Talk Feeleez

For Her

It's late and I'm up, crushing chunks of powdered sugar into fine dust, grating lemons, cutting butter into chunks. My eyes are a little blurry, my hands coated in flour, I want it to be perfect. The best raspberry lemon cake she has ever tasted. Because she is perfect. The best anyone could hope for in a companion, a confidant, a friend. We knew each other, a little, when we practiced yoga together in a clean room painted robin's egg blue, what seems like centuries ago. Before children, before Feeleez, before anything important ever happened. She left town at that time and it wasn't until later, much later, when I saw her stroll past me in slow motion at the Farmer's Market, her baby-belly before her enormous and beautiful, that her value struck me. My heart skipped a beat and she was lost in the crowd. Nathan seeing the look on my face nudged me forward, encouraged me to find her. So I did. Pushing past my personality, pushing past baskets of produce to find her, to tell her I like her. To seal, with a smile and an awkward shrug, a friendship. It was one of the best things I have done in my life. Happy Birthday my dear friend. I love you so.

Happy Birthday

Sure wish I could see more scenes like these.

Happy Birthday Dad.

A Labor Story for Labor Day

We knew you were on your way to us when my heart was pierced by an unseen bee. A hot, heart-shaped swelling formed over my own and I called Papa in wonder and pain, crying. I asked him what he thought it meant to be stung in the heart by a mysterious stinger. He didn’t hesitate to excitedly say he thought it meant a baby was on the way.

After that I began to be visited daily by a pair of grey and white flirtatious birds that I had never seen and haven’t seen since. They would join me on my hikes, loving one another and flying close to me. Each time they visited, flitting wildly from branch to branch I would know you had arrived, somewhere, very small inside me.

The morning we made you was late August and yellow and bright. We realized later that the date marked our “anniversary” of sorts – the evening we sat on a bench together late into the night and described our quite consuming and undeniable interest in one another.

The first time we heard your heartbeat it was loud and strong and I was shocked at its volume.

Your sisters knew you were coming all along. Before you were even in my belly they were coming up with names for you. Cherry blossom. Alena. Necklace. Girl Possom.

I was sleeping when my water broke and, just for a second, thought I had peed in my sleep. I nudged Papa awake to tell him the news. Our plan for labor was that at the very first sign we would run for the bed and get as much sleep as possible so that we were feeling strong and rested for the more difficult parts. Papa did his part, falling back asleep right away, but I couldn't. I was too excited. I called the midwife and made toast and showered just as she suggested, but mostly I lay in bed, waiting, wondering, and wide awake.

I was surprised by the strength of the contractions. I imagined baking a cake, taking a hike, and making a meal during the early stages, basically passing the time until your arrival, but I realized that wasn't going to happen. The sensations took all of my concentration. Instead I took the opportunity to experiment. As each contraction came I tried something different, holding my breath, wiggling like crazy, or lying perfectly still. I found that relaxing completely, from my eyebrows to the tips of my toenails was best and I employed this strategy to the very end.

By morning the day was bright and sunny. The most yellow day I have seen in my life. I was relieved to not be alone in the dark anymore, that others were awake, that action was happening. Papa showered and put on his most comfortable clothes. I thought he looked beautiful and liked that he was preparing so fastidiously, to honor me, and you, and the day. Aunt Emy returned from her run and started to cry, overcome by it all, by her big bellied sister, by the electricity in the air. Kris came to see us, and while strolling through the amber-hued yard a contraction moved through me and I hung from her waist like a sarong.

But mostly I wanted Papa. I sought him out with each contraction and so he passed on his preparatory duties to Emily so that he wouldn't have to leave me, even for a second. Other things happened, the midwives arrived, the tub was filled, and I was offered a homeopathic remedy to make the contractions stronger and longer. I was hesitant at first, stronger and longer sounded a lot like harder and more painful, but I was acutely aware of the birth process, that my body held within it a tiny gate, usually closed completely, that would have to stretch to ten centimeters before I could push you out, before I could see your little face. Contractions are the key to this gate and therefore I knew I wanted them, lots of them, and for them to be powerful and efficient. I took the remedy.

The contractions became more intense right away and I started to feel them in my back. I lay on the couch, Papa crouched by my head, and  worried about back labor, even starting to feel sorry for myself. But our midwife, the very epitome of everything good and soothing, helped me imagine the contraction moving through my body and whisking out through my toes. I continued to practice my fully relaxed, almost-a-comatose-noodle approach with each wave but the pain was catching me off-guard and I was struggling to find my feet in time, struggling to relax fully. Papa said to imagine the contraction like a guest arriving at a barbecue, one you would greet at the door and show them through to the backyard. My stomach turned at the thought of food, so we giggled our way toward a guest-greeting scenario in which food was not involved. It helped. Looking for a contraction on the horizon kept me focused, allowed me to be ready and willing to let it pass through.

Eventually the tub was offered and I couldn't get in there quickly enough. Our house is tiny and the inflatable kiddy pool took up nearly every inch of available space. The two dogs lounged peacefully, the midwives knitted and made up the bed, Emily adjusted the temperature of the tub, but I saw none of this. I made my way to one side of the pool, slumped over the edge, and stared. At Papa's left eye.

I learned later that at one point  things were so quiet that, for the folks not in labor, it was too quiet, they became too aware of the sound of their footsteps and the whisper of their conversation, so Emily put on music. And because she knows me well, because she was so a part of the process, her selection was perfect. Gentle, soothing tunes that became part of the fabric of the day, part of your coming.

I did say a few words. After stepping into the water I slowly eked out: Too hot, and Emily carefully added coolness, bowl by bowl, until I felt just right. And a bit later, watching Nathan's soft loving face, I worried he might be too relaxed, that he might leave me by dozing off for teeny bits and managed to whisper: Do. Not. Fall. Asleep. He didn't.

Eventually my breaths couldn't outlast the strength of the contractions and my legs would spasm. Papa's left eye held my gaze, unflinching, as I slowly moaned out the pain. But the pain was great. Later, even though it was probably not a good idea to describe it this way to someone who might yet experience labor, I described the sensation to Emily as being dragged, naked, across really sharp rocks. When this pain arrived, this style and duration, I began to worry. But then I didn't have time to worry because I wanted to push. Really badly.

As my midwife checked to see if I was effaced enough I used all of my manifestational powers to make her lips form the words: Okay, you can push. The sweetest words I have ever heard. And I pushed, using the three-thrust method I had read about, wanting to make headway, wanting to see you. When it started to sting I had the sudden realization that this was my labor, my body, a body I knew well and trusted and loved, which meant that three-thrust pushes might not be necessary, I could work this baby out in my own way. So I wiggled. I wiggled you further and further, until finally I was talking to you in my head, asking if you were ready, if we could make this one the last one, asking if you would help me.

The photos of that day show you, your head poking out from my body, upside down and peacefully facing the world. I was still slumped over that edge, still staring at Papa's loving face and I could feel you when I reached with my hand, but could not yet see. But your serene eyes found a target. My heart swells with the idea that in your first moments, through the haze of warm water, your aunt's smile was waiting for you, tearing up I'm sure, but holding your gaze.

And then, after hours of waiting, after moments that dragged on longer than my usual understanding of time, everything happened at once. You slipped out, I was helped to a seated position, the umbilical cord was somehow unwound from my legs, and I saw you. Passed by strong hands across that pool and into my arms. Your head was pointy and white, like an albino Egyptian queen and I couldn't help but say: Hi little yoda! You made tiny moans and squinted your eyes against the yellow afternoon. We wrapped you in blankets, closed the shades, and murmured sweet nothings.

Later you finally cried a short burst and we kept saying over and over: You made it. Hello. Welcome.

Two Loves

My little girl wearing my big father's watch. Yum.

A Birthday for Papa

We stepped off the world yesterday to celebrate the birthday of my partner and the girls' papa. He's important to us and we all look forward to ways we can make him happy on his special day. And for some reason, for the girls, this means constructing things out of recycleables. I'm not sure when this tradition began, but each year I have to suppress all of my cleanly urges as the girls take trash out of the bins, spread them all to kingdom come, cut them into bits, and plaster them all with entire rolls of tape. The end result is an assortment of sculptures, the sort that require a forgiving perspective and lots of imagination. The cold-hearted anti-clutterist in me sees unwieldy structures that don't stack easily on the shelf, or tuck compactly under the bed, but are so filled with sentimentality that I am not allowed to immediately return them to the recycling bin. But the springy jumps of excitement on the birthday (almost) make it worth it. Nathan is basically trapped in the bedroom while the girls randomly scream:

PAPA!! DON'T COME OUT YET!

PAPA! IT'S A SURPRISE!

I THINK HE'S COMING!!!

NO PAPA, NO! DON'T! NOT YET!

Meanwhile I am circling the table trying to tidy, prepare the house for the birthday, nearly scrapping several objects that turn out to be crucial to the hodge-podge, rickety, birthday sculpture. When he is finally allowed to emerge, the girls squeal with delight, sure that he will nearly faint from the beauty and amazing-ness of it all. Together they present the scene. This year involved a tea box with wings in which a paper version of Papa rattled about. With the help of a grubby hand, the vessel took off over a chunk of egg carton, circled the birthday flower bouquet and various handmade cards, and landed at a dock of cereal box nestled at the base of "The Tower of Papa I Love You", which was constructed with several plastic cups and a berry basket. At the end of the presentation the girls had a proud look of shazzaam, now that was goooood.

And he loved it. Of course he would.

I celebrated by writing a card that might make him cry, making a dessert that is to die for, and a bouquet from our garden. His garden really, the one left to struggle through a summer of construction, without his care, with weeds, and little water. I picked through the debris of lumber and insulation, through the poky unidentifiable invaders to find black-eyed susans, sunflowers, yarrow, ferns, and one enormous blood-red day lily, open for this one special day.

And he loved it. Of course he would.

But I want to do more, to set him free from any concerns, to float him on a raft of pleasure and peace. I want to watch him love his girls without knowing we only have a day left before one, or two, leave for their other house. I want to see him dive into the river with abandon, again and again, without glancing at the leaves that dance above the current to see if they are changing to red, signaling the end of summer. I want to sit next to him at dinner, loving his hands, his face, the sound of his voice, without hearing the tick of the clock that tells us tears and bedtime are close at hand. I want to orchestrate perfectness, to freeze all the good and bar all of the trials and tribulations of life from entering the scene.

I want to serve this to him on his birthday and be able to promise him that, because I love him so, I can maintain it.

Seven

We celebrated Xi’s seventh birthday yesterday. Nathan catalogued our multi-stop celebratory parade here if you’d like to see photos. The load above is what I pulled home from our last river stop. Holy cow, birthdays are a lot of work.

Leading up to the special day I pumped the girl for details of how she wanted to celebrate. And now that I think about it I guess that might be part of the problem. If you’d like to keep things simple and low-key, don’t ask an almost seven-year old to plan the day. Especially one that fashions herself after royalty, poufy dresses, sky-high cakes, and fancy balls always dance through her mind. She planned a bike parade with streamers and balloons to highlight her celebrity, a stop at the coffee shop to allow our older community friends to celebrate with watermelon, rides on the carousel, a cake party at the river, and a birthday dinner at home.

What I forgot was that with each birthday request there would be a mountain of parental tasks attached. Streamers? Those need to be made and taped. Balloons? That means an additional stop, toddler in tow. Watermelon? That means a trip to the grocery. Rides on the carousel? That means Papa has to be willing to go around and around and around. Cake at the river? That means Mama skips the carousel in order to race home for swimsuits, towels, snacks, water, tubes, forks, napkins, goody bags, and the cake. Birthday dinner? Mac-n-cheese and chicken nuggets is about as simple as it gets but still requires effort and dishes.

In order to make it come together I found myself scheduling the pre-birthday moments with military precision. Bella! If you want to get that banner done you need to get a move on! Nathan! We have fifteen minutes until Xi’s arrival! Next task: balloons and flowers, GO! And of course, like any smart mama I attempted to get as much done the day before as possible, the cake for example, but even that method has it’s pitfalls.

Birthday cakes are mildly stressful affairs so I like to make them at night while the children are dead asleep and I can concentrate fully, but Xi’s is a dead-of-summer birthday and I didn’t want to heat the house up in the evening when we are trying to cool it down enough to sleep. I figured early morning would be better. That’s until I realized that the children aren’t asleep at that time, they are wide-awake and more than willing to offer Mama lots and lots of “help”. I was doubling the recipe in my mind while negotiating whose turn it was to stir and that, as we all know, is not a recipe for yummy cake, it’s a recipe for disaster. The end result? Flat and salty frisbees.

Xi’s request was for a three-tiered, pink cake with white swoops and swirls, blueberries, raspberries and flowers. Flat frisbees were simply not going to get the desired loft and round two of cake making was required. Even with the best get-it-done-ahead-of-time intentions I was still up at midnight fighting a split piping bag and licking pink frosting off my fingers. The birthday girl did not get swoops but she did get a pink masterpiece and she seemed happy.

In the end I am exhausted but also glad. Xi is a middle child and try as you might to prevent it, they do get a bit lost in the shuffle. For example, Xi lost a tooth the other day and tucked it under her pillow. But after helping the three-year old thrash herself to sleep, and late night talks about puberty with the oldest, we simply forgot our tooth fairy duties. Xi woke in the morning and sadly noticed that the tooth fairy didn’t come. That was a low point in my parenting career. I set her up to write a note explaining the situation (perhaps the tooth fairy was running late and Xi woke up before she had a chance to visit?) while I slipped unseen into the bedroom. By the time she tucked the note under her pillow the tooth fairy had done her deed and Xi was delighted. But still!

I want her to know that she’s special, that her desires are important to her parents, and I think we accomplished that. Now if we could just press pause, freeze these girls while they sift through birthday gifts, I could sleep through the afternoon…

happy birthday, here ' s some poop

Today was Sascha's birthday. Kris' little girl is now two. I was there the magnificent June morning when this incredible being burst on to the scene. She was big, bold, and beautiful. She still is. I admire her greatly.

Because of my affection for her, and deep regard for her beliefs and interests, I just could not settle on a gift. Echo was certain that a rubber ducky was in order and kept getting exasperated with me when I asked her once more what we should give Saschy for her birthday, but I wanted to find something she'd like. Her main love is babies. She closely mimics mothers, studying their baby-bouncing moves every chance she gets. She wears her babies in a sling or an ergo, she nurses them, she helps them pee, she is already an incredible mom. So baby gear seemed the perfect choice but Sascha does not lack baby equipment, or baby dolls, so what to do? What to give?

Poop.

I figured changing diapers is a motherly thing to do, so I borrowed a few newborn diaper wraps and the family set about mixing Fimo dough into the perfect baby poop colors and textures. We put them into the oven to cook and, voila!

I can't say it was a big hit. I think Sascha was even a little grossed out. Maybe the poop will grow on her. Maybe she prefers to utilize Elimination Communication and will never play with those glorious, perfectly shaped turds.

At the very least, we sure had fun making them.

just what I wanted

It was a really great day. All of my favorite, (available) people gathered around, seemingly thousands of phone calls and cyber-messages wishing me well, yoga, dogs, kids, food, and presents that showed a true understanding of who I am. Pretty much heaven.

Birthdays are sometimes weird, so much pressure to have a good time, to design the perfect day, to make note of the important event, and then the day comes and it's still just twelve hours of daylight, and a bunch of regular stuff (dog feeding and butt wiping) going on as well. And if you are shy, or at all humble, things get even trickier as birthdays can feel like such a "look at me!" kind of day.

But somehow I was able to avoid the usual pitfalls. Merely thinking of the day as a special one set the tone, so that even when nursing or picking up a pile of dog poop, things felt different. Also, my mom is with us, and having just celebrated my own daughter's birth I was more aware of what birthdays mean to parents as well. Thirty-four years ago, on a sunny afternoon, my mother was pushing me into the world with her seventies hairdo, a tan, and no pain meds. I think this year might be the first that I realized my birthday involved another person, so that too colored the day in a brighter shade.

And Nathan is awesome. I could rest assured that the day was not going to pass by unnoticed. He loves me. He really does. My friends too, with all of those beautiful ladies gathered around there is no way the day could go wrong.

So another year goes by. And life is good. Sure there are things I want, changes I yearn for, but all in all, the world is bright and shiny.

self love

A four layer cake with lemon custard, lemon frosting, raspberries and flowers. Just what I wanted, and just what I made, to celebrate 34 times around the sun.

how to make a birthday happy

The only thing better than loving my child so much is being around other people who love her too. Today was Echo's third birthday, and what a blissful day it was. A cherry tree in full glorious bloom, green grass, blue skies, and our favorite people smiling and laughing, it was truly beautiful. The day was so wonderful that of course my mind went searching for more reasons to explain why. This is what I came up with.

FOR THE KIDS

1. Gifts

Our policy is to let our girls open presents as they come. This means that when an eager guests ran up with a pastel package tied in a bow, we did not add it to a pile of other presents waiting for "present time", instead Echo opened it. This was FANTASTIC because Echo had individual interactions with each guest, was able to connect the giver with the gift, thank the person personally, actually notice the gift, and even play with it for a stretch of time. She avoided having to wait for presents. She avoided getting caught in the gift opening trance where the purpose is to open as many presents as possible, as quickly as possible. She also avoided the social pressure of having so many eyes focused on her at once. At one point Echo was wearing the baby sling Gabe had lovingly made for her while Janet slowly and patiently read her another gift. How often does that kind of opportunity happen at a typical birthday party?

2. An early party

The most important part of the day, in Echo's mind, was the party. So instead of making her wait until mid-afternoon for the fun to begin we scheduled the celebration as early as possible, 11am. Waiting is difficult, not just for the party girl but for the party guests as well, so everybody was happy to convene early avoiding the agony of watching the clock. The kids also had plenty of energy as no one was nearing or missing nap time. Later I discovered that Echo had figured she didn't actually turn three until after the party took place. I am so glad she didn't have to spend the bulk of the day still a two-year old, waiting and waiting for both the party and the new age to begin.

3. Cake

We ate it as soon as we wanted, not following the program of "cake last". When everyone was ready we went for it. The kids avoided the torture of waiting and the parents avoided the torture of answering, Is it cake time yet???????, repeatedly.

4. Candles

The kids I know love inserting candles, blowing out candles, and then finally licking the frosting off of candles. Echo didn't care how many were on her cake so we loaded that thing down with so many that every kid got to stick, blow, and lick candles. Little Sascha, at the end of the table, couldn't get her breath to reach as far as the cake so we lit another candle just for her.

5. Ours

We don't use possessive terminology in our house, meaning that no one owns anything, everything is shared. So when Echo started opening up presents, Xi wasn't writhing in jealousy, she knew that those very same gifts would be in her lucky hands very soon. In fact, each time any of the girls receives a gift there is always collective enthusiasm because each gift is a gift for all. That being said, we did wrap a couple presents for the other girls to unwrap as well, to celebrate their big-sister-ness and generally make even more fun in the day.

6. Accidents

We brought the kitchen table into the yard for the party which meant that, you guessed it, there was a big empty space in the kitchen. As it turns out, this was perfectly delightful to the kids. They whirled, danced, hula hooped and generally went crazy in the newly opened expanse. I didn't imagine hanging-out inside even a little bit during the party but I had completely underestimated the wonder of rearranged space.

FOR ME

1. Advance action

We did as much as humanly possible the days before the party. This meant that we were making party favors four days in advance, and making cake at 1am the night before, but it was worth it. This morning I had time to sit on the couch and watch Echo play with her most coveted gift, a watering can. And later I was able to be at the party, to sit in the sunshine, to hold babies, and to enjoy myself.

2. Support

I decided beforehand to accept help, graciously, without keeping a tally for payback later. This is big for me. There is so much sweating and hustling I do to be self-sufficient, to not be a burden to anyone, to not receive help so that I don't appear ungrateful later, and I recently realized that this is suffering. That I can receive help that is offered, thereby making my life easier and giving someone else the pleasure of being of service at the same time. I can let go of tally sheets, guilt, and the desperate desire to pay anyone back. So this morning when I realized we lacked paper napkins and juice cups I tried on the idea of dragging the kids to the store for a mad-dash shop but then remembered my decision. So instead I sent out a text to my killer women friends and they replied eagerly, I've got cups!, We've got napkins!, and it all came together. No sweat, no stress.

3. Simple

It always sounds like a good idea but I usually get caught up in birthdays and pretty soon it becomes very complicated. This time I really did keep it simple. Track down a pitcher to make lemonade at the last minute? No, our plain old water filter pitcher, tap water, and cups did just fine. Elaborate party games, clowns, and balloon animal guy? No, good food, a big batch of Gak, and a cluster of helium balloons was perfect.

4. The point

I gave birth to a 7 pound girl three years ago. And we adore her. That's the point of a birthday party, to acknowledge that simple but profound phenomenon. I was able to remember that today. Earlier in the week I constructed a birthday tree with photos of Echo at her previous birthday parties and her actual birth, and gazing at it over the last few days, and anchoring it in the middle of the party today kept me mindful of the purpose of the day. If I had the foresight to set the clothing and jewelry I wore at the birth aside, it might have been nice to slip those on today, to reach back into that life-giving space and connect it to these  festivities three years later.

The birthday girl sleeps now, a satisfied smile curling her lips. She spent the last part of the evening constructing elaborate thank you cards for her friends, and marveling at the new skills she has suddenly acquired upon turning three. I spent the evening looking back on the day, filtering through happy image after happy image. I am so grateful for this day, for this girl, and for the people who love her.