Mikey and Paigey

On night waking and attachment

2013-09-03T09:24:00.001-06:00

It took over 30 minutes to walk to the bakery.

Ada woke me up at 2:30 asking me to fix her star. Bleary eyed and confused I followed her into her room where the lights were on and every toy was on the floor, along with most of her bedding. I looked at the clock in her room. What is happening?

I quickly pieced it together that it was, in fact, the middle of the night and told her the star would have to wait, as would combing her princess' hair, finding Yellow Pony and any other play-related request. A meltdown ensued as she semi-obediently climbed into bed and told me in no uncertain terms that, "I am so, so, 'specially sad, Mama." Truly the cruelest part of toddlers is how expressive and naughty they are all at once.

I fed a now wide-awake Olive (we moved her into Ada's room—now "The girl's room"—about 2 weeks ago and it's been smooth transition, gratefully) and 20 minutes later climbed back into bed with Mike. Only seconds later we heard the rattle of the shape sorter in the other room and Mike jumped up and took it from there. Bless him.

Liv woke up at 5 til 6, was alert and happy as can be and I wondered why on a night that I went to sleep at 10:30 I still felt so tired. I brought her in bed with me and she kicked and cooed and batted at my face until she drifted off for a bit around 6:30. That only lasted 15 minutes or so and she was up again, chatty as can be. She's such a smiley little thing. All I have to do is look away for a few seconds and then meet her eyes again and she gets all crinkly-eyed and gummy. She's a real happy baby. I finally feel like her mother, and not just her sustainer. Our relationship is blossoming into one that's based in smiles and loving interactions and not just the daily tasks of keeping her alive. It has been a huge blessing and helped me keep my guilt at not "bonding" with her as much at bay. I've always had a visceral, instinctual bond with her, but now I giggle with her and look forward to our interactions. She's my Liv. I know her. And I feel true to myself when I say that I love being her mother.

I've expressed it here before, but I can't get over how different mothering my second child is. People said I'd be able to enjoy it a lot more; that I'd be less worried about every little thing and the hard stuff would come more naturally to me. And that's mostly been true. But I enjoyed struggling and overcoming (nursing) with Ada. I felt like we were a team. I was in raptures over every expression. I would sing to her endlessly, talk to her endlessly. And with a second I spent more time away from her than with her. I nurse her while getting out a project for Ada or picking up breakfast. As soon as she's content, to the floor she goes so I can get to one of the other 10 things that either need my attention or are half finished (completing a single task start-to-finish in one sitting has become a major accomplishment). I felt distracted and unable to do it all. I had to consciously make time to sit and smile with her.

But something has changed in the last few weeks. Maybe Ada is less needy and understands that a new little person at our house does nothing to displace her or our affection for her. Maybe I am just out of the postpartum fog. Maybe Liv's new-found voice and near-constant smile are to blame. Not sure, but whatever the case, I feel so much love and attachment to Olive that sometimes I have to catch my breath. In the same way I can't wait for Mike to get home from work so I can relate 100 anecdotes about Ada from the day, I look forward to getting him close so we can watch our second baby bloom. You can't fully relate expressions. You have to experience them to feel it from head to toe. Olive makes me want to smother her in kisses.

Right now, in this moment, motherhood is so good.

Tummy time is always (usually) and group effort. Ada always feels quite proud of herself.

This probably put Liv at risk of mauling and drowning. But I'm pleased to report no baby was harming in the making of this photo.

This is mine

2013-07-26T13:46:00.001-06:00

I just spent 15 minutes nursing Liv on my left, and using my right arm to tickle Ada's back as she fell asleep. It was one of those moments where I looked down and saw a pair of tiny feet perched on a little back and framed by two toddler hands and thought, "This is my life?! This is my life. This is my life."

It's always a blur of disbelief and gratitude.

Ada and I spent time this afternoon watching her monthly videos. I spent time wiping tears, especially while watching the month before we left for Italy and seeing images of our first month there. It was another flash of, "This is my life?"

The past 2 years have been incredible in about a million ways.

So has the past month.

I've been continually impressed with how different a second child is. Maybe it's that I worry less, or have less time, or have less attention, or this baby is just requires different stuff of me, but I feel like I've only spent a fraction of the time tracing her profile and watching her sleep faces that I did with Ada. It's not that I love her any less, or find her any less incredible, but the newness of loving a being I created is not as new anymore. Not that it's old hat either. It just is. After I had Ada I remember feeling my heart change. And maybe it just needed one initiation into becoming a mother-heart; just one maturation before it was ready for children-plural, and not just child-one. Maybe it doesn't need to shed something else or grow another size to fit another tiny human inside. Maybe what I'm trying to say is that number two just feels more natural.

That's the craziest thing to me: I'm a mother of two. An exceptionally young mother of two. But I'm doing it. And I think I'm doing a pretty fine job.

Sweat

2013-07-18T16:53:00.001-06:00

I feel like I've been sweaty all day.

This morning I took the girls to the library for story time. Despite the fact that we left in the 9AM hour, it was probably 800 degrees outside by the time we walked through the handicap entrance and were greeted with a flood of cold air conditioned air. Bless you, tax dollars, for keeping the library so cold.

The walk back was twice as hot because it was about 500 degrees warmer out and I had a little fireball wrapped to my body. And I was pushing 35 pounds of toddler, plus 35 pounds of library books. We stopped at the grocery store on the way home, just to load the stroller-turned-handcart up a little more.

After putting Ada to sleep I nursed Liv before her nap. (The smell—the mixture of sweat and breastmilk—took me right back to 651 N. 800 E. in Orem where I spent weeks upon weeks of frenzied nights trying to figure out how to use my body to sustain a human life. Nursing didn't come easily to Ada and I.) My shirt was still damp from our walk this morning as little Liv sucked away, doing what babies magically know how to do upon being born.

It was one of those increasingly rare long-nap days. Both girls were down for over 2 hours which is some sort of noteworthy miracle. Naturally, I painted for two full episodes of This American Life—the only way I keep track of time in the studio these days. I was sweating on the balcony as I worked, the occasional breeze felt like a gift every time it blew by.

Now baby 1 is awake, eating a balanced meal of snap peas and the last of my Cadburry mini eggs and baby 2 is stirring. I'm finally dry. But I've truly appreciated the work-like nature of my day so far. The literal sweat that has reminded me that life should be hard, but that its punctuated with enough gifts and breaks that make us think: This isn't so bad. In fact, I'm really enjoying it.

That's the last of 'em

2013-07-18T09:24:00.000-06:00

Ada came outside and met me at my easel after she woke from her nap. She was chewing something.

I ask, "What's in your mouth?"

"What's in your mouth?" She repeats. (Because answering questions is something that has somehow eclipsed her).

"What is it?" I ask again. Pointing.

Chewing.

I keep probing. "Where did you find it?"

"I found it in my mouth."

Yes. Brilliant. Of course!

"I need you to open the box of candies so I can have eat more candies. I need candies."

And that is how Ada polished off my last five Cadbury Mini Eggs.

Bright and shiny happy formulas

2013-07-17T14:01:00.002-06:00

I painted yesterday. Both girls were sleeping, Ada in her bed and Liv in her bassinet within arms reach. It was another "I got this" sort of afternoon. Until it wasn't, because those bright and shiny moments are fleeting—though somehow they sustain you through the longer darker ones.

Que fussing baby (what happened to my ever-so-placid babe?!) and a toddler who was so content gluing paper flowers on construction paper and talking about friends she's met once or probably won't ever see again that it sent her already guilt-prone mother into a guilt spiral. I felt guilty for not trying harder to expand her circle of friends here. I felt bad for missing out on opportunities she would have loved because they seemed too hard for me. I felt bad for Liv who is the current back-burner child that gets nursed on demand, but that's about it. And I felt lonely for the first time in a long while. And all of the sudden everything felt hard. Hard to get dinner on. Hard to pick up. Hard to get kids to bed. Hard to even think about facing another night that might be sleepless and difficult. (It was only a few nights before where all four of us were on the couch around 3 AM. Three of us were crying. I'll let you guess who the one holding it together was.)

But I guess this is what it takes to recognize the bright and shiny moments.

My best friend as told me about "happy formulas." Everyone's is different, but it's important to know yours and make it happen the best you can. I think all of us at our house are just reformulating right now. And I'm not worried. Things will work themselves out and everything will feel (relatively) smooth again. I'm beginning to understand what I need to be happy (and make everyone around me happy). Here's what I've got so far: I know it is at least one-part Haagan-Dazs Salted Caramel Truffle ice cream. See? On the right track already, right?

Newness of twoness

2013-07-08T09:13:00.001-06:00

My first day flying solo with the girls was last Friday. Liv slept and Ada played quietly in the morning while I took care of "couch errands" as I like to call them (phone calls, emails, online schtuff. . .). Then baths were in order. We had lunch. I read to Ada while nursing the baby. Everybody took a two hour nap.

Long story short, I felt like a rockstar. It was a constant, "I got this" feeling.

This is exactly how I felt this morning.

Fast forward to this morning—after getting 5 lousy hours of sleep strung together over nearly 9 hours— I'm whimpering in the kitchen before Mike leaves, "Don't leave me with the screaming toddler," as Ada wails beside me. I wanted to curl up and sleep until The Lou was potty trained and nursing The Liv didn't hurt so bad. Or at least for a few more hours. But I couldn't, and that was a tough pill to swallow.

Ada is going through an intense Must-be-Mom stage where she won't allow Mike to do anything (at least not without a ton of screaming and fit trowing and generally making people around her so miserable it isn't even worth having Mike offer the help). No filling up her milk, no opening a drawer of toys, no picking up her blanket off the floor and handing it to her. Heaven forbid it's a bigger task like changing her diaper or putting on her pj's. It has to be me. Always. Without exception.

I'm learning quickly I can't do it all. Why can't Ada learn that lesson too?

I rested a bit longer in my bed until Ada came in wanting to get out her paints. I got up, feeling really envious of the 10-day-old baby sleeping in my cozy bed, and helped Ada paint. While we ate breakfast together she regaled me with several rousing renditions of the ABC Song and Ada-Ada-bo-bada. My tiredness somehow fell away for a bit and I felt generally lucky to be here, working through the newness of twoness and trying to catch up on sleep as I go.

So different than before

2013-06-28T20:13:00.002-06:00

I wondered what it was like entering the world to the screaming cries of your mother. I don't remember my own birth, obviously, but I wondered how much was immediately recallable to my baby in the hours after her own arrival. My pained, panicky voice and burning body ushered in her head, but a rush overcame me and as I delivered her body suffering changed to joy. I tried to replace that possible first shrieking memory with all the tender affection I was bursting with. My little girl was here in her crying, purple-gray glory. And I had her immediately with me as they disconnected our bodies for the first time in 9 months.

The moments after were quiet and serene. Mike was with the baby as she was weighed and measured and before I knew it, it was just the three of us together in the hospital room. So much was so different from my delivery with Ada. Aside from the minutes prior to Olive's birth, the whole experience was much more intimate, personal and quiet than Ada's birth. Maybe that's why she chose the middle of the night to make her appearance—we all welcomed the added serenity of night.

My parents met us in the hallway with Ada as we wheeled from the delivery room to my new home for the next few days. Ada saw us down the hall and ran toward us. She knew immediately who the little person in my arms was, and she was just as immediately smitten. So was I. With all of us. A family of four.

To my girls:
Ada, you're already a tender and sweet big sister. Olive, you're already so lucky.

Accepting need

2013-06-21T16:39:00.000-06:00

A week ago I would've told you that Mike had gotten Ada's bedtime routine down to a fine science. A book. A story. Turning on her favorite songs. He stays for one. Then he tells her he'll be right outside the door (and she repeats, "Daddy will be right outside the door" about 600 times while he says, "Yep, that's right, sweety" until he has closed the door behind him.

But lately she's been a bit more needy. And I've been a bit more tired. Which isn't exactly a winning combination.

Last night I tried the tried-and-true, almost too sterile approach. Book. Story. Song . . . but she seemed so scared that I was going someplace far away. Like she could sense my anxiety about getting her to bed and on with my night.

I paused outside her door as she cried in her room, and accepted that some nights your kid just needs you more than other nights, and tonight, my baby needed me.

I knelt by her bed and told her I wanted to talk about our day. I tried to pick out all the bright spots—the dinosaurs marching song during storytime at the library, eating a frosty on the deck at Grandma Colleen's house, jumping in the pool to Daddy—and forget all the screaming fits and embarrassing public meltdowns that filled up a majority of my day. As I mostly talked and she mostly listened, her eyes lit up and she would insert her variations on the day as we went. At one point she said, "Remember last week when we went to the doctors and she listened to the baby's heart and it went, 'Wha-oo-wha-oo-wha-oo' and you were a such a good girl at the doctors. And—" she paused and her dark eyes wide and serious, "you're going to be a big sister when Baby Liv comes so soon." She expressed several other sentiments regarding the baby, including the fact that the baby will give her Abby Cadabby when she comes (?).

I kissed her a thousand times before I skirted out of her room. And I left feeling lighter and less anxious and accepted that some nights a mom just needs her baby more than other nights.

The tiniest update

2013-06-18T14:17:00.002-06:00

Hello end of June.

Lots has happened between my last post here. We've accepted a job, Mike graduated from SAIS, we moved across the country, and we're (likely) within a week of meeting our sweet baby number 2.

Life was too nebulous and stressful to write about. Ada and my days consisted mostly of playing outside. Mike and my nights consisted mostly of long chats about what we want our life to look like, and budgeting, and loans, and if we should rent or buy, sell or drive, pack or store or sell . . . By the time I got around to choosing maternal care here in Salt Lake, I emailed a trusted friend, called up the midwife and scheduled an appointment. I didn't think twice about it. I was too burned out of decision making by then. And guess what? It's worked out really well. So maybe all my stressing over every other decision was all for naught. Who knows. (And who really cares?)

We're really happy. Mike is a 10 minute walk from his office. We're smack in the heart of downtown, living in a 5th floor apartment with a breezy balcony (or boufcany as Ada says) and TWO WHOLE BEDROOMS. I feel like I've finally arrived. Our own room! Without a child in it!!

No baby yet, but she's expected any day and if the amount of imaginary play is any indication, Ada is really looking forward to her sister's debut. We'll see how long the honeymoon lasts. . .

I'm hoping that writing will again take part in my daily processing. My blogging time was filled with painting, but that's going to be a bit messy for the next little while with a new one attached to me in one way or another most of the day (and—let's be serious—night).

And maybe I'll get around to posting all the half-finished drafts stacked up in my post queue. Just maybe.

Sacralization of space

2013-04-16T08:42:00.000-06:00

I came across a line in a book Mike and I have been reading together that was this, "THAT'S IT!" type sentence; I immediately made a note to revisit it.

I have a hard time talking about my art. In fact, Mike walked me through writing the artist statement for my final show and all of the best lines people mentioned in the guest book could pretty much be attributed to him. He has a gift for taking in lots of information and spitting it back out in digestible bites. In the case of my artist statement, he took lots and lots of late night talks, recounted conversations with professors, secondhand critiques, and mostly lots of random bumbling from me (that nearly always ended in the phrase, ". . . I don't know how to say it, but you know what I mean?") and helped me synthesize it into a few beautiful paragraphs.

I just really love that boy

House of Bondmen, 12"x12" oil on panel

* * *

So this line in the book. It stood there, answering the question I've had about my work for the last few months: "What is this about anymore?" The motifs I'm using are the same—pattern, shape, covering, revealing, repetition, meditative processes—but I can't seem to explain my work in the same way I did over 2 years ago. It's just not really about ancestry anymore. It's more about this: "The sacralization of space [that] usually results from a succession of holy events like repeated miracles, or from accumulated layers of worship and veneration . . ."

I have thought a lot about space lately—how physical space is tied to emotional or spiritual space, how the daily acts in my space affect the feeling of that space, how I can make my home a sacred space no matter where it is and what our budget. I love the idea of repeated acts sacralizing a space; that as we repeatedly pray, or love, or aid in the space of our homes, those acts make it sacred. I think about repetitious acts that can tend toward monotony but allow for a holy work to take place there. I think about temples. I think about motherhood and routine and divinity. I think about our hands and our hearts and what motivates us to use them. And as my baby grows and my belly swells, I think about creation and time and how space is shaped by both.

To think of another

2013-02-28T11:46:00.000-07:00

This is where I want to start:

For a solid two years my world has been wrapped up in Ada's. We first discovered Florence together. She was my travel companion to Verona. We've spent hours exploring, hours on a train, hours pounding out journeys by foot, just the two of us. And even though for most of it she has been too small to express a single thought, knowing she was there was my comfort, my constant. Ada is my everything.

And that is why it's so hard for me to think of another.

Before my ultrasound a few weeks ago, thoughts about a new baby swung from overwhelming worry about what two kids means physically—an frenetic ball of toddler and a needy swaddle of baby—to grief that the time I've had with Ada is almost over, and that I'll never be able to spend this kind of time with my next child. There was joy and mystery and excitement sneaking through the cracks like sunshine, but I wanted to feel light bursts of gladness and the sort of wrapped-up enthusiasm that came with the news about expecting Ada. What I felt was more heavy, more solemn.

Don't get me wrong. It all sounds so gloomy compressed into a paragraph. This baby is going to be a bright one. (Tangentially, I am a second daughter and am sure that the time I spent with my own mother was less than she was able to devote to a single child. I have no delusions about this, nor do I think it's sad like my imagination sometimes wants to picture it. It's just one of those many Facts of Life that stand like pillars holding up what's ours.)

On the drive home from the ultrasound appointment, I was washed with peace and calm. All the thoughts about being torn from diaper change to nursing session to meal prep to clean up to art projects to building blocks—and will I ever paint again?—melted with the knowledge that I was carrying a daughter. Two girls. Nothing more perfect. A sister. It was the first time during this pregnancy I've had near-tangible reassuring feelings that this is going to be our greatest blessing yet.

Many of my happiest thoughts about what this baby means come in terms of knowing that she'll be a sister, and that she'll have a sister, Ada Louise, who I rank as one of the best humans on the planet. I know this next daughter will be the same way. To know what joy my own sisters have brought me creates an unbounded thought of gratitude when I picture my own daughters as sisters.

I feel her often now. She kicks and moves and lets me know all the time that she's forming and growing and preparing.

I am too.

I have to ready my heart and trust that a cavernous space I didn't know will be filled and make me full.

Fireballs and Ai Weiwei

2013-02-19T10:51:00.003-07:00

Don't be jealous, but this morning my daughter dropped three Atomic Fireball candies into my bath effectively dying the water pink in a matter of seconds. And then demanded to get in with me. We were like a couple of pink Easter eggs when we got out. I'm glad she didn't get her hair wet. That wispy, dye-prone stuff probably would've taken to the Red 40 more permanently.

Moon boxes

view through the Moon boxes

Like one of our favorite storybook pigs, Olivia, on rainy days, we like to go to the museum. Today we visited the Hirshhorn. The Ai Weiwei exhibit is almost over and I would have felt seriously amiss had I not seen it while it was in town. There were enough odd-ball things to keep Ada interested (i.e. a giant snake made out of backpacks that wound around on the ceiling).

Ai Weiwei's "Cube Light"

The moon boxes were basically the best thing to happen to her since her birthday (I was just telling a friend that the post-birthday adjustment has been a difficult one. She's constantly asking for presents and balloons and cupcakes...oh my). We spent a lot of time looking through them from one end and the other. Security guards got a kick out of her. She reminds me so much of my little sister who would greet people with sticking her tongue out, or a raspberry, or some other charming salutation while a preschooler.

Ada greets people with a short grouchy squawk or a, "Noooo." What happened to my social girl? (To be fair, people are so weird. They ask questions like, "Oh my goodness I like your shoes, can I have them?" I might feel constantly violated/on guard too if I were a two year old and people felt the need to get right up in my business to have a conversation).

The simple color block paintings provided lots of color-naming practice. And shhh, don't tell, but one of the security guards told me it was okay for her to rub her hands all over them?? Sorry Ellsworth Kelly . . . Maybe they're reinforced against toddler hands because they know there's nothing so alluring as a giant green triangle within arms reach. That maybe have been her favorite things of the day. Besides the light cube. We circled that puppy a dozen times while Ada dutifully repeated, "No touching. Just look with mine eyes." It's becoming a sort of mantra at our house.

The visit wouldn't have been complete without singing the alphabet song while looking at the GIANT LETTERS downstairs

2 Years-old

2013-02-12T08:02:00.000-07:00

It's amazing to me that my baby is two. What's more amazing is that she won't be my baby come June. There will be a new little face around these parts (I still am having loads of trouble wrapping my mind around this). In fact, my heart at once bursts and breaks when I think that Ada won't be my only child soon. Is this normal? I'm such a swarm of conflicting feelings. On one hand I can't wait to add another little person to the mix. I can't wait to see Ada as a sibling. I can't wait to cuddle and new warm baby and introduce it to the wonders I've slowly discovered the last two years with Ada. On the other hand, the thought of dividing my time further, of spending even less with Ada and Mike and art is a complicating and conflicting thought.

But back to my darling Ada girl. She knows her ABC's and can almost count to 20 unassisted. She can sing all the words to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and knows several other tunes that she puts most of the words to (Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam, Stars Were Gleaming, Mary has a little Lamb, Row, Row, Row your Boat, Elmo's World Theme Song . . .) She describes things with several adjectives, "Ada wants her purple ciucio with tiny, purple stars." Literally. She has said this to me on several occasions. She speaks in third person 100% of the time and often narrates everything she's doing or experiences. She mimics nearly every word I say. She picks up quickly on emotions. She loves to draw and paint and can do it for several hours a day. She loves Elmo. She seems to prefer book stacking to book reading these days (but perhaps it's because she's tired of our selections at home. . .) She can build the train track by herself but gets frustrated easily when the pieces don't line up on the first try. She loves wearing dresses and necklaces and hats but also loves to run and jump and climb, throw balls and play at the park.

She is a completely different baby than she was when we moved out here in August. In fact, I don't think she's really a baby at all anymore. This growing up business is even harder to watch from the outside. She's more and more fun by the minute (and often more challenging) but the phases pass so quickly and she's shooting up like a weed I'm not sure how much more growing I can take.

Can't we just put things on hold for a bit? A little bit? Please?

Ada, I love you so much my insides turn to pieces. You are the brightest joy of my life. Happy 2nd Birthday, sweetie.

On self-raising

2013-02-05T06:14:00.000-07:00

For a few reasons, I sometimes I feel like I'm raising myself. There are moments in nearly every day with Ada that mirror home videos from my childhood so closely it's hard not to wonder if my mind has made-up said videos and replaced my own little toe-headed-toddler self with Ada.

She colors for spans of time equal to toddler eternity (thirty, forty-five minutes?! She can't even watch Sesame Street for this long) and while she does she often sings to herself, or narrates her drawings. If she sees one of her "pretty dresses" she insists on putting it on right that instant and then proceeds to "spin like a princess" before moving on to adorning herself in every necklace I own. Her mind seems to constantly be humming, processing, sorting information. Perhaps all toddlers in general seem a bit preoccupied because their little brains are taking in so much each moment. She easily collapses in frustration when she can't communicate like she wants or the moment she feels itchy (sound familiar, Mom?)

But I also feel like I'm raising myself (or, really, continuing the work my parents started). Being a baby having babies, there is still lots of room for self-raising. When I see Ada's tantrums I get so self reflective ignoring her behavior—waiting out her storm—is easy. But it makes me realize I don't take a lot of things well either. Is mothering always like holding a mirror up to yourself every day? People always say they learn more by having kids than by being a kid. And it's true. Because you see so much of yourself in them, moments of intense examination come all-too often.

My abusive boyfriend-child

2013-02-01T11:30:00.000-07:00

I had a friend tell me that toddlers are like abusive boyfriends and we are like their low self esteem girlfriends. "We keep coming back to them, love them more and more each time."

It makes me feel like a crazy woman sometimes. How is she at once so endearing and maddening?

This morning I was over-the-moon in love with her. She was shirtless, doing a veggie dance and taking laps around the kitchen while eating "pock-warm" (popcorn). She would pause about every 30 seconds and stand back from her whiteboard to exclaim, "Oh my goodness! Look at THAT!!" She sang, "And everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went, Everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary Mary went."

My heart couldn't take it.

* * *

In an obvious moment of deep contemplation Mike turned to me the other day and said, "Isn't it crazy that we have the capacity to create people we'll someday associate with?"

"Like, our children?" I had to clarify.

"Yeah. You know—don't have any friends? Have some babies."

So weird. Though it is becoming truer and truer. Ada is turning into my buddy.

* * *

Most buddies of mine, however, don't take dry erase marker and scribble up and down the length of their shins before coming in to ask for forgiveness and wipe. (See what I mean?! Abusive. But how could I not love her even more after her obvious try at rectification?) Or throw themselves to the ground and start writhing because I filled their cup with water rather that milk.

When I put her down for a nap she looked up and apologized again. "Sorry, Mommy. No, no color on pants. Color on paper!"

What was going to be a reluctant, guilt-inducing, not-so-motherly, begrudgingly bestowed kiss turned into a shower of smooching. She hated it.

I love her for it.

my two loves at the park on my 60 degrees, sunny birthday

Inauguration Day

2013-01-28T10:40:00.002-07:00

The days leading up to the inauguration were crowded in DC. We went out to dinner for my birthday the Saturday before, and called half a dozen restaurants the Wednesday before that to get a reservation at a regular dinner hour. ("Hi, would you like a 4:00 or 9:30 reservation? Everything else is booked." "Um..." We ate at Tabard's Inn and it was an excellent—even romantic!—meal at a normal 6:00 hour.)

I got all sorts of emails about road closures and extra security measures to take (like, write your and your child's personal information on a note card and fix it to their person if you plan on taking them Downtown. Yikes).

The day of the inauguration, Capitol hill was eerily quiet. Either people were all already on the Mall by mid-morning or they were smart enough to sleep in, have brunch and take the day off. We were neither.

We opted to not leave the house at an ungodly hour and wait in the cold with our toddler just for a good seat, so at 10—and calling upon the strength of our pioneer stock—we left the house for the day with a tin of peanuts, a package of licorice, a PB&J and a few water bottles.

"We don't always agree with the President, but we always pray for him (1 Tim 2:1-4)"

I sort of regret not buying an "Official Inauguration" something. I'm so not a souvenir person, but it would have been fun to wave a flag or something. Right?

The walk down was a cultural slice of life. Being a non-ticketed attendee meant walking, and walking, and shuffling past vendors and closed streets and innumerable police men. The entrance at 7th Street (above) was close by the time we got there—minutes before the speech began. The group dynamic of being collectively rerouted was interesting to say the least. There was a collective sigh as people regrouped and figured out where to go. It was like being in a river of people. When a we came upon a roadblock, we trickled out in a dozen different directions and white capped on occasion. There were numerous frustrating moments when I questioned the authority of nearly every cop who said, "Sorry. This road is closed. Walk two blocks to the south and then over 5 blocks and up two more blocks and you'll be where you want to be." "Grrrr..."

Vendors lined the streets and back roads that snaked through the maze-like city. At one point Mike commented that maybe all this extra rerouting and walking was some secret part of Michelle Obama's Let's Move! campaign. I think he may be right . . .

Our view. I know. High quality photo.

We walked over 25 blocks down to the Washington Monument where we caught the tail-end of the inaugural address. It was actually nice to not be pressed up on by a thousand people like I heard the view a few blocks closer was. We heard enough, ate our peanuts and licorice, ran around a bit, took a few pictures and then started the mass exodus back east (when I swear even more roads were closed...) towards our house.

Hooray we made it!

Awesome mothering tip: give your kid licorice constantly and they'll be happy as a clown in their stroller all day.

People have asked me, "Are you glad you went?" I answer, "Totally. It was a great experience...to do once." I don't think I'll ever have to make the trek again (unless I had awesome tickets and handwarmers).

There were moments that I don't think I'll ever forget, like watching the pride on a black woman's face as she glaced over a row of Obama Calendars, fixed her eyes on a picture of the First Lady and exclaimed over and over, "Michelle is gorgeous! Just gorgeous!!" I agree. She is. And I like her haircut.

Or the guy selling Romney and Obama condoms. Or the vendor who used the back of an old Romney/Ryan campaign sign as the backing to his sign advertising Obama inauguration gear. How resourceful.

Or Ada watching the horses before they took off for the parade. Or how sweetly she would ask for "More licorice, please." After getting reminded to use her manners 20 times first and "Ask nicely."

It was a 6 hour outing. Needless to say we stopped for a pizza on the way home.

So much trash every where. The can on the left is long before the ceremony actually began.

Inauguration porta-potties anyone?

Christmas kink

2013-01-24T07:31:00.000-07:00

The day after Christmas we packed up and headed to Heber for two nights at a cabin with Mike's family. The cabin was beautiful and spacious. We rented snowmobiles that everyone was anxious to try the next day. We packed sleds and dufflebags full of gloves, scarves, hats, thermals, coats, snow pants and boots. It was to be 3 days of snow play, cozy fires, hot cider, games, and family bonding.

We arrived around 4 and had pizzas for dinner. After, the family all headed downstairs to play air hockey, watch the grandkids wrestle and play. Soon the kids were ready to watch a movie (or a moomie, as Ada calls them, though she's never sat through more than 10 minutes of one so I'm not sure what her fascination is...) I headed upstairs to make popcorn and before the microwave dinged Mike was carrying a crying Ada up the stairs.

She had climbed up to the second rung on the bunk bed ladder (only about the height of a kitchen chair), slipped, and taken the full impact of her fall onto the tile floor with her right arm.

(L) waiting at the Instacare, in the middle of saying, "It huuuurts." (R) Didn't hurt bad enough to keep her from using that arm to color with. She the bend in it? Her other arm looks totally straight by comparison.

It was readily apparent to me that something was more wrong that just a routine bump on the head. I noticed what I initially thought was swelling in her right arm right away as I held her, but had a gut feeling it was worse. I went to the couch, pulled up her sleeve and knew immediately her arm was broken. Her arm was very bowed and after comparing it to her left arm, I knew we needed to suit up, brave the snow and head to the hospital.

On the drive there was sang a few primary songs which calmed her down almost immediately. We drove 10 minutes the wrong way on Highway 40, too flustered to follow a map, before turning around and getting to the hospital.

Too happy to have a broken arm, right? Or just loopy because it was after 10 pm at this point.

The wait was more miserable for us than her. The x-ray confirmed it was a greenstick break in both bones so they paged the orthopedic surgeon to come and set her arm. We opted for sedation so we wouldn't have to listen to our screaming baby as they bent her bones back into place. She fell asleep, with her pants down, ready for her shot just minutes before the anesthesiologist came in.

Still coloring with her broken arm (after pushing the ER doc away with it...my little toughy).

They gave her a dissociative anesthetic that caused a temporary disconnect between what she felt and what she remembered. She tried so hard to talk through the whole thing.

Gradually as the drug too affect her speech became slower, more slurred, her eyes started ticking back and forth like she was in the car watching telephone polls zoom by out the window. Eventually she was catatonic and the orthopedic surgeon came in to set her arm.

I was at her side, watching the whole thing up close. Mike said he was surprised that the guys just grabbed her arm and with his hands straightened it all out. I found that particularly comforting, actually. Sometimes I feel like medicine is too removed from our bodies. Everything is done with machines and not much is left to intuition and personal care and trusting our hands.

As the doctor set her bones she let out the saddest, slowest moan I've ever heard, "Ooooooooooooooouuuuch-eeeee." I felt my heart break a little further every second she sustained her slow-motion-cry. As she came out of the affects of the drug, he began hallucinating. The anesthesiologist said adults who are put under this way often talk about strange hallucinations. Ada hallucinated about bubbles. She raised her arm and began popping the imaginary things. Minutes passed and she recognized me, wanted to talk about mommy and her cousins and daddy.

All was right. Except for her purple fingers. Oh, and her broken arm.

We went back a week later for the hard cast. Hot pink. She began crying the second we stepped foot in the hospital. "Gee-na car!" (Get in the car!") "Bye bye! Gee-na car!"

She basically screamed the whole time we were there. But she got a stale sucker and a teddy bear out of the experience so it couldn't have been THAT bad. Plus, now she examines her cast with pride every time she undresses and says, "Ada's cool cast. It's pink."

I asked her last night if she wanted to take it off on Friday. She immediately cradled her arm and said, "No take it off! No take it off! Ada's cool cast! It's pink!"

(With any luck cast comes of tomorrow!!)

Featuring an ugly red coat

2013-01-22T18:41:00.002-07:00

The last few days in Washington were spent cleaning and packing and organizing so coming home from our holiday in Utah would be a pleasant, relaxing experience. Everybody knows you need rehab after a vacation. Somehow they often leave you feeling hung over from all the happy memories made.

We left fairly cold weather in Washington (with those mums still holding on for dear, numby life!) and arrived in mounds of snow in the frozen Utah tundra. Ada couldn't have been happier. I couldn't have been colder.

A few days after arriving she somehow got us all out of the house before 10 and on a sub-arctic walk around the neighborhood. There's a spot from one of our home videos growing up that has my sisters and I playing in the snow on the deck of my parents' Grandview home. My mom is playing commentator while we chase each other and catch snowflakes in our mouths. She says something like, "There's some sort of golden rule where the amount of time it takes to get ready to play in the snow must be twice as long as the time the kids actually play in it." I thought about it every time we got suited up to head outside. Did I mention that Utah is like an arctic subcontinent?

Ada walked off the plane wearing a sign announcing our big news around her neck. It was fun to wait and announce my pregnancy until we were there with our families in person. At nearly 14 weeks I felt super proud of our secret-keeping skills. It took everyone a little bit to realize what Ada was wearing. Seeing their faces was priceless.

I've been feeling relatively good, but more sick and tired than I did during my pregnancy with Ada. I'm sure half the fatigue comes from tearing after my toddler day in and day out and not having the luxury of sleeping in any more (oh the days of sleeping in!!)

We've drilled the phrase "Ada's going to be a big sister because Mommy's having a baby!" into Ada's head. I've heard her say it to her toys (and while she leaves out half the words it still never gets old). We're excited and hoping to build up how great babies are so Ada doesn't get too jealous when the little bundle arrives at the end of June.

Less-than manic

2013-01-14T11:43:00.000-07:00

It's been a textbook Monday around here. Ada woke up HOURS earlier than she should have forcing me out of bed HOURS earlier than I would have liked (though, to be clear, I spent a good chunk of time on the couch with a pillow and blanket pretending to play with one eye open).

We made pancakes. And ran around in our undies until the acceptable hour for such shenanigans (and laziness) had long since passed. I just put The Lou down for her nap. I'm still in my PJ's. It's 1 PM.

Yes, Monday.

It's going to be a good week. But, oh! be kind to us.

Home again

2013-01-10T13:12:00.005-07:00

Despite the fatigue-inducing hassle that often comes with flying, there's a moment on each flight that makes air travel magical.

I don't think I've been on a flight yet where the moment wasn't there.

Right after the fasten seatbelt light is turned on for the last time, tray tables and seat backs are at their full and upright position, everyone is quite. Their electronics are off, their eyes are reopened, and they sit quietly with their stranger-turned-neighbor and stare out the tiny oval windows that run the length of the plane.

Yesterday the afternoon sun lit up our faces and made dancing patterns on the overhead bins as the airplane turned and the angle of the light shifted.

It's such a quiet moment. Maybe it's anticipation to be some place new, or a thoughtful time to regroup and ready yourself for home.

But it feels like group extra-spection. As you see the tiny roads and rivers carve out forests and cities, and the patchwork geometry of agriculture unfolds below, I know that I can't feel a little smaller, a little more like I'm just one tiny piece of something so big and so beautiful. It feels like the plane load of passengers is held in a collective awe of what we just did—spanned a continent in a few hours—and in collective awe of how beautiful the world is.

I'm not sure how God wouldn't cross your mind in a moment like that. I thought about Him, and said a thankful prayer as we touched down on the runway.

Merry & Bright

2012-12-22T13:10:00.001-07:00

a free couch...

2012-12-13T12:39:00.000-07:00

I keep thinking about my couch.

It's become quite a personal symbol of God's love for me. You see, DC met us with surprise expenses and a mostly unfurnished apartment, meaning the futon that was left here had to cut it, because there just wasn't any wiggle room in our budget. And it was a huge blow for me. I can't even completely say why. It's probably partly due to the fact that I fantasize about decorating each apartment we move into and then am faced with harsh realities every time. Or it's because I was so desperate for friends but the ugliness of the futon was enough to make me turn down play-dates at my house. Or it's because after an evening of sitting on it, catching up on Parks and Recreation my tailbone literally ached from the lumpy, awkwardly angled, hideousness that was to be our "couch" for the next 9 months. I just couldn't take it.

I cried about it. More than once. Yes! Cried! About how ugly and uncomfortable my futon was! And the knowledge of just how petty and stupid I was being would cause me to plunge deeper into my tears.

Sigh.

Those were the days.

But I got over it. Sometimes it takes a good cry and a good bath to realign your perspective so that you see you actually have everything you could possibly need. I have four walls and a roof. And a sweet (albeit force to be reckoned with) daughter. And a loving husband. And access to a billion free things in the city to distract my toddler (and myself) with. And food. And a bike. In many ways I'm living the life I suppose.

So I went to bed repenting, but grateful one night. Grateful that I have so abundantly much. And repenting for have forgotten so completely.

The next morning Mike woke me up saying, "Free couch!" (I thought he said, "FREAK OUT!" and I was so confused coming out of my blurry-sleep that I thought there was a terrorist attack or something). But no. No terrorist. Just a free, not-bad-looking, genuine leather couch that was up for grabs to whomever would haul it away. We made a phone call, rented a van, and by lunch had a new couch.

It only took me letting go a little bit and realizing that I am blessed beyond measure. And I do believe that God was involved, as silly as it may sound when taking about free couches.

So there's this wearing pants to church thing going around. And like everything that comes and seems to rock the boat a bit, so too has come the sort of vitriolic comments (see, I would have linked to the Facebook group that started the pants-wearing-thing, but the comments are so off-putting it's not even worth revisiting the page to get the hyperlink) and back-and-forths that make me want to delete my Facebook, ditch this blog, and take my family to the hills. But that's not very courageous, now is it?

But the pants thing keeps turning my thoughts to my couch. I guess I can't stop thinking about God's love for us. That He cares about what we care about; that he cares about what others care about (even when it seems as silly as a couch; that He cares that some of his daughters (and sons) feel belittled and underrepresented in His Church; that He cares about our questions and our doubts and even about us wearing pants to church. Because he loves us.

I read two things recently that also have been swirling around my brain and mixing with all these thoughts about feminism and couches and pants-wearing. The first are the verses in Mosiah 18 about mourning with those that mourn and comforting those that need comfort; about knitting our hearts together in love; about compassion and service and standing together with one heart and an eye towards God. I love those verses. I think they speak to what we strive toward. I think they stand as a stark contrast to what I read online between passionate members ofttimes. The second is in 2 Nephi 30. We read that chapter last night and the last few verses stuck with me because it reminded me that there is yet so much to be revealed. We just have to trust God and keep on keeping on.

I guess I just want to say that I'm hopeful that answers will come and hearts will be mended. Because I got a couch. And that is way more silly and inconsequential than any of the things so many of those that I love are grappling with every day. That's why I'm hopeful and how I know that God loves us.

Loosen

2012-12-12T11:47:00.004-07:00

I felt like a good mom today. Mike took the computer with him for the day, so I knew there could be no crutches (i.e. Elmo and Renee & Jeremy videos) used as distractions and time-buyers. I looked out the window. Fog. It looked cold even though the weather report said it would be in the 50's.

It had been months since I'd gone on a run. For me, usually the hardest part is getting out the door. In today's case, I had to change a tire on the stroller (my pseudo-fix from last Summer just isn't cutting it anymore). But I suited up, geared up, babied up, and out the door we went. I was so happy and it wasn't too cold.

When we got to the park I let Ada out of her stroller and we chased each other around the statue until the fluffiest white dog in the world bounded over and we let it lick our faces.

She wanted to jump in the puddles. Normally I groan a little inside thinking about the mud and the water, and the uncomfortable whiny baby that usually emerges from the the water. Maybe the run invigorated me. Or maybe I've been inspired enough by other women lately who let their kids lap up water from puddles and explore to their hearts content. Either way, in she went, hopping up and down the length of the shallow pool. After a few minutes she sat down in it, her fleece pants acting like sponges. I told her to stand up, she responded with a squawk, and I realized that the damage was already done.

So she sat in the water for a few minutes until every inch of her were soaked from the waist down.

After we was done I stripped her down to just her diaper and coat, put my sweatshirt on her—legs through the arm holes—and zipped her up tight in the stroller sleeping bag. We jogged home quickly, not stopping once on the way.

The morning set the tone for the rest of our near-perfect day.

Maybe I should loosen up a little.

National Colonial Farm

2012-12-03T11:07:00.002-07:00

The day before Thanksgiving we wanted to do something as a family but it had to fit a few criteria: cheap (or free), close, and Ada-friendly. We thought about Mt. Vernon but at 15 bucks a head we nixed that idea (for now). While looking nearby Mike saw the National Colonial Farm which is just across the Potomac River from Mt. Vernon.

The farm as part of the Piscataway Park which was "founded in 1957 to protect the view from George Washington’s Mount Vernon across the Potomac River." I found it a little bit funny that this huge park's primary purpose is to protect the view from the hot-shot tourist attraction accross the river, but I'm grateful nonetheless that it's there. We loved spending the morning at what they call a "living history museum" which is actually a big working farm. The Accokeek Foundation (who manages the park and the farm) describe it as, "a Maryland middling family farm on the eve of the American Revolution. Through heritage breed livestock and seed saving programs, nearly extinct heirloom crops and animals are preserved for future generations."

Enough history.

I spy my two favorite people and a tiny Mt. Vernon in the clearing across the river.

All you need to know is that the animals were beautiful (you know those portrait-worthy white speckled hens? and brightly colored roosters with the green iridescent tails? and huge cows with long horns? and a wavy-hair amber colored oxen? like that), the view across the Potomac unreal, and the company top notch. Did I mention we were the only ones there? Perhaps aside from Yellow Fever and Smallpox, Colonial Farm life seems so dreamy.

The weather was bright and clear. We wore sweaters and roamed the farm like we owned the place. We poked around the little log structures but spent a majority of our time chasing chickens, catching Daddy, mooing at cows and sharing half an apple pie that we brought for lunch.

It was a nearly picture-perfect morning. The image of Mike and Ada chasing a flock of Canadian geese, forcing them into flight will probably stick with me forever.

See? Chickens, chickens, and more chickens make for one extremely happy baby. Maybe we should take a hint from Ada and move to a farm. Wendell Barry makes it sound great enough. And if I can have sheep with wool as soft as the wool I sunk my fingers into and buried the tops of my hands in, I'll be a happy woman. They were amazing (and so friendly!). The cows, however could have cared less that we were there, trying to communicate.

Maybe it's because I'm a "city girl" (as Ada's pediatrician called me today, though I tried to protest insisting that I grew up with half a dozen horse pastures in my neighborhood and spending loads of time outdoors) but I have never known how tobacco was cut and dried—at least during Colonial times. I'm betting the process looks a bit more industrial now. . . regardless the process looks beautiful, almost like an art installation.

The structures on the farm were made of original wood and reconstructed with a more sound frame. The wood was so beautiful and weathered with bits of pants growing on it and signs of time on the surface. The Tobacco house was quite impressive to me. And so was seeing rows and rows of tobacco hanging nearly floor to ceiling inside.

Everyone should go. It's not touristy, it's not difficult to find, it's not tiring. It's just beautiful, impressive, historical and free. We loved it. Especially Ada who found a big pile of leaves and planted herself firmly, not wanting to leave.

A horse is a horse, of course

2012-11-30T11:34:00.002-07:00

Last night as Ada was in the tub, she pointed out animals in her bath book. She came to one and Mike said, "Do you know what that is? A Horsefish!—"

I cut him off, "No it's not. It's called a Sea Horse."

This is maybe one of the reasons a two-parent household is preferable.

We laughed until we were teary. Because that's just how long of an evening it had been.