Home

One of my students, who I've known since he was an infant, looped his arm around my waist today and said, "I missed you Mrs. Pellegrino."

"I missed you too." I said.

It's true too. I really did miss him.

Being back at work feels nice in a lot of ways. I'm back in the classroom this year, which feels good too. My schedule is ideal; I'm home on the couch nursing Luca by 11:15 a.m. - work for the day already a "been there, done that." I'm only teaching what I'm passionate about, reading. I know these kids, their families. I know their strengths. Their weaknesses. Work doesn't get more rewarding than this.

I was nervous about returning to the classroom, having been out of it for several years working as a literacy specialist. The constantness of the room - the needs of the kids, their questions, the energy, the activity, the management, the bathroom requests, and reminders to wipe noses....all of it constant.

You know? I love it. I missed how the kids will accidentally slip and call me "Mom" when they are mid story and feeling confident or when they are deep in thought digging through their backpacks looking for something. "Mom, where is my....Oh wait...sorry...not Mom...I mean Mrs. Pellegrino." What a compliment to me, I always think. That they are so comfortable with me, they often feel at home.

That's how I feel often in the classroom. At home.

Where a tiny pair of cords will take me....

I bathed him today and rubbed his little body with thick lotion. He cooed and grabbed his toes and I wondered if I love all babies, or just my own. I mean, I like all babies...but do I love all babies? Would I melt if another baby purposefully popped his big toe into his mouth? Would I swoon if another baby looked at me and grinned?

After he was slippery and smelled of post baby bath, I put on his first pair of cords. They are tiny, about the length of my forearm, but I pictured them bigger. And I pictured him crossing a campus somewhere (maybe back East?). Leaves crunched under his shoes and his worn backpack jostled around on his shoulders. Those tan cords, bigger now, hung from his hips. I wondered what books were in the backpack. Where he was going.

It hit me. I do love babies. Their innocence. Their dependence. Their sweet nature (even the colicky ones) and their desire to just be loved. But I have to say, I love my own the most. Not because they look like me (I would love my own baby that wasn't biological just as fiercely). I love them the most because their futures somehow intertwine with my own future. Just as I pictured him walking somewhere on a college campus, I pictured myself, in 20 years, telling someone proudly how funny his is. Or how warm. Or how kind. I love him then just as much as I love him now.

Maybe more.

VOICES

Mia sounds like a cross between Kermit the Frog and Hannibal Lecter when she plays make believe. I sound like Angelica Huston when I'm doing girls' voices and a transvestite when I'm doing boys' voices.

Who do you sound like?

You don't play make believe?

That's too bad.

Don't ask me

The BIG question as of late?

"Are you going to have the surgery too?"

The answer is seemingly simple. Yes or no. It's the background needed in order to answer the question that gets complicated. The background involves statistics, numbers, genes with funny names, more statistics, and lots of words like "familial" and "hereditary". I don't feel like explaining it all, nor should I have to. But, I will say this. The cancer in our family is not "hereditary"...at least not what science is capable of recognizing as hereditary at this point. The cancer might be familial (meaning it may or may not have a gene that may or may not be passed along) or it might be sporadic (meaning it's just a big fat load of shitty luck.)

So, if you're looking for an answer to the BIG question, I don't really have a nice clean easy one. At this point? I probably won't do anything except for high risk screening, which I qualify to receive. (By saying, "I won't do anything but...." implies that high risk screening is a no big deal kind of a thing. Wrong. It's a hell of a lot of work and a commitment to be sure. It ain't small potatoes.) Who knows how I'll feel next week, next month, next year, in 10 years, or in 20 years.

Let me just admit that the BIG question irritates me. It not only irritates me, it angers me. I find it invasive, rude, and totally none of anyone's business. It makes me want to shout, "You have a family history of heart disease. Plan on removing your heart?" "I see mental illness runs amok in your gene pool. Only makes sense to have a lobotomy, right?" Or, "Seems stupidity runs in your family. Any interest in removing your brain, or what little there is of it? You know, so you don't get dumber?"

My point being that everyone has SOMETHING in their genetic make up that isn't so pretty. The reality is that we are all victims of our DNA. I am a believer in using modern advances to combat that reality as much as possible but asking another person if he/she plans to remove body parts in order to evade a future that may or may not even come to fruition is just plain wrong.

So, word to the wise, don't ask me.

Genetic Code

This is an old photo. That's Mia in the middle. Yup. Now, she is big enough to get her own cup of water. Big enough to say, "Ummm...that's weird" when I asked if she'd want to get in the crib and nap with Luca. Big enough to say, "You know, I didn't even get mad when I dunked underwater today with Ms. Vivian" on the way home from swimming, as she gazed out the window, lollipop cracking and dancing against her teeth.

Luca really looks so much like her. Baby Mia has softer, more feminine features, but they look so strikingly similar. V said he thinks that's weird when siblings look so alike, especially a boy and a girl. He said, "I hope they don't grow up to look like those siblings...you know...the ones that look so alike it's strange." I really have no idea what he's talking about. And I think a lot of things are weird. I actually thinks it's lovely when family members, even members of the opposite sex, look very similar. It speaks to a strong genetic code. "Peasant stock" my dad would say. That's really the lineage our babies have from both mom (me) and dad (V). Both of our families were poor immigrants at one time. Hard working. Loyal. Decent. Genes that withstood the test of time. Genes that withstood loss and sea sickness on long boat trips. Genes that withstood hunger and poverty. Genes that were able to survive and succeed against all odds. Strong genes.

Just this weekend, someone approached me about my sister. They said, "God. Your poor family. You all have been through so much." She shook her head, in pity. Now, that's one thing you don't do to a product of immigrants...no matter how far removed from the mother land we are. You do not pity us. We can't stand it. I smiled to this woman and said, "Nah...we're strong. We can handle it." As I walked away, I just pictured my genes, those wonderful genes, marching along solidly across a breast with cancer, or two breasts. Across a grave with a beloved dad. Across sickness. Across heartbreak. I just saw them marching happily along to the great beauty of hope that lie ahead, oblivious to any unpleasant view that others may see on this very trail. Those marvelous genes that make me who I am.

When I see Mia and Luca, and their eyes, and their noses, and their distinct faces, I see myself. I see V. I see our families. I see strength.

A look forward

We're facing a new direction as we head down the path on our daily walks. (I'm way too excited about the fact that the previous sentence fits both literally and symbolically.) Luca is now big enough to ride big boy style in his stroller. Gone are the days he would nestle into his car seat and gaze at me while I pushed him along. Now, as he rides all I can see is the back of his head, moving from side to side as he checks out barking dogs, the flowing creek, and fellow strollers and runners. Again, I'm taking a cue from my tiniest child, I'm not looking back anymore, I'm looking forward.

I'm returning to work part time in a week and I'm using this transition time as a space to reflect upon what's in store for me. More travels. Less jiggly bits around my middle. More homemade soups. Less grinding away in the same old flip flops. More thought about publishing a book. Less time in a ponytail. More time challenging myself intellectually. Less time mourning Luca's passing babyhood. More time enjoying his ridiculous smiles (I mean seriously, are you kidding me with this kid?) Less time worrying about what I should have said and done. More time actually saying and doing.

Less time looking back. More time looking forward.

Happy Birthday to other kids

This is what we look like after two back to back birthday parties - drunk on sugar, sloppy with exhaustion, and totally delighted with the accessories that come along with being invited to a party (birthday hat and Dora necklace).

A note

Luca,

When you are too big to cuddle, I'll remind you that when you were just a teeny tiny, you fit into the crook of my elbow and I could balance you with one hand. I'll remind you that I would sometimes walk around the house with you perched in your mama made nest. I'll remind you that you were happy there. And that I was happy too.

The perfect art of mothering

I've always prided myself on being industrious, dedicated - passionately so. To really everything I do. I love intensely. And hate. I friend my friends with fervor (use 'friend' as a verb here...it works). I like to work out until I sweat. I like to clean not just one room but the whole house. When I discover something I like, I'll research it, practice it, hum it, read it until it's nothing more than a pounded out cutlet of interest. The fact that I would list "hard working" as one of the sexiest traits in men, just after "sense of humor", is pretty telling. I'm like a puritan in that way - weirdly and oddly dedicated to being dedicated.

Is this a good thing? No. Not always. I've reflected hours upon hours and even seen a few therapists to work out the kinks in this characteristic. It's me though. Love it or leave it.

Now, I'm a mommy, with two little people who take out everything I so passionately have put away, who spit out what I so industriously have cooked, who ignore what I so decidedly have said, and who simply dance around my desire to work hard. They are babies after all, so I'll give them that.

I recently read this really intriguing article about the nature of parenting today. Most parents today are embarking on the journey later in life, after careers have been established and routines have been set. Most women who are now morphing into mothers have hefty 401Ks, years of professional experience, resumes with serious weight, and the drive, determination, and desire to be PERFECT at parenting. Mothering has become a job, with a job description and a long list of norms to follow. While I wasn't necessarily older when I embarked on mommyhood, and my 401K was hardly impressive, I have recently discovered that I may have something in common with these 'professional mommies'. Keep reading.

Here's the thing about mothering, it isn't a job. There is no salary. There are no benefits. No vacation. No promotions. There are no co-workers (and no, your fellow mommy friends are NOT co-workers). There are no deadlines. There is no HR to run to when things go askew. No boss to bow to.

So we know what motherhood isn't. What IS it? I'll tell you what it is, it is a lifestyle. It's a choice. It's a relationship which means, by nature, it will be messy (written with yellow paint on my shorts) both physically and emotionally.

This is all buzzing through my brain as thoughts of Mia's weekly swim lessons hover overhead. Her instructor is harsh, a bit of a gruff personality. Me, a softy, immediately had my feathers ruffled when I saw her instructing Mia in a way that I thought was a bit tough. Too tough. I wanted to dive head first into the pool when I saw Mia sputtering to the wall after having gone under. Like a wet cat, she clung to the side as the teacher whispered something into her ear. Mia had fear blazing through her eyes yet she didn't cry. She stayed focused. She listened. I looked away, unable to even watch it, and panicked in indecision. Do I jump in? Do I demand to see the director of the program? Do I snatch Mia from the pool? I was shaky and wildly looking around to try to catch someone's eye. Someone had to be witness this. Other parents were casually flipping through magazines and the several lifeguards on duty were twirling long useless whistles. Why aren't they blowing their damn whistles?

I wanted to rescue Mia, my client. I wanted to ensure her rights weren't being violated. I wanted to shout out a list of norms we have in the house. I wanted to remind the instructor that her tone of voice with my client was too abrasive.

I wanted to work really really hard to ensure my job was being done as a parent.

And there you have it. I'm guilty. I have taken that fervor of wanting to perfect even perfection and I have channeled it into my mothering.

Let me just tell you right now. Those skills that we women have worked our entire lives to master, those qualities that we have drummed into our brains ("work hard. harder. Harder. HARDER") just don't transfer. Parenthood isn't about perfection. It isn't about mastering anything. And it certainly isn't about offering a perfect specimen, a child, as proof of how hard working you really are.

Now I never kidded myself into thinking I would present a perfect child to the world, but I know I'm guilty at wanting to be the perfect parent. I'm guilty of not wanting my child to experience pain. Grief. Loss. The feeling of going underwater when she doesn't want to. I'm guilty of wanting to push all of that out of the way for her.

I can't. Nor would I even if I could. I know how important it is to get water up your nose. You need to do it so you learn to cough it out. You need to do it so you can experience that crazy feeling of victory when you rise to the surface and you realize you're still alive. More than alive, you're still kicking and God damn it, you're swimming.

It is that feeling of success, that no mommy can hand you, that drives you to push for even more. It drives you to want to sweat when you work out. It drives you to want to dedicate yourself to your craft, even if your craft is making dinner or cleaning the bathroom. It drives you to be the best you can possibly be.

Funny that I'm having to unlearn all of that dedication and drive. I'm having to sit back. Wait. Patiently wait. (We devoted types loathe the word "patiently".) I'm having to let Mia walk through the fires of life, sometimes barefoot, even when I could offer shoes. Should offer shoes maybe. That's the thing...exactly the point I'm so desperately trying to make....that I don't know the answer. And I can't find it any book or article. I can't climb high enough or run fast enough to chase it down. Being perfect won't take me any closer to knowing the truth behind this mothering business.

I'm going to let her sputter and feel her way to the side of the pool with the teacher that I really don't care for at all. I'm going to do it because it's what I think is the best thing for her.

(Side note: Mia exited the pool grinning from ear to ear. "Did you see me?" she asked. I nodded that I did indeed see her. I played it cool. I pretended that I had this mommy thing in the bag.)

Thursday

Joy

I need to read more about the health care crisis in this country. I need to prepare to return to work in a few weeks. I need to read up on a few new assessments I'll be implementing with my students. I need to read that book that's been on my bedside table for over a month. I need to tweeze my eyebrows. Desperately.

I also need to learn to just let it all go and ease up on myself. Luca reminds of that every single day. The expression you see here is what I wake up to and what I see as he falls asleep in his crib. The kid is delighted with his life. Such a positive influence to be around. Call me if you need some positivity because V and I can share him, and Mia, any evening night say between 6 and 10? Just sayin....

Rice Cereal

I'm not really into this step of development. I like real baby food...with fruits and vegetables and such. This rice cereal business bores me and I'm glad I have an eager helper to keep Luca interested. I'm sure Luca is wondering why Mia is feeding him, considering she has smoothie all over herself and is wearing a bib. A bit like the blind feeding the blind.

Scooting

Mia has a new scooter thanks to E.Y. She scoots around the kitchen saying, "Watch out Mom!" like a 15 year old every time she rounds the corner. She amazes me daily. She's growing into her self and I catch these glimpses of the girl she's becoming. I'm so proud of her.

She found a craft of hers in the trash yesterday (yes, I do throw them out every once in awhile or else our home would be featured on Oprah when she documents hoarders and their penchant for crap. Except our home would be buried under mounds and mounds of construction paper, glue, feathers, and glitter.) She carried her art to me and said, "You'll never guess what I found in the trash....this!" She held it up, the corners drooping from sitting in discarded egg shells and banana peels. I shook my head and said, "You're kidding me!" I tried hard to mirror her horror stricken expression. As she walked away, rescued paper in hand, she was shaking her head.

SUPPORT OUR GIRLS

I wore an immense amount of pride, a ton of sympathy, and this really cool shirt when I visited my dear Emmy yesterday. (Thanks to Rach and Krista for the fabulous tee!) Let me be the first to report that she looks great, way too great for a gal who just endured major surgery. The hair was still rockin' and toes and hands were perfectly polished. The recovery will be long and hard but she is moving through it with grace and class.

She has started to open her gifts from the "Big Box of Love" and I can see she is overwhelmed. Perhaps even embarrassed by the amount of attention she is receiving. I had a moment where I thought, "I hope I did the right thing by organizing this. I hope everyone's generous showering of love isn't making her uncomfortable." Tissue paper littered her bedroom floor and a small notebook with neat handwriting sat by the bedside; a list of all of the contributors and their thoughtful and creative gifts. I quickly grabbed a bag for Emily to open and her personal secretary/nurse/man slave scolded me and ran to fetch his notebook in order to keep track of who gave what. (Good work Peter). As I scanned some cards and fingered some of the tissue, I realized that I did just the right thing by putting this together. I know it's difficult to be the recipient. It can be awkward and somewhat confusing. Thoughts of "Do I really deserve all of this?" run through our minds as people rush to our sides in moments of need. Yes. We do deserve it. And yes. People really do want to help. Emily looked so pretty and powerful propped on her pillow (hello alliteration) and I know the trail of friendships over the years that spilled out of colorful little gift bags were, in part, what keep her feeling so invincible.

A most humble thank you for coming with me on this journey of giving. We all know that when we give, we receive even more. Just seeing her laughing, while wincing through the pain, was enough of a present for me. She may be two boobs short of her old self, but she's still Emily. That warm funny girl who doesn't judge and who always finds humor, even in the darkest of spots.

So, a lesson has been learned. Give. Take. Even when it feels weird and uncomfortable. When we give and take, we support one another. We make it o.k. to say we need a bit of help. We make it o.k. to want to be helped.

Dress Rehearsal

Being a pumpkin takes a lot of practice and precision. We're working on it so our art is mastered by Halloween.

Morning Meeting

Luca sleeps on his stomach now. He is rolling and I think he's looking into pursuing it professionally. He's that good. For a few days, I was waking up every few hours to the sound of him squawking for help. I'd go into his room and he'd be marooned on his belly, like a beached water animal. Now though, he can get from side to side and front to back and he doesn't need me to come rescue him. I slept through the night last night, because he did. We are a happy household indeed.

Mia wakes him up every morning and this is what I find when I get to his room. She squats down by his crib and says very big sisterly bossy things while he laughs and squeals with all of the attention he is receiving.

Happy Birthday V!

V is 37 today. I bought him a tie, which made me feel very old and uncreative at the time of purchase. But, upon opening it, V said, "I was really hoping that you were going to get me a tie" which made me feel like a good wife, an old uncreative good wife. But good wife none the less. He wore his new tie to work and looked dashing, which made the small fortune I paid for it all the more worth it.

We went to the park and played then came home and had a big lunch, like the Euros that we pretend to be. Because V works until 9:00ish, we have our family time in the morning, opposite of most people. We feel like aliens socially, often having to say odd things to our couple friends like, "Hey, do you want to get together? No..no...not for happy hour. We were thinking more like coffee. Or a bagel."

I'm busy getting Emily's box of love ready and I have to say, people have outdone themselves. I don't want to be any more explicit for fear of ruining the surprise element for Emily. I am shocked though. Truly. People's thoughtfulness and generosity is really astounding. Love is in the little things and that's exactly what everyone has captured. Everyone has included the most genuine gestures of friendship. I'm feeling warm and fuzzy, which is a nice escape from the low grade anxiety I have running through my system for my sister. I know she'll do so well in surgery, and post surgery. I just don't want her to have to endure it, and there's nothing I can do to prevent it. Although I feel helpless, you all have helped to empower her. That's what's important - that the patient feels like a warrior going into battle.

So, today, a very happy birthday to my V and a very strong day before surgery to my Emily.

Fresh Perspective

We went to the mountains for a few days and enjoyed the cooler air and the afternoons that seem to be a bit longer than down here. Marshmallows were roasted and eaten. Long walks were taken that seemed to feel heavier on the way home, as rocks and berries spilled out of Mia's pockets and her shorts hung close to her knees from the weight of her treasures. Kids played and admired Luca. Adults talked and admired their kids playing. We took out a paddle boat on Lake Granby and Mia trailed her finger in the water behind the boat and mused, "I love the water". She ate a hot dog and an ice cream and I didn't feel a shred of guilt for letting her devour it. There are plenty of days left in her future when I can encourage a peach or some broccoli. Luca smiled happily and seemed to revel in the talk that he is unusually good. It was a quiet getaway but a needed one.

Loss

"Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Life has been heavy lately. I haven't written anything of it because it's too mucky to even really process yet. My very dear friend (the type of friend who you would swear shares your own blood) lost her husband last week to cancer. A silence fell over everyone who knows this couple, this remarkable woman. A silence you can hear though, which is an almost unbearable sound. You don't think you can hear the sound of pain, or the sound of a heart breaking, but you can. Those sounds are rolled up into the quiet of an evening, or the lull during the day. It's deafening.

My thoughts are constantly with my kindred spirit as she navigates this new path. Along with the new though, remains the old. We have been sharing so many memories of good times and she just said that those memories are a part of her very fabric; they simply can't be removed. When we begin to feel lost, we just need to stop, turn around, and look back. The footpath is well worn from our travels and we can see where we've come from.

To you my sweet long time friend, be patient. The hole never goes away but your beloved M can walk you around it by guiding you with all of the gifts he left.

The Broadmoor. Round 2.

We went to the Broadmoor for our annual trip. We've only gone two years in a row now but I'm calling it annual because I have declared that the place is worthy of my business annually. Plus, it makes me feel super chic to say that I go to the Broadmoor annually. And I'm on a quest to be more chic.

The trip was a nice getaway. We packed in quality "us" time and even sat at a bar (a bar!) to have a drink. I don't know when the last time was that we've done that together. We were drunk before finishing our first drink and declared ourselves officially so overdue for time alone. We talked uninterrupted. There was no laundry to fold. No phone to answer. No computer to check. No diapers to change. A great get away indeed.

We missed our little people though and it felt good returning to the chaos that is life with kids.

Looking forward to next year.

Photo Shoot

So I have this thing...and it's bizarre. I sometimes take pictures of myself just to see what I look like through the eyes of someone else. Even though I am the one taking the picture. It doesn't make any sense, I realize that, but it's a dirty secret of mine that I'm ready to expose.

You don't do that? Ever? Strange. Because I do.

(I know you do Emily, so I'm exposing you too.)

Sometimes I'll do it when I want to check out an outfit, from another perspective. You know, I'll look casual and sort of glance to my right as if I'm saying, "Who? Me?" while I snap the picture quickly. The photos are usually totally awkward and highly embarrassing, but a few of them have revealed sides of myself I never get to see.

Sometimes I'll do it when I want to see what I look like. Is my profile really as unflattering as I have imagined it to be the last 2o odd years? Well, most of my self portraits do confirm that, but a few of them have challenged that belief that is so deeply ingrained in me. A few of those portraits reveal a me that I don't know. A me that someone else would see but that I cannot. Unless, of course, I take some random shots of myself. Then, that unknown me becomes a me that I can see very clearly. A me that I won't judge as harshly. Funny isn't it? We would never berate and belittle others the way we do ourselves. These self portrait sessions make me kinder to, well, me.

You may see this as a vain pursuit, but I see it as more of an experimental study of self. Yes, I have a crooked nose and crows feet. But despite all of that, what does my face look like to other people? Who am I to other people?

Luca participated unknowingly in one of my self portrait studies. We were home alone and I wanted to capture the moment. He thought the whole thing was funny and he broke my concentration. I usually try to pull off the casual cool look, not smiling, but he distracted me. He is so luscious that one cannot help but smile when around him. So, my project in identity became more of an awkward moment of a mom holding her baby boy while trying to take pictures with her arm outstretched. Moments none the less.