Questions

Luca does this impossibly cute thing lately.  He'll ask me questions.

Mama?  You like the giant? he asks as he stops what's he doing, genuinely interested in my response. 

Sure.  I guess.  Giants are pretty cool.  (I'm not sure which Giant to whom he is referring, but, in my desire to never discriminate, I'm comfortable with all extra extra tall/large people.  So, why the hell not.  I like the Giant.) 

Me like the Giant too, he says, relieved.  Happy.  Content. 

Mama?  Do you like Pete? (from Mickey Mouse) Again, he sits poised.  Head cocked.  Waiting....

Yup.  He's pretty great too.  I like Pete, I say.  A bit disinterested but with enough enthusiasm to wonder whether I've encouraged the questioning or shut it down with engaged finality.  Hoping in a way for the latter. 

Me like Pete too.  He sighs happily.  He's taking refuge in our similarities.  Our sameness.  Our found mutual interests. 

Mama?  You like the wizard?  (from a game the kids play)

Uh huh.  The wizard is pretty groovy.  I like scarves and people who choose to follow their true talents.  So, the wizard is likable. 

Me like him too.

And on and on we can go.  With Luca questioning me, and me answering.  All the while he is reaffirmed that everything is right in the world, because his beloved mama thinks the same thing that he does.

I see his shoulders relax a bit when I answer as he would.  I see this smile crawl onto his cheeks, bearing this grin that is really noteworthy. 

But what happens when he begins to ask heavier questions in which I don't share his same feelings?  What happens when I know that what I will say will make him feel a division from me, rather than that unbelievably comforting feeling of similarity?  What happens when we're not talking about giants and wizards?

As a parent, the first thing I want to see in my child is an infectious grin, a great sigh of relief as he discovers all they ways we are united. As a parent, I want to strengthen that invisible tie between us. 

But, as a thinker, and one whose greatest desire is to raise critical thinkers, the first thing I want to see in my children is their ability to own their beliefs - own their opinions - regardless of how others will perceive them.  I want to see them take on difference as an opportunity, not a threat.  I want them to see that my love for them far transcends our opinions, our beliefs, our values.  My love for them is without boundaries.  I want them to see that what I think really doesn't matter. 

I know as Luca ages a bit, his questions will turn deeper and I'll have to face that expectant little stance knowing that I will disappoint him at times.  I may answer and prove myself not to be the woman he always wanted as a mom, or thought I to be.   I just hope that he'll begin to find comfort internally and that my response will only be secondary.  Just an interesting tidbit to ponder, but not something for which to hold his breath.  I know his questions for me will begin to stretch. 

Mama?  Why do you like the giant?  Have you always liked the giant?

And in this way, we can create a closeness out of understanding, not necessarily similarity.

As I've gotten older, I have found great divisions in the way I think and some very dear loved ones.  But it isn't a threat or a problem, rather a small side note.  Relationships by very nature are determined by peoples ability to see beyond most small side notes. 

Sameness doesn't cause that crazy burning sensation of affection I have for my most prized friends and family.  No.  Not at all.  It's respect, and genuine love.  Some of my nearest and dearest sit on opposite ends of the spectrum from me.  While this can make for some uncomfortable dinner parties, it only manages to make me love them even more.  Because as I'm walking away, somewhat shaky at times in my proclamations, I know that I am still loved by them.  I know that our differences will never sever a bond that runs so deep.

Keep asking Luca Lane and I'll keep answering, with all the love and respect in my heart.  I can't promise much, but I can promise that.

Nesting

I know...absurd.  This is getting absurd.  No need to tell me; I'm totally aware of my obsession with my sleeping toddler.  But seriously.  That face??  And he's doing it again!  I'm delighted to find that my Luca is back to the routine of finding special spots to wait for me. 

This particular night, last night, really struck me.  This was the first time that he had created such an elaborate place to rest.  He has a blanket to sleep on.  One on top to cover up with.  And one that he's using as a pillow.  And doggy, naturally.  I knelt down next to him to take his picture, like some kind of wildlife photographer, and I thought of all the ways we approximate during the day.  Just like this sleeping boy.  He skillfully crafted a bed of sorts out of whatever he could find in his room.  He created a nest.  A home.  I thought of how we, as adults, do this as well.  We bring photos to work.  We bring familiar scents - candles and the like.  Those of us that have the nurturing gene know all to well that we work extra hard to make sure the comforts of the known travel with us, even to remote spots on the globe.  V always marvels at how I will pull out extra clothes for the kids, or a hidden toy when one is needed.  I do this because I know that home is truly where the heart is, and our hearts are on the go. 

I think I'm decent to above average in this department....nesting.  But my mom is a master.  We moved several times growing up, and several more times after I'd already left the house for college and beyond.  But every single time I went "home", it was all familiar.  My family's stamp was everywhere despite the fact that I had to ask where to put my suitcase and where the bathroom might be.  My mom has a gift of creating comfort.  Marking her territory.  So, when I saw this tiny blonde boy - independent enough to make himself safe and secure - I knew that this gift is genetic. I passed on a temper and a stubborn streak that would rival most, but I seem to have also passed on this quiet lovely ability to generate a home.  Funny how sometimes it takes our own children to point out to us what we have as gifts ourselves.  Just one more reason that being a mother has so brightened my identity.  Thank you sleeping boy.   

All day and all night



I know you're bored of seeing my boy sleeping.  With his dog.  But is it weird to admit that I'm not?  My heart begins to beat a bit faster as I walk upstairs late - after I've put him to bed - because I never know where I'm going to find him.  It's this quiet little anticipation....a great one.  He's always tucked near where he knows I'll be soon.  Funny, how we parents try desperately to find pockets of time alone - without them - and they are spending the same amount of time plotting to get closer. 

This was just last week, snuggled back on my bed.  I found him late and I crawled into bed next to him and just watched him for a bit.  Would you believe he hasn't crawled out of his bed after this night?  I walk upstairs with quick steps, eagerly wondering where he'll be, and for the past few nights, he's exactly where I left him, in his bed. 

I feel a bit deflated when I discover that my surprise never appeared.  I miss it already.  Who knows, maybe he'll return to seeking out slumber near me.  Or maybe he won't.  But I love that I have these pictures - these posts - to remember the sweetness of it all.

Just goes to show that time really truly disappears.  Luca began telling us a few months ago that he loves us "all day and all night".  "I love you Mama.  ALL day and ALL night."  He'd giggle every time too.  The profound nature of his grappling with eternity astounded me.  Delighted me.  All day and all night was about as far into the future as he could project.  For a two year old, that's about as long as life really truly can possible be.  And he loves us for all of it he would say, with a smile. 

He began telling family members he loved them all day and all night too.  And his teachers.  And doggy.  He's a defiant little firecracker.  A loud and feisty boy.  But the child has this amazing capacity to love.  Not just right this minute.  Not just in a few minutes. 

But ALL day and ALL night.

Just as he stopped sliding into my bed at night, he has stopped declaring his love to be all day and all night.  Now, like an older child, he grabs my face to tell me, "I love you."  Don't get me wrong, it's heartfelt and lovely.  But I do miss the rest of his proclamation. 

Silly

Mani/Pedi last week.  Gray was new for me.  Totally into it. 

Meryl

Have I mentioned that I am in love with Meryl Streep?  I am.  Openly.  Totally.  Completely. 

She is on the cover of this month's Vogue and when I flipped to this page, and saw this photo, I felt a stirring deep inside. 

Something about the beauty and simplicity of the pose.  The moment. 
I see a woman who is smart and accomplished.  Brave.  Talented.  I see a woman I would like to be like. 

Eat your heart out young Hollywood.  True beauty reigns.

Poverty

Whose problem is poverty?

Good question.  One which Richard Rothstein tries to answer in his book of the same name.  A friend sent a fascinating blog entry about equity in schools, and the author quotes Rothstein.  I feel compelled to share it.  (See below for link to blog)

If you send two groups of students to equally high-quality schools, the group with greater socioeconomic disadvantage will necessarily have lower average achievement than the more fortunate group.
Why is this so? Because low-income children often have no health insurance and therefore no routine preventive medical and dental care, leading to more school absences as a result of illness. Children in low-income families are more prone to asthma, resulting in more sleeplessness, irritability, and lack of exercise. They experience lower birth weight as well as more lead poisoning and iron-deficiency anemia, each of which leads to diminished cognitive ability and more behavior problems. Their families frequently fall behind in rent and move, so children switch schools more often, losing continuity of instruction.
Poor children are, in general, not read to aloud as often or exposed to complex language and large vocabularies. Their parents have low-wage jobs and are more frequently laid off, causing family stress and more arbitrary discipline. The neighborhoods through which these children walk to school and in which they play have more crime and drugs and fewer adult role models with professional careers. Such children are more often in single-parent families and so get less adult attention. They have fewer cross-country trips, visits to museums and zoos, music or dance lessons, and organized sports leagues to develop their ambition, cultural awareness, and self-confidence.
Each of these disadvantages makes only a small contribution to the achievement gap, but cumulatively, they explain a lot.

http://crookedtimber.org/2009/05/05/more-on-equity-and-equality-in-education/

We so often simplify the issue of poverty.  We so often think it can be fixed with a breakfast program or with in school health clinics.  We think we can dress it differently.  We think if we teach hard enough, if we love more than we thought possible, the achievement gap will just dissolve.  I have sat in interviews with aspiring teachers who have said exactly this when posed with the question of how they will try to lessen that big canyon dividing the children of our country.  They have told me, with wide eyes and earnest faces, that they just believe with enough heart, the gap will melt. 

But it won't.  You can't wish poverty away.  Or love it away.  Or teach it away.  You can't ignore it away.  Or pretend it away.  It exists and it's very real. 

So whose problem is it? 

It's all of ours. 

Perspective

Isn't it easy to look at your life and forget how comfortable it is?  You forget how lucky you are.  You forget how things don't actually make you happy, but a warm spot and loved ones do.  You forget that small surprises are hidden every single day, just waiting to be found. 

But when you change your perspective, you immediately remember how good things really are.  You remember how abundant life really is.  And you are aware enough to actually see those small surprises, those pockets of goodness tucked into your days. 

(Note: I climbed the stairs, exhausted, ready to climb into bed at about 10:30 p.m. and looked at my inviting bed.  I was eager to unfold that fat white down comforter and slip beneath it with a great book.  As I moved around to my pillow, look who I found, buried underneath the goodness that is Mommy and Daddy's bed - my boy and his dog.  Talk about a small surprise that makes your day.  I was tempted to let him stay with me but I carried him back to his own nest and called it a day.)

Another one down

Mia lost another tooth.  Of course, upon losing it, the stationary came out and she began following me around asking me to spell various words for her card. 
Translation:  "What do you look like?  Thank you for doing everything of teeth. Love Mia"
Mia went to bed with this note tucked safely underneath her pillow, along with her tooth. 

And this is what the tooth fairy came up with.  I wrote the note after Mia was asleep.  I was on the couch, with V, watching a fascinating Martin Scorsese documentary about Bob Dylan, "No direction Home".  I put the note on the kitchen table, sure I would remember to slide it ever so gently under her pillow before I went to bed.  Cut to the next morning as I'm pulling on one boot, sipping tea, and checking e-mail before work.  The soft pink paper and the dollar bill caught my eye on the kitchen table.  The damn fairy forgot!  I hobbled up the stairs, one boot on, one boot off and moved my arm across her still sleeping face.  Exchange complete. 

The whole thing was so reminiscent of my own childhood.  I awoke one morning as a kid and reached under my pillow to find the fairy had forgotten me.  I went out to the kitchen and told my bathrobe clad mother.  "Oh" she casually said. "Just go back to sleep and I'm sure she'll come."  I walked back to my room and clenched my eyes in bed, only to feel my mother's sleeve tickle my cheek - her scent enveloping me.  I moved my hand under my pillow after my mother left my room and found my prize.  The fairy came I thought.  I think I intuitively knew it was my mother, how could I not, but I just didn't care.  The money was there.  The magic lived on. 

V took Mia to the dollar store to pick out something.  She chose this little critter who will be forgotten about soon enough.  She excitedly told me about the note.  She told me that the fairy was small, only the size of her thumb and that she sometimes needed rides from other insects.  Mia told me the she knew the fairy was beautiful all along, and that the fairy even said so herself in the note.  I smiled...thinking of my close call that morning.  I thought about the fairy, me, and how I sometimes need to sit astride stronger creature's backs to hitch a ride when I'm too weak.  I thought of the last line that I wrote under my pen name of "Fairy"....that I hoped Mia and I could meet one day.  When I'm not the fairy, or Santa, or even Mom.  But when I'm a woman talking with another grown woman about the journey we've  both been on.  I'm not ready yet for that meeting...not even close.  I am still in the moment of holding a baby girl who is losing teeth and growing so rapidly I can't keep up.  But, one day, we'll both be ready.  I suspect she'll tell me she knew it was me all along, but that she didn't care.  She simply liked believing.  Me too, I'll say.  Me too. 

A New Year

I love the idea of fresh starts.  Endless possibilities. I remember when I was trying to get pregnant, the onset of my period would seem to some to be the most devastating time of the month.  And it usually was, but only for a moment or two.  Then, I would have this incredible sense of hope.  It was a new month.  A clean start.  I would carefully mark my calendar with big marker letters.  DAY ONE.  I knew I would hit a low later in the month as anxiety would build and doubt would flood, but for that day, the potential of a new chapter buoyed me so high.  That's what's tricky about cycles, whether they be menstrual, moon, academic or otherwise; along with the end is a new beginning just waiting to be begun.  You're mourning a loss but also celebrating an arrival.  And how I love contradictory feelings. 

We had some of our nearest and dearest over for a New Year celebration and inevitably, the conversation folded around to resolutions.  I always struggle with what to resolve.  I don't like choosing something that requires inordinate amounts of time.  Or money.  Or space.  I don't want my resolution to require a membership somewhere or a big piece of exercise equipment.  I like to choose something that I can put into practice on a quiet Thursday night if I'm feeling like a change is in order.  You can't run a faster mile in your pjs.  And you can't become a better cook when a trip to the store and a stock pile of recipes are needed.  But there are ways to better yourself on those late nights.  

I mumbled something about trying to be better.  "I want to be a better partner, a more attentive one" I said as we ate Indian food and sipped wine.  Our kids demand our attention.  So does work.  And even our friends to some degree.  They call, leave messages, Facebook us.  But our partners often are quiet about their needs.  Or they are quite vocal but we feel comfortable enough with them to ask them to wait.  While this is something I want to work on, it felt a bit broad.  It was something that I wanted to keep in the forefront of my mind at all times but it wasn't necessarily resolution material.  I feel I'm a pretty darn good partner on a lot of days so demanding perfection of myself is exactly what a resolution shouldn't be.  It was all I had in the moment though. 

And then my friend said it.  "I want to show up.  That's it.  That's my resolution." 

Bingo. 

I loved it.  We talked all about how the phrase, "Be present" is so overused that it has actually become something I need to be poked at while I'm supposedly practicing it.  But "show up" just feels different somehow.  It feels manageable but also pretty daunting.  I love that it takes into consideration that on different days, your level of arrival will feel differently.  Some days, you'll be the first one there - dressed, showered and eager.  And other days, you'll be the one that shows up in sweats asking what day it is.  But you arrived, and that's the important part. 

So here I am 2012 . I've arrived.  My energy is a bit low at this exact moment but I suspect after this coffee break I'll feel ready to tackle the world again.  I know I won't be the perfect wife, mom, friend, sister or daughter this year.  In fact, I know some days will be downright ugly.  But I resolve to show up.  I resolve to give what I can. 

 

The four musketeers toasting to a new year.  With apple juice.