It's Been Four Years

I am at a writing conference today on MSU conference.  I have been motivated to write again.  "Go home and be writers again," the facilitator said:
In college I was a creative writing minor, and I absolutely loved my writing professor, Dr. Sodowsky.  We had deadlines and would workshop one another's writing each week.  I loved it. I felt like a good writer.  I read a story at the Moon City Readings and I got published in the campus magazine.  But since then without having a deadline, I don't feel like a writer anymore.  I have blogged and journaled (mostly about my kids), but I don't finish pieces like I used to.  Knowing I had a deadline and audience totally shaped my desire / ability to feel successful as a writer.  I feel that if I took another class and had something to work toward I could and would write again.

5 Long Months

It's been a long time since I've written last, and a lot has happened since then.

Change is always hard, but this change has been especially hard for me.  You would think it would be easier coming home, but in a way, it feels more difficult. Partly because of expectations I put on myself, I am finding it hard to settle in to this new / old place.  I think maybe I thought I would ease back into who I was when I lived here before.  But I've become someone different, someone better.  And the new me doesn't want to fit into that old mold. 

I remember feeling sad when I moved to Columbia seven years ago, and I remember missing home.  And then I had to make Columbia my home, so it became important to me in a way that no other place has.  I'm probably romanticizing it and being sentimental, but I really grew into myself as an adult and as an educator during my years there.  I learned things about myself and who I want to be.  So perhaps this is why the city is so special to me now.  It's where I found my husband, where I gave birth to my child, and where I met some of the most important friends I'm conviced I will ever have. 

When I start to miss it, though, I never let myself ask if I made the right decision in moving.  Because I know we did.  Here we are closer to family, which is so important to us.  We have help with Miles' daily care.  We are on the verge of building a home we will live in and love for a long, long time.  These things are worth moving for. 

Something else I'm discovering firsthand is that change is hard for a reason.  It helps us grow and become better people -- so just like I became a better version of myself when I moved to Columbia, I'm certain the same will be said down the road of this move.  Maybe here I will be a better wife, a better daughter and sister, and a better mom. 

It's my mission now to celebrate the new version of me I am becoming.  I will still let myself miss my old home, but I won't let myself wish I had it easier.  Instead I will "celebrate myself and sing myself" as Walt Whitman did. 

I will embrace this change and look forward to the new me to come. 

Time Flies

This morning Miles cried when I left, which was a first. 

I wasn't ready to do the right thing by being strong.  I caved and held him again and kissed his fat little cheeks and let him cling to my neck for a few more moments. 

Brittany and I were able to get him calmed down with a binky and Super Why (his favorite show).  But it was kind of sweet in a weird way - not that I want him to cry or be sad. But it was nice knowing that he would miss me today as much I would miss him. 

Tomorrow my baby turns 11 months old, and it's got me thinking about how quickly this year has gone by.  He's so big now! Walking and getting into everything.  This morning he put a weeble toy in the toilet.  It's like he's obsessed with all the things he shouldn't want to play with!  (trash can, toilet, toilet wand, etc.)  He's also obsessed with chasing the cat around the h.ouse, exclaiming  "Ga! Ga!" 

Sadie is not amused.

But this age is so much fun.  I am finally getting why people have like four or five of these! Not that I want to...

Apple of My Eye

A funny little story - on Friday I was at Panera with my mom, sister and Miles.  All during our lunch I was giving Miles chunks of honeydew melon and canteloupe, which he loved.  A few minutes later he grabbed the apple off my sister's tray and started gnawing on it, sinking his little teeth into the fruit.  It must have felt good on his little gums.
Mom and I grabbed our phones and snapped a few pictures.  We were laughing at how adorable he looked holding this apple. It was so cute!
Until a few minutes later when he choked for a second on a piece of skin.  He gagged a little - then yakked up formula and honeydew all over himself and the table and carpet. 
One beat of silence - then my sister and I burst into laughter.  As soon as I realized he was fine, I couldn't help cracking up.  It was so out of the blue, and it reminded me how life with a kid can turn on a dime. 
One second you're reveling in the beauty of your child, and the next you're on the floor of Panera cleaning up puke. 

Playing Chase

Last night after Robert got home, he and Miles played chase.  That's their favorite game. 
It's always starts out really cute, because Miles has the most delighted laugh.  Adorable, melt your heart, belly laughter.  But I usually wind up standing in the kitchen, anxious, because I know what I'm about to hear: Miles crying  after he's fallen and hurt himself somehow. 

It seems like ever since he started walking, he's been falling.  It's so hard not to rush to him and comfort, soothe and hold him.  This is what I struggle with daily.  Because I don't want him to be a whiner or a kid who thinks he is hurt when he isn't.  So I attempt to hang back and be cool, waiting to see if he really needs me.

Over the weekend he fell, and I rushed to him, while Robert said, "Don't pick him up.  He's okay."  But mamas know the difference between a cry that means "I'm hurt" and a cry that means "I'm mad that I fell."  And this was an "I'm hurt" kind of cry. 

And he was.  Poor little dude cut his lip on one of those four crazy baby teeth he has.  There was a little blood. 

I surprised myself by being calmer than I would've thought - especially since I was about to walk out the door.  We put a teething ring on his lip, which made it better.  And I held him on my lap for several minutes, which made me feel better. 

And it struck me that this is what motherhood is all about -  knowing how to find that elusive balance between being there too much and not being there enough. 

Sometimes I lie in bed, freaking myself out because he is ALL the way downstairs (where he has been sleeping since he was three months old!), worried that he might need me but somehow be unable to cry out for me.  And then I remind myself that he is turning into a little boy; he is a person who needs his own bed, his own space. 

I know that I will always have to work on that sense of balance when it comes to my baby.   Has any mom ever achieved it successfully? Probably not.  But I guess being a mama means you have to try.

I Am a Runner

Even typing that title gives me anxiety.  Never in a million years would I have thought I could EVER describe myself as a runner.  It is hard.  It is exhausting.  And it makes me feel so, so strong.

Usually I run about three times a week.  I am up to running a little over two miles without stopping, but my goal is three; this is because I'll be running a 5K in two weeks.  It's only my second time to run the 5K - the first time was two years ago, and I cried running across the finish line.  I literally could not believe I had done it.  I just never saw myself as a "runner" because runners are thin, athletic, and their jeans always fit.  They don't drink beer or crave Andy's frozen custard on a daily basis.

Yesterday Miles and I went to the MKT together.  He sucked on a frozen piece of honeydew melon for most of the run while also babbling at the trees and birds and other trail goers.  I ran two miles without stop, and the last half mile was a killer.  Pushing an extra twenty-some pounds really takes it out of your energy level!

When I run in my neighborhood, I have a mile course I've plotted out for myself that I run at least twice.  There are some slight hills that I feel lend a sense of reality of what the 5K course will be like.  I usually run around 7:15 in the evening, after helping get Miles ready for bed.  I throw on my jogging bra, lace up my pink Nikes, and head out the door, turning right out the driveway. 

I only walk for thirty seconds or so before getting started.  There are very distinct smells at every section of my course - downwind of Sonic it smells like a carnival, greasy fried food and dust.  Later on there's a spot that usually smells like spray paint, and about six houses down from ours the air smells like Ramen noodles every single time.  My favorite smells are when someone is cutting their lawn, and when I wipe the sweat off my face around mile one, my hands smell like Johnson & Johnson lavendar baby lotion. This make me think of Miles and always brings a smile to my face.

But what I love best about running is that it's not for anyone else but me.  Unlike everything else in my life, no one else depends on my success.  It feels strange to be committed to this new addiction of mine.  And really good to do something both healthy and completely selfish. 

Green (and Gold) Day

Sometimes when I imagine what it'll be like to leave Rock Bridge / Columbia, I imagine Green Day singing "Time of Your Life" as a montage of clips scroll by - me with my students and friends living it up in Columbia, my home of the last seven years. 

Sometimes, like today, the sadness squeezes so tight that I don't think I can hold back the tears for one more minute. 

I have been slowly cleaning out desk drawers, folders and file cabinets - recycling, giving away and packing all the crap I've inexpicably held onto for the past several years.  There are papers from kids who are gone - dead or graduated, and papers from kids I had forgetten all about.  Old lesson plan books, conference notes and handouts all serve as reminders of who I was and am as a teacher, what a huge part of my life has been all about. 

It's making me sentimental, and I'm trying not to romanticize it all, but taking this step is huge and scary. 
I'm sad.
Leaving is going to be really, really hard. 
 
I got choked up today, reading a story from a book about Vietnam called The Things They Carried that has never made me emotional before.  I realized it's because this may be the last time I'll teach this story, this book, this unit.  It's about saying good-bye.  Not just to the kids or my classroom of the last seven years, or even this school.  But to everyone I know here, my town, my second home. 

Hello, Blog

It has been a looooong time since I've last blogged.  I'm not sure why - I hate when people say they've been too busy to do something.  (If it means something to you, you'll make time for it.)  So I won't use that excuse.  But life does get in the way sometimes of even the best intentions.

Miles is growing and changing and becoming a sweet little boy, no longer the little baby I used to rock and cuddle and kiss. I still rock and cuddle and kiss on him - every chance I get.  But usually that's followed by him squirming away or getting distracted by someone or something else.  Now we bond by playing games and giggling, belly laughing at each other, and making messes.  It is so fun to be his mom, which innevitably gets me thinking about the possibility of having another. 

When I think about whether or not I'd like to give Miles a little brother or sister, the answer is yes! When I ask myself if I'm willing to go through the pregnancy and birth again, the answer is yes! But when I'm honest about wanting to go through the baby part again, I'm not sure.  I loved Miles from the second I knew he was inside me - and that love only intensifies every day, with each smile, toddle, nose crinkle, love pat and babble.  But what if we had another kid who was not as cool as Miles?  What if I loved him / her differently?  Those first six months are really, really hard. 

I know I don't have to decide now, or even next month.  But it makes me feel a little guilty, thinking about not giving him a sibling.  I know many people grow up just fine being an only child, but I also know how much I love and appreciate having a sister.  It's an option on the horizon, which is where I'll keep it for now...

Butterfly Effect

My freshman year of college my best friend Gina and I were lying aournd my dorm room on the bunk beds looking up tattoo parlors in the phone book.  Majestic Tattoo was close by, and I had remembered seeing its green neon sign, so we jumped in my '89 red Beretta and drove the few blocks.  I knew exactly what I wanted, so I had an easy time choosing an image from the parlor wall.  Meanwhile Gina looked and looked for one she liked well enough to live with forever.  I could hear the buzz of the tattoo gun from down the hall.  Extreme nervousness and excitement bubbled inside me as I wated my turn.

Soon a burly man in a black T shirt ushered me into a small room.  He had dirty gray hair and a bushy beard; he must've weighed 300 pounds or more.  The smell of rubbing alcohol and stale tobacco hung in the air.  The gun came to life and buzzed against my skin, which stung a lot more than I was expecting, especially as he rubbed the needle into my flesh to fill in the color, then wiped away the excess ink and blood.

Ten minutes and $40 later I had a blue and purple butterfly on my left hip.  Gina left with nothing.  I showed off my new tat at a party that very night, peeling back the sticky tape and guaze.  A few months later I finally showed it to my mom; we were bathing suit shopping so I sort of had no choice.  I was expecting a lecture, but she just rolled her eyes.  "That's forever, you know," she said.  And, as is often true with things moms say, she was right.  

It's still there, eighteen years later.  It's been faded by the sun and stretched by pregnancy, but that buttlerfly still spreads her wings on my hip as a reminder of a younger, more impulsive me.

Forging Ahead - a poem for my Columbia homies

Forging Ahead

In the middle of the state

In the middle of the country

In the middle of their lives

Five girls found

sun-drenched laughter, beer-soaked tears,

And a love for one another -

            sweet, strong and pure.

           

We started out nursing broken hearts –

healing though being

on the other end of the phone, across the table,

next to a pool,

on a dance floor.

Now look at us.

As we mourn the end of an era,

We revere the sisterhood that has been

forged through millions of little moments --

Kleenex, concerts and road trips,

countless tubs of popcorn,

boyfriends, breakups, and martinis.

Overwhelming journeys lie ahead for each girl…

Some on airplanes, some in their hearts.

We are saying good bye to parts of ourselves

Even as we welcome the new,

Although it seems impossible without

one another's hands to hold along the way.

It's time

to go be better

versions of ourselves.

Love You Forever

Years and years ago, before crow's feet began to make their first appearance, and when I still used to get carded for alcohol, I worked at Barnes & Noble in the kids' section.  There was this book, whose illustrations were particularly cheesy, that the other booksellers and I used to make a lot of fun of -- how sappy its prose was, how dorky the pictures were.  It was called "Love You Forever."  We scoffed at its sentimental message. The mother in the book continually rocks her son as he grows bigger and older, singing to him the words, "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always.  As long as you're living, my baby you'll be."  Then she grows older and is unable to rock him, so he rocks her and sings the same song. 

I know - barf! 

A few years later I had a friend who owned this book - a male friend in his 40s.  I laughed at him - why in the world do you have this sappy, crappy book? I asked.  He explained to a sheepish me that it reminded him of his mom, how when she got sick he had to take care of her.  I inwardly giggled at the badly done illustration of the middle aged man rocking his mother.  How silly, I thought!

After the birth of my son, a co-worker gave me this same book.  I snorted and put it on the shelf with his dozens of other books, thinking I would never read it. 

Then the other night, for some reason, I got this book out and read it aloud to Miles.  He was sitting in my lap, playing with an Elmo board book, probably not even listening as I read the lines - "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always.  As long as you're living, my baby you'll be." 

Oh, how the tears welled up -- and spilled over.  Not even the cheesy illustrations could stop the bittersweet emotions from flowing. 

How different this book looks through the eyes of a mother.  

Finding Time For Me

When you're a mom, for some odd reason, it seems you feel ALL your time and energy - every ounce of what you have to give - must go to someone else.  Why is that?  Sometimes my day seems to be made of obligation, responsibility and worry -- and no one does that to me but myself.

Why do I forget about the girl who is begging for some attention? -- I'm talking about me here.
 
For instance, when I was pregnant, I used to go to Body Pump at the gym, walk the trail, and hit the treadmill on a regular basis.  I swear I was in better shape then than I am now.  I walked 3 miles every day the last week of my pregnancy, and that was in the heat of June!  These days I'm lucky to squeeze in a run once a week -- and the whole time I'm running, I'm thinking I SHOULD be home with my baby, or I ought to be picking up groceries, or I really should've used that time to grade a few papers.

I am looking forward to spring when we can go for family walks, and strap Miles in a trailer on the back of one of our bikes.  But until then, it's up to me to remember to take care of myself sometimes too.

Are you listening, Jodi?  Don't feel guilty for taking a walk!  Don't feel like your missing something because you are washing your hair today!  And for God's sake, get a pedicure already!

I have NOTHING to wear

If you've ever seen my closet, you know this is definitely not true.  But it feels true some mornings, like this morning for example.  I changed six times.  I even had a new shirt but decided I didn't like it after all.  So I was rushing around, changing bras, jeans, tops, boots... I had to rush out the door without lunch because I was 20 minutes behind schedule.  Since then I've been stewing.  Responding to emails and putting off grading a stack of papers.

Then I got the best text from my husband: "He ate his medicine.  He's getting sleepy.  I loved this morning."

It melted my heart, the simplicity of those words. 

Knowing my sweet man is home taking care of our son.  Knowing that our son is doing well even if I didn't have time to kiss him 39 times this morning, like I usually do.  Knowing that whatever I wound up wearing is not nearly as important as the fact that my husband treasured our morning, time we usually don't get together.   

These are good reminders for me, someone who often gets caught up in the material.  When I look back on these days, chances are I won't remember which sweater I was wearing or what brand of jeans I had on.  I'll remember the sweet simplicity of words like

I love you
&
You matter.



 

My Son

I remember nursing this now huge baby, his tiny feet crossed at the ankles, his toes the size of tic-tacs.  Everything was precious and smelled good - even his diapers were cute. 

Now he is picking up Cheerios and Gerber puffs and (usually) getting them in his mouth!  He is crawling and sitting and pulling up on everything in sight.  He comes home from daycare dirty and stinky.  It is adorable and so, so incredible that I had anything to do with how fabulous he is.
 
Robert and I were talking the other night about dreams... dream jobs, dream homes, etc. 
"What's your dream, baby?" he asked. 
I thought for just a half a second and answered, "I'm living it." 
I meant it.  And I was sort of realizing for the first time that being a mama is what I was made to do.  I enjoy all the other roles of my life -  wife, teacher, daughter, friend.  But Miles is my contribution back to the world.  I don't mean to say I ever felt something was missing before he came along, but I did sort of always feel like I was just okay at everything - not stellar. 

I'm a good writer, but not great. 
I'm a good teacher, but it isn't my life. 

But even on my worst mommy day, I know I'm always doing my best.  And that feels good.   

Ch ch ch changes

Today when I dropped my son off at daycare, the lead teacher threw a bottle at another teacher to "feed the crying little monster."
I have to get him out of there.  It becomes harder and harder each day to leave him on the mat, walk out the door, and drive to work.  Every impulse in me says to turn around.  Part of me knows he's okay, that they are caring for him (in most ways) the best they can, and that he is safe there and getting fed and changed and put down for naps. 
Another part of me feels that's not enough.  Where's the love?  Where's the sweetness?  Why aren't they on the floor with the babies, hugging and playing with them?  This is why I've posted an ad on Craigslist for a nanny. 

I told my friend Kelsey today that it sounds like the premise for a bad Lifetime movie.  We decided Maria Menounos could play me.
And I told Kelsey's mom Mary that my mom was going to flip when she found out.  Mary said I am Miles' parent, and that I have to go with my gut and do what feels right. 

What feels right is not to leave him in a room where they refer to the babies as monsters and throw bottles at one another. 
What feels right is to do all I can to find the best care for him from now until the end of May when I can focus all my attention on him.  This is what I'll attempt to do until I feel happy about who is caring for my son. 

Saying Goodbye

Yesterday I found out that my closest girlfriend, the one who has been with me through tears, hysterical laughter, drunkenness, travel, concerts, countless dinners and talks, boyfriends and breakups, marriage and birth, the one who feels like a sister... is moving to Cairo in September.

I'd like to say I can think about it now without crying, but that would be a lie.

I am overwhelmed with sadness every time I talk about it or think about it too long.  On one hand I am so very excited for her - what an incredible journey she has in front of her!  And I know she is excited for me, even though my journey isn't on a road or an airplane, it's in my heart with my family.

And that's how our lives have grown to be so different within the past five years of our friendship.  We started out both nursing broken hearts, healing though being there for each other - on the other end of the phone, across the table, next to a pool, on a dance floor.
Now look at us.
I'm blissfully, happily married with a beautiful, hilarious baby boy who is teaching me that being a Mama is the most important and stressful job I could have ever asked for.

She is finishing up her doctorate (!), which she has completed while teaching full time and publishing heartbreakingly beautiful poetry.
I am so proud of her.

I knew this move was coming.  I knew we would have to say good-bye someday.  But now there is a concrete destination, and it feels really real.
I feel like I am preparing to say good-bye to a part of myself.  There were five of us girl who (until this year) were close, close friends.  Two of us are gone.  A third is going.  And who knows what the future holds for the two of us left behind.

Columbia was our playground for a long time.  I guess it's time to move on.

It's time to go and be better versions of ourselves.
Even if that seems impossible without one another's hands to hold along the way.

The Worst Thing About a Monday...

Usually the worst part of a Monday is leaving Miles at daycare -- the first day back after having had him all to myself is always the hardest.  Since yesterday was MLK day, the worst part of my Tuesday so far has been leaving Miles at daycare.

For some reason today was more difficult than almost any other day...

There are now 8 babies (including him) in that room.  When I got there, Cruz and Sawyer were being fed cereal, each of them crying while the other one was getting his spoon; Lily was being held; Oliver and Maren were playing in the toys; that one weird looking baby whose name I can't remember was lying under her activity mat; and the new baby, Isaac was crying in the swing. 
I put my sweet boy down on the mat in the midst of all that, and he looked at me as if to say, "Why are you leaving me here with all the crazy, loud kids, Mom?" 
It was so sad.  And now I feel mad and am about to cry.  How come my kid doesn't get to have a stay-at-home mom or more personalized attention?  We already pay a tuition that is more than our mortgage each month.  Shouldn't that ensure I feel good about his care every time I leave him? 
Because right now all I want to do is use a sick day and go get him, gather him up in my arms and smell his sweet baby smell and take him home where he belongs. 

Being a mom is hard.
But being a working mom is even harder.

writing writing writing

My minor is in creative writing. 
Seriously.  I enjoyed my writing classes so much in my undergrad days (plus my professor reminded me of an American version of Sean Connery; we called him the silver fox) that I took enough classes to constitute a minor within my degree. 
Sometimes that sort of blows me away. 
Because what have I done with it? 
Sure, I like to write.  Once I even spnsored a writing club at school. 
I love to read, and I know good writing from bad.  But what was the point of writing so much back then if I was never going to really be a "writer"?  This is a question that I don't really let myself think about much.  It's one I've never been brave enough to ask aloud. 
I've attemped getting poems published.  And I realize rejection is part of the whole deal when you're a "writer," but you know what? It still sucks getting rejected. 
The closest I've come to being "successful" as a writer was 15 years ago when I was still in undergrad (Holy Crap!!! Has it really been THAT long???) and I read a short story at a student invitation reading and got it published in the little university magazine.  That's about it.  That's the list of my writing accomplishments. 
How has something that was once so important to me gone by the wayside? 
How has life intervened so much that I've never made more than a few measly attempts to publish anything?  (And what would it mean if I did get published anyway? 
Nothing really, I guess.)
Because I don't really define myself as a writer.
I'm a wife, mom, sister, daughter, teacher, friend.  I'm also a reader and a runner.  But a writer? Not really.  At least -- not yet.  
I once said that I don't really feel like writing when I don't have any drama in my life to lament / write about.  This feels true a lot.  Which is probablywhy my writing of late (here in this blog) is mostly about my current drama of not enough sleep...
So if I was into making New Year's resolutions - I would resolve to write more.  To make time for something that used to mean a lot to me, and to make it important again. 

Mega Meltdowns

Apparently sometimes when you have only had three hours of sleep at a time for the past four weeks, it catches up to you.  In ugly ways.

Sometimes this happens when you least expect it.
And manifests itself in hot tears that leak uncontrollably because you're certain your baby will NEVER sleep through the night again.  It feels like the end of the world, and he's looking at you, waiting for you to make it better.  But you don't know how.  Because you're already tried everything you know how (pacifier, rocking, lullabies) and it feels like the end of your rope.  Even though you're usually the one who keeps it together and has the (almost) never-ending patience with the baby, you crack.  And feel hopeless.  And exhausted.

Then your mom is there.
She gives him another bottle.  And rocks him to sleep.

And he sleeps -- until 7 a.m.

Which goes to prove that even when it doesn't feel like it --

Mamas do know how to make everything better.

We Are Family

A few words about family....

I'm in the middle of enjoying my long and delicious Christmas break, so it's natural to be thinking about family.

I got to spend a lot of time with mine over Christmas, but this year we added a little Miles to the mix.  Our usual cashew chicken and fried rice on Christmas Eve was peppered with a nap for Miles, keeping him entertained in the high chair during dinner, and trying to keep our cocktail-induced giggling to a dull roar during games and jam sessions (featuring Gammy on the drums, of course).  It was as fun as ever, even though Robert and I were a little sleep-deprived -- which I'm sure was payback for all my bragging about 8 hours' sleep a few weeks ago.
Christmas morning was adorable - watching Miles eat each and every bow and not care much for any new toy or book, (though he did look at his new Elmo toy with some interest, and he now loves climbing on his Weeble toy.)
Then just this evening we got to spend time with Robert's mom, Monie.  She probably sees us about once a month now that we have Miles, and she was so surprised at how much he's doing now.  He blew her away with his crawling and standing skills.
At dinner he sat in a high chair like a big boy and ate with gusto the pea puree I had made for him.
When Monie left, she remarked how sweet and happy he is, and I felt the surge of pride that has become familiar to me as a Mama.  But I also felt very grateful.
I realize I have more than most people - not just more presents under the tree, but more people who love me and our little family.

It's humbling to be reminded of those who don't have it as easy or as good as I do.  Like Monie, who had Robert at 17, or my own mom who grew up without a dad, or countless friends I have who have had very hard lives.

I'm incredibly grateful for my family - the little one who lives here under this roof as well as the rest of them who live away.

My cup runneth over.  I know I'm lucky, and I just hope I'm able to pass down some of that luck, humility and love to my baby boy.