? Why had the dad or the grandmother not offered to hold the baby? Why were the grandmother's arms empty, not even a bag to carry? Why wasn't she helping????

The point is that it's not just the non-maternalness of men that mistakenly assumes the mom's got it under control. It's ALL of society that believes moms are the only ones responsible for the children. Maybe in past times, when households and neighborhoods were multigenerational, it looked like the mom was doing all the work, but she wasn't--not if it was going smoothly. 

And this is an interesting issue, because I find it bleeding over into my own perception of my parenting. There are times when I ask Mitch to take the kids so I can do--whatever--run errands or go out with friends or go to a doctor's appointment, and I feel guilty, like I'm shirking my duties, because my duties are the children. I feel like I'm not supposed to ask for help with them. The first few days of Frances's life this issue was already in play. I had a rough recovery, couldn't stand for more than a few minutes. But I felt like I had to do everything. Mitch finally said, "I want to help. I want you to tell me how I can help." It was hard for me to accept, to wake him in the night after I'd nursed simply to say, "Would you mind changing the baby's diaper?" I felt like it was silly for us both to be up... I was already up nursing; I should be able to also change her and swaddle her and rock her back to sleep. Truth was, I needed the help. I needed to not be getting in and out of bed so much, because it was painful, and I needed to know someone was there to help me if I asked. 

Someone there to help if you ask. Isn't that what we all need? Just to know that? 

because we're all in the same big boat

I've been away from the blog because we've been away on vacation! To LA! Without kids! Mitch was invited to present at UCLA and I went along while my mom stayed with Frances and Clark. Sunshine! Ocean views from our (Santa Monica) hotel! It was fabulous and warm (I left here with a tiny bit of snow on the ground, and returned to much more snow on the ground. I had to dig the car out in just my little sweatshirt and no gloves...), and I got to see two old friends, which was renewing in ways I didn't see coming. 

We took the redeye home. Redeyes always seem like a good idea--get on the plane at 11:30pm (which means an extra full day in LA) then sleep while in transit (cuz why would you want to be awake for that anyway?) and arrive at 9am, rested and ready for the day. But the reality is that you step onto the plane already bleary eyed and then only sleep in 2 minute increments because you're sitting upright in a tiny airplane seat forcryingoutloud and besides, the seatbelt sign keeps dinging on and off. 

At least my mom stayed an extra day here, so I could sleep once we got home. It all worked out. 

At LAX there was a young mom at security with a baby strapped to her chest--maybe 3 months old? I had been watching the baby earlier with a kind of yearning I've become familiar with and will discuss later, and I didn't realize until I heard the screaming that she had a toddler too. My guess is he was not yet two, and the poor mom was trying to get her million bags organized for security and the kid kept running off. She'd go get him and drag him back by the arm, and drag him she had to because as soon as she touched him he went boneless and screamed and flopped on the floor. A couple of times she left him there on the floor for a moment, lolling around on the ground, while she again tried to organize baby crap diaper bags shoes belts phones on the conveyor belt, and the kid would get up and run off. Then she'd go get him, and again with the screaming and flopping. She couldn't pick him up or get a good grip on him because of the baby on her front who thankfully wasn't hollering too; he was rather mesmerized by the lights on the ceiling. 

As soon as the security fella checked my ID with his little pen light and scribbled on my boarding pass with his highlighter, I made my way to the mom and toddler. At that specific moment she was simultaneously trying to hold him by the arm and lug a suitcase up onto the conveyor belt, and he was 90% on the floor. I just said, "Let me help you," and scooped him up. I didn't know if he'd let me hold him, but he did, and the crying didn't get any louder though it didn't let up any either. I didn't worry about that, just let him cry and tried to jolly him a bit and simply keep him from running off while the mom dealt with everything else. She looked so surprised when I picked him up, and then enormously grateful, and then she paused and stood there a moment, her hair falling in her face. It took me a minute to realize she was crying. 

Before that moment I sympathized with her (and greatly) but when she started to cry I suddenly knew what she was feeling, and I could feel the echo of it in my own chest. I remembered the exhaustion and desperation and trying-my-best-because-what-else-is-there-to-do-but-slog-through and oh I felt for her. I should have known she would cry. That's what I always did when strangers rescued me. The reason the tears come at those moments of rescue is because 1) the sheer gratitude that someone else sees your suffering and simply wants to help is overwhelming, and 2) you would be doing nothing but crying anyway if only you were able to pause for a moment to feel what it is you're feeling. 

The mom only cried for a moment and then got it together and thanked me, and thanked me again, and then again, and that was when I realized she didn't even speak english. Damn, she must have been even more overwhelmed than the average distressed mom. 

And THEN. The dad appeared. Seriously. Where the hell had he been? Had he just been at a different conveyor belt station, leisurely taking off his shoes and getting his bags in order and ignoring the screaming? Good grief. He didn't even take the kid from me right away. What the hell??? She was already wearing the baby, probably sleep deprived and sore nipples, her back aching from the wrap, and why was she left to drag the toddler around in the first place? Damn. Although we've come a long way, it's true that women are still assumed to be the ones fully responsible for the kids. Hello postpartum depression! And then the dads don't understand why the moms are emotional or overwhelmed. Or worse: sometimes they don't even notice. 

Now, to be fair, I don't know anything about their situation. Maybe he was dealing with legal crapola and passports and being hassled by TSA while she tried to get their shit through security. That they were of another culture (unnamed) I see as relevant. It's a culture that's typically rather misogynist. But still, if I can see she's struggling and I don't even know her, can't he? 

But the flag I'd like to fly here doesn't have to do with dads, but with us moms and the others we witness. I want to call you to action: Help those moms you see struggling! Help each other! And I think it's important to not just ask, "Do you need any help?" politely waiting to be invited and perhaps uncertain about interfering. Instead, straight up offer: "What can I do?" or "Here, let me hold the groceries while you get the baby in the stroller." When Frances was 5 months old I flew with her by myself to NYC, and as I got to my seat on the plane, the woman in the row behind just stood up, held out her arms, and said, "I'll hold the baby while you get settled." I almost cried then too, so grateful not only for the help, but also that someone would know the struggle inside me. 

Being a mom of a tiny baby feels so lonely, so alone. When most people see a mom and a baby, all they see is the baby and her incredible cuteness. What a beautiful thing to have other people see us moms too, and know our struggle behind the sweetness that is the baby. Both exist at the same time: the wonder of a small baby, and the anxiety and fear and exhaustion of being a mom. We need to tell each other we're not alone, give a shout of support--You can do this! and remind each other that there are people around willing to help, to be kind, to offer a hand. 

let's give some thanks, shall we?

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Good food, good company, no consumerism, and thanks. Here's what I've got to give thanks for today:

Good health, strong marriage, sweet children, clean water, cuddling in bed with my husband and kids while I type this, coming snow, that my husband has the means to support our family plus something extra to save and give back to the community, and the sweet bare curiosity and honesty of childhood.

I'm also extremely thankful that some things have changed. I find myself suddenly in a different space--where I don't long for the relief of a sitter or Mitch's getting home at night, where I look forward to hanging out with the kids, letting Frances help me make the cranberry sauce or Clark help me do the laundry. I'm aware that it was a mere three weeks ago that I thought I couldn't be around them at all. So what changed? it is me? Is it them?

More on that later. For now, just thanks. And off to a hike with my sweet husband, my shrieking son, my cooperative daughter, and our funny dog. Happy day of thanks to you too!

the moments to see

Ages ago someone posted an anonymous comment on the blog that just said, "You sure do complain a lot." Most likely some random surfing bloodshot human, probably childless, but it bothered me a good bit. I conjured up responses in my head like, "the blog is, after all, about the challenges of being a mom..." In the end I just deleted the comment.

Today, though, I gave the blog address to a new friend, and just this minute I took a look at the blog and read the last few posts to see what she was going to see when she looked it up. And damn, I sure do complain a lot.

That's unfortunate.

Because there are certainly lovely moments. There are transcendent moments. Moments when the light comes in all soft around the edges. Another blog I won't post a link to writes about exactly those moments, and I will admit that when I took a look at it (having been directed there by its being voted one of the top 50 mom blogs on Babble) I almost laughed. Yes, it's sweet, and grateful, and celebratory of life. But it also seemed like a bunch of crap to me, somehow. Not that I believe the blogger doesn't experience things in that light, (though, does she, really?) but why do other people want to read about it? I don't know... I feel like the transcendent moments are more private. The crappy ones are the ones you need company for. They're the ones we need to share so we don't feel so alone in our frustrations. Hence this blog.

However. One might argue that it's good to fine tune the focus on those sweet moments, let our eyes go lazy and our gaze drift on the more challenging ones. That would be nice. An nice way to live, to pay more attention to the laughing than to the yelling. Okay, perhaps I could use more of that.

Yet it's the challenging moments that call us, that ask of us the most that we have, ask us to look hard at the things that need seeing. Isn't there some danger to putting them aside? We can't live our lives in soft focus. (And who knows, maybe she doesn't. Maybe she just wants to capture those moments in the blog. Yet I have to ask: why? Why do you want to share them? Is it a kind of art? Capturing the sweet? The dainty? What about the powerful? No judgement, though.) It is a spiritual journey, after all. It's also a nerve-fraying-screaming-and-petrified-cheese-under-the-carseat journey, which makes us forget it's a spiritual journey. Perhaps we could remember if we could hear ourselves think.

Or maybe the moments that try us are just more interesting. They show us our mettle.

Moving on.

My new camera is lovely. Here is its rendition of JOY, or what we did Saturday morning:

And here's LOVE:

This is Leo. He lives across the street. He and Frances love each other. Love. Like the real, true, affectionate, whole kind. He's moving away at christmas, and my heart will break for her. For now, though, here they are. Happy. 

bbbbbetter

Turns out that particular freak out had much to do with hormones. Did I mention I got the IUD with the hope of eradicating PMS? Oh well, it's early; my body is still adjusting. And currently I blame the IUD not only for the hysteria itself but also for its wacky intensity, because it was way wackier than my usual PMS episodes. Hormones are strange things. Anyway, things are much improved over here, and I'm a much saner person.

In other news: Clark has a stutter. It's kind of cute, though am I allowed to say that? It started maybe 2 weeks ago and the past few days have actually been better. It's only the first sound of a sentence, and as he tries and tries to get it out, he gets louder and louder until he's shouting and red in the face. After about a week he realized he could speak clearly if he whispered, which I found to be pretty nifty of him. But then he started to stutter in the whisper.

It's a normal thing for kids to go though, I know. They say there's only need for concern if it goes on 3 months or longer. I'm not worried.

Also, Frances is a gem right now. Which is particularly fabulous given the terror that is my son. She's so helpful and patient when I have to deal with him. She's also very very affectionate, kissing, hugging, generally wrapping herself around me, telling me she loves me, wants to play with me, wants me to be with her. Aaaah, at least they're not horrible at the same time. (I probably shouldn't write that. My next post could be about what kind of padded cell they're going to put me in since they've both become intolerable.) For now, though, I can at least see that my patience comes and goes, rather than is gone. I was really worried for a minute. Thanks for all the concern and the love. It helps--really.

Plus, I bought a big fancy camera. Results to come.

Top 50 mom blogs... vote for your favorite (or for mine. :)

http://www.babble.com/babble-50/mommy-bloggers/nominate-a-blogger/

my undoing

I have no dishwasher and no camera. Damn the modern need for this gadgetry! It turns out I live in a very fragile and procarious tower (midieval stone and tiny window variety) where one brick goes and the whole thing tumbles down. I'm falling apart over here. I couldn't even get it together enough to go vote. And I really wanted to vote.

At first I thought it was the dishwasher that put me over the edge--the final straw--, or simply the snowball effect of sitters who cancelled and Mitch's migraine that put him completely out of commission for bath/bedtime routine the night before my embarrassing emotional collapse in the middle of the gym (while on a machine, no less. I had to flee to find a more discreet place to disintegrate). But it wasn't the dishwasher. It's Clark. Clark Clark Clark, who used to be my sweet baby, my agreeable one, the easy going, the less intense, the one who could adjust and flex and roll. I somehow thought his personality would allow him to bypass this developmental stage. How silly of me.

Let me be clear. He is no longer a sweet baby. He is two and a half, and he is a monster. MONSTER. Perhaps we are at the height of the thing? The most intense it will get? Perhaps he's not still building to his full monsterdom? Oh please let that be so. For everyone's sake, let that be so, and let this peak not last long, let us soon come down the other side oh so gently.

A MONSTER. It's gotten to where I don't want to go anywhere--the library or the carousel at the play museum or the hardware store--because there is a 100% chance he's going to be incredibly difficult about something. Getting in his carseat. Getting out of his carseat. Which carseat to sit in. Which song is on. The fact his blankie fell on the floor.

He's got a terribly traumatic life.

But the thing that undoes me is the 100% chance that once we get to the bagel shop, farmer's market, grocery store, he's going to throw a fit about something he absolutely cannot touch, climb, hit. Mr. Destructo coming through! I simply cannot take it. So we go nowhere.

He still throws fits at home, of course; about my telling him he can't throw Little People at the dog, or hit the cat with the wiffle bat, or climb daddy's dresser. Today we had a fit with Every Single diaper change.

It exhausts me.

It's not that I'm embarrassed about his displays in public. It's not that I feel like an incompetent parent because he's delivering them. I know it's a stage and it will (eventually...!) pass, but somehow the shrieking or the flinging--or something--has tripped my panic button and I don't know how to turn it off. I feel like a crazy person. (A couple of days ago I seriously wondered if I could come back from it, thought maybe we'd have to hire a full time nanny for a month or so, so I could lie in bed and read The Age of Innocence and the New York Times Magazine. I'm way behind on current events.)

I'm trying. I'm doing all the right things; going to the gym, being social, doing laundry. I have absolutely no motivation to organize and prepare food, and that's a bummer for everyone. But a few dinners of mac and cheese never hurt any kid. And a few dinners of cereal for mom and dad never did either. Hopefully the tide will turn and my energy will come back, my motivation will return. This hideous gray rainy weather isn't helping I'm sure. I'm holding out for the pretty white snow...

also

I've lost my camera again. Or more specifically, Frances has lost it. Just so you know. No pictures anytime soon, unless I cave and go buy the big fancy one I've been wanting. Which I just might do.

what is there to fear?

Boy, I'm really having trouble these days getting to the blog. Part of that is because in my free time I go to the attic, to my new painting studio, with which I am in love. This is a good thing, of course, but I also need this blog; I need it for for me, for me to process and record and extrapolate, to make some sense and order of the disorderly world. And I apologize to those loyal followers who check back often: YOU! You are some of my favorite people, the ones in it with me.

Sometimes I feel like all I do it try to get breathing room. Each art activity, trip to the park, sitter I schedule, space I declutter, are all done with the goal of feeling calmer, more organized, revived. I can't seem to revive.

But it occurs to me that there is no point in revival, just like there's no front of the line of traffic on the highway; there's always more traffic, and always more space to declutter, sweaters to mend, laundry to fold, dinner to cook. There's never going to be a time when it's all done and I can sit and read my book (or write on my blog) while feeling free and relaxed.

There are things I want to do with the kids--projects--but it's like I can't get myself rested enough (emotionally, physically) to put them together. If I wanted to make excuses we could talk again about my headaches... And it's true; much of the time I'm so depleted from the migraine and hangover after that I'm a success if I get people fed.

I feel like I'm waiting for the storm to pass, hanging on. But the truth is that there is no storm, and there is no passing. It's just life. Instead of hanging on and waiting, I should be letting go--falling falling, and enjoying the wind and rain.