on cycles

When Emry was born, I had three living grandparents. Now, as he approaches his second birthday, I have one.

Emry and my Grandma Syl, New Jersey, June 2012

I was doing a puzzle with Elan this morning, remembering when he first started liking puzzles two years ago. He was six inches shorter then.

At the end of a 7-hour flight just me & my boys, June 2012

When Elan was Emry’s age, he had the same gorgeous wispy-curled blonde hair as Emry does now. People thought he was a girl, just as they think Emry is a girl now. When I was too lazy to comb it out and it got full of dreadlocks, the Peruvian woman who ran his nursery school stuck him in the bathtub, plastered it down with heavy-duty conditioner, combed it out and put him in braids.

Elan at 2 years old, Berkeley, February 2009

When I picked him up, I couldn’t find him in the yard full of children. I didn’t recognize him from the back.

Now he’s starting kindergarten. I know it’s a happy occasion, but everytime I think about it, I feel a mix of uncertainty about the future and nostalgia for my first baby, my first toddler, my first preschooler…

Elan at 22 months, the same age Emry is now, San Diego, September 2008

Today I realized that he’s better prepared to start kindergarten than I am to have him start. Is that what parenting is – always being a few steps behind? Always thinking that if you could just push the “pause” button, you could catch up? I spoke with my grandmother, and she said, “Time moves on. You can’t stop it.” And I know that, of course. But ever since Elan was born two weeks early, I’ve felt behind, unprepared for the next thing, like I’m forever caught still prepping the tiny layette while he’s busy outgrowing it. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’ve held on to the thought it was because he was born early – that giving birth 14 days ahead of schedule set me on a course of catch-up. But maybe that’s just the nature of parenting, at least when you are a person who leans toward nostalgia, as I do.

Elan at 22 months, just after we moved to Berkeley, September 2008

I’m not sure if he’s nervous about starting kindergarten. I’m not even sure how much he’s thought about it. I’m trying not to impart my own ambivalence on him by talking about it much, since my older child can smell insincere enthusiasm from a mile away. And the summer has been so busy with travel and visits, there’s hardly been time. And now the first day is upon us. His backpack is ready, his lunch is packed, his clothes are laid out on his bedroom floor for tomorrow morning.

Blackberry picking, Birch Bay, Washington, August 2012

I look back to the possibilities for this year Mikhail and I created together, on a cold January afternoon on the beach: love, light & taking the next step. There is nothing to do but take that step that scares you. Tomorrow, we will hold hands and walk together through the gates of the elementary school. 

Heaven for a Star Wars obsessed boy, Legoland, San Diego, July 2012

And today, on the last day of summer vacation, I took my boys to the botanical gardens for a walk and Elan and I baked cookies together while Emry was napping. I pushed "pause," even if it was just for a few moments.

Redwoods at the botanical garden, Tilden, today

that thing i thought i hated

View on this morning's run, Birch Bay, Washington, August 2012

My father is a runner. My mother is a runner. My sister is a runner. My grandfather was a long-distance runner. Running is in my blood.

But, up until about six weeks ago, I thought I hated running. My dad used to run track, and he wanted me to run in high school. "Do something with a finish line, something that's not so subjective," my dad said to his dancer daughter. Envious of my Mother/Father/Sister's obvious post-run sweat-streaked high, I dabbled in running. I tried running on family vacations in San Diego, on the beautiful flat boardwalk, and ended up with an aching tongue and itchy legs, two of the strangest running-related maladies ever. 

The only time in my life that I've run regularly was for a few months during my sophomore year in college, when I was suffering through a significant break-up, so miserable and angry that all I could do was try to run away from my heartbreak. It gave me a modicum of peace (though the antidepressants were undoubtably more helpful), but I didn't enjoy it. Since then, whenever the subject of running has come up, I've thought how glad I am to be happy enough that I don't have to run!

But then, two months ago, a weird thing happened. I started thinking about running. I read an article in - of all places - Real Simple magazine about a group of non-running women who started running. One mile. That's what they ran to start. And I thought I could do that. Not because I'm unhappy. Not because I'm desperate, or angry, or running away (except for that one morning, when both kids were hollering as I shut the door and ran down the driveway, boy did that feel good). Just to see if I like it. Because it's fast. Because you can do it anywhere. Because all you need is a pair of shoes. Because I'm on a quest to lose the rest of The Baby Weight before The Baby is doing arithmetic. 

Mikhail made me a short playlist of high-energy tunes. I watched two videos of "How to Run" on YouTube.

I ran one mile. And it felt fine. I ran nice and slow, and only one mile. My tongue didn't ache. My legs didn't itch.

So I ran again. One mile.

When we were in San Diego with my family, everyone got quite a kick out of asking me, "How was your run?" A standard question in my family, and now it was directed to me. I lengthened my run to 1.5 miles. I ran up the steep hill. 

In New Jersey, I went for a run the day after taking an overnight flight. When I came home, my Dad said, "Whenever I run after an overnight flight, I feel like my legs are full of lead." He captured the exact sensation.

In Portland, I ran with a friend, and she (gently) pushed me to run much further than I have alone. We ran over 3 miles, and I wasn't even sore the next day.

This morning, I went on my 15th run.

Maybe I am related to these people after all.

we miss you already

Matty Brams

July 1919 - August 2012

My grandfather looking at me, New Jersey, June 2012

The deep well carved by grief

is the space through which brilliant light eventually shines.

-Jessica Rios

hanging with fireflies

Okay, so these aren't fireflies.

Have you ever tried to take pictures of fireflies? 

Butterflies, Turtle Back Zoo, New Jersey

We went to Costa Rica.

We came home.

Mikhail went on a business trip.

We went on an overnight camping trip with Elan's preschool camping trip.

A giant owl buzzed my windshield. 

Mikhail went on another business trip.

My mother-in-law came to rescue me from the horrors of double-bedtime-alone duty.

Mikhail came home.

Elan graduated from preschool.

I cried.

Just a little.

I got on a plane with my two boys and came to New Jersey to see my extended family.

Grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, oh my!

And now the three of us are heading to Baltimore to visit my college roommate and her kids.

And then home.

Hi, honey! We miss you!

And then Elan's camp starts.

His first time at summer camp.

It feels like this kid is growing up too fast. 

Can't I slow him down, just for a few months while I catch my breath?

I'm really enjoying seeing my relatives who I only get to see once or twice a year. Watching my kids bond with my Back East family. Driving the crazy New Jersey highways in the minivan with my kids and my parents, everyone playing the alphabet-roadtrip game. Sitting on the porch watching the fireflies light up the forest like miniature fireworks.

I wish we had fireflies in California.

You can't be stressed out while you're hanging with fireflies.

Somewhere in the midst of all this packing and unpacking, I am trying to get my work done and not drop too many balls.

Yesterday, I realized that I had dropped two balls.

I do not like that feeling of How on earth did I forget that?

It's like misplacing your wallet, or your wedding ring.

Except I didn't misplace my wallet or my wedding ring.

Not yet, at least.

I give credit to my new packing system.

I'll tell you about it.

Later.

Really, I will.

remembering Popa Al

Popa Al in June 2008, at my sister's wedding

It was one year ago today that my Popa Al passed away. I just scrolled through the post I wrote about him that day. It was good to look at the pictures and think about him.

I am glad to be able to say that I remember him often, not just on anniversaries. Part of this is because Emry reminds me so much of my grandfather - his blue eyes, the way his little face is shaped with distinctive chin and soft cheeks, the sweetness of his character. When I was pregnant with Emry and my Popa was still alive, I had a feeling that this baby had a lot of Popa in him. It has turned out to be one of my more accurate intuitive predictions about my children.

Emry, 18 months, May 2012

There is abundant sweetness of character, and there is spiciness too. Because though everyone who knew my Popa thought of him as good-natured, which he certainly was, he sure was stubborn too. And with Emry in the grip of his toddlerhood, we're starting to see his mischievousness and the strength of his will coming through. Which is all just exactly as it should be.

And since I'm taking a walk down Memory Lane, here's a picture of Elan at my sister's wedding, when he was 18 months, the exact same age Emry is now.

Elan at 18 months, June 2008

Yup, those two are definitely related.

about my week offline

Family photos at Bodega Bay in the fog, August 2011

I absolutely loved taking a week offline. We were in Colorado for a family reunion, so there were lots of other computers around and people to look up useful information like the location of public pools in Boulder, where it was in the 90s (which we loved after camping in the 60-degree Bodega Bay fog earlier in the month). I wasn't trying to get away from the practical aspect of the Internet, which certainly is useful. I was trying to get away from the "always-on" nature of the Internet, the need to constantly monitor, respond, update, and communicate, the lure of online entertainment, and how quickly I can go from looking up useful information to mindless website-hopping that cuts into my already limited sleep.

I did not turn my computer on for an entire week, definitely a record for me in the last 5 years. I took the week off from my grantwriting work, and I did really feel OFF in a different kind of way than if I had stayed online. The feeling of freedom was amazing. I would put Emry down for his morning nap, and I would instinctually think that now it was time to go online, check my email, look at the news, plan out my work for the day, do online errands, try not to get distracted. And then I would realize: nope, not this week, and in that little chunk of time, I would pull out my book.

Things I did in my week offline:

Talked to my family.

Read an entire novel, and it was a really really good one.

Painted my toenails red.

Took 500 photos.

Went to yoga class, was sore in that satisfying way the next day.

Hung out on the porch of our Boulder rental house.

My nephew Judah, porch time, August 2011

Emry having porch time, August 2011

As I re-enter the digital world, I read this New York Times magazine article about decision fatigue, which I immediately recognized not only as the exhaustion that overcomes me after a trip to Target, but also the exhaustion I experience when I lose myself purposelessly trolling website after website:

"Today we feel overwhelmed because there are so many choices.... A typical computer user looks at more than three dozen Web sites a day and gets fatigued by the continual decision making — whether to keep working on a project, check out TMZ, follow a link to YouTube or buy something on Amazon. You can do enough damage in a 10-minute online shopping spree to wreck your budget for the rest of the year. The cumulative effect of these temptations and decisions isn’t intuitively obvious. Virtually no one has a gut-level sense of just how tiring it is to decide. Big decisions, small decisions, they all add up."

This article helps explain how mentally tired I've been getting when I spend days tethered to my computer and frequently caught up in the sticky strands of the Web. I haven't decided yet how I want to implement it in my life, but my week offline definitely showed me that I need to set more effective limits for myself on how, and when, I use the Internet. Now that wireless Internet is available nearly everywhere, I remind myself that I deliberately chose not to have wireless for quite a long time, in order to limit the distractions that I knew would tempt me away from the most meaningful work I do on my computer -- writing.

And since I haven't yet seen an alarm you can set that automatically turns off your Internet access at a certain hour (DOES such at thing exist? It should!), I would welcome any ideas or systems that you've found that help you have a healthy relationship with the Web. And in the meantime, I'm going to mull over some ideas for myself -- one day offline a week, one weekend a month? How much is enough time to disentangle myself from the sticky strands of the Web and remember how much I like reading a book?

And if you're considering taking some time offline, even if it's just a day or two, by all means, do it!

talkin' about family

Elan & Emry pose with Interfaceflor tiles, June 2011

Elan: "Me and Wems are a team."

Nana: "That's right! You and Emry are a team, just like your Mama and Dulu [my sister Laura] are a team."

Elan: "We're going to be a team always! Until... until we die!"

Nana: "Yes, well, let's hope that doesn't happen for a very, very long time."

a week on my own, plus unrelated camping pictures

Mikhail went on his first (of many to come) business trip last week. It was trial by fire for me: 5 full days, 4 and a half nights of doing the parenting-2-children thing on my own. Luckily for me, my sisters-in-law took Elan for one night so that I had one night and morning of only having Emry, which was quite luxurious and relaxing. I do so love living close to family!

Emry in the Ergo, camping, May

The week went pretty well on the whole. I did have the desire to cry at 6:30 A.M. a few times, but that's just par for the course whenever I'm up at 6:30. There were times when they both treated me pretty well (like the first night, when they both slept through the night). And then other times when they seemed to be ganging up on me (bedtime when Emry needed to nurse in a quiet place and Elan was bent on having me tell "a story about the letters" for the forth time that day).

Waking up in the tent, camping, May

The days were busy and long, and I made sure to clean the house up at night before I sat down, which resulted in me not sitting down till 9:30 P.M. but also meant that my house was much cleaner and more orderly than usual. I was pretty sure that keeping the house tidy would help keep me sane, since I was also juggling this new transition with 2 grantwriting clients and multiple deadlines, and I was right. Plus I needed things to be find-able for my new babysitter.

Lantern and sunset, camping, May

I knew Elan would miss Mikhail. What surprised me was that he didn't talk much about missing him; he didn't talk much about Dada period. But he did seem to be more jealous of Emry than usual ("Why do you have to keep giving him milk AGAIN?").

Brothers in the tent, camping, May

Elan was pretty challenging overall during the week. I'm sure it's related to all the change and transition going on in our lives right now. He had lots of screaming episodes. The third morning, he woke up very cranky at 6 after having been up at 4 A.M. as well (and Emry up to nurse at 5). I was not in the mood to deal with the fuss. I gave him one chance to stop, and when he didn't, without a word, I scooped him up, still in his PJs, carried him downstairs without a word, opened the front door, set him down on the patio, wrapped him in a blanket, and shut the door. He screamed the entire time; my teeth were grit so I would keep my mouth shut. I let him go at it outside while I sat on the couch inside, half wanting to sob and half laughing a little to myself about the absurdity of parenthood. He never checked to see if the door was locked (it wasn't); he just sat there in the weak morning light and yelled.

After about 90 seconds, I opened the door and said (surprisingly calmly), "Would you like to come inside and be sweet, or would you like to stay outside and yell?"

Sniff. "Come inside."

I find that, with Elan, I have to occasionally do these dramatic things to shock him into paying attention and get him out of whatever fuss he's lodged himself in. The rest of the morning wasn't a piece of cake, but it was better. I would have left him out there longer, but I did feel badly for the neighbors; I'm quite sure no one enjoyed the 6 A.M. serenade.

These boys: they are crazy and sometimes wild, and life as mother feels vast and complicated and difficult and also unbearingly sweet and tender and gorgeous.

the end of an era

Today my grandfather, Popa Al Alper, passed away. He was 101 and a half.

June 2008

Back when he turned 99, many of you sent him postcards in the mail. 99 postcards for 99 years. He absolutely loved getting messages from people he knew and people he didn't (and people he thought he should know, but worried he didn't remember). It was so exciting, he said, to open his mailbox.

November 2009, with my nephew Judah

And then he said he should probably give the mailman a holiday present, for delivering all those cards from all over the country, and the world (he received nearly 200).

Popa Al loved to play pool and poker with the other "fellows" in the (non-assisted living) retirement complex where he lived. In fact, the last time my mom spoke with him a few days ago, he was happy to talk, but then he had to get to his poker game. He liked to tell us how he sometimes beat those younger fellows, those spring chickens in their 80s.

May 2007, with Elan

Even after my Nana died, Popa used to come visit my family in California for several weeks a year. He traveled well into his 90s. And the walking he used to do! I remember one time in San Diego, we started to get a little worried because he was gone for so long. When he came back, he said it was such a beautiful day, he just kept walking. And walking. And walking. And then he took a little rest sitting on a bench looking at the ocean. And then he walked back.

He loved to be with his family, and he was quite content to sit in the middle of the family hub-bub and just soak it in. He couldn't hear very well, and he was always very stubborn about not wearing a hearing aid, which did seem to serve him pretty well when surrounded by the chaos of 3 children, 3 children-in-laws, 6 grandchildren and associated husbands/wives/partners, and 9 great-grandchildren.

100th Birthday Party, November 2009

He liked to talk to you, hear what was going on in your life. And he also just liked to soak up the ambiance of family.

May 2007

He liked to eat.

October 2007, out to lunch with Elan

And he liked parties too.

the patriarch of the family

Of course our impressions of our grandparents are always uniquely rooted in our particular relationship, but I can honestly say that, to me, Popa Al has always been an example of how to live a peaceful, loving life, to enjoy simple pleasures, to focus on the positive and appreciate the blessings you have.

August 2010

He was a pretty amazing spirit, my Popa Al. How lucky we were to have him here for 101 years.

my little nugget

If Emry was on Twitter, this is what he'd tweet: "You know you're fat when your dada can froozle your shins."

In our family, froozle means to blow a raspberry, you know that thing you do when you can't resist squishy baby tummies, and, in our case, shins. A piece of terminology a la Mikhail's family.

Do you see that chin? Elan has it too. That's an Alper chin, a la Popa Al Alper, my mother's father, who is 101 years old. The ears, however, appear to be from my dad's side of the family, specifically my Grandpa Matty, who's in his 90s.

And for comparison, here's Elan at around the same age:

That's some strong genes.

in the country

In the country, there are dirt roads and muddy puddles perfect for stomping.

A wooden swing at Grandma's house.

A barn full of baby goats.

Who turn riotous when we enter.

They're looking for milk.

Elan tries feeding them hay, but they prefer the real thing.

This makes me glad I have only one baby.

And look, here he is (with his handsome Dada).

There are other adventures to be found in the country, too -- like rock-hopping in the creek.

He was fearless about climbing over the rocks and wading through the water. It was just the right size creek for him. I watched him, marveling over how big and grown-up he seems, and remembering how, as a kid, I was also fascinated with creeks (they were such a novelty to this desert-grown girl).

Eventually, he did fall in and get sopping wet. But I don't have a picture of that. Mikhail and I had snuck off for a quick visit with the redwoods, just the two of us, a date in the country.