"So, how's your summer going?"

When people ask me how our summer is going, I catch myself, deer in the headlights, unsure of how to respond. There is the standard, "It's great, how about yours?" Or the less enthusiastic, "oh, pretty good," with a knowing glance. But the truth is, our summer has contained some intense highs (going to Story Land with my parents, Dana's visit to build the treehouse, lots of fun swims, tubing down the Yampa in Steamboat), and also some serious lows. Many words come to mind, and easy is not one of them.

Many of us have read this article about how we only have eighteen summers with our children, and so, we should slow down, savor, and enjoy. This is so great in theory, but what if, like me, you have a child who thrives on routine, and who is less than enamored, shall we say, with her 3.5 year old sister? I never wanted to be one of those moms who wishes summer away. Every summer and every school break, I have this idea that we will be unstructured, and it will be blissful. But...That doesn't work for us. The reality of "unstructured" for us, this summer, has meant fighting. So. much. fighting. Sometimes, I've counted how many seconds both girls have been awake before they are fighting. Many times, Julia's first utterance when she opens her eyes (if Margaret wakes her up in the morning), is to howl "noooo, Margaret!" The combination of Margaret wanting nothing more than to play with Julia, and Julia being infuriated the moment Margaret has an idea about their play, has been a constant source of stress for me. There have been physical fights that have left me speechless: punching, kicking, hair pulling. I have yelled more than I ever imagined I would yell. I have reread and reread "Siblings without Rivalry." 

The thing is, when I find myself longing for autumn, it's not because I can't wait to be away from Julia and Margaret while they're at school. In fact, it's the opposite: I'm looking forward to a set schedule because our family is better able to connect when we have structure. Julia, for sure, is happier and more even keeled when she is in school. Chatting with Julia over a bowl of cheerios while I sip my coffee, enjoying a walk home from school while Margaret zips down the hill on her strider... We may only have eighteen summers, but we have thousands of moments in between.

 ...and of course, just after I write this, we have this lovely evening eating popsicles and finding pictures in the clouds. “Margaret, look! That one looks like a mermaid palace!” Oh, summer.

Stage Mom or Supporter?

I'm writing this as I wait until it's time to go watch Julia's end-of-camp performance of "Annie." She left the classroom on Monday, the first day of camp, disappointed because she had been cast as the Usherette (if, like I was, you're unsure of who that is, it's because she is in the show for about .2 seconds: long enough to tell Daddy Warbucks there are open seats at the movies, and that's it). As the little girls around us squealed about their roles as orphans, Julia looked around a little dejectedly.

I couldn't help thinking about my own childhood theatrical disappointments. When I was in fourth grade, our school began doing end-of-year plays. Instead of being cast as an Indian, like most of my friends were, in Peter Pan, I didn't get a part on the stage. In my role as the prompter, I memorized the entire script (wholly unnecessary, but I couldn't help myself) and sat backstage dreaming of being as talented as the sixth grade girl who played Wendy. In my short theater career, I went on to have a couple of leads and more ensemble parts. I knew Julia would have to learn the "every role is important and not everyone gets the lead and not everyone gets the part they want" lessons sooner or later, and at the same time, I wondered why, in a week-long camp, all of the six year old girls couldn't just be orphans, sing "It's a Hard Knock Life," and be done with it. 

"You know," I said tentatively, "you could ask your teachers if it's possible for you to be an orphan, too." Julia perked up. While I advised that it was entirely plausible that the teachers would tell her that her part was her part, I told her that it didn't hurt to ask. Julia drafted a note, but with some convincing from Scott and me, agreed to talk to her teacher in person. The next morning, while she squeezed my hand, Julia spoke confidently as she asked if she could be an orphan, too. As I stood, holding Julia's hand, I thought about the fine line between advocating for Julia and stepping in, being pushy. Was I teaching her to speak up for what's important to her, or was my encouragement tiptoeing over into "entitled" territory? 

While one of the teachers hemmed and hawed about how it depended on how many orphan costumes they had (and then backpedaled when Julia told her she would be happy to bring her own costume), the other said she thought it was a great idea to make room for one more orphan. Julia beamed, and happily skipped over to the other girls. She spent the rest of the week singing “Tomorrow,” teaching Margaret the lines for the other orphans while she pretended to be Annie, and studying her script.

From both teaching and parenting, I know the research about how, when girls speak up, they’re bossy and bratty, whereas when boys do the same, they’re confident. My hope that Julia's takeaway from this week will be that it's okay to ask for what she wants, and that if she advocates for herself, she might be surprised to see what can happen. 

Friday thoughts: body image, LTYM, Dear Sugars

As I continue to crawl out from back to back, opposite coast vacations, the most recent of which included Julia breaking a toe,  I've been unpacking and listening to podcasts. The most recent episode of my favorite podcast, Dear Sugars, was amazing company, and made me realize that I have not really written about the experience of performing in Listen To Your Mother, or about others' responses to my piece.

The podcast episode was about body image, and it felt deeply liberating to hear one of my favorite writers say that she didn't know if she would ever be fully "done" with this issue. I could relate so deeply to Cheryl Strayed's story about being aibrushed in her Vogue photo shoot about powerful women (OK, so I can't relate at all to being in Vogue, but I sure can relate to the feeling that my body isn't enough). I cried at the end when Cheryl Strayed talked about asking her daughter, who is twelve, if she likes her body, and her daughter saying, "yeah," as if there were no other possibility. And then Strayed asked if her daughter thought she, Cheryl, liked her own body, and her daughter said "of course." Strayed talks about how her heart felt full, because her daughter, at the beginning of adolescence, still feels positive about her body, and also a little bit broken, because her daughter wasn't quite right about Strayed's feelings about her own body. But, as she says, we try to do better with the next generation, and to pass on what we want to pass on, even if that feels like pretending.

I've thought so much about body image since I performed in LTYM. While I cried during my audition, shook during the first rehearsal, and sobbed to my mom as I practiced my piece the day of the show, I felt powerful and courageous as I walked onto the stage that night. While I'm the first to acknowledge that crying and power are not mutually exclusive, somehow, my jitters subsided, and I felt poised and remarkably tear-free.

I had conversations with strangers, after the show, who wanted to share their own experiences with being asked if they were pregnant. An eleven year old girl approached me and told me that my piece was her favorite of the evening. I went for a walk and out for coffee with an acquaintance who happened to be at the show, and who wanted to talk more with me. Interestingly, some women have felt enraged on my behalf, or critical of Boulder, or more specifically, critical of the school community at Julia's school. And while I admit that, last weekend at Story Land in NH, I was pleasantly surprised to see a range of bodies, all parenting their children, regardless of size, I think that the issues I explored, such as societal pressures to have a certain body, are universal. On the podcast, the guests shared that most women start to diet long before they're conscious of what that even means, and that negative body ideas often start before the age of ten. What I have experienced had roots far before I moved to Boulder, though it's hard to say how I might experience my body in a different demographic.

One of my favorite lines from Brene Brown's Braving the Wilderness is "The story I'm telling myself." I've been practicing with this line when I find myself in a negative place about my body. For instance: "The story I'm telling myself is that everyone at my gym is skinny and looks perfect in a bikini." "The story I'm telling myself is that if I lost 15 lbs, I would be happier." "The story I'm telling myself is that I shouldn't buy new clothes that really fit me, because I don't want to be this size and I might lose the weight." And then, I examine those stories. I take a closer look, hold them up to the light and find the cracks. I think, "What else could I focus my energy on, if I weren't thinking about my body?" This one gets me. How many hours have I spent thinking about how my life might be better with six pack abs? I have also been practicing separating exercise from eating, in terms of how I think about them. I'm exercising to be strong, to feel good, and not as penance for eating a muffin.

Like Cheryl Strayed, I have to say that there's a part of me that has trouble imagining a way forward that doesn't include preoccupation with my weight, or with my size. I know, though, that writing and talking about it are good places to begin.

Vacation

Last night, after a thirteen-hour travel day (car-ferry-car-shuttle-plane-train-car), we returned home from a week of vacation in the San Juan Islands. This was our first vacation as a family of four to somewhere entirely new, where we weren't visiting family, or going somewhere for an occasion, like a wedding. It was magical- impossibly sunny weather; the orcas; the possibility of orcas, which is almost as glorious as the real thing; tide pools and beaches; unscheduled days to fill with art activities (thank you, Melissa and Doug, for sponsoring our trip); movies for the girls while Scott and I read on the deck in the afternoons. It was amazing.

And... it was also a lot like our real life, in some not-so-amazing ways. May was crazy for us (judging from that YouTube NSync parody, “It’s gonna be May,” this is just how it is as an elementary school parent. Throw in two performances for me and a dance recital for Margaret, and there you have it), and I felt such a strong need to disconnect from routine and social media and just be with Scott, Julia and Margaret on our trip. In retrospect, I think I had this idea that if I just put down my phone and had no obligations, we would magically have some sort of conflict-free week. But along with our pre-packaged art activities and sticker books, we ultimately brought ourselves on this trip, and all of our dynamics; both the smooth and the jagged edges of ourselves. While the girls get along amazingly sometimes, they also compete and fight with an intensity I don't remember having with Garrett when I was a child. And there were moments (sigh, hours) while Scott and I mediated squabbles about who was going to do which coloring page, or responded to the statement "I don't WANT to go look for whales! I want to watch a movie!" when I found myself frustrated and stressed.

Julia is a voracious reader, and lately, we haven't been able to keep her in books. She used to be happy to reread the same chapter books over and over, and knows the name of every chapter in every Ramona book. Lately, however, she only wants to read new books, and one Sunday night a few weeks ago, Scott brought out his stack of “Calvin and Hobbes” books from his childhood to tide her over until we could get to the library the next day. We brought a few “Calvin and Hobbes” collections with us to San Juan Island, and during a particularly trying moment, Scott opened one up to a segment about family vacation. On an ill-fated camping trip, Calvin complains about everything: the bugs, the water temperature, the hard ground. Calvin's dad insists on having a wonderful time, despite his family, and his mom seems to vacillate between Calvin's perspective and her husband's. Scott and I have long had an inside joke about experiences that build character-- I had forgotten that the line came from "Calvin and Hobbes." I laughed out loud when I read this, oddly comforted by the universality of "expectations versus reality" of any vacation. Our girls certainly "built character" as we forced them to do terrible activities, like watch whales instead of television (but there was plenty of television, too), or visit a lighthouse, or go to happy hour on a dock in a harbor. 

The metaphor of parenting being a roller coaster feels especially fitting as I prepare to fly with the girls again this weekend-- this time to the east coast, where we will visit my parents for my mom's birthday, and go to Story Land, an amusement park in northern New Hampshire. One minute, Julia is complaining about how she thinks she had "enough outside time" for the day; the next, she's shrieking with delight right along with me as we watch a family of orcas from the rocks near our house. One moment, I'm lecturing the girls about how tired I am of listening to them fight about getting in the car, and then Julia cuts me off to say, "Margaret, when we get home, let's play Calico Critters in my room together!" Just as I'm preparing for the free fall of a fight, digging in, and steeling myself for more conflict, they're already back in the upswing, completely in the moment.

In so much of my writing about parenting, I notice the formula: I thought it was going to be like x, but instead it was like y, and then I realized that it has always been like both x and y all along. Our vacation contained both conflict and joy (sometimes both within seconds of one another). It contained tears and laughter. It was, imperfectly and wonderfully, perfect just the way it was. 

Denver Woman’s Press Club reading

 https://vimeo.com/270791385

Here is a video of me reading “This is Just My Body” at an event at Denver Woman’s Press Club last week. Video courtesy of Tom at  http://www.tomparkinfilms.com/

Character Exercise

I have been writing and writing for the class I'm taking online, but have not shared any of it! I'm halfway through, and am thinking about turning some of what I've started into longer pieces, so I have not shared it here, but here's a fun exercise on character that really challenged me.

Exercise #4:
This exercise is more generative, and perhaps more for fiction, and definitely for a writer who is just sort of starting to create a narrative and is struggling to find a character to inhabit that story or essay. Let’s start this simply.  We are going to essentialize a character in this exercise. Essentializing a character simply means “distilling a character’s essence from any abstract construction or classification of that character—breaking down a character to discover who they truly are, at their core.”

To do this, let’s give a character two choices in their fictional lives, and then let’s help that character make that choice, only to discover two more choices. Let’s keep giving our character two new choices for every choice they make, and let’s get a sense of who we are looking at, working with, living with, studying and learning from. Let’s make great, surprising fiction that comes from the choices and decisions our characters create with us as writers.

It’s just a simple game. It’s just giving your character two options, letting them choose one, and then giving them two more to choose, and then following them as you begin watching and intuiting/feeling/guessing after what they will or would do in a given set of choices/circumstances. If you pursue this for 21 steps (which is your exercise!) you will begin to see who you are working with, who this person is and how they behave or may well behave in their fiction. You will begin to know the essence or core of your character.

So, for this exercise, please name a character, give them two options (go to the grocery store or go to play golf), and then see what happens next. Do this for 21 steps. Have fun!

And here's my attempt:

1. Lucy will either go for a run, or she will not.

2. If she does not go for a run, she will do a quick clean of the house to get ready for friends to come over that night, while worrying about the calories she will not burn before the dinner party, or she will check the fridge to make sure she has all of her ingredients for the meal.

3. If she checks the fridge to make sure she has all of the ingredients, she will either have what she needs, or she will discover she is missing fresh parmesan.

4. If she discovers she’s missing fresh parmesan, she will either go to the grocery store herself, or she will text her husband and ask him to pick it up on his way home.

5. If she texts her husband, he will either reply or he will not.

6. If he does reply, he will say “yes, no problem,” or he will say, “I won’t be home until the guests are already there, and don’t you need to start dinner before then?”
7. If he says the latter, Lucy will either text back right away, or she will wait a few minutes, so that she isn’t so irritated when she replies.
8. If she texts back right away, she will either say “OK, let me know when you’re on your way,” or she will say “I thought you were planning to leave early because of the party.”
9. If she texts “I thought you were planning to leave early because of the party,” she will immediately second guess herself, or she will feel liberated and proud of herself for saying what’s on her mind.
10. If she second guesses herself, she will either try to distract herself with that cleaning, or she will text again immediately, apologizing and letting him know she’ll get the cheese herself.
11. If Lucy texts again, she will then immediately lace up her sneakers to go to the grocery store, or she will watch her phone to see if he replies.
12. If she goes to the grocery store, she will either run into a friend in the Starbucks line, or she will skip coffee and go right for what she needs.
13. If she opts for coffee, she will either ask the friend to join for dinner, too, or she will decide one couple is enough and that it might be awkward to add another person.
14. If she doesn’t ask the friend to join, she will quickly suggest going to yoga together the following day,, or she will ask her a lot of questions about her job.
15. If she asks her friend questions about her job, Lucy will either listen fully to the answers, or she will realize that she needs to get home and cook.
16. If she realizes she needs to get home, she will politely excuse herself, saying “I’d love to hear more about this, but i need to get going,” or she will look at her phone.
17. If she looks at her phone, her friend will get the message, and it will either feel awkward between them, or it will feel okay.
18. If it feels awkward, Lucy will ruminate on it on her way home, or she will be distracted because her husband hasn’t replied to her text.

Listen to Your Mother 2018

Somehow, in spite of my love of writing, it's been nearly a year and a half since my last post. I have struggled with making myself vulnerable since Trump's election; along with much of the nation, I've found myself in survival mode, alternately reading the news and shielding myself from it. While it wasn't a conscious choice to stop writing after the election, I have found that the expansiveness and openness that comes with writing about my own experiences have felt out of reach over the past year. National politics, combined with some personal struggles (more about this in a bit!) have made me hesitant to write.

This winter, however, I've resolved to open myself up a bit again. I prepared a piece and auditioned for a local production of Listen to Your Mother, which celebrates and honors motherhood in all of its complexities. I'm excited to share that I was chosen as one of ten women who will perform in May. Here is a link to buy tickets if you're local, and to read more about the show if you're not. I've been asked not to share any details about my piece, but I can't wait (and am also terrified!) to share it with you in a few months. 
 

http://listentoyourmothershow.com/boulder/

Smiling, Happy Voice

Yesterday afternoon, the girls sat at the counter eating lunch. I put away a couple of dishes, threw together my own food, and chatted with them, like I do during most mealtimes. While we were talking, Julia said, "Mom? Do you think you can use the voice like you used to use?" 

"What voice is that, Jules?" I stopped what I was doing. I looked at her.

"Your smiling, happy voice," she said. Something inside of me sunk.

"Oh," I said, keeping my voice as light as possible. "What voice have I been using that you don't like?" Julia scowled. "A voice like this," she said. "Kind of mad."

I felt many emotions at that moment. I felt both the recognition and awe that I have felt at Julia's astute observations, which she has been making since long before she could talk. This kid has known me, read me, since the moment she was born. I felt grateful that she felt safe to share this with me, like it was no big deal-- just some personal development on a Wednesday afternoon, like when I tell her that it's good manners to keep her underwear covered in public. But mostly, I felt ashamed that sadness and anger are the emotions I have been projecting to her.

This summer has been a glorious respite from what has felt like a long, challenging year and a half. I have written before about the challenges of having two children-- challenges that have leveled me in ways I didn't expect. Summer, though, has shown me glimpses of what I imagine life with two daughters will be like: hysterical laughter as they spin in circles together, listening to "So Long, Farewell" from "The Sound of Music" on repeat... swimming at the pool, Margaret throwing a diving stick 2 inches for Julia and clapping when Julia retrieves it...  Weekends in the mountains as a family of four, with moments when Scott and I catch one another's eye as a recognition of "yup, we're going to make it." There has certainly been conflict, but there has also been joy. And I have missed joy.

Julia's observation yesterday, though, reminded me that although I may feel joy, some of the difficulties from the last year and a half have left an imprint. Since having Margaret, I've noticed myself hurrying often, and therefore, hurrying Julia. Sometimes we are in a hurry, and that's life, but other times, I will catch myself-- does it matter if we leave for the pool in 4 minutes, or 4 seconds? Of course not. And my patience has suffered; the doctor running late, when I'm there for a quick check up with both girls, can send me into a tail spin. I shook with anger when the flight attendant would not let me board with both girls during priority boarding time on a recent flight. In short, I've become more tightly wound. Before kids, and especially before two kids, I prided myself on being calm and collected in challenging situations. I miss that version of myself, and it seems that Julia misses her, too.

In addition to feeling harried, I have definitely felt the effects of the current political climate (read: Donald Trump) and the current news (read: Orlando shootings, shooting black people in the street, shooting police officers.). I have felt simultaneously overstimulated and overloaded form the stories, and obsessed by reading more and more. I feel genuine fear about Trump, and about the world my girls are inheriting right now. I know that this media saturation has contributed to the attitude my astute Julia has sensed.

For the rest of yesterday, I smiled. And today, even though I have not slept well in two nights, and even though our house looks like a tornado, followed perhaps by a tsunami, has struck, I have smiled. Because, as Julia so innocently pointed out yesterday afternoon, perhaps a change can start with a simple choice.

Summer ease

We're driving home from the pool, girls already fed, showered, in pajamas. The late afternoon June sun sits over the flatirons, and "Sound of Music" plays as Julia and I sing along. "So, Mom?" she asks, a seriousness in her voice. "After they get chased by the bad guys, do the Von Trapps get to live happily ever after?" The song ends; Margaret insists that we hear it again.

Margaret brings me a toddler- sized costume. "Anna. On." I help her into the costume, and she runs to Julia, who is dressed as Elsa. Margaret spins and giggles, and Julia directs her.

We are discussing Julia's 5th birthday party: Peter Pan theme, in the back yard, Tinkerbell costumes encouraged. When I ask what kind of cake she wants, Julia tells me that she thinks we should have vanilla, because Margaret is too little for chocolate. 

After last summer's challenges, and frankly, the challenges of having two children for the past 18 months, I was dreading this summer a bit. What would it be like to have so much unstructured time? Would Julia like the camps I had signed her up for? Would it just be endless days of her being upset with Margaret?  I have been pleasantly surprised so far. Julia loves camp. Our days have a nice rhythm. There are certainly moments every day where I'm frustrated, but more and more, I there are moments when I find myself happy. Yes, actually happy---and happy when I'm with both girls. Happy to see them beginning to play together, happy to swim together,  happy to see how much joy Margaret feels when she sees Julia, happy to catch glimpses of what it might be like in the future to have two daughters.

Shortly after Margaret was born, I asked a dear friend who also had two daughters when it got easier. I remember her telling me that 18 months was a magical age. That seems to be true for us. 

34 months

On Sunday, Margaret nursed for the last time. While I have mixed feelings about Mother's Day-- on the one hand, I'm certainly not going to turn down brunch; on the other, I know my family loves me, and it seems kind of strange to have high expectations for one day of demonstrating that-- it does seem somehow significant that Mother's Day was the end of what has been a huge part of motherhood for me. 

I've known the end of breastfeeding was coming for awhile, and have felt a little sad about it. For the past four or five months, Margaret just nursed in the morning and evening, and before and after naps. Then, she stopped the before and after naps sessions, and last week, stopped the evening. Since it's been so predictable, I've felt like we might continue for awhile-- it hasn't felt overwhelming, or all-consuming-- just one of the many things we do together. Whereas Julia nursed to solve any problem right until she stopped (at exactly 17 months, just like Margaret), Margaret was always the opposite: if she was too upset, she refused to nurse. She put herself on a schedule, and she stuck to it.  

On Saturday morning, with my coffee in hand, we sat down to nurse. Margaret took a few sips, then grabbed my chest, said "uh uh" and scowled at me. "Huh," I said. "It seems like maybe we are done nursing." She wrinkled her nose and laughed. "Okay," I told her. She was so clear that I almost forgot to be sad. She didn't nurse Saturday night, but Sunday morning, she grabbed my shirt, so I went with it. She hasn't asked to since, and I haven't offered. I didn't know that was the last time. I might have snapped a picture if I had.

Yesterday, my first day without nursing, I was sad.  I googled "hormones when you stop breastfeeding," and learned that weaning hormones and postpartum hormones are the same. Oh, yes , I thought. Headache: check. Weepy: check. And while I know that hormones are compounding the sadness, this also marks the end of 34 total months of breastfeeding over the past five years. 

On Friday, I met a friend's six week-old baby. "How was breastfeeding for you?" She asked. "Oh, great!" I said. "I've been really lucky to have had it go smoothly." When she started to share some challenges, I remembered the early days of feeding Julia. I remembered the awkwardness--how it took countless pillows and four hands (Scott's and mine) to get situated. How I would wonder whether she was getting too much, or enough, and how any mothers managed to ever put on a shirt. It got better quickly, and I was very fortunate to have positive experiences nursing both girls. With Margaret, I think I was nursing her with one hand and preparing meals for Julia while recovering from my c-section within 4 days of giving birth.  

Scott and I used to joke that we could make a map of everywhere I had nursed one of the girls. The grocery store parking lot across the street, when Julia was melting down and just couldn't make it home: check. In bathrooms: check. At seemingly every exit between Denver and Silverthorne on our way to the mountains: check. On airplanes, buses, and hunched awkwardly over the car seat: check. I have nursed to comfort, to nourish, to connect. When Julia weaned, I was so worried about whether she would be okay. Would she be too hungry (well, she was infinitely hungrier, but we figured that out)? Most importantly, would we still connect? Would she still know that I was there for her whenever she needed me?  I was so relieved when, during those first few days post-weaning, she would reach for me, or climb into my lap. We reassured each other as we found the new normal.

This time around, I know that Margaret will be okay. I know that I will be okay. And while there's a part of me that mourns the end of what it's meant for me to mother a baby, I feel such comfort and pride in the 34 months that I spent sitting on couches, beds, benches, with babies in my arms.