Sleep

Every year, when I teach AP Literature & Composition, I begin with Shakespeare’s tragedy, Macbeth. In order to gain a deeper level of understanding of the story, students are instructed to follow various motifs throughout the play, one of which is sleep. For the most part, sleep symbolizes innocence, purity, and peace of mind. Sleep, as it pertains to Parenthood, is remarkably similar.

When our babies are wee little newborns, daily life revolves around the clock and sleep, or lack thereof. It comes to no one’s surprise, after having gone through the trenches of this early stage, how potent sleep deprivation is as a form of interrogative torture. Sleep is a keystone in any discussion involving newborns, either by way of ruminations from an exhausted parent, or a well-meaning inquiring mind – How is she sleeping?

News flash – the sleep issues don’t necessarily end with the newborn stage. They evolve into considerations of bed-sharing, then maybe getting littles into their own cribs, then out of baby jail and into their own beds, keeping them in those beds, and so on and so forth. We won’t even get into the challenges of time changes. And just as frustrating and mind numbing as the world of sleep can be during this period in life, so too, can it be the most incredible.

One of the most cherished images I have of me and my daughter is a picture I snapped on my terrible faux blackberry, when she was just a week and a half old. She is nuzzled on my shoulder facing me, peacefully sleeping. If I close my eyes, I can almost conjure up the way the weight of her tiny body felt in my arms, the sweet smell of her head, and the tiny baby breath sounds she made. I am literally awash with contentedness just thinking about it. Her skin against mine conducted a symphony of oxytocin through my veins, a glorious orchestral sonata from which I hoped never to hear the end.

It's quite easy to forget the poetic rhythm of these moments, especially when all I’ve wanted to do was sleep peacefully myself. Fear, too, is an immense force: fear that she’ll not figure out how to self-soothe, fear that she won’t ever sleep in her own bed, and the fear that she won’t learn to stay in that bed, because my goodness, all the stories circulating, the ones you hear about and selectively fixate upon when you’re knee deep into sleep-training, serve only to highlight what you can’t get your own kid to perform successfully.

But one day, the knot untangles, and she figures it out.

Hard to say if it’s because of the fairy you invented and convinced her lives in her room to protect her, or whether it was the rewards chart, or if it was the militant week you spent returning her to her bed a la Super Nanny, hour after hour, night after night. She got it. She understands now that in our home, her bed is for her, and ours is for us. That her five year-old body doesn’t quite fit as comfortably as it once used to, and her sprawling ways generally end up smacking someone in the face. In fact, she’s often more comfortable in own bed because of this. She realizes now we all sleep better this way.

I’d be a fool to tout some cavalier belief that all our sleep challenges are long behind us. That would be laughable, because occasionally, she has a rough day or evening, and requests to sleep in our bed. We oblige when we see fit, but these happen less and less. Nestled there, though, lies the quandary, the double-edged sword I now find myself learning to handle.

I miss her body. Her smell. Her breath. This is not a constant, but rather an interloper hiding in the shadows of our days. When the feeling crests, it is visceral. I can’t always name it, I just know, impulsively, that I miss her. Sometimes the decision is easy – no, you need to sleep in your own bed tonight. Other moments, there is a physical beckoning, something beyond and greater than my own control that wants to say, yes, you can sleep in our bed tonight because I need you near me. These are fleeting, I know – not my need to be near her, but her wanting to be near me. I expect that as we broach and dive headlong into the teenage years, she won’t be asking much at all. Because of this it is my personal goal to try to pay attention to these moments, to remember that now is now. There will come a day, I presume, when we've circled back around the sun of teenagedom, and she will be all grown up and out of the house. Her body will not be near mine - at all. 

The other day I’d spent entirely away from her, in a studio photographing mothers and their children. I was struck, once again, by a fierce compulsion to be with my daughter and wrote the following:

Once upon a time, so many sleeps ago, I did everything I could to get you into your own bed and out of mine. And here we are, on this night, when all I want to hear is the rhythm of your breath, singing me to sleep.

She’d had a long day and was particularly whiny and overly emotional. As we were lying in the dark, drifting off, my hand around hers, I said, “I love being your Mama.” She didn’t say anything back - just squeezed my hand for several seconds.

There she was, lying next to me, purely innocent, and I was peaceful. The recurring motif in our little world. I inhaled all I could of her.

She’d not asked to sleep in our room - I volunteered the offer.

Because I wanted it.

Selfishly, I wanted my daughter next to me.

I needed her there.

With me.

Forty.

Today I am forty years old.

Forty.

One of my favorite authors, Joan Didion, explained her personal purpose for penning words: “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

Most of my friends know me as a gregarious, bawdy, ridiculously unfiltered figure. Rules, in my world, exist on a sliding scale. I prefer to ask for forgiveness.  I am the thrill-seeker, the comedian, the one who says all the things. Recently a colleague joked that no one would ever be able to “one up Marshall” because I don’t subscribe to a definable line in the sand. I own, entirely, my enjoyment of pushing boundaries and buttons, walking the tight-rope between what is acceptable and what is inappropriate. For better or worse, I’m that friend and colleague and I’d like to think everyone needs someone like this in their lives, if not for simply to add some color – but that may just be me rationalizing my, sometimes, less-than choice antics.

Friendships are very important to me; I rely on them heavily. For those whom I count as the inner circle, I am ferociously loyal and protective. If ever a moment has occurred where I feel I’ve made a misstep, I am wrecked. Not just sad or apologetic but riddled with anxiety until the air has been cleared of any transgressions. Beyond this, the friendships that I hold close are immensely fundamental to my life. I just got back from having spent three nights in New York with my local tribe and it was nothing short of fabulous. These women and their friendships are infinitely validating and what sustain me. They are the constant when other parts of my life have gone, or go, haywire. 

At my core, I am hard-wired to be an athlete. Over the years, athletics have manifest in various iterations. At six, I began gymnastics. I was certain I was going to be the very next Mary Lou Retton, and cartwheels I turned, relentlessly on our front lawn. There was a brief stint on a swim team – breast stroke and freestyle were my jam. At thirteen I donned my first pair of soccer cleats, and I was hooked, riding the sport all the way into college on a partial scholarship to a Division I team.

I started on the field as a defender, made my way up to an offensive half-back, and just as my skills were becoming laser sharp, I tore my ACL. After recovering from surgery, I was put into the goal as a way to preserve my knee and as it turned out, the position came naturally to me. The acrobatic skills I’d acquired as a gymnast, served me well. And I was a bit of a kamikaze.

My senior year of high school, I blew out my knee, again, busted my ass to come back from that, and then months before graduating, I tore my shoulder on a dive. Because of the shoulder injury that required surgical intervention, I had to red-shirt my freshman year of college. By the time I made it back onto the field, my sophomore year, I was running on steam. In one of the hardest decisions of my life, at the end of my sophomore year of college, I chose to relinquish the scholarship, and turned in my jersey.

Never have I ever won an MVP award. Never. But – I’ve won, more times than I can count, “Most Inspirational.” In high school I became comfortable in my role as the underdog, always climbing my way back from some injury, some surgery – in fact, I got really good at it. No bigger was there a challenge than rehabbing reconstructed knees and shoulders. I love physical challenges, and it’s precisely why in the years that followed soccer retirement that I ran a marathon and competed in sprint triathlons. It’s why, today, I’m running consistently again, and lifting weights. I completed a half marathon in May, with, as it turned out, undiagnosed pneumonia. I thought I had a bad cold. My bad. It’s tempting to do another half, but I haven’t committed to it just yet; to keep things interesting, in September, I will be participating in a Tough Mudder. You know – for fun.

It is clear to me now, more than ever, that I have enjoyed the struggle – the climb. Making progress, and showing measurable advancements is incredibly motivating. I’ve never been a first-place finisher, and frankly, I’m not interested in winning races, but instead completion and working towards personal bests. I have nothing to prove to anyone but myself. If a mile takes me twelve minutes one day, and nine the next, so be it. At this point in my life, sustainability is the brass ring. Setting an example for my daughter as a woman who takes care of her body, who runs and lifts because it makes her feel good – that’s where I win.

When I began college, I thought I wanted to be a pediatrician. Several bombed math and science classes later, I realized that while I loved the idea of working with kids, I did not love the science behind medicine. There was a brief period where I reasoned that teaching elementary school would fit me best. Laughable, I know. Late in my sophomore year, I heard author John Edgar Wideman, speak. During the Q&A at the end, he said something that would change my life forever – he said, “If you want to do something easy, eat bananas. If you want to be a hero, teach high school.” Done. I declared myself a writing major with the intent to teach high school English. And that’s what I’ve been doing for the past fourteen years. Beyond teaching English though, I do plenty of the less academic: I’m in charge of our social committee, so when babies are born, vows are made, or someone must bury a loved one, it’s me who makes sure that gets recognized. I’m also in charge of putting on prom. It’s not a role for which I win Staff Member of the Month, but every single year, I put together a beautiful party for my seniors and juniors. It’s a gorgeous evening, and it happens because of me. But the best and most rewarding facet to my career is getting to know my students – their lives, and who they are beyond the essays they write for me. There’s payoff in these efforts, because long after they’ve graduated, a handful stay in touch. Some have even thanked me. I keep those letters they’ve written close at hand; they are treasures.

Motherhood: I have waxed poetic, pondered, scrutinized, and emoted all over the page with regards to being Lucy’s mama. As she grows, I grow too. It has become clear there is no finish line, and the ravines are oftentimes steep and dark. The mama I aim to be to this stardust little girl, is a mama who recognizes her missteps, can reflect on them, and do better next time. I want to be the mama to give her space to climb the tallest trees and allow her to fall – to not catch her (even when my hands compulsively want to reach out), so that she learns the value in overcoming the break. But make no mistake, I want to arm her. My history is inscribed with #metoo. The stories, yes plural— I don’t tell often, not out of shame, but more so because they don’t arise in typical pedestrian conversation. The gritty details are unnecessary, but these experiences most certainly inform how I parent my daughter and the conversations we have about consent. Much as I want to shield her from the ugliness lurking beyond the walls of our home, I know I cannot. What I can do is make sure she knows that no one, man or woman, will trespass the geography of her body without her explicit consent. She will also know what it means to be groomed, and when she’s more emotionally capably of understanding, I will tell her of the red flags I missed, and I will watch for those with her, always an ally. The horrifying reality is even in doing so, I know I still won’t be able to stop all the monsters. I can only hope that if the ugliness should reveal itself to her, she has the wherewithal to recognize the situation and save herself. It’s a lot to ask, I know.

She has been the mirror into which I see myself, every flaw and virtue. The brilliant in her, is a piece of the best in me. The dark in her, are the shadows in me. Love is too precise a word when it comes to my daughter. We are messy, a calamity, unbridled laughter and tears. We are both I’m sorry and I’m scared. We are try harder and I love you most. Together we are Wonder Women. I repeat to myself, constantly, that she does not belong to me. She belongs only to herself. She will have her own ideas, opinions and desires. I cannot get in her way. What I wish to foster within her, for as long as I have any kind of influence, is a stockpile of grit, empathy, and confidence. The rest is up to her. And if she talks about smashing the patriarchy in first grade, well then, we’ve added a cherry on top – nolite te bastardes carborundorum, my darling.

Big Red. I don’t speak of him often in this space because he largely likes to remain anonymous, and while our story together belongs to me, so too does it belong to him. What I can say about the past eighteen years with this man is that it’s been about learning, evolving, and adventure. Like every other couple on the face of the planet, we experience a range in delights and misfortunes. He pisses me off. I piss him off. He rolls his eyes at my political statement t-shirts in which I express my love and support for those on the fringes and he braces himself when I propose crazy ideas. He thinks I’m bananas for waking up at “four ass early” to go running and can’t for the life of him understand why I’d lay down $100 to run a muddy obstacle course with my friends. He doesn’t stop me from talking to our daughter of the importance of busting through the glass ceiling or ranting about the social constructs of bras. It’s cool. We’re two wildly different people. Listen, he may not bring me random gifts, or may falter with words of affirmation (my love language), but for eighteen years, even in our darkest hours, he’s never gotten in the way of me being me. He’s never once tried to change who I am. Never. He loves me in his own way, no flash, no pretense - and that’s not for nothing.

I have never jumped out of an airplane.

I have four tattoos (and an upcoming appointment for another, maybe two).

I have never been asked out on a date. Yes, really.

I love photography.

I want to be loved.

I want to be wanted.

I have a terrible temper, but a long fuse.

I have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

I love sushi and ice cream. Not together.

I do not embarrass easily.

My emotional side overrules my logical side, often.

I have no regrets, just lessons learned.

That has to be enough.

I am enough.

I am a walking dichotomy, more resolved than ever to be a strong and confident woman, feminist, mother, partner, and friend.  Forty years has amounted to a series of moments that, collectively, create my wondrous life. Magic, really. I don’t know what it all means, so I’m just going to keep on, keep’n on. One foot in front of the other, face to the sun, learning, and living my best life.

I listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.

Like a girl.

True story. When Big Red and I went in for our 20 week ultrasound, the big one that reveals gender, I was certain we were having a boy. Years before I’d even gotten pregnant, I had a “feeling” I’d be having a boy. This had long since been confirmed by a bearded man who held my hand on the strand in Venice Beach, CA, in the summer of 1999. After placing rough-edged stones in my palm, turning them, and with his finger, tracing the lines that had worked themselves into my flesh after 21 years, he said, “You will have a boy and a girl, in that order.”

Done. The bearded oracle proclaimed it so. So you can imagine my disbelief when the ultrasound technician announced we were having a girl. My reaction was literally along the lines of: Are you serious? Really? Really. We were having a girl. It was a plot twist for which I hadn’t planned. Our baby’s gender still hadn’t sunk in that afternoon as I shopped the isles of Target looking for a ribbon and some bow to tie around my belly for the gender reveal to family and friends I’d been planning. It was not until I was standing in line ready to check out that I realized I’d grabbed a blue bow and ribbon.

Having always been a fervent liberal and champion of women’s rights, the bra-burning, Rosie the Riveter in me kicked into overdrive.  And because I am a woman of action, I quickly took this girl business by the reigns, jumped two feet in, and haven’t looked back since.  My daughter’s room is painted in a bold navy color and is decorated with images of her great-grandmothers, Amelia Earhart, Wonder Woman, and Frida Kahlo. Lucy has the traditional ABC style books, as well as Rad American Women A-Z. Her current favorite letter is “O” for Odetta Holmes. Her little bird voice can be heard saying, “O-detta, O-detta.” She wears a mix of boys and girls clothes, and every night before she goes to bed I say to her: What’s the best part of Lucy? Her head and her heart, because she thinks with her head and loves with her heart. She knows this ritual and pats both her head and heart when she hears the words. My girl is brimming with moxie, she is fearless, and cultivating some sass. In moments of frustration, I try really hard to remind myself that all those qualities will serve and empower her well as she learns to bust through and shatter any glass ceiling she encounters.

To say that I’m hell-bent on raising a woman who knows that her worth does not begin or end with her looks, that her strong thighs will be what propels her to run harder and faster (past the boys), and that she will stand up to those who attempt to keep her down – is an understatement of paramount proportions. While I definitely steer away from an overabundance of pink, frills, and princesses, I will never stop her from those things. That’ll be her prerogative, and the days she chooses glitter over grime, I'll get fancy with her.

Since birthing my daughter, I’ve also become keenly aware of the rising trend in incredibly empowering campaigns to promote women. As I come across them, I’ve bookmarked the clips for future use and reference, and because I fiercely hope that we all continue to champion strong women, know strong women, and raise strong women – they are all here for you.

Like A Girl (love, love, love)

I Will What I Want
I'm Enough

Choose Beautiful

Real Beauty Sketches

Legacy

Strong Is The New Pretty

Potty-Mouthed Princesses (explicit)

And because Mother’s Day is just around the bend, here are some campaigns to remind us that mothers need to be celebrated often, and even when they are taken for granted – lord knows I’ve done so plenty of times with my own – they are still there for us. Sacrificing, worrying, protecting, and loving us. Always.

The Unique Collection
Slow Down

A Beautiful Body Project

Mom's First Birthday

Something To Be Proud Of

Thank You Mom I

Thank You Mom II
P&G Thank You, Mom (Rio 2016)
Best Job

Now play THIS. Loudly. Rock on.

Month Eight.

Somehow, I knew this month was going to be a big one, maybe even a grand slam. It is almost incomprehensible how much Lucille has learned in the past four weeks. She has hit milestone after milestone, so much so that were I to elaborate in the narrative format, this entry would be to long:

• She can now hold a sippy cup and drink from it.
• She had her first ride, big girl style up front, in a shopping cart. And she loved it!
• She sat in a high-chair at a restaurant. Gone is the schlepping of the car seat.
• She now reaches for and attempts to hold her own bottle; those bottles are now 6.5 ounces.
• While in the sitting position, she can then move onto her belly, then up on her hands and knees and rock back and forth.
• She in incredibly intent on pulling up and standing.
• She fed herself food for the first time, and now continues to do so on a regular basis.
• She often grabs for the spoon and attempts to feed herself.
• She has figured out how to roll!!
• Should her pacifier fall out in the middle of the night, Big Red and I no longer have to replace it for her. She can reach around, find it, and put it back in her own mouth.
• She can now put herself to sleep, not only at night, but for her naps as well.
• She has dropped the five o' clock hour feeding and now sleeps through to the six o' clock hour, upon which she gets a bottle, and then goes back to sleep for a hour, sometimes an hour and a half.
• She had her first pool experience and splashed happily in the water.
• Is beginning to learn to wave, "bye-bye."
• Added scrambled eggs, toast w/butter, black beans, mango, quinoa, kale, blueberry, and cauliflower to the list of foods she eats.
• She now weighs roughly 20 lbs.
• And she responds to her name.

This was also the month we celebrated my first Mother’s Day. I had requested of Big Red a particular gift I’d seen mentioned among my Mommy Group friends, a Mother’s Journal. In lieu of cards, the idea behind the journal is to provide a space for your child to write letters to you each year. Since Lucy is obviously not old enough to write me a letter, Big Red penned one on her behalf, glued in a couple of pictures, and outlined her tiny little hand. It was perfect. Flowers arrived the day before Mother’s Day, and to my surprise, they were from my West Coast family! Breakfast that Sunday morning was eggs benedict, my absolute favorite. It was the Mother's Day it was supposed to be; sweet and intimate, not too much fuss. 

A friend of mine from graduate school sent me an email the other day and he’d asked, in the message, to update him on Lucy and my life. I told him that I really like my daughter, and I explained that sometimes when I tell folks that they’re response is, “You like her? You don’t love her?” Without question or hesitation, I love my daughter. In fact the word love often seems to pale in comparison to what I feel for this little girl. But you can love someone, and not necessarily like them. Not only do I love my daughter, but I like her too. She’s so much fun to be around these days. 

We hit a home run with this kid, I tell you, and it continues to be a privilege to see her personality flourish. Lucy is becoming this wonderfully funny and bright little being; her very own self apart from me and Big Red. It’s like magic. 

Then I think to myself, I made her. 

And then I’m overwhelmed with the gravity of it all. Those slippery ideas that you attempt to grapple with but end up shelving for another time because they’re just too big. Maybe that’s  the way it’s meant to be: stay present, dance in the feelings of the moment, and quit trying to understand the expanse of those emotions, because you just know.

Happy eight months, my sweet Lucille.

Dear Olive,

I don't know if you can sense it or not, but summer is rapidly coming to a close; Monday I turn back into a pumpkin and return to work, and you fall back into your school-year routine of long napping hours in a quiet house. Not only was this a wonderful stretch of time for us, but it was special because it was our last together as just you and me. Next summer it won't be just us on the couch, or on a walk - a little girl will be with us. 

Our lives will soon be shaken up by the arrival of this little girl, but I want to promise you that you will not be ignored. Every now and then someone will remark to me that after the baby is born, you will "become a dog again." And I'm going to go out on a limb here (naysayers have a field day if you wish) and say that you, Olive, will never be just a dog. You are so much more to us than a four-legged furry animal. You have become an integral part of our home and our lives. You are family. I'm not saying that there may be times when this little girl will have to come first, but keep patient and I promise I will come for you as well.

Olive, how can I put into words, words you won't even read or understand, what an amazing creature you are? You provide laughter on a daily basis, your unfaltering loyalty is second to none, and let's face it - you're too freaking adorable with your perpetual puppy look and floppy ears. You have endeared yourself to us in a manner neither of us was expecting, and I will never for one second forget that in Big Red's darkest hours it was you, Olive, and only you, who could make that man smile. For that I am in debt to you. I will un-apologetically admit that since bringing you home three years ago that I have become one of those people - someone who probably loves their dog a little more than is socially agreeable to most. And I don't care cause you're awesome. I'm fine with that label.

I hope I've done right by you this summer, lavishing plenty of pets and hugs and snuggles, walks and playtime, and more than just an occasional special treat. My summer pal, my furry best friend - you have taught us how to love beyond ourselves in a way that I know has given us a tiny glimpse of what we are in for in the next few months. And who knows, you may even share a birthday with your human little sister - her due date is just two days after your birthday! 

Thanks for a great summer, thanks for being the galloping calamity of hilarity that you are, thank you for you. I can only hope my actions somehow translate these thoughts into something you can understand.

** my absolute favorite picture of Olive **

It's That Simple

He came home feeling down and out, saw me laying on the couch taking a nap. Disregarding his own state of mind, he offered to make dinner which would include homemade meatballs. I was to relax and stay put.

It is no wonder I have loved this man for 13 years.

Pint-Sized Love.

It used to be that when Valentine's Day neared, I'd start dropping hints about what we should do, or what I should receive. The household in which I grew up, my parents celebrated all those holidays with cards and gifts and big to-dos. It was only natural that when I finally found my own permanent Valentine that I'd want to replicate what I saw growing up. Insert Big Red and some very different ideas about what Valentine's Day should or should not be.

Big Red is of the ilk that Valentine's Day is one big dumb commercialized scheme to get consumers to buy overpriced flowers and chocolates, to spend too much on a dinner, to loose one's wad o' cash on some jewelry, and to set girls up with very high expectations. Um, well - kinda. Over a decade ago when Big Red and I first got together, I tried to make a big deal about Valentine's Day. I essentially forced the gift exchange on him, expecting the dude to produce something shiny or pretty. It was never an organic procedure, in fact traditional gift-giving is NOT natural for Big Red. He's always struggled in that department and on occasion it has led to some heated discussions and even a few tears. Fast-forward ten years and change, and we've now settled upon a happy medium of a joint decision about whether or not we'll go out to dinner, more so because we love food, and less so because it's Valentine's Day. There aren't any forced cards or stressed-out gift searches. I've let that one go, cause that's what you do sometimes in a marriage. You decide what's really important and work on those pieces, and let the little nagging issues fall by the wayside.

Thursday, I got home and decided we should go out for some cheap delicious Mexican cuisine. When Big Red got home, I proposed the idea and he was, not surprisingly, enthusiastically on board. I said, "I'm going to take you out to dinner!" This is a running joke in our household because our money is not separated. We've shared every dollar from day one. He then responded with, "Alright, because I've got dessert covered."

What's that you say? Dessert?

Turns out Big Red, on his very own, without obnoxiously dropped hints from yours truly, stopped at the grocery store on his way home from work and bought me one of the greatest loves of my life: ice cream. And not only did he buy me ice cream, but he bought me my FAVORITE ice cream; a pint each of strawberry and creme brulee, made by the incomparable Haagen Dazs and Ben & Jerry's, respectively.

Jewelry is lovely, flowers are pretty, but for this gal, little else tops the luxury and extravagance of ice cream. Big Red knows his lady. Now that's love.