In the Pines

I never wanted to miss a month of blogging. Now I've missed three. I could blame it on the usual amalgam of writing, thrift-store shopping, and doing the dishes, but there's really only one reason:

Though she is fast becoming a toddler, I'm so glad that Mallory still fits in the kitchen sink :)

 

Summer's been alternately domestic (new grill, patio umbrella, plum infusions, kiddie pool) and hectic (chasing after Mallory), but until a few days ago, it was missing a real vacay.

 It was time. We had to get outta dodge. So we climbed into the foothills of the Sierras, to Grass Valley, where we checked into the Holbrooke, the oldest continuously running hotel in California. Our room was painted lavender, with high ceilings, a claw-foot bathtub, and a broken night-stand drawer--the hint of shabbiness that made this once-grand hotel affordable for folks like us.

We put Mallory to bed that night and headed downstairs with our baby monitor and backgammon set, feeling bold and free. After a cutthroat game (usually) and a creme brulee, we stood outside in the warm evening air, imagining the town in its Gold Rush heyday.

The next day we loaded up on pasties (savory pies stuffed with veggies and cheese) and took the Rough and Ready Highway to the south fork of the Yuba River. Mallory plunged into the water like she'd been waiting for it her whole life, fearlessly going in up to her neck, fending off her concerned parents. She learned the word "rock" and made a slew of friends and sang almost the whole drive home.

At dinner that night, Mallory entertained herself with three crayons and a booster seat while we ate peacefully, alternately feeding her bites of spinach ravioli. It was the easiest meal we've had with her. Sun-tired and beat, we crashed shortly after she did that night.

Our getaway was brief, could hardly be called a trip, but it reminded me of how essential it is to switch up my surroundings. Often. There are always the frustrations--the drive back home was almost comically horrendous--but there are always bright moments back-lit with loveliness. An unpicked (why? how could this be?) blackberry bush. Perfectly spiced French toast. Cool, clear river water and warm baths at night. And, after climbing back down into the Central Valley from the sweet mountain pines, the startle of acres upon acres of sunflowers bowing their big regal heads at us.

Steady Rocking

On Saturday, April 20, M and I took Mallory to Bonnie's birthday party. On her shady deck we ate clams and pasta and thick brown bread. We sipped champagne and held our strawberries aloft to receive fresh dollops of whipped cream. We chatted with her tight inner circle of peops, who we've come to know through other birthday parties and Thanksgiving dinners.

It might have been one of the most pleasant, decadent ways to spend a spring afternoon, reminiscent of her birthday party, five years ago, that M and I attended under very different circumstances. Back then, we were co-workers who were just starting to hang out as friends. M played happy birthday on his guitar and we sang round after round, relishing the song, the intimacy of shared voices, the quiet knocking at the door to each of our hearts.

Now, five years later, we are married and we have a daughter. Parties are...different. What was once just a charming outdoor deck in West County is now a treacherous obstacle course of holes and slopes and stairs and spiny plants that threaten our toddling baby. Instead of lingering in conversation, we are on constant alert, taking turns chasing Mallory and watching her go up and down the stairs. Up again, down again.

We used to chuckle at "Make Love Whenever Possible When Married with Children." Now we talk in solemn whispers about how hard it often feels, how little time we have to ourselves, how anyone ever has the energy to have another one. Lately we've been pining for those long ago days when we'd sleep til 10, eat thick pancakes for breakfast, and sometimes find ourselves back in bed before lunch. Of course: we love our little Mallory, couldn't imagine life without her breaking into spontaneous dance on the corner of Magnolia and Hollywood Way this past weekend in LA.

We are a tad grayer than we were half a decade ago, collectively a few pounds heavier. But what hasn't changed is the steady rock of my heart when I watch him play the guitar. The happy tug in my gut when it's him calling me to say hi and ask if Mallory is eating well today. The comfort of whispering in the dark just before we fall asleep.

Good Hope

I was seriously considering skipping this month's blog post. I probably would have if not for Jenna's recent comment. I've never been good at letting anyone down, especially myself, but if my little sister who's spending the semester in lovely and exciting Istanbul can still make time to visit my blog, then I can at least take a few minutes to write something.

So. I am exhausted. Last night, for some mysterious reason, Mallory woke up five times. I dreamed we were swimming off the Cape of Good Hope, warm and carefree. Sometimes I look back on my life before being a mother and I marvel at all the time and freedom I had and wonder how I could have taken a second of it for granted.

March has been a whirlwind of a month. I took on extra writing assignments for the Bohemian, I threw Mallory a birthday party, I raised my voice at the douche after class one day, I saw my therapist again after a long hiatus, I read a so-bad-I-love-it crime novel, I graded mid-terms, I ran my feet into blisters and fungus (gross, I know), I made a failed banana cream pie which turned into a yellow runny mess (also gross, though it tasted okay).

I did too many things in a rushed and hurried manner, stalking minutes like prey. I even made lemon frosting with one hand while holding Mallory with the other, because M was going to be home soon and I really wanted his cake to be finished when he walked in the door, and Mallory would not have it.

I'd been looking forward to dying Easter eggs today. Instead I used nine eggs (nine!) making brunch and coconut cake, which is disappearing fast. It's been raining off and on, harder than it has in weeks. The just-planted garden looks beautiful. The snapdragons are popping open.

Mallory is in bed after another day of walking, climbing, reorganizing the kitchen cabinets, and practicing her new word, "wow." Tonight she lifted up my shirt and blew a raspberry on my tummy the way I've done to her for a year now. M and I will snuggle on the couch and watch a little TV together and then head to bed soon ourselves, praying for some blissful, uninterrupted sleep.

Back to the Board

It feels so lovely to be back in the classroom! Maybe it's because I'm 34 now with a child of my own, but I feel so much more compassion for my students and all their annoying foibles. The arrogant white douche who thinks all Muslims are terrorists, the primadonna princess who rips up her homework because I won't accept late work: these are the kids who used to drive me crazy, keep me up at night wondering how to reach them.

Now they are opportunities to hone my craft. If I can keep the conservative jock from making an enemy out of me, if I can be kind to the spoiled princesses who expect special treatment, then I've succeeded. It's taken me years to realize that teaching does not mean preaching. Whereas I used to feel it was my job to enlighten all the Kool-Aid drinkers, I now accept that people do not shift their worldviews thanks to one clamoring English teacher. Sometimes a subtle nod is more effective than all the gesticulating in the world. More often than not, other students are able to keep their peers in check, as in last night's class when a certain male suggested that women who dress provocatively might be asking to get assaulted and four female hands promptly shot into the air.

The truth is, I  became a teacher because I love performing. Though I have no desire to be on stage acting or singing (God help us!) or even reading my own essays, I absolutely crave the instructor's spotlight. I love leading discussions about literature or effective thesis statements; I thrill at the sight of several hands waving in the air. From the first class I taught at 25, I was hooked.

But like many enthusiastic teachers, I fell into believing that I was going to change the world through my students. I became over-invested in their successes and failures, got stressed when they missed an assignment or didn't do the reading, took personally their rejection of books ("How dare you not love Steinbeck as much as I do!"), spent hours obsessing over the nuances of every class, chastising myself for my limitless shortcomings. 

I wish I could say I'd gotten beyond all that, but the truth, of course, is that just this week I berated myself for finishing class in a rush (oh the horror). On the other hand, I no longer over-plan class. I let my TA review some of their homework, and am even going to let her run a thesis-writing workshop on Monday. I'm learning how to give myself a break.

I may not convince the cocky white guy that racism does indeed still exist in America today. Maybe he has to learn that elsewhere. Maybe it's enough that another student came up to me after class the other day, thrilled that I'd read his essay introduction to the class. No teacher has ever used my writing as an example of something good before, he said to me. I'm proud of myself. Well, I smiled back at him, you should be.

A year later...

I love symmetry, especially when it comes to time. So of course I love that a year and a day ago I posted a list of resolutions for 2012, which, I am pleased to report, I mostly fulfilled:

1. No new books. Read the ones I got. Stuck to this one like seaweed to rice. Bought only one (used) book the entire year,  Ian Sansom's The Truth About Babies. It's one of those books organized into tons of chapters that can be savored over months. Still reading it   :)

2. Let go of stuff. Rid the clutter. First of all,  it's hilarious to me that I actually made this a resolution--me, who decides I no longer like a shirt and immediately flings it out to the giving tree, whose idea of a great Saturday afternoon is organizing the mud room. So yeah, this was an easy one. Now if only I could get M to clean out his side of the closet...

3. Dance more. Yep, definitely did, if being in a constant state of bounce/jiggle/trot with an infant in arms can be considered dancing. Ditto the ridiculous feats of foot stomping and arm wagging and hip swiveling that M and I perform in an attempt to keep Mallory entertained while we cook dinner.

4.Publish 10 new pieces in 10 new places. Oy. Almost. Not 10, but 6, with a 7th coming out soon. Disappointing, I must admit, but I also became the food writer for the Bohemian and just got an inspiring personal rejection from the editor of Pank, so my heart continues to soar. This coming year? 10 for sure!

5. Relax. This I'm most proud of. I relaxed alright. I lounged around on the living room floor while Mallory made a sport of biting my nose. I stayed in my jammies until 2:00 on random Wednesdays and ignored the heap of laundry and crawled into bed at noon on Sunday (just today, in fact) to savor a midday nap. Yes, I still burn with restless energy, I never say no to a writing assignment, and I still use a half-soiled napkin to wipe down the entire kitchen floor (yep, just today) in the midst of cooking breakfast. But yes, thanks mostly to Mallory, who demands so much of me so much of the time, I have finally embraced the lovely and amazing art of doing nothing sometimes.

At Long Last

This blog entry is tragically overdue, mostly because I often wait for the little blogger inspiration fairy to whisper in my ear, and lately, if she's been whispering, I can't hear her over Mallory's shrieks.

Might as well begin there. My sweet little darling angel has, in the past couple of weeks, turned clingy and impish, wanting to nurse or be held constantly. Mornings are an elaborate dance to see how quickly we can crack eggs and pour coffee before she has time to crawl over and pull herself up on our legs (another charming newish development, which is accompanied by whiny pleading and eyes wide with heartbreak). To boot, M started his full-time job this week (yay for benefits!) which means that I am now alone with our little darling. All. Day. Long.

Now, let me be clear: she's a whole lot of fun to hang out with. She's a great listener, happy to lend an ear to my anxious ramblings (is this too much butter for rice crispy treats?) and neurotic cataloging (when we get home from this walk, I'm going to change your diaper, make a quick snack, feed you, and then finish writing my article while you frolic about with your toys, okay?). And sometimes she actually does occupy herself for stretches of time, seemingly oblivious to me. I'll suddenly be struck by the silence, bolt up from my desk chair, and discover Mallory in the bedroom licking the mirror, or at the bookcase browsing the nonfiction shelf, or in the bathroom unraveling an entire roll of toilet paper (only if I've forgotten to close the door, an essential habit now that she also enjoys standing up at the toilet and drumming the porcelain).

The thing that's so difficult (and promising) about babies is that they are constantly changing. We thought we had a solid hour-long (or more) morning nap dialed in. But for the past week, she's waking up after just 20 minutes, maybe 45. We thought we'd finally rounded a corner on food, getting her to eat mashed sweet potatoes and carrots and bananas daily. Now as soon as she sees the spoon, she turns her head away with a look of disgust. Of course, she's constantly sneaking other things into her mouth: crushed leaves, lint, plastic twisty ties, a sticker that she peeled off of my computer while I was checking my email. Last night she did gum up part of a biscuit I made to accompany our potato leek soup (the first of many creations simmered in our new Christmas crock pot :), while sitting peacefully on my lap for a full half hour. I loved it.

Maybe it's the wintry weather, or all those episodes of Chopped, or the fact that I am the Bohemian's food writer and finally embracing the position, but M and I are in full culinary splendor, discovering the joys of baked eggs and pop-ups, chicken marsala, homemade caramels and candied lemon and orange peels. Yum! And thanks in equal parts to nursing and our jogging stroller, I get to indulge my many sweet teeth and still fit into clothes I haven't worn since before pregnancy. The only downside to all this cooking are the ants, who are invading our kitchen and mud room on a daily basis. We've tried orange peels and cayenne and vinegar, but are still losing a few battles. Fingers crossed that borax will put an end to this war.

So. The sun is just peeking out. Mallory is still asleep, going on 45 minutes now. I've been up since 5:45, which means I've already eaten breakfast twice. I've also read a chapter of my book, cleaned the kitchen with M, put piles of my summer clothing away on the closet shelf, and worked a bit on an essay that is almost ready to be submitted. There are other things I need to do, like wrap a few overdue Christmas packages and brush my teeth, but those things can be accomplished when Mallory is awake and watching me with those big curious alert eyes of hers. For now, I relish the chance to do whatever I want.

Re-election Day!

9:53 am

Just back from a run, sweaty and good-sore. Mallory fell asleep in the jogging stroller. Waiting for M to swing by on a break from work so we can all head to the polls together. Feeling even more excited than I was on Halloween. Today marks the end of Mitt Romney as someone I should know or care about. Now that's a treat.

12:25 pm

Just back from voting, where I was delighted to see Roseanne Barr and Cindy Sheehan on the ballot for the Peace and Freedom Party :) After casting our votes, M and I had sandwiches at the Village Bakery and then walked home in the lovely hot sunshine. I realized that this is the fourth election I've voted in, my first time being the soul-crushing "defeat" of Al Gore in 2000. If Obama's win four years ago helped to redeem that travesty of democracy, then this year will surely help redeem Bush's reelection in 2004.

5:34 pm

Can't believe it's dark out already! Our jack-o-lanterns are glowing one final time and the champagne is chilling. I just interviewed Terri and Mark Stark, who own five outstanding restaurants in the county and who are two of the nicest folks I've talked to in awhile. Instead of bowing down to the almighty customer, they are primarily committed to taking care of their staff. Instead of recruiting big-name chefs, they promote from within. Home now, we eagerly await news of Ohio and Florida.

7:45 pm

M is glued to the TV, I'm working on an article at my desk, and Mallory is ping-ponging between us. Our bellies are full of gold beets and pasta and our hearts are full of hope. All signs point to Obama! Elizabeth Warren won the Senate seat in Massachusetts!

9:32 pm

Four years ago M and I were a newly-hatched couple, cheering Obama's victory at his house in Sebastopol. Tonight we are two years married with an eight-month old daughter, who is now fast asleep as we celebrate with champagne, rum balls, ice cream, and leftover Halloween candy. Obama will be president until Mallory is practically in kindergarten. I love it!

11:12 pm

We're up later than usual, elated at the prospect of four more years in which, at the very least, we have a president who is not committed to protecting the super-rich and stripping away the rights of everyone who is not white, male, straight, and privileged. The crowd at Romney headquarters shows mostly pasty men in suits, pudgy and joyless. At Obama headquarters there are people of all ages, races, styles, and identities. In their faces I see the future of our country, and it's beautiful.

Crawfish and Cracklins

Louisiana is lovely in October. On the country roads, fields of sugarcane stretch to the horizon, their long stalks swaying in the warm breeze. Autumn has softened the searing heat. Sun and clouds rumble in the sky, never letting the other take over for too long. After spending a week there, for Mallory's debut with her extended southern family, I am once again struck by the beauty and uniqueness of my home state, which is celebrating its 200th birthday this year.

 Thanks to my mom, who is quite effortlessly the most devoted and doting grandmother ever, M and I got to go on three dates. We drove back roads with the windows down, smelling the sweet burning sugarcane, chatting about the future, chuckling at the persistent (and creative) Cajun spellings.

We even made it to the alligator swamp at the university, the nation's only college campus to have one, which I used to visit as a child. I have memories of feeding bread to the gators with my brother and of once losing my Jelly sandal in the murky water.

In New Orleans, we rode a ferry across the Mississippi and delighted in the elaborate Halloween decorations adorning the high balconies and wide porches.We rode the the St Charles streetcar (the oldest continuously running streetcar in the entire world!) to levee park, where, together with our friends Triel and Chris, we lounged in the thick grass and sipped frozen pina coladas. Kai, their 3 year-old son, rolled down the hill and jumped in his dad's lap. Mallory crawled around and pulled out tufts of greenery. The river hosted huge barges and lapped at the land.

On our last day, we headed to the tiny hamlet of Breax Bridge, where we strolled the high sidewalks and, finding everything closed on a slow Monday, headed to the local grocery store for lunch. We bought two pre-made tuna sandwiches, an iced tea, and a small bag of cracklins (fried pork skins). As we moved through the check-out line, the cashier smiled and asked, "Where y'all from?"

And even though M responded, "California," he was quick to point out that I'd grown up in nearby Lafayette. Sure, you can take the girl out of Louisiana, but as my week of eating crawfish etouffee and shrimp po'boys proves, there's still plenty of Louisiana left in me.

Sunday

As a kid, I could do without Sundays. I often felt bored on Sundays, from the start of eleven o'clock mass in the morning to the witching hour of 6 in the evening, when Life Goes On, that heart-wrenching drama whose pilot episode made me so sad I can still vividly recall the very scene, came on. Sunday nights were the worst, of course, with an entire week of school looming over me and my freshly-painted fingernails.

When I became a teacher, Sundays became even more powerfully bittersweet, as I watched the hours of my precious weekend sink with the sun, my lessons still under-planned, my papers only half-graded. The inevitable threat of Monday morning and all its attendant pressure to perform tainted even the sweetest, sit-by-the-river-afternoons.

But now that my full-time job is Mother, now that my flexible freelance writing and tutoring schedule permits (or rather, forces) me to work when Mallory's sleeping, Sundays are no longer the downer they used to be.

Sunday mornings are for chores, the kind I love. While M lays on the floor with Mallory, I wash the dishes, scour the sink, and start a load of laundry. Then, while M makes French toast and coffee, I hold Mallory in one arm and with the other, make the bed and wipe the counters. We eat while she scoots about underfoot, licking the wood floor.

I hang our clean wet clothes in the just-peeking-out sun and vacuum the bedroom floor. M takes over and moves into the living room while I do some dusting. He takes Mallory outside to water the garden (one of her favorite activities) and I sweep the front porch. I find an old pair of sandals to set out by the Giving Tree.

By noon, the house is clean, the sun is burning hot, and Mallory is down for her nap. I do some free-to-make-mistakes writing until she wakes up. After lunch, we crack the windows, light a stick of incense, and head out to Target, where we buy delightfully satisfying things like toothpaste and ice cube trays. We take a walk in a different neighborhood than the ones we're used to. The hours move slow.

I don't dread the end of the day. At a birthday party later on, I don't worry about the fading light or think about all that I have to get done before I go to bed. Instead I linger, chatting with friends. When we get home, I feed Mallory bananas, then take her into the warm shower with me. M gets her ready for bed while I fold the last of the crisp dry laundry. Mallory falls asleep on my lap while I read. And just like that, Sunday becomes my new favorite day of the week.

La-La Land

A few days back from our very first vacation with Mallory, a road trip down to LA, which was filled with sweat, sand, family, urban liveliness, and lots of lucky napping in the car.

We kicked things off with a stop in Santa Cruz, where the three of us glowed with the kind of serenity found on a California beach at the swirly pink of sunset. Later, Mallory slept soundly on my chest while M and I devoured antipasto in the romantic outdoor seating area of a restaurant called Chocolate.

After an awful night's sleep in what is no longer our favorite Santa Cruz hotel, we ventured to San Luis Obispo and restored ourselves with culinary delights like fried herb goat cheese on roasted beet salad and brown sugar braised pork chops and salted caramel butterscotch pudding. Yum!

Back in December we'd encountered such a shockingly lackluster, poker-faced, brusque waiter at the Big Sky Cafe that we'd complained to the manager. So we were surprised to see the same waiter seven months later, this time grinning jollily at Mallory, happily engaging her stare contest. (He, of course, did not recognize us as the chagrined couple on New Year's Eve who asked for our dessert to go).

We arrived in LA on the hottest day of the summer, collapsing on a blanket in the sweaty shade of the park that M traipsed as a fifth grader. Nearby, kids in a dance troupe rehearsed for a televised contest. So LA. Mallory met her three older cousins who loved her showy tricks (screeching like a wild night creature, sucking on her own toes, spontaneously flashing big gummy smiles) even more than the impossible twists and low-splash entries of the Olympic high-divers.

At Zuma Beach north of Malibu I dove under big, scary waves in my yellow and green striped one-piece. Mallory laughed and flailed her limbs at the kids going wild with the final days of summer vacation. M strummed his little guitar in the shade of the umbrella and dipped his daughter's toes in the water.

Mallory met her Uncle John, who's been sober a month longer than she's been alive. The last time I saw my brother was in Louisiana. I was four months pregnant and he was cat-eyed with liquor and pills and obstinate partying. He slept through my grandmother's 80th birthday party and hardly noticed the swollen bump of my belly. So it was a real treat to see him giddy with sobriety and uncle-dom. He brought Mallory a ruffle-bottomed Ralph Lauren onesie and couldn't get enough of holding her, murmuring softly, "Don't cry, don't cry."

And, thanks to Uncle John's Brazilian girlfriend Giselle, Mallory got to "swim" in her very first pool. In Beverly Hills. At the sprawling mansion of a former Warner Brother. Giant bright goldfish floated beneath a bridge that led to a shaded seating area. The pool itself was made to look like a natural watering hole, surrounded by rocks and flowering shrubbery. We all took turns swirling Mallory through the tepid water as she screamed with delight. As soon as she got out she peed on Daddy's feet and we took her right back in.

I, as always, loved the cacophony of the city, the tree-lined streets and squat 1950s buildings and effortless diversity. On our way out of town, we met up with our friend Tabitha and watched a local baseball league game. Armed with her thoughtful care package--coconut water, granola bars, ginger candy, strawberries, even a tiny bud vase with soft pink lilies--we drove the entire eight hours home, stopping a few times to feed, change, and hold our little dumpling.

Once in the front door, bags unloaded, Mallory fast asleep, M and I ate bowls of cereal and smiled sleepily at each other. We made it.

Half Birthday

I think I was 24 the first time I actually celebrated my half birthday. Or, more accurately, I was 24.5, which was also the title of a mixed CD given to me by my friend Jess (the boy) on the occasion. That CD introduced me to the throaty goodness of Lucinda Williams and the tender lyrics of Bonnie Prince Billy, and fueled me all the way across the country later that summer.

I blared it loud and long, until the day my Volvo was broken into on a Nonesuch rafting trip and all my CDs were stolen. The kids duct-taped my rear window for me. M remembers me giving him a look across the fire that night; I remember noticing my new co-worker, whose sweet guitar strumming soothed my troubled soul.

27.5 is the next half-birthday that sticks in my memory. I was in Chiang Mai, Thailand, just getting into the rhythm of traveling alone. I looked in the Lonely Planet, found a hotel pool, and paid a dollar to swim for an hour, all by myself. I did the butterfly until it took my breath away. Then I headed to an outdoor cafe to savor my new favorite drink, iced coffee, and read Louise Erdrich's "Love Medicine," a beautiful novel that, in its own way, took my breath away.

This is the first time I've been in California on my half-birthday since moving out here nearly nine years ago. The day started tired and gray. M had to rush out to the store unexpectedly. Somehow it was already time to nurse Mallory again. I combed my bookshelf for a new novel to read, landed on Erdrich's "The Painted Drum," and dug in.

Later, Carrie, Thomas, and their kids Belle and Ethan (who we call simply, "the family") came over. It was one of our classic homemade mojito-and-pizza Sunday afternoons, totally delightful in its mellowness and serenity. We spent most of our time out on the front porch (where the plants are happy but the couch is dusty) chatting and laughing and watching Mallory break into spontaneous smiles. For dessert we had strawberry shortcake and, as Belle calls it, "hoof-less" Jello.

Still, I'd forgotten to sweep the sycamore debris off the porch. I ate one too many pieces of pizza. The kitchen counter devolved into an unholy mess of discarded crusts, whipped cream splatter, and crushed mint. Mallory badly needed a bath. By the evening, tempted to feel bad about this stuff, overwhelmed, still, at 33.5, by the constancy of imperfection, I sought refuge in my new novel. It's passages like this one that make Louise Erdrich so dear to me:

"In the woods, there is no right way to go, of course, no trail to follow but the law of growth. You must leave behind the notion that things are right. Just look around you. Here is the way things are."

Uncle E

I'm usually the one to leave, to pack my bags and triple-check the windows and watch my feet grow tan and gnarled from so much exploring. So it was a great surprise (and relief) to learn that hosting a friend for a few days could still invoke those carefree, possibility-laden feelings of vacation.

M met Elizabeth a decade ago in LA. They became fast friends and have remained close even as the miles between them have multiplied. When I first met E, with her tatted-up arms and understated wit, I never could have imagined that she spoke fluent baby and loved browsing antique stores. But during her lovely five-day visit last week I realized that M's friend had truly become my friend too.

The best house guests are the ones who are happy to weave themselves into the tapestry of your life, demanding only that they help with the dishes. And so it was that the facets of our late spring life carried on--picking salad greens from our garden, taking turns holding the baby, venturing on evening walks to find wildflowers and lemons, bathing the baby--only with an infused sense of fun, E's laughter and spunk and curiosity.

On Saturday, trying to escape 102 degree weather here in the Santa Rosa Valley, we drove west to Occidental to score some of E's favorite apricot turnovers at the Union Hotel. As we tried to leave, my car's alarm (which I only recently became aware of) engaged in two rounds of panic-inducing bleating that left M and I frantically searching the manual. E stayed cool and took sleeping Mallory into the shade while we opened and closed the doors over and over again.

By the time we figured out how this vestigial alarm is triggered and managed to get reloaded in the car, we were desperate to get to the coast. Sweaty behind the wheel, M started up Coleman Valley Road. We heard a thump. "Probably a pine cone," M said, laying on the gas. A minute later we realized the thump was actually M's glasses case, which had popped open and deposited his prescription glasses on the pavement. His wallet was just sliding off the trunk when he stopped the car.

Much laughter ensued. Buoyed by our luck (the glasses were unbroken), we spent a couple of hours trolling a nearly-deserted beach, snacking on carrots and getting chased by waves. E gathered some sea debris that will find its way into one of her many artistic endeavors. Mallory quieted at the sound of crashing surf.

And then on Father's Day we did something we'd been wanting to do for three months, something that, out of all our friends, we could only imagine doing with E. In our fourth garden bed, nestled right next to the remains of my wedding bouquet, we buried my (defrosted) placenta. For months it sat in our freezer; now it's going to nourish our wildflowers. E, ever the dutiful photographer, got plenty of footage (I'll spare you). Afterwards, we ate M's delicious pizza and made cupcake frosting.

Saying good-bye is never easy. But we've got photos out the wazoo (mostly of Mallory) to remind us that summer is sweeter when Uncle E comes to town :)

It's personal

Dear Jessica:

While I really enjoyed your essay, and found much to admire in your writing, I've decided to pass on this submission.

Please feel free to submit to us again. I'd love to see more of your writing.

All the best, Editor

When I first started submitting my work for publication beyond the local alt-weekly, a personal rejection like this had me flying for days. The guest editor from Smokelong thinks my characters are strong! A Narrative editor is asking to see more of my writing! The folks at Swink and Booth think I should keep submitting to them! Even Brevity, one of my top favorite journals, rejected me with a lengthy paragraph about how my essay had made it to the final round! The editor told me not to lose heart about this "close-but-no-cigar" news because, after all, they receive a large number of excellent submissions, and just can't publish them all.

It felt validating to know that editors had taken the time to carve out a note to me personally, to offer words of encouragement. The editor at Revolution House, who recently rejected my Cuba Libre essay, actually said that she was sure I would find a home for the piece soon. Sure enough, Recess Magazine accepted it just a few days later. So, yes, there are some victories folks. But. Not enough.

Each time I click on an email, subject line RE: SUBMISSION, my heart flutters with disappointment as soon as I see how short it is. I've now submitted many pieces to many, many places, and my "Submissions" folder weighs heavier and heavier with "thanks, but..." The personal rejections are starting to feel like cruel jokes. Why, if they like my writing, if they want to read more of it, won't they just publish "The Cave"? It's the title, isn't it? "The Cave"... how lame.

I'm starting to lose heart. This week alone I've been personally rejected by Hunger Mountain, Literary Mama, and, just this morning, as my peanut butter and honey toast swirled uneasily in my stomach, I clicked on a very prompt reply from an editor at Salon, my dream destination. She enjoyed reading my piece! But it's not quite right for their purposes. Best of luck placing it elsewhere.

So I strapped my fussy baby to my chest. I stripped the sheets from our bed and by the time I loaded them into the washer, Mallory was nearly asleep. I love feeling the warm weight of her body against me. I love sniffing the sweet-smelling fuzz on her head, the scrape of her tiny fingernails on my chest.

In other news...

I've neglected my blog for a few weeks, mostly because of my inability to find a suitable topic to pursue that is outside the realm of motherhood. I don't want to become someone who can ONLY write about things like breastfeeding and whether or not to vaccinate our newborn. I don't want to be a mom whose entire world is her baby. So I toyed around with some topics--

1. Obama finally supports same-sex marriage! It's about time! Way to go! To those who still oppose it: it's not gay people who are threatening the institution by wanting in on it, it's young straight people who are marrying less than ever before. If anything, same-sex marriage can only help to save marriage from becoming obsolete!

2. Why I love having cable, after a decade without: Leslie Knope, of Parks and Rec, who is my all-time favorite TV character, who is impossible to watch without smiling, who delightfully proves that people are always more than the sum total of their ideologies.

  3. How to save money: walk everywhere, always take home leftovers, take advantage of the library, split meals at restaurants, go shopping in your own closet, pick flowers in the neighborhood instead of buying them from Trader Joe's, grow your own salad greens, let the sun dry your clothing...

4. The White Tiger, by Aravind Adiga, the best novel I've read in a long time. If you want to laugh AND ache, learn all about modern India, feel the kinship of a beloved narrator who is both a servant and a murderer, get swept into a furiously-driven plot that is impossible to put down... then don't delay. Get this book now!--

but nothing seemed meaty enough for a post all its own.

In essence, spring is treating me very well (save the awful allergies), as M and I go mad with planting (dahlias, begonias, arugula, sage, gypsy peppers, to name just a few) and Mallory, our little blossom, continues to delight us. At nine weeks, she coos and screeches and plays with her tongue. She weighs ten pounds, twelve ounces. She tracks us with her eyes when we leave the room, and wants, more than anything, to be close. It really is like falling in love... and so, even though this post isn't about her, everything else is. And for now, that's just fine with me.

Yes We Can

While I was pregnant, people loved to regale me with tales of all that they could NOT do with a newborn. The list included everything from reading novels and paying bills to showering and eating dinner. I listened, horrified, and imagined my life devolving into a dreary blur of diaper changes, dirty dishes, and oily hair.

Six weeks into parenthood, I'm happy to admit that our fridge holds the leftovers of last night's black-eyed pea feast, I showered for twelve blissful minutes after going to the Y last night, and I'm midway through a New Yorker article about the rad graphic artist Alison Bechdel. My life has certainly changed. But I'm realizing that having a baby is a lot like being a teacher. Yes, there's a never-ending cycle of work. Yes, it's largely thankless. And yet somehow it all gets done. Standards are meant to be challenged.

Life has been pared down to simple pleasures and tasks. A load of laundry, drying on our new rack in the hot sun. A hike along the coast. Oven-fresh brownies in the kitchen with Katrina, my new mom friend, while our babies squeak and grunt from the living room. A trip to Target to scout nursing bras and yoga pants. The new Bust magazine. Plants watered, dishes washed, letters stamped.

Instead of giving up all the things I love to do, I'm just forced to be more creative about how. There are no more afternoons of chapter-flipping on the couch with an iced tea and a bowl of popcorn. But that doesn't mean I can't read while Mallory nurses (as long as I pay attention to when she needs a good burping, paragraph breaks be damned). In fact, there's something sublimely gratifying about listening to her suckling sighs while I digest another slim volume of Jamaica Kincaid.

I no longer get to dash off to Pilates whenever I want, but I can strap on the Baby Bjorn and cruise the streets anytime, as long as she's been fed and changed in the last hour. M and I no longer have the freedom to spontaneously jet off on a day-long adventure with new tunes on the MP3 and a bag of trail mix, unless of course we remember binkies, burp cloths, and of course our baby :) But that's exactly what we do every Saturday. And as long as we keep moving, she's usually happy. As for restaurants? Our strategy is simple: strap her on, walk around until she conks out, then dine with a sleeping baby warm on your chest.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not trying to sound like some sanctimonious new mom who decries how easy it really is. It isn't. An ill-timed meal at the Boathouse on Saturday had me standing and swaying with a fussy baby while M spoon-fed me clam chowder and we glanced nervously at our fellow patrons. I felt so exhausted on Tuesday that I stayed inside, robed, until evening. I still haven't managed to begin doing daily push-ups, despite my steely resolve, and I'm not sure when I'll be able to sink deep into a new piece of writing. Even as I write this, Mallory is starting to squirm in her vibrating chair (a gift from the gods!) which means I never know how many more minutes (even seconds) I have until she starts wailing. It's already taken me 3 days to get this post written.

In fact, little would be possible without my incredible husband, who takes supportive to a whole new level. Not only does he do all the laundry and most of the cooking, not only does he happily partake in the 3 am diaper changes, but he applies almond oil to Mallory's dry scalp and monitors the redness of her butt. He picks out cute onesies for her to wear and makes up singing rhymes to distract her when she cries. As long as we continue to support each other, to let the other take a nap or steal off to a Zumba class, it seems there's little we can't do with a newborn.

Motherhood: One Month In

Motherhood is hard. Last night, for reasons I could not discern, Mallory only slept in forty-five minute chunks. Fitfully. By the time I would fall asleep, my face inches from hers, she would be stirring again, her legs frog-kicking my boobs. Then would come the feeding, burping, spitting up, cuddling, changing, re-swaddling, and rocking routine, which only resulted in more restlessness.

Now, of course, she is sound asleep in a sling on my chest after a morning walk. I should be trying to catch some much-needed Z's myself, or cutting her frighteningly sharp fingernails, but instead I'm doing something I rarely get to do these days. Writing reminds me of the person I still am, before I became a mom who sometimes doesn't brush my teeth before sundown.

Motherhood is sweet. When she stares at me after feeding with that look of blissed-out milk-wonder, when she falls asleep curled into my chest, snuggled cozily in her outer womb, when she grins in her sleep and relishes the warm water we bathe her in, it's easy to forget that she just soaked her new outfit in curdled milk.

We sometimes lay in bed and marvel at this little person, our Mallory, who has already changed so much in a month. She's twelve ounces heavier than she was at birth (still so amazingly tiny though). The swelling on her head (from hanging out in the birth canal for HOURS) has gone down. Her skin glows pink and her forehead has erupted in little bumps of baby acne. She smells like sour cream. She is so much lovelier than I could have imagined her, especially now, as she sleeps the sleep of a month-old baby who needs nothing more than her mommy.

Of course, as soon as I lay down with her, her eyes will likely pop right open...

Mallory Mae

Over a week after my due date, I looked like this. I'd been walking, squatting, swimming, taking herbal tinctures... but nothing worked. So I drank 3 tablespoons of castor oil. 22 hours of grueling labor later, our daughter FINALLY came into the world...

Today she's a fortnight old and has completely taken over my life. I love it!

Due Date

I've spent nine months focusing on this one date, repeating it like a mantra to curious folks, reveling in its specialness and symmetry. To have a baby born on Leap Day! The last day of the month, just like me! Even better, the most unique last day of the month! Wow!

So here I am on this cloudy afternoon, fielding phone calls and eating angel food cake, swollen with fluid and a squirming baby, feeling downright emotionally fragile. Leap Day has never been so anti-climatic.

My midwife Roseanne was wearing her scrubs today, just in case. "I'm ready!" she called out to me when I arrived for my weekly appointment. And when I responded "Me too!" I realized that for the first time, I actually mean it.

I wasn't ready this past weekend, when we were scrubbing the floors and reorganizing the kitchen cabinets and hosting a little Oscar-watching pizza party. Nor was I ready on Monday, when we filed for new drivers' licenses as Taylors and went down to San Francisco to see a fantastic Leslie Hall concert :) And nope, I wasn't even ready yesterday, a wintry Tuesday filled with laundry and roasted Brussel sprouts, birthing videos and tears.

Today I'm ready.

And, apparently, so is everyone else. Never before have I felt so loved... just as I've been writing this, two packages and a book have appeared on the porch. Even our mailman sent a card that he stamped and delivered himself. But as the texts and calls and birthing beads keep rolling in, I feel more and more pressure to deliver the little bundle of proverbial joy that everyone is so lovingly celebrating. And I've never been good at letting people down.

So I guess there's nothing left to do but surrender. As Roseanne pointed out, could be tonight, could be March 13...

Embracing My Curl

I'd spent a lifetime trying to tame my curls, rushing from air-conditioned house to car to school in an attempt to escape the vicious Louisiana humidity. In high school I'd wash my bangs in the bathroom sink between classes, using the hand-dryer to scorch and tame my frizzy fly-aways. In college I let it grow long and unruly, a metaphorical undoing, a wild mass that, when wet, froze solid in the winter.

By the time I moved out to California for grad school, I'd all but given up on my hair, usually sweeping it back into some kind of functional ponytail or bun. And then I met Jay.

It was all thanks to my Indian friend Manish (who sometimes flew to NYC for a haircut, I kid you not) who offered to bring me along to Di Pietro Todd, a salon he'd found in SF. When I moaned about my thick, wavy hair, Jay looked incredulous.

"You just haven't learned how to embrace your curls!" he said as he sheared and layered. By the time he was finished, a luxurious hour later, I felt like I'd been given a new head of hair. In reality, I'd been given a hair artist.

That was 8 years ago, when we were both 25, both just beginning our west coast lives. For almost a decade now (unbelievable!) we've seen each other grow into our professions and our relationships. He's now so established that he doesn't accept any new clients. Last fall, we got married within a month of each other.

Though he works at a red velvet and champagne salon brimming with privileged people who can't talk enough about "product," Jay affects no pretension whatsoever. He respects the fact that I can only afford to see him twice a year, and gives me cuts designed to grow out well. He remembers details about my life (teaching, traveling, that one dread-headed boyfriend) and knows how much I love seeing the floor fill up with my excess locks. He never tries to sell me $25 conditioner.

I had an appointment this past Wednesday morning, exactly 2 weeks before my due date. I hadn't seen Jay since May, before I was pregnant. He took one look at me and said: "Wow, you could pop at any moment!" and "We must have cut it all off last time you were here!" Both true.

For the next hour we talked about babies, placentas, parenthood, and my thicker-than-ever pregnancy hair while he snipped it into something refreshingly new. He suggested we leave my bangs longer, the easier to pin them back, more mommy-friendly. "And next time you come in," he said, "bring the baby. You can even breastfeed while I cut your hair. I don't mind."

Adole-Scent

Yesterday one thing led to another and I found myself ankle-deep in the contents of our bathroom. From under the sink and inside drawers sprung the band-aids and bottles, scents and salves, that have comforted us for years. And I mean YEARS. M came across a little pot of hair sculpting gel he'd had since his days of wearing floodwater pants, way before I ever knew him.

In addition to some pink hair extensions (college), Bumble and Bumble curl creme (2005), and Manic Panic hair dye (who knows?), I found a bottle of Navy perfume that I wore in 8th grade. I think it came from Wal-Mart. I actually remember spraying myself before school, wearing white blouse and brown uniform shorts, hopes high that the musty scent would last at least through lunch.

The memory felt so vivid and immediate that I had to momentarily abandon categorizing my allergy meds. So much came back to me: the stickered girlhood bathroom that I begrudgingly shared with my older brother, whose own Drakkar Noir trumped any scent of mine; my wavy bangs, forever getting greasy; the nagging anxiety that the scent would fade too fast, that perhaps I should save it for a special occasion.

There's still about half a bottle left. And as I tucked it back under the newly-cleaned sink, I felt a bit guilty. Surely I'm never really going to wear Navy perfume (Egyptian Goddess has been my scent du decade) and I've lugged it around now for TWENTY YEARS! Plus, I've spent the past week researching and writing about the tiny house movement, applauding the notion of living simply and sloughing off all the burdensome stuff we don't really need.

If only I could go back in time and have a word with my 13 year-old self. I'd tell her not to worry so freaking much, to go ahead and spritz herself every day, even twice a day. I'd tell her that the special occasion is her life, right now, at this moment.