Motherhood is a Journey

Today the girls and I visited the Children's Museum. We do that a lot during the winter months and it's always fun for the kids and a nice little break for me. As we were wrapping up from lunch I watched all of the others mothers and few fathers doing the same. Suddenly it hit me; how white we all were, how ordinary in our Keens and Patagonia jackets. I looked around as other parents pulled the same organic blueberries from their satchels and Nalgene bottles filled with ice, never juice. A mother close by cooed to her baby the same way I coo to Gwen, asking her to say elephant, slow like that, "el-e-phant." I don't know what I'm saying exactly, except that there I was, just another organic produce toting, middle of the afternoon museum cooing, white mother.

I like my peers, truly I do. I love to affiliate with other women in my situation. We buy fair trade coffee at the kid friendly joint and we talk about Montessori education and simplicity parenting. We laugh about toilet training. These women are educated, funny, and kind. I enjoy these friendships immensely. This is who I am, in many ways, and yet I find myself craving some diversity; friendships with a little grit, the opportunity to meet and know mothers who are different from myself.

It seems like such an immeasurable privelege to be a white, stay at home mother living in Portland. It almost seems indulgent. Wouldn't it be a profound gift to have the opportunity to meet mothers of every age and race, culture and religion and compile their stories, form friendships and solidarity and to dig out the common threads? Yes, indeed.

Girls in Winter

Yesterday when we were out walking I realized that Gwenyth is really no longer a baby. She's so independent and funny. She hates to ride in the stroller anymore and desperately wants to run after her sister. She wants to wear dresses too and be allowed to eat her banana by herself.

The girls are getting easier all at once. I've noticed Abi coming into this sort of self awareness. She has more patience than expected. Her speech is more mature and I often hear her start a sentence with, "I suppose..." Gwenyth is sleeping like a bear cub in winter. She loves milk, she loves food, she can finally chase the squirrels and every so often to asks to sit on the toilet.

The new house feels insane. There are so many things we love that I can't even begin listing but overall the small outdated kitchen more than makes up for itself in long willowy dogwood branches, basement storage, funky window architecture and the ever peaceful presence of palm trees.

To be fair, it has been raining so much. It's been soggy and grey and every. single. year. I think that we'll probably die or go crazy before spring arrives but somehow we pull through. Something doesn't seem right about it though....I feel so bad for the little girls who just want to run in the grass. Also, our basement flooded. It was harmless in the end, but rather inconvenient. Oh, and Blake found out he's lactose intolerant which means no cheese. Is there life after cheese? I doubt it.

2012

*I had Gwennie in some darling, sparkly mary janes but she cried and cried until I put on her Chuck's.

2012- It's time I started taking better care of myself

1. Lots of vitamins. More red meat and eggs.
2. Yoga class on Monday. Every monday.
3. Throw some pottery at least once a week.
4. Clean a little bit less, hang out with the kids a little bit more.
5. Red wine + Blake + No TV.
6. Hire a babysitter at the very least once every two months. Once a month preferably.
7. Live more gracefully. Approach all of my friendships with grace and remind them of the gifts they are.

Goodnight

All of a sudden it's December again, just like always but this year we've had almost no rain. The skies have been dry and it feels like Montana. Any time the wind drops below freezing I feel like a girl again pulling on boots over woolen socks. Today I had to scrape the windows ever so slightly and I remembered shucking ice off of the windshield every morning before grad school. Sometimes my dad would drive by my house on his way to work and do it for me.

It's December and I'm nostalgic again. I'm making cookies with the girls and giant paper stars for the windows. I want to cry because I can't figure out how to balance being a good mother with a good housekeeper and good wife and somehow be amazingly social and have hobbies too- ones I'm skilled at. Then I get over it for a second, remembering the stories my grandmother tells about mothering, or the assurances my husband gives me about hobbying. There will be hobbying again soon in my future. I'm at that happy edge.

The girls are these big, bright lights. They are so strong and interesting. Abigail breaks my heart when she tells me daddy is her favorite. She misses him and I understand, but still. Gwenyth snuggles me up. I wonder how to keep cool and mellow. I want Abi to know it's okay if daddy is her favorite sometimes. I can be okay with runner up.

I want to scream into the heavens with joy because we sold our house and that's something of a miracle. I want to tuck myself in with a song. I am strong and bright and interesting too. Children are such funny creatures. Never have I loved so deeply. Never have I learned so much.

Caged Bird Singing

Today it's been pouring rain all day. The girls and I are all content to just stay and in eat warm bread with honey. These next few quiet days are the last we'll spend in this house. We have a buyer for the condo and with a little luck and prayer the sale will go through. After all this time rooted it feel amazing to be moving somewhere (anywhere) else. It's a rental. Though we're not unhappy with that fact. There will be so much freedom, time to save, things we'll no longer have to worry about. The house is still smallish, but cute. The yard is so big and green. There is a garden plot, an ample deck, room to run and somersault. The two palm trees in the front yard make me swoon because once again I will be able to lie underneath fronds in the breeze. There is no sweeter sound. Blake is so excited to have a real garage he can mess around in, and the unfinished basement is just finished enough for me to spread out an assortment of projects. We now have a pottery wheel too which makes the basement officially a dream come true of mine. I'm lousy at throwing but I'm looking forward to escaping on Saturday afternoons for a bit of coffee and clay.

Blake and I feel so hopeful and alive. There are fragile feelings there too. A sadness to leave the only home our children have known. So much regret that we couldn't make this happen before parting with Maggie, our lab.

But still.

Christmas is coming. This year Abi believes more than ever. Mom and dad will be here for a long visit. I'm so enjoying this phase of our lives. I am so thankful for every single day. They are rushing by me so quickly and somehow I'm 31 already, when I feel like I was just 24, and I wonder how I'll ever be able to hold on to every beautiful moment?

The Rainy Years Ahead

It was so cold and we were killing time before bed. We bundled the babies in their winter coats, each face lined in faux fur, and secured the rain fly loosely. It never fit quite right. It was so dark and the rain was so sudden. You pushed the stroller into the night and your feet were nearly bare, flip flopped. Mine were snug in yellow boots, a Christmas gift from you the year I was pregnant with Abi. We started running in the rain, the children screeching with glee and suddenly I was 23 again, dancing with you in the dark, warm, rain of a Pacific summer. You said my wet eyelashes were beautiful, I can remember your words, and as we ran wildly through the Safeway parking lot, pushing a double stroller, you, three weeks overdue for a haircut, looked back at me and something sparked in my chest. A cycle had completed. Where would I love you next in the rain?

Let's pretend I don't suck

Nothing makes you feel like a crappy mother more, than being sick. Today I was sick. Today I was crappy. Four hours of television crappy. Hot dogs and applesauce crappy. On any normal day I don't especially love playing pretend. I know. I am supposed to be the theatre geek who loves to play dress up and make forts, and while yes, I do love those things, I can't stand (and I mean nearly loathe) recreating scenes from Disney princess movies with Abigail. I feel really guilty about this because I envision really good mothers as being the kind who can reproduce perfect dialogue from the third Tinkerbell at the drop of a hat. Good mothers love that shiz. I know they do. I just can't do it though and I feel so badly every time I play for 30 seconds only to find some near emergency dishwasher unloading that must be done immediately, making it impossible for me to continue. "But maybe later Ab. Just play by yourself for awhile." I love reading to my children, facilitating art projects and science experiments. I enjoy the weekly outing to the Children's museum. I can do blocks for a while. Just please, (oh God please) don't make me pretend that lime green throw blanket is my Rapunzel hair ever again.

Maybe it's just that I'm sick. Maybe it's just that Abi was up all night coughing then crying. Maybe it's just that no matter how hard I tried, I grew up, and even though I love watching Abigail play pretend (my heart nearly swells at her earnest rendition of a spider spinning her web) I can't seem to summon that kind of magic anymore.

Childhood is so full of wonder. Parenthood is so full of crappy, long-ass sick days.