gettin' nothin' dun

Berkeley, August 2012

I am not sure that I have ever had such an unproductive day.
At least, not on a day when I'm supposed to be productive.

Worry, worry, fret
Scheme, talk, scheme
Vent, rant, process, chat
Crave a nap, crave a nap, crave a nap

Second day of kindergarten.
Schedule chaos.
Mental exhaustion.

Am I heading right, or going left?
Where am I supposed to be right now?
What am I forgetting?

It's going okay for Elan. Like I said, I think he's more ready for this than I am.
As for me, I've been trying to focus on work while really counting the minutes till Zumba. For about the last three hours.

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.

decoding that feeling in my stomach

This one hitched a ride, Turtle Back Zoo, New Jersey, June 2012

That feeling - the butterflies flitting around in my stomach - is not indigestion. It is not actually butterflies. It is anxiety.

As mother of a 5-year-old who's prone to screaming fits in the privacy of our home, I spend a lot of time encouraging him to use his words to describe his emotional state. So perhaps having decoded the butterfly feeling in the pit of my stomach will help me. It's just a little anxiety, I tell myself. No biggie.

It's okay to be anxious. I've got a lot on my plate. Just like the average mama-of-two-small-children, juggling sippy cups, tantrums, and doctor's appointments. Bills to pay and deadlines (self-imposed and otherwise) to meet amid that nagging sense of Am I forgetting something?

Bike lesson, windy afternoon, a rather anxious endeavor, July 2012

Every once in a while, I start to think I've got to have it all together. I start to strive to have no raw edges, to have the checkbook balanced and never lose my phone charger. To always be on time. (HAHAHAHA on the always being on time one)

And then reality brings me back to earth. Sometimes gently, sometimes more harshly. This week, it has been a fairly gentle landing. The anxiety is not caused by something big. More like a dozen small things, a general feeling of unsettledness that's common before I travel. Anxiety over remembering everything. Anxiety over checking everything off my list before I go. Anxiety over packing (I used to enjoy packing, back before there were so many people with so much stuff, and people who enjoy unpacking the suitcase as I attempt to pack it).

This time, there's a measure of anxiety over the work I need to do while I'm gone. The lack of a childcare schedule and designated time for me to work always makes me anxious. I tried to be all Organized, Responsible and Together and set childcare up in advance, but nothing worked out, so now I'm winging it. It's okay for it to be messy, I try to convince the butterflies in my stomach. It's okay to not have it all figured out.

Coloring our cardboard playhouse, super fun until the misty morning fog crumpled it, July 2012

I picked Elan up from camp, where he has been for the last month since his Pre-K class ended. Camp is over tomorrow. As I walked through the trees to pick him up, I realized that the next time I'll be regularly picking him up is when he's in kindergarten. My eyes instantly welled up.

I'll be honest with y'all: I am dreading the start of kindergarten. I feel like I should be excited. A new chapter! New beginnings! But I'm not. I feel worried about how the transition will go, how we will both find our way in our new roles: him as Elementary Schooler, me as Mother of an Elementary Schooler. Preschool felt so safe. It was still on our terms, at least kind of. If we wanted to take him out of school to go to Costa Rica for two weeks, we went. No problem! But Elementary School isn't on our terms anymore. We have to conform, to fit the mold; the mold won't stretch to fit us.

But maybe I'm wrong. Perhaps my worry and anxiety will turn out to be totally unfounded. Perhaps the transition will be relatively easy for everyone and we'll slide into our new roles like slick seals sliding over the rocks, finding their place in the colony without taking the bumps too hard.

You love that metaphor, admit it!

Mikhail's groovy playhouse art, lost in the great Playhouse Collapse of 2012

As people tend to do, I'm concentrating my general anxiety about kindergarten, becoming Mother of an Elementary Schooler and what that means about Time Passing and Aging and Loss of Freedom on one small piece of the puzzle: Mornings. Mornings are both something I feel I could control (at least 50%) and a part of our daily routine that could really use some work. I simply cannot imagine delivering my child to school every day ON TIME (Butterflies!) at 8:15 a.m. (Butterflies crawling up the sides of my stomach!) without being a gigantic stress case (Butterflies batting their wings around wildly!) or screaming at my children every single morning (Butterflies chewing at my stomach lining!)

Gold-tipped butterfly on another woman's back, Turtle Back Zoo, NJ

Yeah. So I'm a little stressed out in advance about mornings in kindergarten-land.

Elan's behavior over the last week hasn't helped my anxiety. Oh, the screaming! Oh, the fits! Oh, the Black Looks! (I always want to tell him Don't start with me, I'm the Queen of Black Looks, but I don't think that will help the situation, seeing as he got the drama from me to start with.)

My welcome-home present from Mikhail after I took the kids to New Jersey, June 2012

Tomorrow is Mikhail and my 9th wedding anniversary. In celebration, we are going to go see a parenting coach who helped us when we were going through a particularly rough spell with Elan two years ago. We're going to work specifically with her on routines: Morning, Dinnertime, Bedtime. It will be very romantic.

a nice, relaxing weekend

Emry, before the hives

The title of this post is ironic.

Over the past week, I feel as if I am being engulfed in fuss. Elan tends toward fuss naturally. Although his pre-K teacher and others who see him in a school context have a hard time believing it, the kid melts down faster than a popsicle left on a blacktop parking lot. In Palm Springs. In the summer. When it's 112 degrees.

Emry is usually more even-keel, and is much more the type of kid whose cries tell you something. He's got his hot-tempered cry. Translation = I'm mad. He's got his yowling cry. Translation = I hurt myself. He's got his frowny cry that ends with thumb in mouth. Translation = I'm frustrated/overwhelmed/hungry/tired/can't deal.

But Emry's been having an off week, the kind of week that ends with me taking him to the doctor "just in case" and finding out what I already knew: he's teething (the forever process), and he's got what's probably the start of a little cold. I'm always glad, however, after I've taken him in for one of these "is this really necessary?" checks, because there was that one time that he never quite seemed sick, just fussy, and when I finally took him in, he had an ear infection that had probably been hanging around for 2 months.

Anyway, there's the back story to me, getting in the car with 2 kids on a quiet, still-foggy Sunday morning at 8:30 a.m. Heading off for donuts whilst letting my beloved sleep in. It should have been quite bucolic and enjoyable, kids in their PJs, me with my hair unbrushed, all relaxed Sunday-like.

Except for the screaming.

This time it was Emry. But he had been fussy all week, and so it wasn't that surprising. I gave him Motrin for his teeth, changed his diaper, and shortly after, he started yelling "Owie." Well, "owie" has been the soundtrack to my days lately, so I wasn't paying too much attention. But, 15 minutes later, as we pulled up in front of the donut shop, Emry was hysterical in his carseat. I found myself getting that kind of shortness with Elan that indicates that I'm stressed out, and I realized I wasn't really breathing much. I whipped out my cell phone, called my pediatrician father (yes, I realize how lucky I am) and said that I was really worried about Emry. As I said this, I pulled him out of his carseat. He was grabbing at his ankles, shouting "Owie" so I laid him down on the passenger seat, unzipped his sleeper, and found his ankles covered in what looked like giant white hives, the skin red and inflamed around them. "Holy $%#&!" I yelled, just as a turbaned man passed me on the empty Oakland street.

Yeah. It was that kind of morning.

I put Emry back into his carseat, his sleeper half off, as he screamed a little less when the cool air hit his inflamed legs, yelled at Elan when he started to complain about not getting donuts, and drove home as fast as I could while leaving a trying-not-to-sound-too-panicky message for my local pediatrician.

Now it's 1 p.m. and the hives, or whatever they were, after flaring up badly on his knees and a little bit on his arms and butt, were nearly gone when he went down for his nap. After a dose of allergy medication and Tylenol, he was a giggling happy menace, grabbing the remote and spilling Cheerios all over the floor as I attempted to unwind in front of the Sound of Music.

Julie Andrews probably would not have cursed on the street today, as I have. Twice.

The second time I found myself cursing on the street was when Elan decided to have a 40-minute scream-a-thon while Emry was napping and while I was trying my darnest to take a nap myself, feeling fairly catatonic after the stress of the morning. Mikhail was trying to get Elan out of the house, a process that frequently starts to resemble attempting to feed a hungry tiger without getting your arm taken off. Finally, I gave up on my nap, stumbled downstairs, found Elan screaming in the stroller parked in the carport while Mikhail tried to wash dishes, and wheeled my howling offspring out to the sidewalk. Then I cursed. Then I walked away.

I'd say there's nowhere to go but up.

beginner's mind

Shadow, Japanese maple, June 2012

Oh, hello.

I've missed you.

More on that later.

I've posted before about YogaToday, but I wanted to direct you to this week's free class (if you missed the free week for this class, you can buy any YogaToday class for a few dollars - you download it and it's yours to do whenever and however many times you want).

If you're a yoga novice, haven't practiced in a while, or are just in need of a centering/grounding activity, I recommend spending 50 minutes virtually transported to Sedona, Arizona. A lot of the classes on YogaToday are fairly strenuous and not appropriate for beginners, but this is a good class for beginners or experienced yoginis looking for a low-key class, say if you're under the weather or having a low-energy evening.

Or someone who feels in need of experiencing beginner's mind for a while.

That would be me, today. Maybe every day.

recipe for the day

Lemon mint water, September 2011

Take one lemon, given to you by someone who grew it in their yard, and one bunch of mint, given to you by someone who grew it in their yard. Combine.

Take the medicine before the headache comes fully on.

Complete something, anything, but preferably something small that's been bugging you, like a mosquito whining in and out of your ear. Then recognize its completion.

Cut the lemon into quarters. Pluck the mint leaves off the stem. For once, do not practice restraint. Resist the urge to save some for later.

Enjoy the dream, revel in the way the world can look slightly different, the colors brighter, time slowed down just one millisecond. Do not hurry to wake up.

Watch the spiderweb floating up and down in the breeze, a line of silver that glimmers in the sunshine, then fades.

Waking up will happen on its own.

Add water. Stir. Taste. Decide if you want to add sugar. If you do, suck from the bottom of the glass with a straw and enjoy the crystals on your tongue.

Drop off the video at the video store (how old-fashioned) and pick out another, even though you know it will be a stretch to find the time to watch it.

Pick up the waffle that has been torn to bits and strewn in the corner by small, delighted hands.

Pour from the pitcher, drink deeply and frequently, feeling gratitude for the mint and the lemon and the people who grow them and that you live where there is sunshine and land for lemon trees and mint plants.

in the still of the night

My grandmother's china, 4 a.m.

It's 4:48 a.m. and I'm baking banana muffins.

Some weeks just go like this. We start off all shiny and new, thinking of the things large and small we're going to accomplish. On Sunday night, we either have visions of success or trepidation. Does it matter which we expect, when the end result just seems to come to fruition on its own, a product of moon phase, cycle phase, life phase, sleep phase, what?

On Monday, I was swimming laps, in my happy zone place, thinking about the cool travel journal I'm going to make for Elan for our trip to Costa Rica, when suddenly I ran into something with my head. Very hard. My teeth clacked together from the impact. As I stood up, I heard the lifeguard blowing her whistle. Then I remembered that I had indicated in hand gestures "let's split" to the guy I was sharing the lane with. That was about 45 seconds ago. Which is clearly why I forgot and continued the circle swim, pushing off the wall into his side of the lane, and bashed heads with him. 45 seconds is a long time.

That night, I was feeling victorious for pulling together a healthy, colorful dinner in 30 minutes flat, while making grilled cheese for Elan (the only things he'll eat for dinner these days are grilled cheese and peanut butter sandwiches). Mikhail and I sat down with full bowls at 7:02 pm, which is an astonishingly together time for adult dinner in my household. I fed Emry a spoonful, then noticed that Mikhail was only eating the sprouts that I had heaped on the side as an impromptu salad. I took a bite and we looked at each other. "That's weird, the quinoa didn't cook at all," I said. "I don't think this is quinoa," he said. Yeah. It wasn't. It was millet. Which, in case you're wondering, I don't recommend at all as a quick, healthy starch to mix with your quick, healthy veggie & meatball saute.

I guess, given that start to the week, it's not a surprise that I'm sitting at my table at 4 a.m., Tension Tamer tea at hand, typing these words. Hoping to not burn the banana muffins like I burned the grilled cheese for Elan tonight. When I went to make him another one, I realized I had no bread left. I had gone to two grocery stores in the last two days, each time with two children in tow. I sat on the steps with my head down and thought about crying, but couldn't quite summon the energy.

We were in Trader Joe's (the second shopping trip of the two days), it was 5:45 p.m., and I was feeling very short-tempered and short-fused, generally like a small bomb about to blow up, and Emry had been in the Ergo on my back for what felt like hours, alternating between sucking his thumb and pulling my hair, and Elan was in the stroller because he insisted he was too tired to walk at all, and I was doing everything in my power to keep my back from tweaking yet again and also keep my impatience from flooding out my mouth and all over the floor like greasy undercooked-millet water. Elan was trying to get my attention again, possibly for another fight over whether Gorilla Munch could be considered a healthy dinner. I squatted down beside the stroller and said, "I am paying attention to you totally and completely. What on earth do you want to tell me?" I might have even said, "whadaya want now?" I might even have growled it.

"Sometimes I just really feel like crying," said the boy with the giant brown eyes.

If you have ever felt like you've disappointed someone you love, you probably know how I felt in that moment. Deflated. A little ashamed. And also like - Yes. You nailed it kid. Sometimes you just really feel like crying.

I gave him a hug (awkwardly, leaning into the stroller, with Emry tugging at my hoodie hood). I gave him a bag of those crispy, salty fried peas, which in my house qualify as a vegetable. Half the bag and a few blocks later, he felt better.

And then after I had burned the grilled cheese and sat with my head down on the stairs and wanted to cry but didn't, because my husband was away and I was the only Grown Up in attendance and Emry was throwing bits of wonton on the floor from his high chair and the children have been like barnacles lately, and dinner-bath-bed had to be finished soon, I thought about how, in a house awash with the tears of boys, sometimes I there is no room for the tears of a mama. So instead, there is an episode of Glee on the laptop in bed after they're finally asleep, followed by a 1:30 a.m. wake-up for the big boy screaming, a 2:30 a.m. wake-up for the same, lying in bed until 4 a.m. Finally hovering on the fringes of sleep when the little boy calls out Mama Mama and then goes back to sleep, but it's done nonetheless. I'm irreparably awake. I decide to just get up. Make the muffins, write the words spiraling in my brain. Damn the consequences. Sometimes weeks just go like this.

words for 2012

In what has become a yearly tradition, right around New Year's, Mikhail and I took a walk on the beach and figured out some words to express what we are hoping for this year.

I know it's March now, and I'm talking about January, but bear with me. I needed to let these words grow on me a little before I was ready to share them.

Besides, being on time isn't one of my strengths.

Once we figure out the words, we write them in the sand. Last year, we had this fabulous sunset and it was all very inspiring. This year, the fog blew in dense and cold. But we persevered, Emry in the Ergo on my back chewing on beach rocks and then making a game of throwing them at Mikhail.

Love. Because there's really no other good reason to have children in this day and age. I realize for a handful of families in this country, and for many families in other countries, kids are still a labor force. But it's not like Elan's going to be taking our herd of goats out to pasture anytime soon.

Kids cost a bunch of money, they take up all your time, and they throw food all over the carpet. But in my house, they also increase the love exponentially. Both Mikhail and I have found that when we focus on the love, it makes the craziness feel more manageable -- and less important.

Light. It just felt like a good word to me. I was looking ahead to Elan's surgery and imagining that it could be a difficult winter. So as much as the literal definition sounded good on this chilly winter afternoon -- light, warmth, coziness -- the figurative image of a guiding light, something to focus on as you're making your way through dark times, appealed to me too.

Speaking of light, it was getting quite dark by this time. Emry was fussing, we were all cold, but we still had a ways to walk back to the car, and we were hammering away at this next idea. Mikhail finally got it.

Taking the next step. Wow, does this phrase sound confronting to me. I don't know exactly why, but it really triggered me that afternoon on the beach. It sounded HARD. Like it would require a lot of courage and determination and hard work. Not that those are bad things, I just wondered - Am I ready to take the next step? Sometimes I think I am still in new baby survival mode, sleepless and with the mental fuzziness my mother-in-law calls "milk brain." And sometimes I am (though the sleeplessness is often not caused by the baby - I'm talking about you now, 5-year-old who hasn't slept through the night in 10 nights). But this is an exercise about reaching for something, so I went with it.

And it's interesting - I've already seen taking the next step play out in my life these last few months. Jumping into an opportunity to substantially increase my grantwriting workload, which increases our family's chaos level but also increases the money I bring into the family? Taking the next step. Deciding we're feeling adventurous enough to take on traveling internationally for the first time with our kids? Taking the next step. It even has a literal meaning to me these days, as I watch Emry string together his steps - 3, 5, 10 at a time.

Sometimes you have to challenge yourself.

And sometimes you have to eat Girl Scout cookies with a cold glass of milk and go to bed early.

Deciding when you're going to push yourself and when you're going to hunker down with the cookies? I believe that's called being a grown-up.

today's confessions

I confess that...

Sometimes the baby gets chocolate bread for breakfast.

Emry, 14 months, January 2012

And he really likes it.

(Notice the gummy smile - Emry's first tooth has broken through so he's toothless no more!)

Both my children drink bottles. Occasionally while watching TV.

December 2011

In the hours between 5 and 7 a.m., I frequently want to curse. Sometimes I do. Early morning is not my finest hour.

I found more amazement, pleasure and simple joy in Elan's Magical Crystal Garden than he did. I felt 7 years old again.

Magic Garden, January 2012

Smiles make everything better. It's such a relief that Elan's back to himself again. I am so glad that those 12 days of parenting hell are over.

Post-bath with Grandma Karen, January 2012

I spend a lot of time in cafes, since I work best away from the distractions of children, laundry and dishes at my house. But I've never heard singing in a cafe like the nine women clustered around a table across from me are doing right now. It's gorgeous, and it feels soulfully appropriate today. Today is my dad's birthday (Happy Birthday Dad!). And it's also the day we learned about the passing of a beloved preschool teacher at Elan's school after a long illness. I led a yoga session for Elan's class this morning, breathing and stretching with the kids after a difficult morning dealing with Elan's 5:00 a.m. restless and overtired crankiness, and my own frustration and worry about this ongoing sleep struggle, even post-T&A. So I think it's a day to FEEL. To feel the sad, the joy, the frustration, the gratefulness, and the messy combinations of emotion that make up being alive.

Water and cousins in the driveway, January 2012

not for the faint of heart

Botanical garden, Berkeley, January 2012

Let me tell you, having your kid get their tonsils out really sucks.

I'm really hoping this is worth it, because last night, when I was awake with a screaming, thrashing, kicking child who refuses to take his medicine in the night, from roughly midnight to 4 a.m., with breaks when he'd fall asleep, then wake up twenty minutes later, hysterical once more, and I felt so helpless and bad for him, and also so frustrated that he wouldn't just swallow the medicine, this simple thing to help himself, I had that thought I knew I would have at least once in the recovery process: This was a really bad idea.

A friend of mine recently posted this quote:

If we are facing in the right direction, all we have to do is keep on walking.

-Buddhist proverb

I am hoping that we are facing in the right direction.

mil gracias

Botanical gardens, Berkeley, January 2012

I want to say thank you for the text messages, emails, phone calls, voicemails, old-fashioned cards, and telepathic messages that have been sent our way over the past week. It's been so nice to feel the support of our community as we deal with this, our first real medical situation with one of our children. (And how lucky we felt, at Children's Hospital, where there are some very sick children, that this was our first -- and still an elective procedure.) (Though don't tell Elan we elected it. Poor guy would be quite peeved at us if he realized that.)

He made a break for it when we got into the pre-op receiving area, and who can blame him? Most anyone would feel the same urge, even if adults wouldn't act on it. They gave him an oral sedative and an iPad with Uzu, a sort of hypnotic fireworks game, on it. Mikhail carried him down the hall to an antechamber to the operating room, where he got the anaesthesia via a mask. Once he was unconscious, we stepped out into the hallway and I burst into tears. "90 percent of parents cry," the very nice Child Life Specialist told us, as I tried to pull myself together, away from the image of my little boy lying on a gurney.

But I digress. What I want to say is that we have an arbor of holiday cards adorning our big front picture window. It's nice to look up and see friends and family looking down at me. I think I'll leave them up there till spring.

being brave

Elan, Botanical Gardens, January 2012

I have to say, my little guy has really been handling the lead-up to his tonsillectomy tomorrow better than I expected.

When we first told him, he railed against it. ("No, no, no, I am NOT going to get my tonsils out! You know when I'm going to do it? NEVER!")

But within a few hours, he was making peace with the news.

This morning, as soon as he was verbal (after the usual morning groaning/fussing session), he told me he was excited about his Goodbye Tonsils cake at school. This afternoon, we had back-to-back prep errands: going to visit the Child Life Specialist at the hospital outpatient facility, and a trip to the store (shopping list: popsicles, ice cream, pudding, jello).

By the end, my emotional state was as mushy as the food. Emry had been fussing (probably something related to the giant load in his diaper deposited at the beginning of our shopping expedition that I didn't realize was in there until the end). Elan was seriously hyped up, but I was trying to cut him a lot of slack and be ultra-patient. I was negotiating the 5 p.m. rush at Berkeley Bowl, a notoriously crowded market. People were kind - the woman behind me in the check-out line helped me put my groceries on the conveyor belt - but I was exhausted and just trying to get through it. We got to the car and I realized Emry had taken off and dropped one of his socks. There was no way I was going back for that. I reached into the diaper bag for my keys. Elan was asking for a popsicle, Emry was crying, and I couldn't find the car keys. Standing there in the dark parking lot, I nearly burst into tears. The rush of emotion surprised me, but it shouldn't have. The same thing happened yesterday, while I was nursing Emry after he woke up early from his nap and interrupted the yoga I was doing to try to center myself. Sudden onset crying - it seems to be way my anticipation anxiety is showing through. This time, though, I swallowed it down. Didn't want to freak Elan out.

He's really being very BRAVE. He's saying that he's scared, and of course he is. ("Mama, I'm scared because how can they take something out of my body?"). I keep telling him it's okay to be a scared, and I'm so proud of how brave he's being. Because in order to show courage, you have to feel fear, a definition that I have always found inspiring, not being the fearless sort myself.

Watching him trying to figure this new thing that's been thrown at him, taking very seriously the list of yes and no foods I typed up for him, I'm so touched by how he's growing into a little kid. A pretty awesome one at that.

message in the sand

I love coming across other peoples' art on the beach.

We are having holiday hangover after two weeks in San Diego with my family. After two weeks of fabulous sunshine, football with the guys, and rolling around in a big kid/dog pile on the ground with my sister's two-year-old, her two Bernese mountain dogs, and my parents' dog, Elan is waking up in the dark, trying to get back to sleep and failing, and telling me he misses his cousin Judah.

Here's what holiday hangover looks like in my house:

My house was clean when we arrived home, at 10:30 p.m. Monday night. My kids took care of that by 8 a.m. Tuesday morning.

Still-packed bags litter the living room floor. I am slowly tackling them. I wish a genie would come and put everything away. The genie could clean out my closet while she's at it. And cook dinner.

I think the toys were procreating while we were gone.

I'm glad to be home, and I'm looking forward to getting back into a routine, I just don't remember exactly how to do it.

I have a head cold and I'm turning 36 tomorrow. Tomorrow! This year, my birthday feels like it's coming at the tail end of celebration. Like, do we really have to celebrate one more thing? What an awful way to feel about your birthday! Can you tell I am not feeling particularly inspired about turning 36?

And Elan's tonsillectomy is in one week and one day. I'm just a wee bit anxious about that.

At least we have the memory of sand castles.

And sand in the pockets of every pair of little-boy pants, to prove we were there, not too long ago.

sometimes it goes like this

On the hunt for stuff to get into, October 2011

Today, I am sorry to admit, my baby ate his own poop.

Need I say more?

He has become a total squirmy monkey during diaper changes, and this morning, he almost managed to kick the dirty diaper off the edge of the changing table. I caught it, but a tiny bit of poop must have fallen onto the floor, because after I had cleaned him up and re-diapered him and set him down and washed my hands, I turned back to see him putting a little light-brown, squishy thing into his mouth.

"What is that? Is that POOP?" I screamed.

This reminded me of a movie clip I saw once that often runs through my mind in these kinds of insane parenting moments, where the Experienced Mom analyzes the brown substance on her toddler's face. "Poop, or chocolate?" she asks, grabbing her child's dirty face while her childless sister looks on, horrified. "Poop, or chocolate? Poop, or chocolate?" She swipes a finger through the mystery substance and into her mouth. "Chocolate!" she proclaims.

This was like that, except there was no chocolate around.

There are two possible reactions to a moment like this: laugh or cry. And today, because Emry has an ear infection and is on antibiotics and isn't sleeping well and I don't know if these facts are related or he's just decided to stop sleeping well, and because two nights ago Elan woke up at 11 p.m. having spewed vomit all over his bed, sheets, mattress, pillows, stuffed animals, blankets, sleeper and himself, and because Elan then couldn't go to school yesterday which made his 4-day weekend into a 5-day weekend, and because that reduced the amount of time I have to do what I need to do from marginal to ridiculous, and because I'm feeling Mama-ed out right now what with someone always needing something, getting into something, crying over something, making a mess, waking me up, or sick, I cried.

Maybe next time I'll laugh. Except I'm really hoping to not have a next time. Really hoping.

sick

Fall spiderweb, Berkeley, September 2011

I'm having one of those weeks when a cold turns into laryngitis, turns into a sinus infection that feels like someone's sticking knives into my cheekbones, turns into a night spent alternatively shivering and roasting with fever, turns into the nurse practitioner saying I have the flu on top of the cold/sinus infection, turns into Emry taking Tamiflu preventatively just in case I do have the flu, turns into Mikhail going away for an overnight trip I didn't know he had, turns into me calling my mom and asking her can you pretty-please come now rather than in 2 days?, turns into discovering the joys of Theraflu Nighttime and finally getting some sleep, turns into holing up with my computer attempting to not be so behind on my work while Emry is crying downstairs, turns into writing on my blog because who can manage to write grant proposals while their baby is crying downstairs, turns into nursing Emry instead of writing grant proposals or on my blog, turns into the baby crying when I hand him back over to my babysitter, turns into more knives in my cheekbones, turns into Can I please just go back to bed now?

Yes, you can. Go quickly, before someone else needs you.

to-do list from the deep end

Comfort food in progress, October 2011

1. When all else fails, cook a brisket. With lots of roasted carrots and potatoes to soak in the briskety juices. Do not expect your 4-going-on-5-year-old, the source of The Trouble, to touch it, but the baby, who still has no teeth yet loves chicken sausage and pesto pasta, might gobble it up.

2. Do not allow your husband, plumbing novice, to try to replace the garbage disposal, even though you asked him to do it just last night. Understand that this project will take up half of Sunday's waking hours because there's no way for it not to while juggling an insane 4-year-old who hasn't slept in a week, who started the morning off dizzy from the mild sedative you gave him at 2 a.m., careening into the bookcase in his room at 6 a.m., and a crawling baby who will, through the course of the day, be found sucking on the following objects:

a) the end of a hammer;

b) a rubber band;

c) leaves;

d) the pointy end of the hammer;

e) every Cheerio he earlier threw on the floor from his highchair, thereby saving them for a snack later; and

f) his Mama's flip flop.

3. When the 4-year-old, who has bags under his half-mast eyes, throws yet another tantrum over nothing except what's in the air around him: Disciple, comfort, repeat.

4. Discipline, comfort, repeat.

5. Discipline, comfort, repeat.

6. You get the idea.

7. Go out to the driveway for a breath of fresh air. Be happy it's not raining today, like it did all last week when the 4-year-old decided to stop sleeping. Be happy your husband is here, under your kitchen sink, rather than in Toronto, where he was all last week, while you were here, trying to keep your sanity, sleepless in the rain. Decide to have the 4-year-old do sidewalk chalk in the driveway, since you can't muster the energy to fight him into going to the park quite yet. Realize there is a flattened and desiccated salamander in the driveway. Notice, sadly, that this salamander looks an awful lot like the "Dada one" in the salamander family of four that lives under a planter in your back yard. Ask your husband to come out from under the sink to deal with the dead salamander.

8. Later, when the 4-year-old is drawing sidewalk chalk goblins and ghosts in the driveway, notice that he keeps saying the Dada goblin and the Dada ghost are dead, even though you did not let him see or tell him about the salamander. Wonder if this is an uncanny ability to hear the unsaid, his way of expressing emotion over your husband traveling for work, or just part of his general obsession about death right now.

9. When your husband, plumbing novice, manages through the chaos to successfully replace the garbage disposal, as well as fix the P-trap, which became very leaky in the course of replacing the garbage disposal, give him a big kiss and serve him up a whopping plate of brisket. He deserves it.

10. As soon as the garbage disposal is finished, leave the house alone. Go exercise. If you're me, swim laps. If you're lucky, the water will clear the fog just enough to glimpse the realization that this can't be intentional, that your child probably is not trying to ruin your life, even if it feels like that on this difficult day, at the end of this difficult week. Reaffirm, as your arms cut through the water, that you are strong and capable, and that you have it in you to be your child's rock in the stormy seas in which he is currently struggling.

11. Sleep in your 4-year-old's bed tonight, with him on a pad on the floor beside you, to try to help him sleep as much as you can. When he is asleep, drink in the sight of his beautiful face, for the moment restful, wishing you could make it all better, for everyone's sake, wishing you knew how.

a realization while my child screamed at the park

So often, motherhood is about looking bad in public.

It's about kneeling in the rough playground sand, the kind that leaves an imprint on your knees in twenty seconds flat, to play tic tac toe, because your kiddo is having a tough afternoon after Day 1 of his new preschool class.

It's about getting down on your haunches to try to hold him, even though you're wearing a skirt and you know you're probably showing your polka-dot underwear to the other parents in the park.

It's about snot on your shirt, and crusty bagel crumbs in your nursing bra.

It's about sticking to your Mama guns about the no-sugar-when-you're-being-obnoxious rule, even when a popsicle would cure the tantrum.

It's about being okay with the other parents staring, the children stopping their play to watch, as your child completely and totally melts down at the park, screaming as if you're beating him even though you're several feet away.

It's about doing what you need to do, what's best for your child, and you, no matter how bad it might make you look.

One of my friends told me once: "In our house it's all about avoiding the tantrum at all costs."

That is not my strategy. If it were, my kid would be a total monster. The kind you'd never want to come over to your house. He's too strong-willed for that. Except on planes. On planes, I do try to avoid the tantrum at all costs. I employ a double-standard while in flight, and I'm okay with that.

I loved this post by Andrea on this topic (and she quotes me too, I'm honored). The comments are fabulous too, lots of funny, touching stories of how humbling parenthood can be. Read #21 from Lara, it's especially raw & open (and relates to aforementioned airplanes with children).

Even a superhero needs a little help sometimes...

And his Mama too...

Elan, September 2011

more on the "how does she do it?" question

Dandelion, Washington, August 2011

Some of my favorite friends-who-also-happen-to-be-bloggers have written recently on this question I was exploring yesterday, the how does she do it? question we women tend to ask ourselves about other women who seem to effortlessly and perfectly juggle the balls that we ourselves feel we might currently be dropping.

(Yes, I know there's a Sarah Jessica Parker movie with almost that title, but no, I haven't seen it. Movie theaters are not part of my current reality.)

I said that I liked to share stories of Real Life, with those messy moments, because I believe we will all have them and sharing them makes me feel less alone. But I fear that sometimes that makes my blog - and me - come off as whiny, not grateful for all my many blessings, overly obsessed with sleep (okay, I am overly obsessed with sleep, but if you had Elan for a kid, you probably would be too).

Here's my friend Andrea grappling with this question:

"In telling a story, especially for public consumption, I am always aware I have a choice. Do I tell you the gory details? or stick to what I loved most about it? Do I talk about how crabby I was? how the kids wouldn’t stop whining? how Matt and I were ready to wring each others’ necks? or how majestic the redwoods were?"

Kristina, whose blog often highlights lovely creative & culinary projects, says:

"And for the record, because I get a fair share of emails and comments asking how I find the time to do it all… here’s a little secret. I don’t. I just only take pictures of the things in my life that are pretty and possibly interesting to other people. But there is plenty that goes undone, plenty of I wishes and if onlys. Maybe I will start to write about that stuff more, just to be fair."

And here's another interesting post from a blogger who I don't know, and who I've never read before this post, but maybe I will read more now. I like these lines:

"It’s true: I have high ideals. But they are backed by merely human resources."

on muddling through

Ups and downs of the new school year, Elan's first day of Pre-K,

September 2011

A friend called me recently. She was having one of THOSE moments – in the line at Trader Joe’s, with her baby (who’s not been sleeping much lately), in a rush to make it to a celebration at her son’s preschool, her line was moving the slowest and she was frustrated, thinking about all the things she needed to do for the business she runs (her full-time job squeezed into part-time childcare), a work slip-up she had made, and when she finally got through the line, she realized she didn’t have her wallet with her. She had to abandon ship, leave the groceries, and flee, holding back the tears.

Wow, do I get this. Capacity maxed out, brain spinning, trying to make up for not enough sleep with caffeine, frustration and anger are quick to surface. Sometimes it’s directed at my kids, but more often at myself. Recently, I discovered, on one of those exhausted-at-7-p.m. nights, that I had made a stupid mistake in my work life, one of those things you can describe as a “brain fart” if you’re being uncouth. Thankfully, it didn’t have any major repercussions, but it made me look incompetent, not together. I couldn’t believe I had made such a sloppy error; my laundry might sit in the basket unfolded for a week, but I try to be – and usually am – extremely organized and responsible in my work life. However, it was immediately clear to me why it happened: I was maxed out. The error happened back in June, when Mikhail had just recently started his new job, and I was scrambling to figure out childcare, juggle projects for two different work clients, and be on my own with both kids for the first time when Mikhail traveled for work.

If you’re anything like me, the response to this kind of slip-up/overwhelm moment isn’t usually compassion and understanding for yourself. It’s more often anger, frustration, thoughts of why can’t I make this work?, a tendency to look around at other women juggling family and work and projects and households and think she’s got it all together and she’s happy too, what’s wrong with me? Which is why I find it so important to burst that bubble, to talk about Real Life, with all its messy moments when you have to flee Trader Joe’s in tears, because, in my experience, we’ll all have those moments, whether you’re having one today or not.

The first few weeks of September were really rough for me; I had lots of THOSE moments. Coming back from an insane amount of travel, I was stressed out. Elan was adjusting to his new pre-K class with lots of meltdowns at home, Emry and Mikhail had colds, I had two weekend trips back to back after two solid weeks of traveling to two different states, and, on top of that, my babysitter situation combusted – I had to decide what to do about an untenable situation with my sitter, let her go, and find a new one, all while trying to unpack and repack four times in a two-week period. It wasn’t pretty.

In the midst of all this, I decided for several weeks that my goal was simply to muddle through. If I could just manage to muddle though the chaos, that would be good enough. I didn’t have to be particularly patient, happy, or living in the moment; I didn’t have to be good at things or do things well. I just had to muddle through. And you know, it did give me some freedom. Whenever my blood pressure would start to rise as Elan lost his #$%^ yet again, or when the thought of packing up another suitcase would make me want to sit on the floor and cry, I would think just muddle through. Acknowledging the difficulty of the situation did help. Lowering my expectations of myself helped too.

And now, October begins. The fat fall spiders are stringing their giant webs through the bushes; the leaves on the trees are rusting and crinkling at the edges; the sunlight is weaker, coming later and fading earlier. My little family is settling into its autumn groove, and I am finding that I can once again expand out from muddling through. I can aim my sights a bit higher again, and that feels good.

Emry crawling through a tunnel, September 2011

And I can once again fit into my old size 6 jeans, which feels really good, but that’s another post.

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!