baby + sand

Tomorrow, Emry turns one year old. While I try to process this fact, a hit of Mama nostalgia is putting me in a photo kind of mood. So I'm finally getting around to posting pictures of Emry's first beach experiences, way back in July when he was only a wee 8-month-old (sniff).

Did you know that beach rocks make excellent teething toys?

Of course, sand tastes pretty yummy on its own.

Right?

What?

Now let's not even get me started on seaweed.

Seaweed is delish.

What's not to love about a salty sea vegetable?

Hello? Anyone there? Baby on the beach, all alone...

This digging in the sand stuff sure is great.

Kinda tires a baby out.

Mama's obsessed with my feet. You know how she is.

Emry, Cardiff-by-the-Sea, July 2011

allergic

Superhero on the beach, San Diego, July 2011

A conversation between Elan & me, on the topic of allergies:

"Mama, what am I allergic to?

"You're not allergic to anything, love." (thinking I'm delivering good news)

"That's not fair!"

"Oh, okay. Maybe you're allergic to... to... porcupines."

"Yeah! Remember when we saw that one at the zoo?"

"Yup."

"I wasn't very close to it, or I would have sneezed."

"Yeah. Good thing."

"For real, Mama?"

"Could be."

"No, I'm not allergic to porcupines. Know what I'm allergic to?"

"What?"

"Signs! See, there's one there, and I'm just going to sneeze."

And then there was this zinger, also allergy-related:

"Mama, know what it means if you're gluten-free?"

"What?"

"It means you're allergic to glue."

yosemite, anytime

Rocks & stream, outside Yosemite, July 2008

It has been too long since Mikhail and I went to Yosemite. We've been discussing this a lot lately. We keep trying to find a little time to make a pilgrimage, but we haven't yet. In the meantime, I came across these time-lapse videos of Yosemite. Each one takes only a minute to watch. Watch the weather move in, or the snow melt, or the moon rise over Half Dome. A little vicarious nature enjoyment, and a little perspective, without leaving your laptop.

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.