flitter

I spend much of the day curled like a cat, now, dozing. My dreams are surreal and technicolored and sexy. My stomach is in a constant state of upheaval, the word nausea hardly encompasses the scope of queasy that I feel. It is a perpetual all day thing, indigestion, bloating, every single food suspect.

I turn my nose up at foods I have always loved; I become obsessed with certain food and then suddenly, irrationally, cannot stand them. The refrigerator is a dangerous place. I can hardly stand to open the door. My sense of smell has gone from acute, which it has always been, to hyper sensitive. I can smell peanut butter across the room. Garlic makes me dry heave.

It’s a weird state to have suddenly slipped into. Early pregnancy has forced rest upon me. It’s been a long time since I sat in a lawn chair on the grass and did nothing. I sit and watch clouds get tangled at the horizon; swallowtails land on the yellow roses by the door; my small boy rides his bike pell-mell up and down the driveway, skidding to a stop on purpose. He has attached a pinwheel to his handle bars, and it spins brilliantly. His face is a smudge of wild strawberries and dirt: a recipe for little boy glee. Next week he’s going to summer camp at his preschool for four half days and I’m holding my breath, wondering what it will be like.

Of course, I start to think about him there, away from me, and my heart feels like a bungee jumper, mid air before the cord catches at the bottom of the fall.

He is at this lovely stage right now where, on a good day, he’s the sweetest most sensitive little guy in the world. He picks me flowers. Sometimes when we’re walking he’ll stop dead in his tracks and gasp, “Oh look at that flower, its just so beautiful!” He notices sunsets, and birds darting though the sky like bright flecks of paint.

In the book Lyle Lyle Crocodile, he gets genuine big tears in his eyes when we get to the page where Lyle gets locked in the zoo. And at the playground when a smaller boy was crying, he stood near by, a worried look on his face, until the boy was comforted.

I so hope that this tenderness doesn’t get wiped away by the big-boyness he’s sure to acquire in the first few days of spending so much time with other, older kids. Around big boys he walks taller, his little shoulders thrown back, and laughs at jokes he doesn’t understand. He’s growing up, and it makes me feel dizzy.

The other day he asked, “Who will snuggle me at preschool?”

“Your teacher will,” I said hopefully, and he smiled, convinced.

But will they?

And what about me, when this second little one enters the world? Will my heart really expand to love the both of them? Somehow I can hardly believe it, even as I feel fiercely protective of my tender belly, where this unexpected miraculous handful of cells is multiplying and growing: tiny arm buds, eyelids, it’s heartbeat like the fluttering wings of birds.

The unexpected

The unexpected is what happens when you’re looking up at the sky and thinking about glazed doughnuts and life is generally good. The unexpected is a little tear in the fabric of the way things are, so small at first you hardly notice, and then you’ve got a run the size of the Nile going up your thigh. The unexpected is all about the tipping point. Reading runes before I left for Spain, looking for clarity in other things entirely, I received this message: “The outcome is assured, though unexpected.” Three weeks later, and it suddenly makes sense.

I’m pregnant.

I had an IUD (the Paraguard) which is 99.4% effective, making my odds a slim .6%. A slender needle in a hundred haystacks. But pregnant none the nonetheless.

You always read that shit about percentages on the packaging and you kind of think, somewhere in the back of your head, “poor bastard, whoever gets stuck being that statistic.” You never think it will be you.

It was a handful of days after being back from Spain when the nausea and the indigestion was kicking my butt so hard I was sure I had some sort of parasitic ailment I’d picked up somewhere abroad. Parasitic, for sure, just not what I was expecting. My doctor listed all sorts of unpleasant ailments that I might have. “The stress,” she said, “of travel and not sleeping.” I nodded, then asked, “Is there any way I could be pregnant? My period is late.” She shook her head. “Nope.”

A day later and my boobs were telling a different story. Overly sensitive when the colt-legged catapult of Bean hurtled into my lap. The nausea suddenly making sense.

I went to the store toting Bean, determined. DH was three hours away learning to bake bread with a friend. “Why are we going to the store, Mommy?” Bean kept wondering on our unprecedented middle of the day trip. My mind was suddenly unable to bear another moment of limbo.

We bought yellow pears, a couple fragrant peaches, and the kind of test that spells it out for you PREGNANT, or NOT PREGNANT, right there in bold print. I’ve messed with the ambiguity of the little pink lines before. You can always trick your head into thinking one is lighter, or darker, there or not there, depending on what you’re hoping. I wanted no bullshit, just a straight up answer. I had a hunch I wanted confirmed.

Still. I was totally, utterly, surprised when just that single word popped up. “Why are you taking so long, Mommy?” Bean whimpered at the door. “Play with me.”

It was a Sunday. I called my OBGYN. The doctor on call said, “Oh honey, if you’re in trouble, we all are here. Everyone has one at the office.”

But the trouble didn’t really start until Monday when I went in for an ultrasound, and to get the little piece of plastic and copper removed, and well, it wouldn’t come out. Apparently it was stuck in my cervix and in that moment I went from being somewhat of a rarity with remarkable odds and an unexpected pregnancy to someone with a high risk medical condition.

The possible outcomes looked gloomy: heavy bleeding if a second attempt at removing it went awry. Worst case: a possible loss of my uterus. (Really, that’s what they said. Imagine the sudden gloom that I was immersed in.) Or if it stayed, because if its location, I had high odds of a septic miscarriage. Unpleasant, to say the least.

Enough with the too much information. I can’t help it somehow, because suddenly it became everything for a few days. In the end, I went to the hospital and they used really high tech ultrasound stuff to do an ultrasound assisted removal that went okay—and now, well, we wait and hope there’s no miscarriage, because there could be. The odds are higher now.

And I know there’s that rule about waiting three months before saying anything, but I think it’s bullshit, because if I go through a miscarriage I want to be able to talk about that too.

So it seems that oddly our kids seem to have planned themselves. Four years apart, and a handful of days—this one is due at the end of February too. In retrospect, DH and I both admitted that really, we’d probably never get down to the business of planning a second one. And, while my summer is turning out nothing like I planned, I’m digging it. The same kind of thing happened when I got pregnant with Bean. It’s like a light has been switched on somewhere in the murk of my life, and in seeing, I’m compelled to do only those things that are most vital and important to my heart.

All year, and through the start of grad school I was near panicked with stress. Too much on my plate, but somehow, I lacked the ability to say no, or stop, or simply do what my heart wanted instead of what my head kept telling me I should do. I quit grad school for now—though they’ll leave my enrollment open for next year, or the year after, and I’m focusing full time on my writing.

I’m also picking wildflowers and spending mornings napping and playing with Bean. And despite the nausea which completely kicks my ass most of the day, I am happier and less stressed right now than I have been in almost a year.

“The outcome is assured, though unexpected.” Damn.

growing pains

One Scooby Doo bandaid and a glass of wine later, this is what heartache feels like. He comes home from the day with his Gram and Gramps who indulge his every wish: playground visits, popsicles, escaping from naps, trips to the hardware store, the library, the moon… When he gets here, he’s asleep and the rain has rinsed the heat out of the day. He’s in his car seat when they bring him, in his underpants, hair curling with sweat.

We carry him inside where he sleeps on DH the way he used to before his legs were long and his knees were scraped and his heart belonged only to us. Then he wakes, and all he wants is her, his Gram, who smells like sweet perfume and has soft hugs and buys him cookies whenever they go out.

He starts to cry for her. His eyes get red and puffy and he runs away and hides in corners, sobbing. Inconsolable, he doesn’t want either one of us, only her. Snot runs from his nose in a trail, and we offer peanut butter cookies and milk and he eats them and then starts to cry again; his smile as temporary as the thunderstorm earlier today that brought nickel-sized hail and a tornado warning while I was at school.

DH and I go outside onto the lawn. We check on the baby chicks, their beaks and yellow and sharp and their eyes round and dark. The grass is wet from the rain. We hold hands. Neither of us has any fucking idea what to do with our small boy who is standing in the doorway sobbing, not wanting to be with us but not wanting to be left alone either.

My heart feels like the tangled strings of a marionette; like prongs in a splintered music box; like the quarters that fall under couch cushions and are forgotten. We go back inside, agreeing to ignore him for a while. Surely this has gone on long enough, this wailing, this utter ridiculousness. He’s clutching the phone. “I want to call Gram,” he says each word punctuated with a gasping sob.

I put on Jack Johnson. DH grills chicken. I make potato salad. Bean sobs, clutching the phone.

Finally we cave, after forty five minutes of sobbing. When she answers, her first words are stupid and they make my heart feel like bits of broken glass. “I’ll be right over,” she says. DH intervenes. She’s his mom, so he can say it like it is. Not what we’re looking for here. Just say hi to him, calm him down. So she starts in, planning tomorrow with him: a trip to the café for milk and cookies, returning library books, a bike ride, a trip to the playground.

Smiles flutter on his face like the little blue moths that kept landing on the kids hands and arms at school while we were walking in the tall grass. They’d alight, then stick their tongues out, licking the salt from the kid’s sweaty palms, everyone watching in wonderment. My little boy didn’t want anything to do with me, and now he’s sitting there at the counter, elbows up, talking on the phone like a teenager, his face wide with grins. I can only listen for a while, before I feel like I can’t breathe.

I go to the wine rack, reach for the first bottle, grapple with the cork screw. Except for with dinner sometimes I never drink, but it seems like the only thing that makes any sense: in that it doesn’t at all. The cork breaks, and the sharp tip of the corkscrew gashes across my index finger. When I hold my finger up to my mouth and my blood tastes coppery. I pour a glass and take a sip. He’s still talking to her and her voice is a cloying sing-song of sweetness.. My heart feels like a bit of clay, drying in the sun, a hundred little fissures forming on the surface. Damn. No one told me told me about this. No one warned me that they stop loving only you. That you stop being everything, that a day comes when your kiss no longer makes it better.

I take the red metal colander to the garden with a sharp knife and cut the outer leaves of lettuce heads, all curly and green. Walking across the wet grass to the garden I cry. Then while I’m cutting the salad greens he calls for me, “Mommy, where are you?” and my heart is a trout flip flopping about with a wild helpless kind of love. He’s standing at the top of the garden path waiting for me, and I pick him a wild daisy from among the tall grasses and he grins when I hand it to him. “I love you, Mommy,” he says.

We eat dinner and finally, he’s all mine again. I feed him buttered noodles with peas and carrots and then we sit on stools by the window watching the storm move towards us across the mountain. We count bolts of lightening and he grins, eyes still red, eyelashes tangled. Then the sky changes fast from light to metallic gray. The leaves on the trees are tossed belly side up, like a thousand darting minnows caught between here and the storm tossed sky. Rain chases the wind, and DH goes about shutting windows and nursing his own form of heartache.

Bean wanted neither of us; and while he’s climbing back and forth now between our laps sharing an ice cream sandwich and watching the storm dwindle, his small betrayal still stings like salt in a cut.

So this is watching your kid grow up; becoming someone separate, like one Jupiter’s moons. We fall into each other in a tight embrace and I feel the muscles in DH’s chest bunch against my cheek. He’s holding me the way we used to, like it’s just us again, before Bean, though it’s different of course. Three years, and suddenly he’s clamoring for independence at the threshold of our hearts. All we can do is stand in the doorway watching the storm approach. Then suddenly, rain is pelting our skin.

Right now, right here

At school, the days are spiraling down. We make space mud and go outside for extra recess where I sit on the grass and they crowd around me, suddenly towering tall, every single one yelling for my attention. “Teacher! Teacher! Look at this!” “Teacher can we race?” “Teacher! Watch me!” I close my eyes and feel the sun on my eyelids and my pulse in my chest. The backs of my eyelids are sunbursts of red and shade. The world is simpler this way, eyes closed. Immediately I turn inward, feel my breath, remember to breathe. Eventually they stop yelling. One persistent voice keeps at it, softer now, “Teacher, teacher!”

Above us there is a sun dog in the sky. I tell them the weather will change. I tell them rain is coming, and later it does.

At home the road is slick with mud. The chickens come out from the coop and ruffle their feathers. The sky is the color of paper. Lilacs lean towards the ground, heavy with rain. Bean wakes up from his late nap grouchy, and grouchy by three year old standards seems to mean nonstop howling in indignation for a half an hour. No he doesn’t want a snack, or a snuggle, or a walk, or some milk. But then two seconds later he’ll maybe change his mind.

When he’s asleep, he looks little to me still. I see in his face the tiny baby’s face I stared at for hours, when he still made dolphin noises and his whole body could rest snuggly against my torso. But then he awakens and the turbulence childhood is there like a weather map, hovering. He looks boyish, lanky, bright-eyed, determined.

When he was two, I could distract him. “Look at the moon!” I’d say eagerly, or “Let’s go get some mango for snack,” and any consternation would melt like a popsicle on a warm day. “Okay,” he’d nod agreeably, smudging tears with the back of his hand. But three? Three is entirely different. He holds on to things. Dwells on them. And his emotions sweep over him like waves.

I remember going to the beach when I was a kid, growing up in Los Angeles. The sand was often oil specked, and the waves hit hard. If you turned your back when you were building sand castles, you’d get smacked down, spun under, your t-shirt or bathing suit twisted and wrung out. Bean’s moods hit him like that now. Everything is full throttle. Urgent delight. Intense frustration. Utter grief.

On walks I’ve started sharing my big Cannon EOS 20-D with him. It’s probably not advisable. I’m likely courting disaster, a broken lens, worse. But he has an eye for framing the most beautiful shots. He takes the camera so earnestly, the strap slung over his shoulder. And I love the way his pictures are—kid level, slightly askew.

It is hard to resist the urge to tell him how to do things. “Take a picture of this, point the lens this way, no that’s too dark,” and just see what he comes up with. But I realize right away that I’m pushing the river when I do. The kid’s got his own eye.

On a different note: I’m on the brink of something. Tilting. Can’t say yet what, but things are afoot. Possibly. Maybe. Good things. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Hating the way I feel right now

It’s completely kicking my butt, this parenting thing. Right now, I feel like a crappy mom. I wonder how on earth I could ever, really, be the parent to two kids when this one is driving me bananas. He’s three, and that has made everything more complicated. And tonight bedtime was a crappy overblown push-pull of him wanting more of me, and me wanting to give less. One of those nights where I’m beyond tired and the laundry is everywhere (in the drier, in the washing machine, on the chair in the bedroom in heaps, in the hallway in heaps) and my last nerve has already been used up. And then he starts.

“I need milk, mommy!” he starts to whine. We’ve already done stories and we’re past the step where warm milk was an option, but it’s only been recently that he’s been forgoing it at bedtime, and really, I should have offered it to him at the appropriate time. And I didn’t. So here we are.

I’m lying on his bed with him watching how the shadows make the yellow of his walls almost gray. The light out the window is dusk. The last of the robins are singing from the tops of the trees, but the sun has already sunk below the horizon and the sky is the pale afterthought pink of post-sunset. I want to cry.

I’m not sure why I want to cry except I feel like I’ve been giving everything all day long to other people’s kids and now here I am with my own, the kid I love more than anything, and I don’t have an ounce of wiggle room left to give him.

“Fine,” I say. “But if I get you milk then I am not going to lie here and snuggle with you. You can have the milk but then it’s a hug and a kiss and we’re done tonight. Got it.”

“Noo!” He whimpers indignantly. His lower lip is protruding and he sounds particularly pathetic because he’s just getting over a cold. This makes matters worse. The fact that I know he’s been sick. That his behavior has always been worse when he’s sick: more erratic with bouts of energy and lulls.

But damn, I just want to be sitting on the couch with the cat wedged up against me, without anyone needing anything for eight point five seconds. That would be really great.

But somehow there is never enough time, at the end of the day. I crave energy and time and have neither by 8 p.m. So I go downstairs and get milk and bring it up to him and he’s already bawling.

“I want snuggles Mommy, I just want you to snuggle with me.”

I hand him the milk. I sit in the rocking chair near his bed. In my head I can see myself and I can see that I'm being stubborn and unreasonable and in general totally suck as a mom. I even think to myself why the hell can’t you just go cuddle with him, what’s the big deal? But the big deal is that since he’s turned three he has started to make bedtime into something momentous again, every night more negotiations, more extra steps and little details as he tries to control more and more of his world. And I picked tonight of all effing nights to curtail this trend.

What was I thinking?

So now he’s balling into his milk and snuffeling and needs a tissue. “I just love you Mommy. I love you Mommy. I love you Mommy. Are you happy Mommy?”

Damn it. Is parenting this hard for anyone else?

We somehow muddled through. I explained that I wasn’t happy with his behavior but that I loved him and loved him some more. And now he’s tucked into his beanbag ‘nest’ in our room where he has very contentedly slept for the past few weeks. And the cat is by my shoulder, and outside the trees look like the outlines of giants huddled together having tea, and the house is quiet.

But I hate not having patience. I hate feeling like I’m totally not cut out for this. ARGH.

It figures...

...that the day I've set aside (taking full advantage of it being Mother's Day so I can totally claim several back to back hours) for finishing up my two manuscripts (which incidentally are DUE tonight) is GLORIOUS. Apple blossoms, a perfect breeze, seedlings to plant in the garden. Sigh. And here I am in my shady studio, clacking away on the keyboard. It is nearly impossible not to procrastinate now, when I'm working on revisions (which I hate) and a honey cheeked little boy comes running upstairs clutching a piece of bread and butter with the sole purpose of giving me kisses.

Anyway. Happy Mother's day to all of you mamas out there. I'm so lucky to know so many of you.

Scraps

It is somehow already Thursday. I am like salt in a shaker, scattered haphazardly over the things of my days. Small scraps that I want to remember. ***

Coming back to the classroom I put a jar full of tulips by my desk, and smiled when it was the boys who noticed. A little girl came in with a Tupperware of salamanders for our terrarium. A boy who constantly pushes my buttons looked like he was up to no good, so I swung by his table and discovered he was writing: You are the best teacher in the world on a heart he’d drawn in marker.

Also: we’re studying matter, and we’ve been having the best conversations.

Me: What do you think matter is? Kid: Maybe whatever it is, the person who invented it is named Matt?

Me: Matter is anything you can touch or feel. Kid: If it’s anything we can touch or feel, do we eat matter? Kid: Do we breath matter? We can feel air, so we must! Kid: Matter is ANYTHING. Kid: If matter is EVERYTHING, is there anything that ISN’T MATTER? Kid: If matter is everything, then is God matter?

*** Yesterday we went to a two-bit circus with Bean. It’s a tiny family circus that seems to tour the country—360 shows per year. What a life. All the clowns and acrobats and jugglers were either too young or too old to make a crack at it anywhere else, and the ponies napped between rides when everyone was taking a break to buy popcorn and bright bobbing star-specked balloons and sparkling wands. But it still had magic. There were moments when I gasped. And Bean, big eyed from his daddy’s lap, his face sticky with cotton candy, could not take his eyes off everything that was going on.

I always remember loving the circus. As in: I wanted to run away and join.

Now I’m bitten with the peculiar desire to follow a troupe around and write their story. I often wonder if anyone else is curious about this? How these people live, all year, in trailers, going from place to place, performing, practicing, always on the road. How does the 12 year old Peruvian juggling marvel (who dropped his props) go to school? Or his sister, the contortionist who could twirl her entire body bent over backwards by holding onto a swivel with her mouth. But I can’t imagine they’d want me there, poking into the private corners of their lives, after fake eyelashes have been removed and the ponies are bedded down for the night.

*** Today I came home from work nearly staggering. Tired. I buried my head under pillows. I’ve always loved my bed, wherever it’s been. It’s the thing I think of when I think of home. Soft sheets, the window open just a sliver, light falling golden through the big-leafed tree in the blue bowl by the bed. Without intending to, I was asleep. Not slumber, but black out sleep, that when I awakened I could not recall. The kind of sleep where you’re not sure if you were asleep at all, yet the shadows are longer.

Bean and DH let me sleep until dinner time, at which point I emerged like a baby raccoon. Clumsily and disoriented, at the very least.

Onwards.

A post in pictures

Artichokes for dinner: a Bean favorite. Mine too. We eat all the way to the heart, dipping each leaf in lemon butter; then wonder at the purple and pale green thistle center.

It's suddenly warm here. Days perfect for drinking fizzy water and limes. Days for getting first sunburns, working in the garden. A week of vacation: to catch up on writing and sleep and time with my boys.

Bean and I spend every second outdoors in the afternoons, ambling through our meadows, taking stock of everything that is new and green and budding. He found these old baskets from last autumn's crysanthemums on the brush pile we're preparing to burn. Natraully, they offered endless entertainment.

Made the first batch of sun tea this week. The temperature has hit 80, and it's almost soporific. Just two weeks ago I was wearing down and socks, now I'm barefoot, my toes badly in need of a pedicure.

Writing, upstairs, alone in the house, I heard a thud. Unmistakable, reminding me of a childhood in the Rocky Mountains in a big-windowed cabin and my dad, holding stunned birds in his quiet palms. They always flew away, and compelled, I went downstairs and out the screen door looking. It was there, below the frong windows, wings spread wide, eyes closed. But I scooped it up gently, and held it. (My dad always said holding the birds helped them with the shock.) And eventually, he started to blink, and move about, then perched for a while on my thumb before flying off. A small blessing.

Wildflowers suddenly everywhere, and insects. I'm so damn grateful to be through with winter.

We hung Bean's first tree swing yesterday. So much nostalgia from childhood: my feet scraping the blue bowl of sky.

I found two today, the first of the year. I think of them as my writing talismans. Last year they brough so much: my writing group, Pam, a piece to be published this summer in the Sun. I've pressed them in my new Molskine.

He's just so beautiful. Yesterday in the garden he was stomping about. "I'm going to get the moon," he said, and then wandered off, gesturing that he'd gotten it and was holding it and bringing it back. "I brought you the moon, Mommy," he said, beaming.

From here

Standing at the kitchen sink this morning rinsing a glass, I was thinking about blogging. About this blog, about how I started it for one reason, and have continued it for another entirely.

The sunlight in the morning has made all the difference lately, and this morning you could see new grass on the lawn, bright green, almost transparent in the light. I made a double shot of espresso for an iced latte to-go, and thought about how my life is different now than one year ago, or two. This blog has become a record for me, of small things. I go back and look at what the weather was like two seasons ago. My mind, full with the present, is fickle in the light of the past.

When I started to write, I was a new mama and every single aspect of parenting felt like fraud to me. It took me more than a year to wrap my head around the idea of being someone’s mother. My heart on the other hand, only required a nanosecond of adjustment: when he was first there in my arms, warm and wet and wide-eyed, he was instantly mine.

Still, I started this blog because I felt some urgency to document the affect becoming a mother had on my life, as though it had been tucked precariously into the nook of a slingshot and then launched, suddenly, all of a stumbled moment. For the first year I diligently wrote letters to my small boy, a baby yet, whose miraculous feats of sitting up, crawling, and walking became also benchmarks for my own life.

Then gradually I stopped feeling that raw ‘new mama’ status. I went from being a ‘first time mom’ to just a mother. My baby was suddenly a kid who could talk and was potty trained and climbed trees. I stopped recording the little things. Each day, exponentially, the things he says astounds me: so much so that at the end I can hardly remember all the delight of talking to him about the way he sees his world. He has become someone that I want to know; someone I love to lie with in the newly growing grass on the back lawn drinking fizzy grapefruit soda and eating blue corn chips.

Now when I write it’s hardly ever about Bean, not really intentionally, but just because my focus has shifted: towards writing and work and the multifaceted inner topography of emotion I’ve been exploring this year.

But oh, he’s a love. He’s SO BIG now, you would hardly believe it. So articulate and observing and funny. It’s like his personality can no longer be contained on the page: I sit down to try to capture a few phrases that he’s said to me, and my mind is instantly crowded like a sky full fluttering parrots. One thing I do know: he still sucks at sleeping through the night.

Three years old

Dear Bean,You are three this week. Three, and around you everything is a little tornado of delight. When I came home from a week away and slipped into our comfy king sized bed, you were already there, curled among the flannel sheets, nuzzled into my pillow. I kissed your cheek and you smiled, a dreamy sleep smile, but still one of contented recognition. Later, you woke to find me next to you and threw your arms around my neck, “Mommy” you sighed. “I love you so much.”

In the morning we made blueberry pancakes, and stacked them on your plate with a star candle, flickering brightly. At your place, I put the rocks I’d collected hiking on trails winding along the desert outside Zion, Utah. One smooth and round, sparkling with tiny bits of glitter, like a star-filled sky. Another, a small bit of petrified wood, found on the muddy trail outside of the park where the group stopped and ate apples and chocolate and almonds while the desert sun soaked into our skin.

You pay attention to everything around you now. Never missing a subtlety of expression, you listen to your daddy talk stocks, and when we asked you how your day was going, you shrugged mournfully, held your hands up in the air, palms up, and said: “My stock is going down; it went all the way down under the floor." Then you grinned like an elf and added, "But it came back up.”

More and more I notice you paying attention to text—everywhere you notice letters—the ones in your name, and also others. When I was gone, I left you a small present for every day I was away. One was a counting book, starting at 10 and going backwards. By the time I came home, you knew all the words, and pointed to each number identifying it correctly. Like me, I think, you are a kid born to learn. I’ve always been voracious this way. Always full of wonder and hungering to learn new things, and I’m glad this is something we share.

I missed you while I was gone, in a bewildering tender way: I kept thinking wherever I went that I’d forgotten something. Still, I was thrilled to go. I hope you understand this. We napped together today. I needed to catch up on much needed sleep, after a week writing, my entire being thrumming like a tuning fork with inspiration after being with such an amazing group of writers.

When we snuggled under the covers, you whispered, “I missed you so much, Mommy,” and gently kissed my face again and again. I said I missed you too, but that it was good for me to go, because it made me happy and you nodded.

I watched you all day today, content to let my orbit grow small around you after a week of airplanes, content simply to be your mother. Remembering three years ago, labor long, spring temporarily bursting in the Connecticut suburbs where I circled the deck working through contractions. Remembering the disorienting blur of new motherhood, your small body no longer a piece of mine. On your birthday we spent the day doing things your way: walking along the waterfront checking out trains, playing with cars and cranes on the floor, and giggling. Lots of giggling.

Adjectives that describe you right now: inquisitive, persistent, curious, determined, intelligent, astute, perceptive, silly, playful, intuitive, and observant.

I’m so proud to be your mama. I love you.

33 Months

33 months old, and he says, “Mama, do you think Kiwi birds eat kiwis?” and then giggles.

When I say, “You’re my little guy” he says, “No I’m not, I’m you’re bunny, and I’m a little bit big.”

When I skip a page in a story, or skim past a few lines to speed the process up he says, “No mama, you skipped a page.” And then he’ll go back and tell me verbatim the words I didn’t read.

He is obsessed with forts. The kind with quilts on the couch are best. Boxes also have his affection. And he loves his little back pack and fills it full of treasures. “I have a wallet, mama,” tells me. “With credit cards. I can buy food and toys.” He collects pennies and keeps them in a jar in his nightstand drawer.

He loves his new snow boots, but hates nearly every winter hat we have for him. He fights us about putting on his jacket every time. “I will wear a jacket tomorrow,” he says, with the hopes of avoiding wearing one today. He also tries this with nap time. “I already napped today,” he says, head tilted, eyes twinkling.” It is 10:30 in the morning. “I will nap tomorrow again. I do not need a nap today.” Yeah right buddy.

“I want to do it by myself,” he says about unzipping his pajamas, or taking off his shirt.

“I love you and I missed you,” he says every day when I get home and we crawl onto the couch to snuggle.

He patters into our room in the middle of the night, and in the morning his arm is wrapped around my neck. “Snuggle me, mama,” he whispers in the early morning light.

He loves to paint, and just this month he started drawing his first recognizable images: a bunny, a person, a digger. He loves his Etch-a-Sketch, and makes elaborate “castles” with stair-stepping patterns. He’ll work on it for a half an hour at a time, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

When we’re outdoors he stops and cocks his head, “Do you hear that chickadee, mama?” he’ll ask.

When the first snow of the season was falling when he woke, he climbed up onto the windowsill and watched it, eyes wide and joyous. “Snow is falling everywhere, mama,” he cried. “It’s on the trees and on the roof and on the grass.”

I am completely smitten. My kid is the coolest kid in the world.

Too short

Bean got a haircut yesterday. Far too short.

I couldn't stop the lady. How do you stop a lady cutting your kid's hair once she has begun?

He looks so grown up. So serious with his big eyes.

I wanted to cry about it last night. Didn't, but wanted to.

First person!

Bean drew a picture of a person today. See? The long legs. The shoes. Up top is the body and head all rolled into one (could that possibly be the way he sees us? His tall mommy and daddy with our long legs and our heads way up high?) There were also, at least while he was painting, blue for the eyes and red for the mouth, but they rapidly became blurred. The long arm going off the page is holding an "orange race car."

Sitting on the kitchen floor and watching him paint made my night.

One or two

On a run, we talk. It is a good time for talking actually. The conversation makes the strain forgettable. In between words, pauses long enough for breath, and for making things intentional. We run past open meadows and woods where the leaves are piled high and brown. The sun is warm on our backs, but we wear woolen hats. We talk about the things we’ve always wanted. About the dreams we have. Living in Europe; graduate school; a life where we can look back each day and say we lived it well and fully. It’s easy to dream and forget to leap. To stand at the top of the cliff, and get lost looking down, without ever stepping off, and then there’ll be the day we’ll look back and regret.

“That would be the summer you’re supposed to be pregnant with another baby,” he says, of two summers from now. We’re talking about living in Europe—a part of a graduate degree program I’ve been accepted to, and have decided to attend. I feel my stomach flip flop.

When I pick up my friend’s baby, he fits perfectly into my arms. My body remembers that rocking motion (a side-to-side movement I grew so accustomed to, that for month’s I’d catch myself standing in line at the grocery store, or the bank, swaying.) I bring my lips to the softness of his downy head instinctively. Motherhood is in my bones.

And yet, I have a fierce, anxious longing to do more than this. I’ve come to this other passion slowly, like an embering fire. It hasn’t been a direct route, like Karen Russel, who at 26 has already published an acclaimed, original collection of stories. Writing for me has been more like a slow aquifer, bubbling to the surface with greater and grater force with each year’s passage.

I love my son wildly, and am grateful for his little satellite self, orbiting my days. But I’ve just started to feel like things are possible again. Life beyond the insular circumference of a baby’s needs. I imagine a sibling for Bean. But when I really examine this image, I find much of it is a composite of expectations. Everyone I know has had two or more kids. I grew up in a family of three. I don’t really know any onlies, and people ask me regularly when I’ll have a second.

As it stands, it’s a matter of timing. A matter of putting one dream ahead of the other. People say siblings born close together are happiest—they have each other, and all that. But I can’t imagine this now. I can’t imagine the constant rush. The never enough hands. The diapers in addition to the night time worries of a toddler. I can’t imagine never being able to sink back into the couch with a stack of books, to read to a wide-eyed eager Bean with no interruptions. Nor can I imagine giving up this wellspring of focus and direction that I've come to in my writing. Maybe I could do both. Maybe, especially if they were far enough apart in age. Maybe if I had a two-book deal in the works. But now?

I can picture a second. I can picture being pregnant again, and a part of me wants that chance. The first time I was caught so off guard, the whole nine months passed in a blur of coming to grips. I’d be able to do it more gracefully now—and also those first crazy months. I’d be less terrified, more confident in the certain joy of hour of melted moments spent staring at a newborn’s face.

But as much as I can picture this—and even want it—I cannot imagine it now, or next year or the year after. Huge, in the front of everything else, is the desire to write, to publish, to make this into my career. And I get these things, still, I am uncertain.

I want your thoughts on this. If you’ve had kids—why have you had more than one? How did you decide the timing? How did it affect the scope and outcome of your dreams?

Trick-or-treating for the first time

Carving pumpkins on the kitchen floor, then bringing them in the red wagon to light the drive. Take-out-Thai for dinner and then a flurry of costume snaps. A baby skunk, fur fluffy on his belly, and turquoise Crocs to walk the dirt road stretching between our house and the neighbor's. We held his hands, one in each of ours, as we followed the bobbing light of the flashlight up to each door. Then watched him murmer the words, shyly at first. "Trick-or-treat," and then "Thank you," his small fist clutching each new candy bar with amazement.

Above us the stars twirled. We went to a half-dozen houses, and then down to the end of our road to look upon five hundred jack-o-lanterns, all glowing. His eyes wide in the dark, his face smudged with chocolate and wonder.

Pumpkin carving

Mommy stone

“Where is my mommy stone?” He asks, upper lip quivering. It is bed time. I’ve come to say good night. Then he says, “I love you and I missed you.” He says this often, the latter almost automatically following the former; but it’s also something that must reflect the hunger his little self feels for mommy time. I’m not always available the way I could be—if I were wholly and exclusively focused on being his mother. Selfishly, I take time for me often. I write, I run, I forfeit controlling the circumstance of his days in exchange for time to do my own things.

Now we’re in the semi dark. He’s talking about the small stone I gave him when I went back to work this year. I told him it was a Mommy Stone with kisses in it, to rub on his cheek if he missed me. I don’t know why he’s suddenly thought of it tonight, and seeing him, upper lip trembling, I want to make everything immediately okay.

“I’ll find you another mommy stone and put kisses in it and have it ready for you in the morning,” I rush to offer.

“But how can I see the kisses? How do they get in there?” He is earnest, almost crying, and suddenly I’m over come too. I wrap him in the dark, kissing his cheeks a hundred times, tears suddenly, unexpectedly wet on my cheeks. “You can’t see them, you can feel them when you rub the Mommy stone on your cheek. Because I love you, and I put the kisses in there just for you,” I say.

“Okay,” he says, and then “I love you, I love you mommy.”

“I love you too, with my whole heart,” I whisper into the air against his cheek.

“I love you, I love you,” he says, his arms wrapped around my neck.

Toddler love

Just now as I sat down to write, Bean came up to me with a dishtowl. He'd been playing with his digger in the kitchen. I'm in the livingroom, sunk deep into the comfy white armchair, my feet up, sun slanting in through the bay window where I keep all my potted plants. He said, "I gonna clean your feet, mama."

And then he gently wiped down my feet and legs with the towel. He then proceeded to tenderly kiss my legs and ankles. Hovering especially over my 'owies'--the small scars from recent and not so recent encounters with blackberry bushes or bike pedals.

I had no idea love could feel like this.

Back from camping

Perfect weather. Fun in the water. Beach reading. Stone skipping. Sticky marshmallow fingers. Rowdy neighbors (totally annoying.) Stars above us. Campfire smoke in the air. Pancakes with fresh raspberries. Time out on the water canoing. (Bean FELL ASLEEP in the canoe~ twice!) Overall, a wonderful first camping adventure with the little guy.

To hold the moon...

We were driving home the other night and the moon was following us, the way the moon does. Playing peekaboo, a late summer moon like a milky porcelain saucer tangled between the branches of leaf-heavy trees and slumbering buildings.

Bean was nearly breathless, “It’s so bea-u-ti-ful!” he exclaimed.

And then, “I want to hold the moon, mama!” His voice full with urgent longing.