Life lately

Early yesterday morning, I took pause to marvel at how deliciously beautiful Clark is. How delightfully snuggly. We were spending an early morning watching cartoons, because I was too bleary eyed to do anything else at that hour. “Mommy, sit here. Mommy, come too.” He absentmindedly played with my rings and snuggled up as PBS Kids rolled in the background and the world started to wake up.

A few hours later, we were both in tears in the back of my car. He wouldn’t sit in his car seat; I was out of tricks and bribes and patience. I lost my cool, regained it and repeated that cycle a few times as I navigated the surprises and monotony of toddler negotiation. When I finally gave up and just sat next to him, upset and defeated, Clark touched my cheek and said, “I’m sorry, Mommy.” My first thought was, “If you were really sorry you would have gotten in your car seat 20 minutes ago ya little punk!” My immediate next thought was, “Oh. So this is parenthood.” Your child breaking your heart and putting it back together again and again.

Drop off at daycare was harder than it had been in months. Clark didn’t want me to leave, didn’t want to let go, wouldn’t calm down. I finally got to work 30 minutes late and right in time to walk into our weekly staff meeting and take my place at the head of the conference table. I was exhausted and scattered and not sure what other emotion to feel.

When I picked Clark up in the afternoon, him and his bestie were each rocking little baby dolls. His teacher said, “Clark is just the sweetest. He’s so kind. When someone is upset, he always goes over and asks “Are you ok?” and pats their back.” My heart swelled. A few minutes later, we started another round of get-in-the-car-seat diplomacy.

That’s it. No conclusion drawn, no life lesson learned. Just a vignette, a blur of the ups and downs of life lately. So much joy, so much frustration. In an effort to beat the writer’s block of the past few years, I thought I’d share a little with you :)

Families belong together

 "Change the world one friend at a time"

I paused in my car to hear the end of a story on All Things Considered with a recording of young children crying at a detention center. I heard the sounds of their trauma, the terror in their cries, the heartbreak and heartrage of their parents and the wild-eyed frantic desperation their mamas felt when their babies were stolen from them. 

I paused again on my walk inside, up the beautiful new path we paid to have built to our door, in the backyard of the home we own, in a city where we feel safe, close to family, with heat and air conditioning and clean water and stability. Where my ethnicity and race and language and education afford me privileges that others are systematically denied.

I stepped inside. My husband and toddler greeted me with their handsome grins and hugs. Clark was having a tough night. He spent much of it crying and whining and tantruming, which is unusual for him. For a fleeting moment I thought, "Here I am, enduring my son's inconsolable cries just like those mothers seeking asylum." What a foolish thought that was. No, this was nothing like what those mamas at the border are facing. Clark was crying because he wanted a pop. He wasn't crying from fear or terror or trauma. He wasn't afraid for his body. He wasn't wondering where his mommy or daddy was. He wasn't crying for human touch that the guardians of the stolen border children aren't allowed to provide. He wanted dessert, that's all. When he eventually calmed down, Chris and I quietly poured ourselves a drink  and the three of us set out for an evening walk around our neighborhood. We weren't afraid that anyone would take Clark from us or that one of us would be arrested or deported. We weren't fearful for the safety of our own bodies, or imagining the bullets or handcuffs or humiliation that might come upon us. We were a young family on a walk, nothing to see here.

How do you reconcile your immense gratitude for your life with your visceral, shared pain of the world? I'm having trouble finding that edge and balance. I still fret over picking out new couches to brighten our living room. I still concern myself with my weight and my skin and my clothes. I'm worried when all Clark eats is cheese and toast and strawberries. I admonish myself for not having planned a family summer vacation sooner because all of the charming Airbnb rentals are booked. Flip that:  I have a home and a living room and money to buy couches and cheese and toast and strawberries and paid vacation time and the luxury to still worry about all of those things. 

I guess what I'm saying is, there is a lot of pain in this world and today I'm haunted by the cries of babies who have been torn apart from their mamas and daddies. I hear the pleas of brave parents who risked everything they had to save their babies, to leave their homeland in search of safety and freedom. 

There is no such thing as other people’s children. We will fight for these kids like we’d fight if they were our kids. Because they are. We will fight for these mothers like we’d fight if they were our sisters. Because they are. If my country was ravaged with violence and my children were in constant danger, I hope I’d have the courage to do whatever it took to get them to safety. I hope that when we got there, we’d be cared for instead of terrorized. And if I were ever separated from my children, I’d hope that some mothers, somewhere out there, would care enough to get them back to me.
— Glennon Doyle, founder of Together Rising

You know what to do. Find an organization you trust who is doing the work to end this crisis and give. Give more than you think you can and please, for the love of progress, don't complain about their overhead expenses or employee salaries. Listen, love & give. If you need a nudge in the right direction, Together Rising has been doing an incredible job researching and connecting with on-the-ground organizations to pass through 100% of the money they raise. You can also donate through ActBlue and have your donation split among several trustworthy orgs. Cup of Jo published a great piece dispelling myths and suggesting ways to help. Families Belong Together is organizing non-violent actions and rallies as well as encouraging support for organizations on the ground. 

Simplifying my wardrobe

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Last month I quietly joined a little Fall 10x10 challenge, wherein you pick 10 items from your closet and wear only those items for 10 days. If you've talked to me about clothes or fashion lately, you may have heard that I'm fixated on simplifying my wardrobe. Having too many choices in the morning freaks me out and wastes precious time. Looking through clothes that don't fit or that I don't feel good in is demoralizing. Since becoming a mama, the urge to simplify my closet has only gotten stronger. No time for fashion crises, I just want a few good clothes that make me feel great and let me spend time on other things.

Sometime soon, I'll write about the minimalism trend and how it reeks of privilege but how it also shouldn't be dismissed because I think it's only way forward and how it's also an important blow to our capitalist consumer society. I wanted to include it here, but it's taking me too long and all of the sudden six more months will pass and I won't have posted anything. Gotta start pressing publish more often.

The 10x10 "rules" are:

Pick 10 items of clothing from your closet. Include tops, bottoms, and shoes for your everyday life. Don’t include accessories, bags, PJs, or gym clothes — they can flow in and out freely. Then, for 10 days, create a new outfit each day using your 10 items.

I chose not to include shoes so I could have a little more wiggle room to accomodate two weekend days plus eight work days of outfits. The weather for my ten days was all over the map, with some days nearly reaching 80 degrees and others more seasonably in the 50s.

The result? Totally easy. This challenge is probably a lot more challenging for people who are really into fashion. I, however, have no problem wearing the same outfit over and over, or at least really similar outfits, so it turns out this challenge was just sort of an interesting twist on how I already dress. I tried to take outfit photos but deleted all of them out of pure embarassment. How do you take outfit photos that aren't mortifying? I tried, I really did, but no.

Here's what I wore those 10 days:

  1. Gray tee + navy pants
  2. Navy tee + pencil skirt
  3. Navy dolman sweater + maroon pants
  4. Black dress
  5. Tan sweater + navy pants
  6. Navy dolman sweater + jeans
  7. Gray tee + jeans
  8. Striped shirt + navy pants
  9. Black dress (as shirt) + maroon pants
  10. Navy tee + navy pants

No big deal, right? Completely boring. Blissfully simple. Thinking about going full force with a Winter Capsule this season, which is basically just a simple, seasonal approach to a minimalist closet. Because I need more time for playing with Clark, drinking coffee and reading books under a blanket :)

Resources
Un-fancy blog
StyleBee

It's ok if...

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Real quick, in case you're waiting for permission, I hereby declare that it's ok if:

  • Your baby/toddler doesn't sleep through the night
  • You're not as interested in dropping those last few pounds of baby weight as you thought you'd be by now
  • You breastfeed your 14-month-old 
  • ...but you wish you could wear regular, non-nursing bras again
  • You can't imagine having another baby yet
  • You haven't taken a romantic vacation away with your husband since the baby
  • You don't enforce a strict schedule at home like the internet says you should
  • You are ready for bed by 9pm
  • You are both addicted to and paralyzed by to-do lists
  • You don't daydream of staying home full-time with your baby
  • You spend too much time on Instagram
  • You're worried your blog is going to turn into a mommy blog
  • You are ready to donate 75% of your pre-baby wardrobe
  • You are grateful for a wonderful daycare but your heart still hurts a tiny bit when you drop your baby off in the morning
  • You are happy and tired and grateful but sometimes quite whiny
  • You still try to control everything, even though you can't

And, of course, it's ok if the opposite of these things are true for you. It's all ok, and you're ok and you look nice today even though that dress doesn't fit quite the way it used to but it's hugging those mom curves and there's something kind of nice about that. Grab a cider doughnut and make this week a good one :)

Clark's first year

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I'm a writer. I entered poetry and essay contests in middle school, started my first blog 15 years ago (!) and am ever loyal to my journals. So you can imagine how out of sorts I've felt this first year of motherhood having written only a handful of journal entries and even fewer posts here. Every day I've thought, oh! I need to write this down. I need to remember this. And yet... those words have remained largely unwritten. The joy, the amazement and wonder, the heart full of love and the moments of loneliness of our baby's first year have come and gone. I don't have heartfelt monthly letters to Clark or even notes about when he reached major milestones.

But I do have a wonderful hazy year of memories. I've decided to stop bemoaning the lack of documentation and to be grateful for the natural editing that time has afforded me. I may not have written down every thought or reflection, but now, on my son's first birthday, the important ones remain clear in my heart.

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The early days are a blur. You were born at 12:31pm. We waited until the midwives left to call our parents and tell them about you. That first night we stayed up late even though we were so tired. You fell asleep at the foot of our bed, so we moved our pillows and slept there with you. The next morning we woke up as a family of three. You and I stayed upstairs in bed a lot in the first few days. Your dad would bring up snacks and then at night, he'd shut off the lights and lock up the house and join us. It was so dreamy, so magical. Your first few days here were a rainy reprieve in the middle of a scorching summer. When the sun came out, we'd open up the dining room doors to the yard and let the breeze in. Your dad would play Fleetwood Mac or Cat Stevens and we'd dance around and laugh and think about how very lucky we were. On your second or third day, your dad ran out to get a coffee and you and I were alone together. I put you in your basket and brought you into the bathroom so I could shower. It felt very brave, to do something, anything, with a baby. Our first trip out of the house was to city hall to get you a birth certificate. I was so nervous. I made your dad drive us all and had to bite my lip to keep from crying. How silly! I just couldn't bare the thought of you being out in the real world, outside of our bubble. Afterwards we took you to the park for a picnic. What I remember from the early days was a fridge full of food-- fruit salad, pasta, bagels, baked french toast and everything in between. My heart swelled each time we opened it and found the nourishment we needed. I remember your dad and I laughing so much and looking at you in amazement. It was a dream world and I loved every minute of it. You were such a charming newborn. You slept well at night. We were spoiled!

During a September trip to the co-op for some fancy cheeses, you bewitched and charmed the entire store. You were a sun beam, a bundle of star dust and every person we passed smiled said hello to you. Before we left, a woman declared you would be a great novelist one day and another asked if she could pray for us before putting her hands on your little body and praying for your health and telling you how lucky you were to have me as your mama. I'll admit I was embarrassed but knew that a prayer couldn't hurt.

One rainy Saturday night in October I woke to nurse you. The three of us lay in bed and as you and your dad dozed back off to sleep, I lay awake listening to the rain and watching the tree branches blow, realizing that there was nowhere else in the world I'd rather be. I'll always remember the way that felt.

You came to work with me when you were little and I'd wear you around the office and catch up on budgets and emails and meetings with you tucked right on my chest. I promised myself not to romanticize #babiesatwork but the fog of time has left only the good memories of my worlds colliding, of feeling whole, of de-compartmentalizing and embracing my overlapping role as mother and as a leader.

There was the Friday night when your dad was at work so I settled in to watch a movie. You curled up on me to sleep. I watched your chest rise and your fingers twitch and barely noticed the movie playing in the background.

Christmas morning you screamed and howled the entire two hour + drive to dinner. We pulled over at a rest area and with two of the three of us in tears, I thought, oh! I can't do this anymore. This is too hard. Babies are too hard. I want my life back.

The first time we dropped you off at daycare, after months of bringing you to work or to Nana's, was tough. Your dad and I went to get breakfast empanadas afterwards so we could delay the work day a little bit longer. I quickly saw, though, that you found a whole extra group of people to love and be loved by, and that's a very good thing, isn't it? You are thriving at "school" and I love how much you love people, especially other kids.

I remember when you stopped sleeping so well at night and started sleeping like, well, a baby. Some mornings you wake up so early that your dad and I have to take turns bringing you downstairs to play while the other sleeps a little longer. When it's my turn I sometimes cover myself up with a blanket on the floor and let you crawl all over, stopping by to hug and cuddle before finding a new toy to amuse yourself until the sun comes up.

Clark, I remember the hours spent nursing you and rocking you to sleep, the time spent frantically looking up a symptom or question on my phone. I remember how even on the hardest nights, as soon as you were asleep I dreamed about cuddling you. In the hazy first year I remember the moments when I finally felt like a mother:  when I shhhhd and rocked you in the lobby of a diner; when I went to pay at the grocery store and a pacifier fell out of my purse; when I surprised myself by loving my postpartum body and all it has done for us; when my heart grew a thousand times stronger and softer all at once.

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For years we dreamed of you and made plans for you and then finally watched you grow from the size of a poppyseed in my belly to a watermelon and into a baby boy. One year ago, we met you and our universe shifted. Happy birthday, my love. You have my heart, always.