Parched.

I am a woman.mama.teacher.feminist.

These roles define me and haunt me.

They are all one and at war.

Lately I've been feeling more like a robot than an activist, and I'm thirsty for inspiration. Tonight I gulped it down.

Join me:
"B" ("If I Should Have a Daughter") by Sarah Kay
"Reinventing Feminism" by Courtney Martin
"Too Big for My Skin"by Desdamona

Buuuuuup!

These days, Klara's running, dancing, and twirling her way through her little world. I'm loving this stage so much more than I expected. Her personality is bursting through, and she keeps me beaming with joy with her silliness and affection.

Her constant movement means we spend less time heart-to-heart. I'm sure it's no surprise that I miss holding my baby close, but it's a bit surprising to me that she seems to miss it, too. She's suddenly a cuddler!

I'm cherishing those moments of closeness--when we're reading book after book after book; when she brings me the Ergo and insists that I pick her "buuuuuppp!"; and when, rather than fighting bedtime, her little head snuggles right into my chest as I rock her.

I so love being this sweet girl's mama.

That feeling.

I can't shake this anxious feeling.

I turned off the T.V. on Friday, realizing that I couldn't bear the images. I just couldn't see one more sobbing mama or scared child.

Dropping Klara off at daycare this morning felt like tearing my heart out. The unsecured door, with nobody nearby to see who comes and goes, always bothered me. This morning, it felt like a death trap.

I know that I won't always be able to protect her.

I know that there will be times when we have to be apart.

I know that staying home and keeping her near just can't happen--even though there's nothing I want more.

More importantly, I know there are families who can't turn off the images.

If I feel like this, how much more must they be living a nightmare?

I'm grieving with them, knowing that my grief doesn't compare.

And it sure feels like a lot.

Hiii-yuh

I’m not much for chatting with random strangers in the grocery store. I do most of my shopping at Trader Joe’s, and I always dread the requisite Trader Joe’s “small talk” while checking out. Klara usually provides enough of a buffer that it’s bearable, but now she’s creating problems of her own.

Klara has taken to talking to strangers. She waves, smiles a cheesy smile, and says, “Hiiiiiiiii-yuh” to anyone nearby. If the person acknowledges her, she repeats the “Hiiiiiiiii-yuh” over and over, sometimes shouting to that same person across the store. It gets awkward.

She always seems to seek out the person I’d least like to talk to. Today she said “Hiiiiiiiii-yuh” to a lady in the produce section.

Klara: Hiiiiiiiii-yuh

Lady: Hi! Well, aren’t you cute? What a sweetie! How old is she?

Me [smiling, but trying to focus on my shopping and not make much eye contact]: She’s 15 months.

Lade: Fifteen months! That’s just the best age! It’s so much fun.

Me: Yeah, I’m really enjoying this age. She’s a lot of fun.

Klara: Hiiiiiiiii-yuh

Lady: She must know it’s almost Christmas. She’s being so friendly.

Me: [courtesy, non-committal chuckle]

[Lady walks away, and I think I’m finished.]

[Lady walking back toward us.]

Lady: I’m getting ready to check out. I’d like to get her a little treat, if that’s okay. She’s just so sweet.

Me [Is this really happening!?]: Aw. That’s sweet, but she really doesn’t need a treat. Thanks, though.

Lady: Really?! I’d just like to get her something.

Me [making more eye contact]: Thanks, but she doesn’t need it.

[Lady walks away.]

[Lady comes back.]

Lady: I got her these gummy bears. I paid for them already. [Shows receipt.] This was all they had for kids at the checkout. They’re really not that bad, though. They have no preservatives, and they’re made with real cane sugar. See, no high fructose corn syrup. [Hands bag of gummy bears to Klara.] These are for you! They’re a special treat! Share them with your mom and dad.

Me: Klara, say thank you to the nice lady. Thanks. That was really sweet of you.

I wanted to be annoyed. She was so freaking obnoxious...but she was so nice. I left giggling to myself, and I had the least awkward check-out ever. The cashier and I got to talk about the lady and more appropriate snacks for a 15-month old. He approved of the things I was buying and told me he tried to point her to those, but she insisted on the gummy bears.

I wonder if this is her M.O. or if Klara's Christmas spirit just got the best of her.

I'm having anxiety about taking Klara back to the store. At least I have gummy bears to snack on tonight.

This way the magic lasts longer?

Klara has started to "pretend eat." She likes to stir and put her play spoons up to her mouth and say, "Mmmm." She uses her tea cups to scoop and "drink."

This mama can't resist a little imaginative play (or a cute wooden toy), so I bought Klara a play kitchen for Christmas. It's pint-sized, and the price was great. I ordered it and put it together during nap time, fully intending to hide it until Christmas--preparing myself for the very real possibility that she is too young and won't enjoy it for a while.

You might know where this story is going.

I've been known to tell people what I bought them weeks before the gift-giving occasion. I don't think I was ever surprised by a gift my parents bought me because I always peeked. My sister and I exchanged our Christmas gifts for each other before Christmas every year because I could never wait.

I hid it behind the couch.

She was climbing on me on the couch, as per usual, and she spotted it. She started saying, "OOOOHHH!!!" and pointing at it and smiling. I couldn't resist. She wasn't even whining. She was just excited. I dragged it out.

That little kitchen keeps her attention far longer than any other toy. She cooks and tastes and talks.

I tell myself it's better this way. It would have gotten lost in the shuffle of Christmas.

I'm just nervous for my mom to come over and see it in the middle of my living room. She'll judge me. I just know it.

Some nights

Sometimes the room next door is just too far away; we share a wall, but, on some nights, it seems too harsh a barrier. It's usually on a Friday night after a busy week or after we've spent too much time apart. I peek in her crib, and I just can't resist bringing her back to my bed with me. I scoop her up, noticing how this is the only time when she's calm and cuddly--when she's sleeping.

She quickly settles in next to me and reaches for my face or burrows her little hand under my arm. It feels good to have her so close; for that moment, all is right in the world.

About an hour passes, and she starts rolling over. She's mumbling behind that binkie of hers; the mumbling turns into little squeals. She starts hitting my face. Suddenly, she sits straight up and starts laughing hysterically. She realizes she's in Mama's bed, and she is so, so excited by the prospect of playing when she should be sleeping.

I laugh at her and realize that this co-sleeping arrangement just doesn't work for us. We like each other too much.

Back to her crib she goes.

All is right.

To her snotty nose with love.

Since I'm the one with the sick baby, Klara and I have spent A LOT of time (too much time?) at home this week. It's isolating and frustrating (and depressing, even), but it's also good. We're moving more slowly. We're down on the floor working together. We're giggling.

I resent that snotty nose for keeping me from our friends this week.

I cherish that snotty nose for forcing me to slow down with my girl.

As much as I'm ready to resume our adventures and visits, I'm thankful.

The village strikes again.

I cherish our village. Until today, though, I had no idea that our village was composed of strangers, too.

I sat down in our seat on the plane--after abundant offers to help and many sweet interactions with my baby girl--thinking about how people are good. I was worried that Klara would be the bundle of energy she was on the way out and was relieved when she immediately fell asleep on my chest. The relief turned to worry when I noticed that she was especially warm and, each time she woke up, she would quickly fall back asleep or quietly stare off into space. I made a note to myself that I should grab some Children's Tylenol in the Las Vegas airport, but I couldn't help but be a little relieved that this flight was so much easier than the last. Then she awoke and started hysterically crying during landing, so I pulled out a bottle that she drank with ease. When we arrived in Las Vegas, I stood up to grab my bag, and Klara vomited all over me, her, the aisle, and the seat. Everyone jumped to my rescue, but we were both crying at this point.

I changed her and me into new clothes (plenty of clothes for baby, and a shirt for you, Traveling Mamas!) and ran into the store to grab some Tylenol, realizing that she was getting hotter and hotter and more and more lethargic; I was teary and scared to death. It turns out that they don't sell Children's Tylenol (or any children's fever reducer) in the Last Vegas airport. Want Children's Claritin to put your kid to sleep during the flight? They have that. No Tylenol, though. One of the clerks mentioned a nurse's station on the other side of security. I was prepared to cross back through security until I found out that the nurse's station was closed--five minutes ago.

At this point, my tears were becoming more and more abundant, and Klara seemed sicker and sicker. I contemplated calling a taxi and spending the night in Vegas, but I didn't have a carseat, and I didn't even know where to start with that.

This is where my village comes in.

I started asking moms, through my puffy eyes and snotty nose, if they had Tylenol on them. They didn't. One mom ran up to me and said, "I do! I have a thermometer and Motrin! Come here!" She pulled out the thermometer, looked at her husband and said, "Fuck. It's in my checked bag." I assured her that I was thankful for the thermometer that confirmed that Klara's fever was too high. This stranger-mom wasn't ready to give up. She pulled me to the Southwest desk (I already tried that) and insisted that they make an announcement, asking for Children's Tylenol. They did. Another mom, one who'd commented on my sweet baby earlier, ran up to me and said, "I have Motrin!" My tears were sobs at this point.

She made me sit down and used her phone to figure out the correct dosage. We gave my girl the medicine she needed, and I cried some more and thanked the moms some more. I left armed with a baby dosed up on fever reducer and a thermometer to check on her later.

She immediately fell back asleep, and by the time we got on our next flight, she was chatting up everyone and having a grand old time. Thank goodness for fever reducers!

More, though, I'm thankful for those moms. They helped me think clearly when I was utterly panicked. They both said, "I know how scared you must be. I'll help you."

There's a sisterhood of moms. It must be one of the most powerful forces in the universe--second only to the love a mom has for her child. I'm crying now thinking about it.

Working on it.

I'm suddenly feeling the ache for my "old life." It's funny, too, because I know I was wretchedly unhappy then.

In a sense, I feel trapped right now. I'm stuck in this little house after Klara's bedtime, and sometimes it seems like the walls are closing in on me. I could easily have someone come and sit with her so I could go out, but I don't even know what I'd do and with whom.

It feels almost wrong to admit it, when this feeling is so foreign to me--this feeling of discontentment with the life of being a mama to this girl whom I love so much. This role has brought me so much joy (and it DOES), but suddenly I'm feeling frustrated.

I think it's the start of the summer. The long stretch of so much time alone with Klara is a little bit daunting; I admit it. Being a single mom can be incredibly lonely, and going to work each day does help to ease some of that loneliness. There's comfort in the routine, even when it feels like an impossible juggling act, where one ball is much heavier than the others. Work weighs me down, but it also keeps me moving.

I'm having a difficult time finding my place, recently, and it's easy to ignore when I'm too busy to stop and really feel it. I don't get invited to do things with my childless friends anymore. I'm not as easy as I used to be. I don't quite fit in with the moms who are home during the week. They've worked hard to develop their own groove. When people do stuff with "families," we're rarely included. When we do get invited, I often leave depressed, anyway. 

Our little lopsided family is sweet, but it's also quiet. We'll find our summer rhythm. We will.  I just suspect it will take some time.

You'll never hear me say...

Motherhood is filled with lots of "I wish I could haves" and "I probably should haves" and "What if I would haves?"

One thing I'll never be able to say is, "I probably should have loved her more." 

She's loved, this girl.

She's loved.

That will have to be good enough.

I've waited my whole life for this role--this role called "Mama." It hasn't disappointed me--no, not once.

I was warned that I would miss my "me time" and my sleep and my independence, but I don't. Those things very rarely cross my mind. Being "Mama" is more than enough. It is my identity, my joy, and my hope.

Thank you, Klara, for bringing healing to my soul. Thank you for filling my heart to bursting and making life worth living.

This weekend I'm thinking of those mothers in waiting and those who have lost their babies. There's a reason why having empty arms is so painful; it's because being a mom really is that beautiful.

Homespun guilt.

After our friends left for the evening, I rocked my girl to sleep, and then I graded for an hour. I hit a road block, so I dragged myself off the couch and out from under my papers and decided to gather our stuff for the next day. I grabbed just enough diapers out of the dryer for tomorrow; I was just too tired to stuff the whole load. (Is today really only Monday, and I'm already so weary of the routine?) My legs carried me to the kitchen to grab Klara's cubes of homemade baby food from the freezer for tomorrow, and I realized we were running low on fruit. Out came the pot and blender, and I had three trays of banana/apple/pear baby food ready to go in what seemed like no time at all; I was proud that I could "make do." I glanced up at the green numbers on the microwave and realized it was already nine, frustrated that I never got around to half the things I'd hoped to accomplish tonight and too exhausted to stay up late enough to finish it all.

I often think to myself, "I have too much on my plate and nothing can give." It's not really true. Target has shelves stocked with organic baby food. A few days a week of disposable diapers wouldn't hurt.

I do the "extra stuff" because I think it's best for Klara and for our budget and for the earth. I'm slowly realizing, though, that I also do it out of guilt. I feel guilty for dropping Klara off at daycare each morning. I feel guilty that I can't offer her a "traditional" home life. I feel guilty that even some of our weekend time is spent apart when she goes to her dad's. I feel guilty that I passed on my genes, marinated in alcoholism and addiction, to this little baby.

There are not enough cotton diapers or smashed edamame to make it right, but I keep trying.

It's my privilege.

As the sun starts to go down, you slow down, too.
You yawn. You whine. Your head drops to my shoulder, as I use my one free hand to load that last bottle into the dishwasher.
I grab your lovey and your binky.
I carry you up the stairs.
Some days, my body combined with yours feels too heavy.
We plop in the chair...
And we rock.
You stare at me while I sing--always the same song--and I see the corners of your mouth curl up beneath your binky.
I love that moment--that moment of recognition.
I pull you closer, and you nuzzle against my chest.
You drift to sleep.
I lay you down in your crib.
The exhaustion hits me.
And then the love.
Always the love.

Aching

I spend my days with an ache in the pit of my stomach—the ache that tells me that the way we’re doing this isn’t best for her or for me.

I miss her like crazy. I miss the way she waves her arms, smiles, and screams when I go to pick her up.  I miss the sweet songs she sings as she drinks her baba. I miss the gentle moment when she quietly stares at me right before she dozes of.

I’m just missing so much.

L-O-V-E

I keep thinking about that "devastating" news I got a year ago today. About how I felt so desperate and scared. About how I was sure that everyone would call me a fool. About how I knew I was ruining not only my life, but his, too. About how it all seemed to matter so very much.

If only I had the foresight then to imagine today--this moment where I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for the baby sleeping in the other room. If only I knew how different Christmas would be as I dreamed up our traditions. If only I knew how that baby would write love into my life.

What if I knew then that every little thing really would be all right? What if I knew that the word that would come to mind when I reflected on the last year would be "love?"

Love. That's it.

Mothering as an agnostic at Christmas

I love Christmas music, and the carols have been her lullabies this month. I've read her books about the birth of Christ, and we have a nativity scene up in our home. And yet...I don't believe that this baby is God.

Am I a fake?

I don't think so. Just as I can tell her the story of Icarus, I can tell her the story of the Christ child. I believe in the power of story. And I believe in the power of tradition.

If she comes to love Jesus as her savior, I know that it won't be harmful. I will love her and support her and feel gratitude that she's found a source of hope--even if it's one I don't have.

Cozy up and I'll tell you the story, Baby Girl.

She's home.

Our home feels empty without her. I can't stand staying home when she's not here, so I usually run to the store--killing time.

Tonight, I tried to walk slowly through Target--enjoying the freedom--but I missed chatting with my smiling girl. I treated myself to a Starbuck's on the way out, remembering times of financial freedom and time to myself, but it just made me jumpy. I tried to get my chores finished without feeling guilty that I wasn't giving Klara my attention, but I was so scattered that I was incredibly unproductive. I never stopped moving, but I have no idea what I accomplished.

I'm just not complete without my sidekick. She's so easy that being her mom is nothing but joy. I don't need  a "break" from her because being apart from her isn't restful.

I'm glad she's peacefully sleeping in her crib. Life is just better when she's here.

Three years ago today

Three years ago today, I took a day off to catch up on essay grading. It was a random Thursday to pick, but I soon learned that it wasn't so random; there was definitely a reason I was home that day. That morning, I got a call from the Foster Care Placement Coordinator about a two-year-old boy who needed a home--maybe a forever home. She asked if I was interested and told me that he would need to be picked up that day so he wouldn't exceed his 24-hour shelter placement. With shaking hands and a shaking heart, I installed the car seat and gathered a few toys to entertain him during the trip Urgent Care I was told he would need. I drove to Hayward with the directions in my hand to pick up that boy who would forever change me.

I don't think about Jabbarri every day anymore, but, every once in a while, I miss him in a way that aches. I wonder if he's safe and loved. I wonder if his kindergarten teacher is kind (or if he went to kindergarten this year).  I wonder about his language development and his emotional security. I wonder.

That little boy with the big, smiling eyes and infectious laugh made me a mother. He has part of my heart--forever.

Maya said it best.

‎"People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." 

- Maya Angelou

Motherhood has made me a better teacher. I now see each of my students for who they really are--someone's baby. I love them differently--better. I love them in the way that I would want Klara's future teachers to love her. I can't be with my baby during the day, but I can use this new, powerful instinct for good.

I was reading her analysis of the story, and her words caused me to slow down. They were insightful; I recognized a depth of thought in her answers that was absent from the other students' work. I was ashamed that I was surprised when I glanced up at the name. She's that sweet, quiet, English Learner--the one with the low "F." Why did I expect any less from her before this moment? I scribbled, "See me after class. Let's chat about your grade" on the top of her paper.

She cautiously walked up to me at the end of class, holding her paper with my writing at the top up for me to see--like a puppy that had just been scolded. I said, "The reason I wanted to talk to you is because I was so impressed by your answers. They were so insightful. You obviously have some really good things to say." She shook her head and tears welled in her eyes.

"I'm looking forward to reading your essay when you turn it in tomorrow. Seriously. You obviously have some good insights." She cracked a smile and nodded. "After you get over the hump of finishing your essay, can we talk about some of your make-up work? I really want to see your grade reflect this great work you can turn in." She nodded.

Maybe she won't turn in her essay after all, but, then again, maybe she will. Hope springs eternal.

I was reminded that, sometimes, a kid just needs to hear, "You're on the right track. I'm proud of you." How could I forget that? When did I become that calloused?

Big or little?

The details are difficult. And hurtful. And overwhelming. And illogical. And uncertain.

The big picture is simple. So simple. The big picture is love. We have abundant love, and that's how I know the details will work themselves out. They just will.