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.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, July 2, 2012
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."
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."
Thursday, June 21, 2012
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 :)
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 :)
Thursday, May 31, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
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.
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!
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.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
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.
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