Let Him Be Right.

The first night Luca was home from the hospital, I thought I would lose my mind. Sleep deprived. Sore. Curled into a recliner with pillows and blankets and pacifiers and a baby whose red faced shrieked to me in rage, "You are fucking this up!"

She wouldn't latch. Hadn't nursed fully as far as I knew since the one time some strange nurse turned a bright light on over my hospital bed at some unearthly hour and man-handled my breast to get her attached. Here I was at home with no nurse and no bright light and no one who knew what to do and my baby would only cry. She cried and cried and her face was red and her arms were so skinny, my little bird, and I sobbed in that uncontrollable heaving way so many sleep-deprived and hormone-flooded new moms have experienced.

Through fat tears, my husband's face grew closer. His hands lifted and repositioned our new baby. He helped me latch her and gently rubbed at her chin to get her to suck and before I knew it my baby was eating. Eating, which meant she was not crying. Eating, which meant no more shriek to remind me I was clueless and a brief respite from feeling like a caged wild mama bear whose cub is on the other side of the gate begging me for help.

That moment where my husband stepped in and took control and knew just what to do to help didn't solve all our problems. Breastfeeding my daughter was one of the hardest things I ever did. And the big lesson it taught me that night is that sometimes, in parenting, my husband really is right.

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There's a trend in the world of moms, to paint the men in our lives as less than us. Less capable. Less instinctual. Less smart. Less nurturing. Less skilled. Less of a parent.

We break them down into traits and characters. We tell ourselves and others that we're right and they are wrong. We tell them. We tell them in tears and in words, in passive aggressive behavior and in vitriolic words. We overstep them. We parent them because we seem to think they need it. As though we know better. As though by the virtue of being the mother we know; by virtue of being a man they can't possibly.

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We forget the power of those hopeless moments of desperation, a crying baby with fat tears and strained lungs from crying. Those moments when we're lost in our primal mama bear moments and through tears we see the same hands that helped guide our baby here, into our arms, guiding us together. Rubbing a newborn baby chin and silencing the desperation with calm.

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Out of the bath, wrapped in a warm blanket with wet hair and skin the color of apricots. Sitting on the bed, smoothing lotion over legs that keep growing, over toes with chipped polish and hands that now hold a pencil and expertly write her name and all the letters of the alphabet. We have these talks a lot, a routine we started when she was old enough to understand. This is yours, this body. This sacred land of soft skin and long eyelashes and feet that dance circles across my bedspread. Who is allowed to touch you? No one but me. Me and mommy and daddy, and only if you have to. Never if I say no. Who do you talk to if someone hurts you? Mommy. Or daddy. Grandma. A teacher. A police officer or a fireman.

"I have a scratch," she says, pointing. This body. This perfect little body folded into leggings and skirts and boots. Folded right now into a towel. This perfect little body over which I am smoothing lotion, lifting her wet hair to run my hands across her shoulders and down her arms. I freeze inside, but on the outside I am the calm in the storm.

A boy in her class. Lunchtime. A hand under the table and she moved away reflexively. A scratch and my brain feels on fire. She is five. He is too, or maybe six. I know enough. I know it's normal. I know that kids do these things and curiosity is the elixir of childhood. I know, also, of mugshots and headlines. Of children who are curious and grow to be men who steal innocence. Men who hurt. Who take childhood and twist it like an ugly nightmare. And this body. The same body that once unfolded from me like a lotus flower and slept on my chest heartbeat to heartbeat. My brain is on fire and it buzzes.

It's normal. It's probably harmless.

I will move her to another school. I will never let her leave my sight.

Instead: "Tell me what happened?"

A boy who touched her at lunch, from whom she pulled away. Told him not to do that. Told the teacher.

She did everything right, and sweet relief floods me, soaking through my veins. She did it right. She remembered our talks and she did it all the way we taught her.

We talk as the minutes pile up in the corner, going over what happened. Who he is. Does she sit by him in class? No. Did he get sent to the office? Yes. Is she ok? Yes.

She did everything right. We did everything right. He's five maybe. Maybe six. It's normal and it's still not ok.

Not to mama bear.

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Before I tuck her into her bed, wrap her in a Tinkerbell blanket with another pink blanket on top, I ask her if she wants to tell her daddy. She does.

She tells her daddy. A window of rage in his eyes, which he shutters quickly. His hand, again, under her chin. This time he looks in her eyes, holding her face, and he says, "You did everything right. And if that (fucking son of a bitch no-good kid) boy touches you again, you don't just tell him no."

My brain. On fire again. Is he for real?

"If he does that again, you grab the back of his head, push it down toward your leg, and land your knee square against his nose."

He's for real.

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She sleeps soundly. Her dreams, no doubt, of unicorns and fairies. She is safe. She is loved. She did everything right.

Downstairs, I approach the subject. I suggest calling her teacher. Making sure the boy isn't near her ever again in his natural-born life. Maybe he can be moved to another class? Maybe he can wear a straight jacket to keep his 'normal, curious' hands to his goddamned self? Maybe he's been expelled? I plan what to say next. What to do. How to be at work all day while simultaneously serving as her personal bodyguard and never leaving her alone with another boy ever again.

"She remembered," he tells me, "so you have to let it go. She did everything right, and if he touches her again she can knee him in the nose."

But I want to keep talking. I want to be sure she knows she did it right. It's not her fault. It's probably normal and probably benign and yet she can always say no. I wonder aloud at a meeting with the teacher. I wonder aloud at what more we need to talk about, to be sure she won't suffer some body-dysmorphic asexual side effect to the perv in kindergarten's actions. I wonder aloud and he stops me.

"You have to let it go. She's fine. She did it right and she will probably never bring it up again. If she does, you talk to her. You show her the best way to knee a guy in the nose. But until then, stop. Stop talking. Because it makes you feel better and you want to keep talking, but you talk and it makes it bigger and it grows until it's a Thing instead of just something that happened at school once and then she did everything right. Don't bring it up with her again. She talked to you now. She'll talk again if she needs to. Don't beat the subject to death to ease your own mind. For her sake, let it go."

And I listen. I listen because of the times I've wanted to be the nurterer and he knew the kids needed a "That sucks, but get over it" approach. I listen for the time I tried to talk to the kids about stranger danger and safety words and he interrupted and said, "If a stranger approaches, run. Yell and run and if you have to kick and punch. But first, you run." I listen because when the mama bear is in her cage and pacing and growling and wants to pull her cubs close but she can't because they are on the other side of the gate - - - those are the times papa bear teaches them how to climb the fence.

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I am a flawed mother. A flawed wife. But I love them fiercely and so does he. And I am so thankful for a husband who changed diapers and helped his wife breastfeed and smooths lotion over those same limbs that used to be exclusively ours but are now exclusively theirs. Sometimes my heart loses to his instinct, and in those times I'm so grateful for the instinct of a loving dad to guide them.

Your Favorite Part of Today.

Luca and I have a routine that's become a sweet moment right before I tuck her in for the night. We read books, collect stuffed animals (right now it's the two Minnie Mouse dolls she got for Christmas), sing a song, and then I kiss her goodnight. Before I leave her room, I always say to her, "Tell me your favorite part of today."

Sometimes it was something that happened at school. Other days, it was a treat she got before bed or taking a bath with her brother or going to the zoo.

Today, her favorite part was, and I quote, "Going to the doctor."

Yeah, she's not your typical 4 year old. And I like it that way. That girl....she is her own person through and through.
________________________________________

About a month ago, I went online and filled out a form to request a boundary exception for her when she starts kindergarten this fall. We live just a few minutes' walk from a perfectly acceptable elementary school, but the hours of school don't jive well with our schedules. So when my mom suggested we apply to get her into the elementary school across from her house, with the helpful offer to watch her before and after school and walk her to campus and home every day, we couldn't say no. It might help that this school gets excellent ratings, is part of a fabulous district, and is the same school my siblings (well, 2 of them) and I attended.

She was accepted, which was a huge relief and also really bittersweet. Because while I was happy she was accepted into our choice school, I'm still not sure where the last nearly-5 years went. I keep expecting to find them hidden in the back of the kitchen pantry behind old granola bars and lost ziploc baggies. But, of course, it never happens. They just disappeared into the vapor of time.

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Since we're out of district, we had about 10 days between the time we got the letter and the last day to secure our spot. And before we could register her officially, Luca needed to catch up on some shots from her 4 year appointment, which we missed because she was sick and I failed to reschedule.

I got to her school early today, rushing her into her backpack and out the door and making it to the Dr just in time for her appointment. The appointment itself was relatively uneventful, with her pediatrician proclaiming her perfectly healthy and 'obviously very smart' (you KNOW I have to gloat about that one, right?). She is 38.2 pounds (50th%) and 44 inches (87th%) and was meeting or exceeding all the markers the pediatrician requested of her. Poor girl did have to get 4 shots, which made her cry, but after that was done she left with a sucker, 3 bracelets, a sticker, and 4 band-aids.

We left from there to her school, where she met one of the ladies in the front office and we got a stack of paperwork to complete. And with that, she's officially signed up and ready to be a kindergartner. I mean...what?!?

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A quick call to my mom confirmed Rohan was still napping, so with her blessing I took Luca on a special mommy-daughter date to our favorite local coffee shop. I let her order a chocolate milk and pick a treat (carrot muffin with frosting), and we sat together outside in the warm afternoon sun by a huge fountain, talking about kindergarten. Eventually, she made her way to the fountain and splashed in it a bit.

As I watched, she would dip her hands in the cold water and run to a line of tiles on the ground, crawling on her knees and leaving a single wet handprint on each tile. Something about the carefree sweetness of the moment made me get out of my seat, and before I knew it we were tracing wet fingers on the patio, drawing hearts and writing our initials and using large and small handprints mixed together to create water butterflies.

Without realizing it, time had passed. The shadows were lengthening and the water was no longer cold on our hands. We carried our plate back inside the coffee shop and headed to the car. I reached for her hand in the parking lot and she smiled up at me and said, "I want to walk like a big kid. Can I do it myself?" So I let her. Instead of leading her, I walked beside her, joining in her game of "Don't step on cracks or white lines" until we made it to the car. Side by side.

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I know it's just the start of a new chapter. I lose full minutes absorbed in her face and her imagination. I lose full days and weeks just getting by and trying to remember to hold on to this sweet time in her life as tightly as I can while also letting her go. In the small space between our bodies, not linked by our hands, she became less a little kid and more a girl. Independent. Wise beyond her years. Spirited. And tender.

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After dinner and a movie and page after page of Where the Sidewalk Ends, I tucked her in under her pink blanket and traced the silhouette of her cheeks with a finger. There is no baby left in that face, but those eyes I stare into are the same eyes I've stared into since the day she was born. She was always this wise, this sage. If she can hold onto any trait of her early years as she moves through childhood and closer to becoming an adult, I hope it's the ability to be completely oblivious to what she's 'supposed' to be or think or say. I hope that moments making water butterflies and sharing carrot muffins are the sweet and mundane memories of her childhood.

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"Mommy?"
"Yeah, sweetie?"
"Did you know that some people say there was a man who walked on water and he didn't even fall in?"
"Oh, yeah. I did, honey."
"Oh."
"Where did you hear that?"
"I don't know. Someone told me."
"Oh? And what do you think about that?"
"It sounds like a bigger fib than even kids tell, mommy."
::pause::
"Well, you know, Luca, sometimes people believe in stories like that because of how they make them feel. Maybe they believe he walked on water and didn't fall in. Or maybe they don't believe it either, but they like how it makes them feel. They want to imagine they could walk on top of water too."
"Yeah."
::pause::
"You know what I think, mommy? I think it doesn't matter about walking on water and not falling in. I think it matters most that you're kind to people. And then maybe if you are kind enough even if they are sad, they can close their eyes and imagine they can walk on water too. Like that man."
"Oh, I like that."
"Me too, mommy."

Da Mean In Your Eyes

Over the weekend, Mo skipped a nap. This was a first for him, for the most part. He fell asleep for about 6 minutes in the car, was carried to bed, and woke to use the potty a few minutes later. His little toddler brain decided that constituted a nap, and he couldn't be convinced otherwise.

With Luca and Darrick asleep, Mo and I prepped dinner for the crockpot and settled in to a snack and a movie under the blanket on the couch. It was sweet, for sure, but not nearly as sweet as a nap would have been.

And here's how I know the kids still needs to nap:

A few hours later, we made a Home Depot run, and somewhere between the home appliances and the bath fixtures, my patience ran thin. The entire time we'd been there had been spent with me trying to curb his impulsive two year old behaviors, which include but were not limited to touching everything in sight, running in the store, and intermittent hyper screeches the likes of which only little kids can manage. I must have asked him to 'use walking feet' and 'keep your hands by you' and 'hang in there because we're almost done' a quatrillion times, and here's where I acknowledge that as his parents we should have recognized imminent meltdown and removed him from the situation. But I had Just One More Thing to find, and meanwhile Darrick took a detour to the far other end of the store. Just as we passed the fridges and washing machines, I knew we were in trouble. Despite the fact he knows the rules, he ran over to a front-loader, opened the door, and attempted to fold himself inside.

I intervened before his foot had cleared the opening and, in my best patient-mommy-suffering-the-kid's-madness moment, bent to his level and said in a calm voice, "Sweetie, we need to keep moving and stop touching things. We're almost done."

As I stood and took a step away, he looked up at me and said, "I'm sick of you, Mommy!"

::deep breath::

Let me just say, I've been here before. During one particularly stressful night with Luca nearly a year ago that had me convinced that all other parents are assholes for not telling you that 3 is really worse than 2, Luca said the exact same words to me. Being new to this kind of thing, I had scolded her and put her in time out to cool us both down. A few minutes later, I went over and asked her to explain to me why she said that. It took a while, but eventually it came out that it was a phrase she had heard before. When I dug deeper, I suddenly became aware that she had no idea what she was saying. "What does that mean, Luca? Do you know?" I had asked. "Yes. It means...I'm sick. Like I feel...like my nosy is all sneezy for you?"

Right. Toddler = literal. Sick of you = my nose is sneezy for you.

So I didn't flip. Oh, I know that old couple who was lingering near and evesdropping was probably waiting for me to throw him over a knee and give him something to cry about for such blasphemy and talking back. But I knew he didn't know what it meant, so I reattaced my invisible Mother Perfect tiara, and, ignoring the words I knew he didn't really 'get', bent to his level once more. By now he was in a sample kitchen, sort of peering at me with a resolute disapproval that told me he was pissed at life in general.

"Rohan," I said while gently putting a hand on his arm to get him to look at me, "I know you're tired - - -"

And here he cut me off with an "OWWWWWWWWWWWW!" that echoed through the entire store, and a glare at my hand on his arm. Which is where I sort of dropped that Mother Perfect tiara and lost my patience with this whole bit because there was no way I was hurting him. I mean, I couldn't have killed an ant with the amount of pressure I was(n't) applying.

"Look, buddy, I know you're tired but you CANNOT act like this. You need to say sorry for using mean words with mommy." I said more sternly. Because, you know, NOW he was going to know I was serious.

"Sowwy!" he stubbornly mocked my request.

I decided this wasn't the time, nor the place, to work a proper sorry out of him, so I stood and started to walk again.

"Mommy," he said, stopping in his tracks. And for a brief and incredibly naive second I almost thought I was going to get a legitimate apology.

Instead, he raised his hands so they were by his eyes and, with his best jazz hands, informed me bitterly, "When you say dat, you got da mean in your eyes!"

First We Learn to Say Thank You. Then We Add Excuses.

When was the last time you paid a woman a compliment and she thanked you? When was the last time she thanked you without then excusing it away?

"You're adorable!" (to the gorgeous and thin pregnant woman)
"Oh gosh...thanks...but no, I'm HUGE! Look at these ankles!" (to me)

"Your son is so sweet to the other kids on the playground.  Kudos to you." (to mom of a 5 year old boy who, I can guess based on society's expectations of little boys, is not used to his behavior being complimented)
"Oh, thank you. Really, he's usually a total terror." (to me)

"I love those shoes!" (another mom at preschool to me)
"Thanks. I got them at Target on clearance for a steal. They are so worn out!" (me, to her)

What's the deal with this phenomenon? And why is it disproportionately women who do this? When's the last time you complimented a man and he responded by deflecting the compliment or excusing it away?

"You look hot." (me, to husband)
"I kind of do, don't I?" (husband, to me, as he checks himself out in the mirror)

Experience tells me that if I compliment another woman, she's going to find a way out of the compliment. It's the clothes that make her look fantastic (nevermind her 5 miles a day, 4 days a week running ritual and healthy eating). She looks good in that purple scarf, but only when she uses a lot of undereye concealor so the scarf doesn't play up the bags under her eyes (nevermind there are no bags and if there are, I wasn't looking for them anyhow). Her kids are only well behaved right now because they're going to Santa later (nevermind the fact that her 5 year old son stopped to make sure my 2 year old was ok when he ran by and accidently knocked my kid down). Cute shoes (but SO uncomfortable!). Love the new haircut (but it only looks like this because her stylist did it for her). She did great on the presentation (it's just too bad that she stuttered and forgot the figures on that one part no one else noticed).

Look, we're all guilty of this to some degree. I can't remember the last time someone said something nice to me and I didn't deflect it or excuse it away. I can't remember the last time someone told me I'm awesome at something and I replied, "Thanks, I really work hard on it." I can't remember the last time I said something nice to another woman and she accepted it graciously with a "Thank you" and then shut the fuck up.

It must stem from somewhere, and if I had to guess I would point my finger at social norms girls face growing up. I know it's not born in most of us, this desire to never ever accept a compliment graciously and freely. I know because I listen to my daughter when someone compliments her. Even at 4.5 years old, she sometimes has to be reminded to thank a person for a kind word, but that's not because she's too busy coming up with ways to pish-posh their kindness. It's because she is too busy agreeing with them.

"Your hair is so pretty." (woman at the store to my daughter)
"Yeah." (my daughter to her)


"Luca, you've been so nice to your brother today." (me, to her)
"Thank you, mommy." (her, to me)


"I just LOVE your artwork. It's so creative!" (grandma, to Lu)
"Thank you. I drew the best apple in class." (her, to grandma)

How do we get back there? How do we return to a time when society and our own insecurities don't hamper our ability to say thanks and just accept the damn compliment? How do we stop ourselves from making excuses for our achievements when what we really should say is, "Yeah, I kicked some ass, huh? Thanks!"

I remember a long time ago, when Darrick and I first got serious together, he chastised me (lovingly) for this very thing. "You say 'sorry' too much," he said. "You shouldn't say sorry all the time. You say it when you mess up, but you also say it when someone else messes up and inconveniences you." And it's true. When I went into a health food store 3 days after Luca was born in search of fenugreek and the woman asked me when I was due, I didn't laugh it off. I didn't give her the evil eye for asking. I didn't even ignore it and ask her to show me the way. What I DID do is look her in the eye and apologize to her for her fuck up. "Oh, I had the baby 3 days ago. Don't worry! I hear it's normal to look pregnant for a while after giving birth!" I said. "Oh, well...yeah..." she stumbled over her words. "Sorry," I replied, "I should have told you she was a newborn and I needed fenugreek to up my milk supply."

Sorry? I should have told you? It's my fault you lack basic social graces and don't know better than to ask a woman when she is due unless she says to you, "I am currently pregnant."?!?!

And the thing is, my daughter hears and remembers everything. I know she is watching me. I know she needs me to model for her what a woman is, and I know that I don't want her to be 'sorry' girl when she gets older. I don't want her to minimize her achievements to make other people feel more comfortable. To talk badly about herself because she thinks she should. Because when you do it for long enough, you start to believe it's true yourself. I look down the line, toward her future, and it crushes me a little. She is a bright light in the world, a wonderful and funny and kind and smart-as-hell girl, and the idea of her one day excusing those parts of herself away until...well...until they GO away? It scares me. I owe her better, and I am unapologetically capable of giving it to her.

So, false modesty? I'm sending you on vacation for a month. I'm going to try something new*: not allowing myself to apologize for someone else's faux pas, not excusing away genuine compliments, and not underselling myself for the sake of modesty.

This next month is Mission: No More False Modesty for me. I invite you to join me. I'll post more as the month goes on.

*No assholery will be accepted during this time. I'm not on a mission to become an egotistical asshole.

Halloween Craft: Paint By Letters.

We decorated the house for Halloween this week, and when we were finished putting up all our decor, Luca commented we needed more things to hang on the walls. I agreed.

So off we went to the craft store, where I bought some washable paints and two 8" x 10" canvasses.

The next day, we set out to paint, but she wasn't sure where to start. She asked me to draw a picture of a family of pumpkins for her, and said she'd color them in. I took some chalk to the canvas, drawing a 'big daddy' pumpkin, a 'mama' pumpkin, and 2 'kid' pumpkins (Luca and Rohan, didn't you know?). We decided on some gras below them and a night sky with a full moon and clouds above them.

When it came to colors, we didn't want the 4 pumpkins to look like 1 big orange blob, so Daddy Pumpkin was orange, Mommy Pumpkin was red-orange, Luca Pumpkin was pink-orange, and Rohan Pumpkin was yellow-orange. To signify which colors went where, we used the first letters: O, R+O, P+O, and Y+O. Then we put a G in the grass, a B in the sky, and a W in the clouds and moon.

I outlined the first one for her before she started, just so she could get the hang of it. And that she did! I was actually impressed with her ability to stay pretty much in the lines and match the colors properly.



Rohan woke during the process and joined us to create his own 'art', though it was less Halloween themed and more abstract, if you will. Also, messy.

I confess: one of the things I MOST looked forward to about having kids was things like this. I couldn't wait to do art projects and holiday crafts and spend hours painting and making a huge mess and soaping up messy kids in a warm bath when it was all done. And it's truly all I'd built it up to be in my head.

And this? This togetherness they exhibit and the sharing and helping and co-conspiring? Makes it all the sweeter.

When all was said and done, Luca's Halloween artwork was quite the lovely piece to add to our collection.





Clean Bill.

Luca had her first dentist appointment today. I realize the ADA now recommends you start bringing them in as soon as they start growing teeth outside the gums, but I think that is insane. Which is part of the reason we waited so long. The other parts are:

1) She wasn't on our insurance until August and we're cheap
2) I was scared her teeth might be weak like mine and didn't want to face the 'treatment plans'

I need not have worried. She did AMAZING at the dentist, which was no surprise, actually. It's not that she's a perfect kid or anything, it's just that little pleases Luca as much as impressing adults and making them tell her repeatedly how well behaved and awesome she is. They did a set of x-rays, a cleaning, and an exam, and she sat patiently through the whole thing AND got a clean bill of health! So proud of my girl and the teeth she clearly inherited from her daddy!

Growing Pains.

We took a walk around the neighborhood tonight, all 4 of us, stopping at the big grass field to run around and play with a wayward football found in the shadows. The kids ran back and forth and back and forth through overgrown late-summer grass that was damp from the earlier sprinklers, sprinting until their legs itched from being whipped by grass blades.

We practiced our 'Power Super Girl' (and Boy) walk, balancing on the curb that circles the grass, hands out and palms up toward the sky. Luca named herself Power Super Girl Sparkles, and then allowed me to choose the name Power Super Girl Glitter. We let the kids yell at top volume and giggle and tackle each other in the somewhat swampy grass. And instead of turning and going home when that was over, we walked a little further to another grassy area in the neighborhood.

Luca asked to ride on her Daddy's shoulders, which of course meant Rohan wanted to ride on mine. They are 22 months apart in age, but he outweighs her by at least 3 pounds. And 3 pounds? On your shoulders? Is a lot. Still. "Sure buddy," I answered, and he raised his arms up in the air so I could lift him over my head to sit on my shoulders. We started to walk, and I could feel his little (big) hands rubbing one of my cheeks and then meeting below my chin to clasp together and hold him safely in place. He gets heavy quickly and my shoulders start to burn a little, but I hold him there. It's such a literal moment that clearly illustrates the nature of motherhood: we are strong because we need to hold them up.

They ask us to hold them to remind us how much we are needed. And how much we need them. As much as I float him free of gravity's pull to earth, he grounds me and gives me roots. The rest of the walk we hold hands, and I absorb every sweet second of feeling the weight of his tiny hand in mine. I am too painfully aware of just how soon this era of motherhood might be ending. I don't know when it will happen, but someday I won't be able to hold his hand anymore.

He stops once, asking to be held. I say, "On my shoulders?" and he shakes his head and points to my chest. "On there. It fits." he answers. So I lift his warm body, heavy like a bag of wet sand, and hold him in front of me like a koala holds her joey. It does fit there, just perfectly. I struggle a little under the weight of him clinging around my waist, but I carry on. I am painfully aware, as well, how soon this era of motherhood might be ending. There are times I hold them in my arms and am acutely aware of how their feet dangle almost to my knees and how it might not be much longer before I can't carry them on a hip anymore.

And so I sing him all the way home:
Sittin' in a railway station
Got a ticket for my destination
Woah-oh-oh-ohhh
On a tour of one-night stands
My suitcase and guitar in hand
And every stop is neatly planned
For a Rohan and Mama band

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When I picked up Luca from school today, she seemed a little withdrawn and quiet. I couldn't figure out why, but I didn't want to miss the window right after school to find out if something was bothering her. I sat on a large rock outside the preschool and pulled her close. "You ok, buddy?" I asked. She dipped her face down so I couldn't see her eyes, just the long curl of lashes dusting her apricot cheeks.

After a few seconds of silence, she turned those giant green jewels on me and told me something I never expected her to hear, "I don't like this school."

This year has been different for her. Last year she had a problem with a girl in her class, who I will call "M". M was one of the older kids and quite bossy and pushy, and Luca came home repeatedly telling us that M was mean to her. We asked, and she assured us it was just her who M was being mean to, so after hearing it several times, I started to really ask her some questions about M. Mostly, I wanted to know why she thought M was being so mean. She didn't know, couldn't understand, and I got that. Luca's got not a single mean bone in her body so being at the receiving end of meanness was so foreign to her. So I explained it to her like this: M is not very good at knowing how to be a nice friend. She really needs someone to show her how, so when she is mean you might want to try ignoring her mean attitude and just being nice to her.

It never worked. She just kept being mean, so I finally worked up the courage to talk to her teachers and they nodded in agreement about M's attitude. But then they assured me that M was like that to everyone. It was not just Luca, but Luca just so happened to be one of the few kids who was bothered by it because she has the intelligence to take someone else's behavior and internalize it.

It still broke my heart into 100 pieces to hear Luca tell us that M wasn't nice in school, but I felt confident that her teachers had it under control and it wasn't personal, so we just looked forward to the day when M would move on to kindergarten and Luca wouldn't have to worry about her anymore.

Because, really? These are 3 - 5 year olds we're talking about. Surely M is an anomoly.

I am so naive sometimes. Almost as soon as school started this year, we uncovered M version 2. After school one day I asked Luca about who her new friends are this year, and she said, "No one plays with me."

My heart stopped under the weight of my soul crushing down on it. A little more digging revealed that it wasn't that no one played with her, it was that there are 2 girls in her class who were there last year who only play with each other. I agonized again over what to do or say, settling on telling her that there are a lot of other kids in class and if those two aren't nice she could play with someone else. She half-heartedly accepted that answer, but when it came up again a week or so later, I knew I had to talk to the teachers again. And once again, I was told it wasn't about Luca, it was about the girls themselves. Apparently M trained them well in the art of being exclusive and harboring all the toys for themselves. The teachers were splitting those two girls up during most of the day, having them do centers apart and sit by others at the lunch tables.

But the cycle seems to be continuing, with other girls creating little factions of twos and excluding Luca. And my heart is crushed for her. There are only 6 girls in the class, and I can tell she badly wants to make good friends with one of them, but for whatever reason it doesn't seem to be happening that way.

So when she told me she didn't like the school, I expected it to be a friend problem and I steeled myself to get all mama-bear on the situation and find a better resolution to the situation. Turns out, she's just not feeling challenged. The activities and general syllabus are the same this year as they were last, and she's frustrated by having to re-learn things she already learned. It's frustrating, but I think it's workable with some conversations about why repitition is important in learning and maybe a tete-a-tete with the teachers to see if there is a way to challenge her more.

Challenge in scholarly ways I can do. it's that other kind of challenge I'm still not prepared for, both in terms of mom-skills and in terms of raw emotion. I know this is Girl Crap 101, and from here it's going to get harder. I know there will be tears and jealousy and cliques and anger and meanness. And I am not prepared. I want to wrap her up in a blanket and snuggle with her on the couch for all of eternity instead of letting her out into the big, mean world.

That Mom.

I was at the grocery store tonight on our way home after picking up both kids. No, I will never learn not to take my kids to the grocery store when it's dinnertime. Apparently I enjoy making the same mistakes repeatedly.

This time I decided it would be different. I would hurry in, buy just a few essentials to carry us through the week (meat, milk, produce) and be out before the kids lost their cool. And this time it worked!

...almost...

I pushed my cart into line and grabbed my wallet to find my debit card, and next thing I know Luca is about 3/4 of an inch from some man's cart, staring longingly at his ice cream. "Luca," I said calmly, "Could you please come back closer to me so that man has some space?"

Smiling, he turned to me and said, "Oh, it's ok. I have 4 at home. She's not bugging me."

Such a kind gesture, and one he regretted about 7 seconds later when my kids simultaneously started to wiggled their butts and sing -LOUDLY - "Shake your bootie! Shake your bootie!"

Mortified, I figured I'd nip it in the bud quickly and bent to their level to tell them they needed to stop. And stop one would, while the other would defiantly continue to sing. The quiet one would inevitably lose it and start giggling, thus encouraging the singer to sing LOUDER and agitating me enough that I would again stoop down to reprimand both offenders.

And...repeat scene. I swear I contemplated just laughing it off at one point, until I caught the judging eye of the mom behind me in line as her toddler daughter was paying close attention to the spectacle. I wanted to be annoyed with her, but at one poitnt I WAS her, smug and sure I'd never be the one with kids causing a borderline-inappropriate commotion in a public place. Still, her condemning glare was enough to make the heat rise into my face and suddenly I could feel sweat trickling down my back and I was starting to panic. But kids smell fear, you know, so the more anxious for them to behave I became the more obnoxious and defiant they became.

Finally, after the 4th or 5th round of "SHAKE YOUR BOOTIE! SHAKE YOUR BOOTIE! ::giggle:: SHAKE YOUR BOOTIE!" accompanied by actual bootie shakes aimed in the general directions of the (now wishing he hadn't been so) nice man in front of me and the (unwarranted) judger behind me, I crouched down and pulled both kids to me. I was thisclose to lowing my damn cool, but I knew it would do no good, so instead I tickled both kids to get them giggling, then quietly begged the crap out of them, asking for good behavior just long enough to get out of the store without someone throwing a head of lettuce at us or calling CPS for my subpar parenting.

It worked. Well, the begging + the promise of peanut butter cookies at home did anyhow. I'll take it.

The sourpuss behind us was still giving me judgy-face as we left, so I made sure to give a nasty look back to her. And a look of sympathy to her husband.

Back Burner.

My husband was roped into coaching football this year. It's the Freshman "B" team...a group of guys who couldn't quite make the cut for the Freshman "A" team. And now they are relying on him to coach them into better skills and hopefully a slot on the JV Team next year. You know...the REAL JV team, not the "B" team where they only get the games the "A" team can't/doesn't take.

If you don't really know my husband, you think he knows a lot about football. You probably even wonder how many years he played in high school. You assume he's got Sunday Ticket and is a rabid fan. Being 6'5" and broad shouldered, it comes with the territory.

His knowledge of football is really sort of paltry. He knows enough to yell at the ref while he drinks a beer and watches a game. And then we beg him to turn off the TV so we can go/see/do and next thing you know it's spring training for baseball and we've only watched pieces of a few games.

So coaching is a challenge for him. He feels bad that he doesn't know drills and plays. Crap, he feels bad that he doesn't know what a Cornerback does. But he'll learn, and I know he will. My husband is amazing in many ways, but his dedication to his students is one of his most amazing qualities. For those nervous and falsely pompous freshmen all fighting to be a hero, he'll do anything. Including dragging his family to the Wednesday night game of the Freshman "A" squad on a day that hit 116.

So there we were, watching him stand on the field and try to soak up football through osmosis, when we ran into the wife of the "A" squad's head coach. Her eldest daughter is in Luca's preschool class this year. Her other daughter is a year younger than Rohan. And she's pregnant with Baby #3.

We made small talk which quickly turned to kid talk which then switched to baby talk. First, about the son she is expecting and how excited they are. Next, to how nervous they are to have 3 under 4. That's 3 kids in daycare/preschool at the same time on 2 teachers' salaries in case you were counting. Which she was.

And then she asked me that fateful question, "Just 2 for you guys?" and I stumbled over my response.

If you'd asked me in those hormone-laden days and weeks after Rohan's birth, when I was flying high on my amazing little family and feeling like SuperWoman, I'd have insisted there was another baby in our future. Truth be told, I still feel pretty strongly that we're not done. It's almost like there's another little baby waiting in the wings, and on those days when Darrick and I both talk wistfully about sweet newborn peach cheeks and baby fuzz I can see it like it's a foregone conclusion. We joke about how maybe this next one will look like me rather than being another little Daddy Clone. We talk about how much easier it will be to afford the baby when Luca's in kindergarten, or even better when she's in 1st grade and Rohan is 1 year away from Kinder (i.e. one year away from us not having to PAY for his schooling). We let Luca muse over possible baby names (She wants a girl, who will be named Flower, of course.).

But on other days? Our life as a family of 4 is pretty sweet. We have a rhythm. We have balance. We have dreams of a future that involves long road trips and a 10 year anniversary trip somewhere exotic. We don't miss diapers, especially now that we're down to only using a few Pull Ups a week since most mornings at least 1 kid wakes dry. We have faith that just about the time we're done paying for daycare/preschool we'll also have paid off our car and all our credit cards and we'll be able to live without worrying about money for 4 days before every payday. We have a small car that we hope will last for many years and doesn't really have room for a 3rd carseat.

But then: pretty soon Luca will be in a booster seat, which takes less space than a carseat. And soon enough our daycare/preschool costs will go down dramatically. And....and....and....and.....

It's a stalemate. And I don't know what should be our next move. I don't think Darrick does either, so most days we don't talk about the subject at all. On a date night recently, when conversation was flowing and I looked at my best friend across the table from me, I had the courage to lay it all out. I asked him if he thought he'd ever want to have another baby, even though I was sure I knew his answer. I guess I was feeling brave enough to hear him say no; he was done.

He didn't say that at all. He also didn't say he wants another baby someday for sure. In fact, it turns out that if we're perfectly attuned in any way at all, it's in uncertainty. Neither of us knows what the future will hold, and we're not ready to permanently close the door on babies in the future. So for now, we're moving it to the back burner. We're committed to reaching some other goals together first, from paying off the car and other debts to some home improvements. And we're talking careers long-term and a possible career shift for one of us. I guess time will tell whether or not another baby will fit into our life, and I'm finally ok with the decision not to make any decision at all.

Don't Skip Any Parts.

After dinner and some swimming time, I piled the kids into the car for a pre-bed McDonald's ice cream run. As we're waiting in an impossibly long line, Luca pipes up from the backseat, "Mommy, turn this music down. I need to talk about things."

I cooperate and turn the radio off, asking what she wants to talk about.

"Let's talk about babies."

"Ok?"

"How do the babies get out of their mommy's belly?"

"Well, remember we talked about this before? The baby grows in the mama's belly, and when it's ready to be born the mama pushes with her tummy."

"And then she goes to a hospital?"

"Sometimes sweetie. But sometimes, like when your brother was born, the mommy decides to stay at home."

"Oh." She pauses for a minute to think. "But how does the mommy push the baby out?"

"Um, she uses her tummy muscles. Kind of like when you go potty."

"But where does she push?"

"Um, well....she pushes with her tummy (here, I take a rolled up tube of fabric I have in my car and place it in my palms, then web my fingers together around one side of it) and the baby moves. Pretend this (gesturing to fabric tube) is the baby and my hands are the tummy muscles. They tighten and push and the baby moves down (I mimic this with my hands and the fabric). See?"

"That's cool!"

"Yeah, it is pretty cool."

"So then the baby comes out through her tummy?"

"Sort of." shit shit shit shit shit

::I interrupt this story to explain how I feel about having these kinds of conversations with kids. My husband and I decided long ago that we would always tell the truth about these types of issues, but that we would try not to over-explain (see Parenting 101: Don't Overthink It). In other words, the last time Luca and I had this conversation, I was able to avoid directly explaining the anatomy and physiology of giving birth and making babies because she wasn't really asking about that. She was happy with a vague explanation that matched the reality of images she's seen of birth. If she's not asking the question, I don't need to try to answer it just yet.

But when she does ask the question? I owe it to her and I'm only being true to myself and my husband and how we choose to raise our kids, if I answer her in an honest but age-appropriate way.::

deep breath

"Actually, the baby doesn't come out through the mommy's tummy, Luca. It lives there while she's pregnant but when it's ready to be born she pushes it and it comes out her vagina."
"Oh."
"Yeah." And then, from both of us, a moment of silence. I turn the radio back on.

"Mama? Turn the radio down again. How does the baby get in the mommy's tummy? I wanna know the WHOLE story mama. Don't skip any parts."
shit shit shit shit shit double shit

For a second I considered not really answering. I mean...the girl is FOUR. Does she really need to have that much information? But then I thought about it a different way. She doesn't need to know it all at 4, but I also don't want to be having this conversation when she's 11 or 13 and wishing we'd been talking about it all along. The way I figure, if we talk about it all along, she not only will feel more comfortable talking and asking questions as she gets older, but we'll also have time to ease into being comfortable with these conversations. Plus, at 4 she has no idea that her questions might make people uncomfortable, and I'd rather she get the answer from me than ask others who might not know the right way to answer.

"The daddy's body makes something called sperm and the mommy's body makes little eggs. When they want to make a baby, the daddy puts some sperm in the mommy and it meets the egg and then grows into a baby."

"Oh. That's really neat, mama. I want to see how that happens someday."
"I hope you will, sweetie," I answer, silently saying to myself When you are at least 25.

I know it's not the most eloquent explanation, and it definitely glosses over the finer details. But she was satisfied with the answer to that one as well. I really never knew a kid her age could be so observant of her world and so inquisitive. I love it, especially how she warns us not to bullshit here and to be sure to give her 'the whole story'. Here's hoping our approach doesn't mess her up forever!

A Very Special Customed Lunch Just for Me and Only Me.

It's no secret that Luca is not a big eater. In fact, it would be fair to say she's a horrible eater. Her appetite is small, she is picky, and she would rather do almost anything more than eating.

Several months ago, Darrick and I really started working on changing the way we eat and feed our family. It's not just about what foods we choose, but about our attitudes in general. He has a chip on his shoulder about dairy products, for example, insisting on whole fat products instead of reduced or non-fat. I am super picky and love sweets. We're not perfect, but we decided to start working together to find ways to get more healthy food in our bellies and more positive interactions around meals: shopping with the kids and talking about why we eat certain foods, prepping dinner as a family, letting the kids make their own sandwiches, etc. But one elephant in the room was Luca and her tiny appetite.

Luca is a healthy kid. She is smart and strong and loves healthy foods. But she also loves junk food and doesn't eat much quantity of food, meaning it's really easy to get through an entire day with her and realize she's barely eaten from 3 of the 4 main food groups. We've struggled to get her to eat healthy foods in enough quantity to get her nutrients that she needs, and we have struggled even more over how much we should push her. Like a typical toddler, when we push she pulls, and it never ends well.

So we decided on a new approach. No repeatedly asking her to eat. No nudging her to finish her plate. If she refuses a meal, that's fine; she can eat something healthy later when she says she's hungry. And if meals aren't working, we move to healthy smaller items, like half an apple with some peanut butter and a low-fat string cheese or some slices of turkey and a yogurt. It's not ideal, and it drives my husband more batty than it drives me, but we're conscious of not wanting to make food an issue with her, and so far this method is working.

Most successful? Giving her some options of healthy foods she loves and can eat in smaller quantities. Less of a 'meal' as our generation knows it and more of a healthy plate of foods she can eat and will enjoy, and which will give her the things she needs.

The other night, I gave her some options for dinner, and she ended up with this meal. She not only ate the whole thing, she asked for more. She was so proud of her meal she kept calling it her "Very Special Customed Lunch Just for Me and Only Me." In the end, she ate about 2 oz of hummus, a tbsp of peanut butter, 1.5 pitas (amazing for her, since she's not a bread lover), 8 baby carrots, and a handful of blueberries.

The real winner here was the pita cut out to make the letters of her name. She LOVED them, so I'll definitely try to find ways to incorporate more fun into her fuel in the future.

When They Are Older.

I hope when my kids are older, they look back on their summer vacations as sweetly as I do my childhood summers. I snapped these pictures on Tuesday morning, the first 'official' day of summer break in our house, and to me they just capture the beauty of siblings easing into a long, hot summer of fun together:

An apple fritter, a big soft blankie, and puppy cuddles in the morning? Yes, please.

In Our House.

In our house, we celebrate birthdays for as long as the mylar balloons keep floating.

In our house, we stop the morning routine to get a cell phone picture of the kids being sweet together, recognizing there could be years upon years where they won't even consider each other friends.

 

In our house, Disney Princess laptops rank so high in importance we need our picture taken with them and we hide them behind a recliner so our brother won't "steal" them.

In our house, we have a 2 year old and a 4 year old.

In our house, when we can't convince the 4 year old to shower before school, we do her hair in "Minnie Mouse Ears".

In our house, you have about the same likelihood of being kept awake by snoring from the dog, the dad, and the 2 year old boy.

In our house, sometimes dinner happens in a circle on the great room rug.

In our house, there's a good chance you'll each go to sleep in your own bed and then all 4 of you will wake up in one.

In our house, there are random piles of hand-shredded construction paper in baskets under the kitchen table, piles of spilled glitter on the playroom floor, blocks and crayons rolled under the edges of every piece of furniture, un-hung piles of clean laundry in at least 2 rooms at any given time, dishes unwashed, little collections of stones in little boy pockets, dolls dressed in infant clothing, tights and swimsuits and dress up outifts in piles on the floor where Luca stepped out of them without putting them away, and half-read books with dog-eared pages on almost every flat surface.

In our house, the baseboards aren't finished, the house isn't magazine-perfect, the money goes to taking the kids on adventures while Mommy wears the same tired and worn wardrobe for months on end, the dog chews toys left out too long, we recycle the same colds from one family member to another, and childrens' books are stacked in haphazard piles in every room.

In our house, Daddy whips the kids into a frenzy of giggles right before bed, tossing them into the air or twisting them over his shoulders and then rolling them across the carpet while Mommy pretends to be annoyed at the circus riling them up right before bedtime.

In our house, we kiss imaginary boo-boos, dance with toddlers in the kitchen because they beg, "Ho-yud me!", mornings start with Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and Daddy's English muffins, we make pre-bed shoeless drives to McDonald's to get a cone for each of us in the drive-thru at least once a month, and little artistic creations are taped to walls, doors, and windows.

In our house, I am the luckiest wife and mom in the world.

4.

Today, Luca turned 4.

It's a bittersweet birthday, this fourth one. For some reason, 4 is all kid and no baby or toddler. She's crossed that invisible threshold and I'm not quite sure how I feel about it. I think her birthdays will always be fraught with mixed emotions for me because, as my first, they not only mark the day she was born, but also the day I became a mother.

Darrick and I both took yesterday off work to spend time with her. We visited both sets of grandparents and I took her to school over lunch so she could wear a paper crown, share treats (she chose pudding pops), and be sung to by 18 of her friends. She was on cloud 9, and floated up to cloud 10 when her favorite teacher (actually a high school senior who works in the classroom) gave her a beautiful frilly skirt and leggings as a gift.

This morning, we woke early and she opened some presents from us. Her favorite is a Disney Princess laptop that has learning games on it and opens with a key. She's so proud of this 'big girl' gift that she found a special hiding place for it so Rohan can't get to it when she's not there to observe.

We had breakfast early with both sets of grandparents, and our waiter gave her a free crepe with whipped cream, caramel sauce, and chocolate chips.

One of Luca's cousins, who she affectionately calls 'Birdie' will turn 1 on May 10th, so her birthday party was today. We spent most of the day there playing and swimming and eating. Luca, of course, eagerly helped open presents. We had talked to Birdie's mom and dad (dad is Darrick's brother) over 2 months ago to coordinate parties, and though they didn't want to have the party on Luca's actual birthday, because of my mother-in-law's work schedule, this was the only weekend we were guaranteed to have her in town. We agreed that the 1st birthday party was vital for Grandma to attend, whereas the 4th she could miss as long as we did something special to aknowledge her the day of before her cousin's party. At first, Luca was ok with it. She pulled me aside at the party, though, and pouted her lips. I asked her what was wrong, and she broke into tears and told me she was sad that it was her birthday but all the presents and attention were for Birdie. It almost broke my heart. On one hand, I reminded her of the gifts Grandma and Grandpa had given her the week before, the gifts we gave her, and the gifts from my mom that she received this morning. I reminded her how lucky she was to receive those gifts, and that it wasn't a good thing to be jealous of someone else's gifts. She told me she knew, but she was still sad that she didn't get a party today. I didn't know what to tell her. I honestly felt a bit guilty, but at the same time I think it's important for her to be able to share and not have everything be about her.

After naptime, we took her to dinner. She asked for pizza, so we went to a local Italian place we love and after dinner we requested a 'Sicilian Sundae' (cookie with ice cream on top) for the birthday girl. It came out, and her disappointment was palpable when there was no candle and no Happy Birthday song from the staff. We tried to sing to her, but she stubbornly refused to eat until, and I quote, "The people here sing to me like they are supposed to." After almost 10 minutes of back-and-forth that included us telling her there was no one there who could sing to her and they don't do that at that restaurant and her crying, I finally grabbed the first person who walked by and asked him, "Is there any way someone could be convinced to sing happy birthday to her?"

And, bless his heart, this kid (he was maybe 17) came back to our table a few minutes later and, all by himself (well, we joined in) he serenaded her. We thanked him profusely for making her day, and she was happy once again and shared her dessert, which by now was a melted puddle of ice cream atop a warm cookie, with her brother.

I have to be honest: her sad tantrum about the birthday party and her refusal to give in at the restaurant tore me in two directions. I was a bit disappointed in her behavior and the jealousy and (gah) brattiness she displayed. But on the other hand, as 'kid' as 4 may be, she is still a little girl, and a sensitive one at that. I've learned one big lesson about Luca over the years: she wants to feel like people are listening to her and taking her seriously. She wants to feel important and loved and appreciated. And she is only a little girl, so she can't always tell when her own need to be heard and validated is silly or bordering on ridiculous. We had a talk about the day tonight, and about how we knew she was sad about not getting her party today. A party is planned for next week, but in a 4 year old's world, we may as well have told her we'll celebrate it next year. She loves her cousin, but I think she felt a bit 'forgotten', and I never want her to feel that way. I want her to know just how special and important she is to us, no matter what else is going on in our lives. I know she'll forget being sad about it, and I know in the end this is but one in a list of many disappointments she'll face in life.

---------------------------------------------------------------

What's more important than all of that: the breakfast, the gifts, the party, the dessert/song fiasco is this: Luca is 4, and she has made us so proud. She is her own person. She knows what she thinks, what she feels, what she likes, and what she needs. She sometimes struggles to express it all in a way that makes sense to us, but she always forgives us our parental missteps, and above all she is loved and loves. She's smart as a whip, kind and caring and nurturing. She has a silly sense of humor and an old soul. Her favorite things to do are to play outside, to be with her family, to dance, and to engage in imaginary role-play such as pretending to be the teacher while we are the students. She loves her brother with a fierceness and is dying for a little sister. She is sensitive and her feelings are hurt easily, but she forgives easily. Many times, when she's upset, all she needs is to be told you're listening and to be given a big bear hug. She makes me, every single day, proud to be her mom.

I am sentimental as I watch the baby I know transform before my eyes. From tiny newborn to delicate infant to cautious and reserved toddler to talkative and compassionate little girl. She floats through life with her feet solidly on the ground and her imagination soaring in the clouds. I look at her, and I still see the soft pink newborn who I pulled into my arms on her birth day. I look at her, and I can see the woman she will someday be. I hope that she never loses her strong sense of right and wrong, her kind and tender heart, her old soul and little girl laugh. I hope she will always be the little girl who asked me if she could change her middle name to Ballerina. I hope she will remember her childhood as a time of happiness and love, of giggles and of serious cuddle puddles.

I love you, sweet Luca.



Fat Thighs.

It's a lot of pressure, raising a daughter.

When I was pregnant with her, I didn't want to raise a little girl who was cloaked in pink and frills. I asked people not to buy her pink clothes and pink toys. I didn't want the image of 'little princess' imprinted in all her earliest memories.

When I was pregnant with her, I hoped she'd be smart and funny first, beautiful later. You can make yourself look prettier on the outside, but I've rarely met a person who was funny without being smart. Pretty opens doors; smart and funny open possibilities far into the future. Beauty fades, but the ability to think critically and laugh with your whole body make you infinitely more beautiful to the core.

When I was pregnant with her, I was going to teach her everything it takes to be a woman, inside and out. I was going to be the kind of woman I want her to be some day.

Luca got lucky. I'm biased, I realize, but she has a face that draws praise from strangers for its delicate sloping nose and wide green eyes and rosebud lips. She has legs that are long and thin, a tall and lean body I now hope, as her mother, she will carry into adulthood.

Not because it matters to me whether the world sees her as beautiful. But because, as her mom, I want to protect her. And I know that growing up beautiful, and tall, and thin, and blonde might make her life immeasurably easier.

It's not in my nature to wish for a pretty little girl in a princess dress, flitting about and charming everyone around. I hope that, as she grows, she hears more compliments on her sweetness and kindness and sense of humor than she does on mile-long lashes and soft blonde hair that falls just so. I hope that for every, "She's so pretty!" she overhears, she is told 100 direct, "You're smart/capable/kind/loving/funny/a wonderful friend/daughter/sister."

But how do I marry these wishes for my daughter's sense of self-worth and value with my own obsession over my physical self? How do I follow Weight Watchers and weigh and measure everything on my plate while hoping she grows up with a healthy love of all kinds of foods and without an obsession over calories and fat? How do I stop myself from self-criticism and obsession over my mama belly and my fat thighs so that she doesn't internalize her mom's body issues? How do I explain to her that the dress she chose for me to wear is cute, but I won't feel comfortable wearing it again until _____ (I'm 20 pounds lighter, my legs aren't so pale, the world recognizes beauty in a mother's body)?

How do I tell her to love herself as she is when it's so hard to do that myself?

We talk about food to our kids, in terms of health and nutrition. In terms of, "That will make you strong so you can dance and play." or, "You're so smart and your brain needs good foods to keep growing smarter." We encourage them to run and jump and play. We take them outside, coat them in sunblock, and talk about how strong and healthy and capable they are.

And then, I count Points and horde a stack of jeans that used to fit me in the back corner of my closet, hopefully optimistic that if I just Do It All Right I will fit in them once again someday. I live with an image in my mind of who I could be and how I could look, if only I hold myself to impeccable standards and never lose sight of my goals.

A few months ago, Luca was changing her clothes and she stopped to grab her thigh. "Mama, I have fat thighs! I'll always have these big legs." she announced. It was an offhand comment, and one that wasn't rooted in any real belief that she did have fat thighs. It wasn't based in reality, as anyone who's ever met her could attest to, with her pin-thin legs. It was repeated, almost verbatim, from a comment my husband's mother had made about her own body the day before. We talked about her comment, and how it wasn't true at all. I asked her why she said it. She told me what I already knew: "Well, Gramma said she has fat thighs, mama. So maybe I do too."

"Luca," I asked, "what do you think about Gramma?"
"I love her," she replied. "I think she is beautiful."
"So do I," I answered. "So, let's make a deal. Next time you hear her say something about her thighs, you tell her what you think about her. So when she says 'I have fat thighs' what could you say back?"
"Well," she thinks through it aloud, "I would tell her 'I think you are beautiful'."

And she does. In Luca's eyes, her Grandma is nothing short of beautiful. I watch them together, Luca sitting on Grandma's lap and noticing the same curve of her smile, the same dimple just below the right corner of their mouths. I know that when she looks at her Grandma, she sees herself in many ways. And then I realize, she must feel the same way when she looks at me. And I think about what it says to her when the world compliments her natural beauty and the people she identifies with most in the world are distracted by calling out each of their own perceived flaws.

When someone she loves and admires and sees as a fiber in the fabric that defines her calls themself ugly or imperfect, how could she not grow up expecting to be flawed in the same ways?

I am guilty of saying things about myself in front of her that I have no doubt I'd be heartbroken to hear her say about herself. I am learning as I go, both to be careful how I speak of my own body and being for her sake and to change how I perceive the importance of the size of my thighs or the softness of my belly for both our sakes. I am not perfect. I may never be. I can only work to be better, and hope that I can impart on her a positive self-image that isn't rooted in her physical appearance.

And it's not just for me and for her. It's for my son, too. For the boy who will grow up with his mother and his sister as models of how women look and how they are 'supposed' to look. He's drinking it all in just like she is, and his earliest memories of the female body and how we feel about it, as well as how he's supposed to judge it, are created now. So if I can't stop the self-criticism for my own sake, I want to try to stop it for both of theirs. I want her to grow up with a positive message about how the women in her life feel about their bodies and just how unimportant that single piece is in determining their total worth. I want her to see that my belly may not be flat, but neither is my personality, and that being a kind and smart and capable and funny woman carries more weight than a pound of flesh. And I want my son to know that a woman is more than the curve of her hip or the size of her jeans.

I think we're off to the right start, but I know it will be a lifelong uphill battle. My son regularly watches me get ready in the morning, and lovingly touches the belly that's marred with proof that he once inhabited it. He loves to melt into my curves when he's sleepy and gently knead my upper arms with his hand. Those arms I don't want to show in public because I think they are too fat bring him comfort. My daughter often tells me I am pretty and points out all the ways she will 'be like me someday', a sense of pride and security in her voice. She is not worried she will inherit my fat thighs or my skinny ankles. She is, instead, optimistic about growing up to be just like me.

The day I wouldn't put on the dress she wanted me to wear, my husband kept pressing the issue. Asking me why I wouldn't just wear it. It was pretty, he assured me. But I didn't like how I looked in it, I told him. "I don't understand," he said in response. "For centuries women would have done anything to have a body like yours. There are millions of women who would kill for curves like women are supposed to have. So why isn't it good enough for you?"

Good question.

Rohan Is Two. Where's My Wine?

The terrible 2s? I am totally getting them right about now.

Rohan welcomed his second year like a cyclone, spinning circles of mud and toys and fury and unbounded joy in life. This kid? The very definition of a happy baby. There were those first few months when he had me bouncing him on a yoga ball for upwards of 45 minutes at a time as he cried and fussed and begged for I-never-knew-what. And there were night wakings and troubles getting to sleep and fussy episodes we didn't know if we should blame on age or temperament or his Masto. There were tough days followed by good days. There were worries that had me (against my better judgment) frantically reading Google and venting to poor, unsuspecting (and amazing) friends. But by the time Rohan was 4 months old, we knew we were seeing the real him: lively, engaging, sweet and affectionate, opinionated, often easy-going, always hungry for both food and love, and with a smile that is so bright and wide it makes my body hurt with love for him.

He's always been active and a bit wild. It's a shift from Luca, who has her opinions and is very Type A but is largely agreeable and cooperative. Luca will tell other kids not to climb on things that may be unsafe. Rohan will climb on things that may be unsafe, and when reproached by his sister he will smile that wide boundless smile and leap into the air, always landing on his feet. He runs and skips and jumpe everywhere he goes. He says hi to friends and strangers, approaches dogs while we're out on a walk without a second thought, and if you tell him not to do something, he WILL give you the silly side-eye and act like that's what he's going to do. "Rohan," I'll tell him, "don't touch that because it's hot." Smile. Side eye. Evil grin. Twinkle and squint. All while a hand gets precariously close to said hot item and he waits for me to flip my shit. I've learned, by the way, not to flip my shit. Because he (almost always) pulls away at the last minute and runs away laughing.

He steals Luca's toys straight out of her hand, then tears across the room, dodging her and she shrieks in protest, his grin splitting his face open from cheek to cheek. He throws the toy as far as he can throw, then laughs uncontrollably as she lands square on his back and tackles him, annoyed at the perpetually annoying little brother.

With Rohan, I've had my first parental experiences in:
- putting a hysterical and defiant toddler into a football hold and carrying him crying from the mall while avoiding judging (and probably some understanding) stares;
- chasing after him as he ran to the very edge of the sidewalk with the sound of a fast-approaching SUV humming in my head, then crying and shaking as adrenaline coursed through my body and he patted my face and said, "No street, mama. Ho-yud hands.";
- asking my child not to climb in an unoccupied restaurant booth only to have him nod in agreement and scramble onto the tabletop for an impromptu dance routine;
- feeling your face turning red as your husband escorts your child out of Safeway and you maniacally try to replicate the order that used to be present in the Easter greeting card display he just knocked over in the middle of the store on a busy evening.

To be fair, the mall one happened when he was a few months shy of 2, after a Santa visit at the mall. All the rest of those things have been in the 6 weeks since that fateful birthday. It really does give me new perspective, and a new dose of sympathy for those moms I probably silently condemned prior to having kids of my own.

I know this is to be expected, so why didn't I expect it? The answer is simple: Luca didn't really have a 'Terrible 2s' phase. Which is not, incidentally, to paint her as perfect. What no one (other than my mom who HOLY HELL why didn't I listen to her when I was younger because she. knows. everything!) told me was that a lot of kids hit it later, making it more of a 'Terrible 3s'. That was our experience with Luca. She went to bed 2 and compliant and woke up 3 and full of opinions that pretty much were based in nothing other than being different than those opinions held by her parents.

But Rohan? My little Mo is revelling in 2, dancing on tabletops and nearly running into traffic and generally keeping me on my toes.

But it's not all bad. It's really not. He still remains one of the happiest and sunniest kids I've ever known. He makes us all laugh 100 times a day, and kid knows he is funny. He makes silly faces and sits for minutes at a time curled into my body holding my finger and making me point to pictures in books as he names the things he sees. He's smart too: knowing several nursery rhymes and colors an instantly being able to navigate almost any physical task with ease. He adores his sister. At least once a week she tells me they are going to get married because, "You marry your best friend, and Romie is mine best friend." and he nods seriously and says, "Best fend, mama. Sidder (sister) best fend."

But times like tonight, when he landed a closed fist straight on his sister's head, dumped a bin of toys all over the floor as we were cleaning up, cried because he wanted water but he wanted to hold the cup while I filled it, attempted to climb up the outside banister on the stairs, and then pulled his *ahem* boy business out the top of his diaper and ran around the house singing, "Weenuh...weenuh...WEENUH!" remind me why I'm so not ready for a 3rd kid right now.