We OWN it!

If you look at the numbers, I suppose Brad and I have unofficially achieved 66% of the American Dream.  We are 1.5 kids, 1 cocker spaniel named Millie, and a ½ picket fence short, but last Wednesday we officially became home-owners (disgruntled property tax payers.)   And it only took us a combined 75 years to get there.  I will not miss our lousy landlord or the shared driveway.  I will not mourn the silverware drawer you have to pry open with an athletic stance and two hands only to have it litter our muffin tins with toxic sawdust in the cabinet below.  I will not grieve for the prehistoric centipedes that scamper out of dark corners when Brad is not home – god help me; I am utterly creeped out by those repugnant legs.  I will not pine for the crumbling front step or purple toilet seat or pink toilet seat or even the marigold-orange toilet seat, despite the fact that is it unquestionably the most tasteful of the three.


There is a lot I won’t miss about this house, but it has been witness to two of the best years of my life.  This will always be our transition house when Brad and I sort through our stash of various return address stickers that we ordered in bulk, but haven’t thrown out because we are both certifiable hoarders.  It was our trial rental suburban house to ensure we could handle the quieter, simpler life nine miles from downtown where drivers actually halt at stop signs and kids do cartwheels in front of lemonade stands.  The house with the crazy mail slot in the downstairs powder room beside the aforementioned purple toilet seat.  The house, three blocks down from where I grew up, that lovingly welcomed our hefty nine-pounder after she was born and the house she practiced her first wobbly steps in.  The house where we warmly hosted family, friends, neighbors, plastic Fisher-Price gadgets, Baby Einstein clutter, Evenflo thingamajigs, as well as a Rody, red tricycle, used cozy coupe with a gimp wheel, wagon, and thirty-seven stuffed animals in a span of twenty-four months.  As I learned from our last move from the city two summers ago, a home is a merely a decorative shell for all of our shit.  And, perhaps, a vessel for the moments that captivate, inspire, surprise, sadden, amuse, anger, and delight us as humans….but we can have those anywhere.   Still, there is some melancholy as we leave Bonnie Brae.

As with any kind of change, this marks an end of a chapter for us.  And that closure makes me feel old in a way, forcing me to acknowledge with pristine clarity that two years have simply whizzed by.  That there is nothing I can do to get that time back even if I wanted to. That the unknown awaits us as well as a giant lawn that will require weekly mowing in 90 degree heat.    Now that our savings account smacks of a sieve, we are busying ourselves with painting and planting and prettifying (that is actually a word) to create the most hospitable “shell” possible to live out the memories that await us.  I know there will be disappointments and setbacks in our new abode.  I am anticipating some toddler mega-meltdowns and decibel-deafening teenage tantrums from behind slammed doors.  I accept there will be a leaking faucet, some nail polish stains on the rug, perhaps a summer baseball through the back window.  I will even permit the occasional spider or even a spring infiltration of ants, but I refuse to cohabitate with those prehistoric, heinous centipedes.

In contrast, there will be lovely moments too.  Many of them.  And then, there will be a few really exquisite ones.  Moments so rare and gorgeous that the house itself may even smile.  And they will all be ours.  We own it.  Along with our 1000 new self-sticking address labels.

A Woman We All Call Baba

For ten minutes after my grandfather passed away in December 2001, I did nothing but lean over the side of his hospital bed and smell his hands.  I had always been infatuated by the sheer amount of long white hair that protruded from his forearm and carpeted its way down to his wide knuckles.  They were good hands. Carpenter hands. Swollen in spots, but sturdy in touch and they were still warm when I tried to memorize his scent.  Honey cough drops.  Brut aftershave.  Oatmeal.  I hovered over him and begged God to give me four more years with Baba, my grandma, and his wife for 19,645 sunsets.

‘I’m only asking for four,’ I rationalized in my own head.  By then she will be the same age as Grandpa.  It only seemed fair.  I would be twenty-five in four years.  Surely old enough to go on without her. ‘Please don’t take her,’ I pleaded to anyone with any power over the universe. ‘I still need her.’

Baba is not your average granny.  Granted, she whips up delicious stews and soups out of bones from the freezer.  Sure, she is a miracle seamstress who can transform a size 4 bridesmaid dress into a gown that will accommodate a seven-month pregnant belly and bust.  Without question, she boils water on the stove instead of in the microwave, and makes her own soap.  Of course, her blooming orchids stop traffic from the side window.  But, it is more than that.  There is a long-standing joke in our family that if you could bring three things with you to a deserted island, one of them should without question be Baba. Then, perhaps the fresh water.  But, Baba would find a way – god dangit - to keep you alive.  There is an unapologetic gumption in her that likely stemmed from surviving two wars, an alcoholic father, and immigrating to America at twenty-one without knowing a breath of English.  Like so many from that generation, she had a hard life, worked with her hands, made things from scratch and never ever complained.  Hell, she persevered without paper towels, epidurals and Dove bars.  This woman is solid oak.

But, she is also a pretty cool cat.  My brother and sister used to drunk-dial her on occasion from Cornell because she relished the fanfare of all the party-goers as they passed the phone around like a flask.  I remember her doling out shots of apricot brandy for stomach-aches (even to minors) and she has yet to flinch whenever I swear.  The woman also has genuine mystical psychic powers.  To the degree of annoyance.  She knows when you have plucked an innocuous pickle teetering on the edge of the deli tray before supper or when you have spit a piece of food in your napkin.  Even with her back turned.  She knows you are cold, especially on nights when you dismissed her multiple warnings to bring a coat. And she knows you are being polite when you insist the soup is perfect and doesn’t need more salt.  This is a Baba who can see through bullshit.  A Baba who knew I was attempting to throw my first (and consequently last) high school kegger when my parents were out of town because she casually stopped by that afternoon and caught me straightening the basement pillows.  A Baba who knows you are lying about the sale price of strawberries and sour cream as she digs in her wallet to stubbornly “settle” her bill.

She is her own beautiful tapestry of nouns, verbs and contradictions.  English lavender soap, chicory coffee, Humphrey Bogart movies, Aldi groceries, yellow fingernails, dumpling soup, adorable mispronunciations, hairnets, lily of the valley bouquets, poppy seeds, cold-sores, sun hats, crusty butts of rye bread, blouses with bows, doilies, ripened tomatoes, crisp dollar bills, kolachy, war-briding, limping, sewing, egg-painting, back-scratching, White-Zin guzzling, dress-catalog admiring, real-butter eating, Czech-song singing, gardening, restaurant sugar-snatching, love ‘em and leave ‘em lady.

Eleven years and five months have gone by since that night in the hospital and I think each time that anniversary passes that I have been given such an impossibly sacred gift.  During that time, Baba was there for so many summers, perched on her deck chair in Michigan to help us brush the sand from our shins and scold us for not wearing proper hats.  She was there in California to watch me advance across the stage in my ill-fitting cap and gown with tears in her eyes and hands up in victory.  She was there to answer the phone when I called from a pebbled beach in Nice after I had dyed all of my backpacking clothes pink and missed my train to Bayonne and was desperate to hear a familiar voice from home.  She was there to bid me congratulations on my first real job and there to kiss me goodbye as my U-Haul pulled out of the driveway en route to St. Louis.  She was there, suffering alongside me, when I moved back home, heartbroken and betrayed. She was there, sipping champagne in Napa Valley when I married the love of my life.  She was there when I sat her down at the kitchen table with the calendar open in front of us and asked her if she would be available to meet her new great-grandchild on November 11th.  She was there to hum Czech lullabies to my daughter on the day she was born and there to chase her around the house with a cane to squeals of toddler delight.

This week was Baba’s 88th birthday.

My hope is that she will be here for many milestones to come, but at 88, I soberly recognize that the sand is likely getting low at the top.  Baba has in every way been as present in my life as my left arm.  It is inconceivable to think of her as anything but a permanent fixture of love in every scene yet to be written.

I realize now - that twenty-one year old girl was naïve, asking for four more years.  The truth is when it comes to love, we are all greedy.  The truth is I have been more than blessed to have her in my life for more than thirty-two years.  Many don’t have that kind of time with their own mothers, let alone grandmothers. But, I will always want more.  I will never really be ready and I realize that is how it is supposed to be.  It isn’t supposed to be easy.  She is supposed to feel like an indelible part of me, an imprint, a tattoo.  It means this woman has been ferociously, whole-heartedly, muscle-achingly loved.

Last month, we all ventured to the local photography studio to have a photo taken.  Baba, my mom, my daughter and me.  Four generation of females, bound by anemic blood and fair eczematic skin.  They used that very picture in their mail piece the next week to advertise their Memorial Day special.  It is a precious keepsake of a moment in time that my daughter will never remember, but that she will ask about in the years to come.  And I will sit down beside her with that image in hand, brush the fine hair from her face, and tell her about a woman who we all called Baba.  A woman whose hands smelled like English Lavender.

A Blink

They say life can change in the blink of an eye. 

On a Tuesday morning you can spoon-feed your toddler oatmeal while listening to Al Roker rattle on about the horrific weather out east.  You can decide to take a bite.  You can feel it slip out of the corner of your mouth, down your chin and fall into a goopy mess on your pajama pants.  You can pause for a moment, mentally trying to make sense how you managed to get food all over yourself as your eye spasms and your cheek goes numb.  And you can go to the mirror and realize you cannot move the entire left side of your face.  You can look on in horror at your reflection - your crooked attempt at a grin, your drooping nose, and the missing creases of your face.  You can stare as your right eye twitches furiously, no longer in sync with its partner.  Just an eerie, vacant, motionless half of a face.  Here is what I know.  Life doesn’t always change with the blink of an eye.  Sometimes a blink never comes. 

I am on day 33 of Bell’s palsy.  Bell’s palsy – a facial paralysis resulting from a dysfunction of the cranial nerve VII.  Usually temporary.  Usually.   Everyone has told me to write about my experience, but frankly it is has been difficult to put into words.  I considered going the comical route – of posting photos on Facebook of me sporting zany eye patches with mermaids and peace signs while out dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant or in the audience at Book of Mormon.  I contemplated relaying in humorous detail how in those first few minutes of onset, while in utter terror that I was having a stroke and about to die, I thought NOT of 911 but of Julia Roberts.  Julia Roberts as Shelby, lying unconscious in the final scenes of Steel Magnolias with her one-year-old screeching on the floor beside her and the pasta water boiling over on the stove.  Convinced this was my same fate, I scanned the kitchen to confirm I wasn’t cooking anything at seven in the morning and for a brief moment wondered where I could hide so my daughter wouldn’t have to watch me die.  Which, in retrospect, actually doesn’t sound very humorous.

After that, I figured that since I had contracted this weird, 1-in-40,000-people-worldwide-malady, I had earned the right to compose my most self-indulgent mass email yet.  A tale of pity (oh-woe-is-me), a real doozie of wallowing injustice and a shameless ploy to get friends and family to send me chicken casseroles and condolence cards.   But, there is this darn thing called perspective.  Someone somewhere knows somebody who invariably is going through worse stuff than you.  And after a few of those stories, I instantly felt like an ass for complaining.  

The truth is that this has not been an easy road.  From the first ten days, doped up on so many steroids that I simply wanted to curl into a beanbag of sobs, to the four-week checkup when my neurologist conveyed in that flat medical tone that he was “concerned” for my prognosis given the lack of improvement and that I should consider the possibility that I may not experience full recovery.  The bottom line is I don’t want “this” to be my “thing”.  My cause.   My life before and life after.   I want it to be a blip on the radar.  This crazy scare that happened to me one morning and the next minute was gone.   The accident you just avoided on an icy road.  The fall you almost took down the stairs.  It gets your heart racing, makes you sweat, and sinks your stomach, but it doesn’t change your life. 

Admittedly, I have gleaned both some valuable and some otherwise useless lessons from all of this.  For one, I have mastered the awkward “art” of taping down my eyelid so that my cornea doesn’t shrivel up like a Sunsweet prune.  And, it is an art - technique, precision, patience and an exhaustive amount of trial and error.   With bottles of eye drops and ointment littering the house, I have taught my 15 month-old to say “Mama Boo-boo” when she points at my face which I think is pretty impressive considering it is multi-syllabic AND a phrase.  I am also fully convinced that Ambien is a wonder drug.  It is the only reprieve from those dreaded nights.  When you are laying there with your left eye half-open under the tape, with no distractions against the nerve pain throbbing in your mastoid bone, which as a matter of fact, makes you even more pissed off that you now know what the heck a mastoid is.

On a more solemn level, I have gotten a glimpse into the life of someone who doesn’t quite fit the mold.   Vanity is not something I had given much thought to prior to this.   You can’t be too preoccupied with your appearance if you work from home and consider jeans to be dressing up.  Still, stepping out in public while talking out of one side of your mouth with a patch on your eye takes a little more gumption than a trip to Whole Foods in flannels and a ponytail.  You notice people trying not to stare, wondering what happened, and not knowing where to look when they ask you, “Credit or Debit?” You taste their pity.  You swallow your own awkwardness.  You attempt to maintain your dignity, surging with the need to explain, but realizing, “What’s the point?”.   I don’t want to pretend I fully understand what it would be like to be in a wheelchair or have a prosthetic limb or live with severe scars, but I think now I can relate to being different – to having the uncanny experience of being simultaneously invisible and conspicuous.

Without question I have begun to comprehend, more than ever, how important the gift of health is.  It is what we idly toast to on New Year’s Eve and scribble wishes for in our Christmas cards and spend ten minutes appreciating after we hear someone collapsed on the tennis courts at fifty-five.  The body is a complex machine with a myriad of miraculous moving parts and I don’t think I fully grasped the delicate dance of it all before my cranial nerve VII took a misstep.   

And finally, there is my spouse.  Through all this I have a renewed appreciation for the man who stood beside me on that ridge overlooking Napa valley three years ago and along with five other sequential “I do’s”  promised to love me in sickness and in health.  Many times, he has taken the brunt of my anger and sorrow, but he has never faltered from staying positive, giving me hope and reassuring me that he loves me even if I am sporting a pirate patch.  I knew I got one of the good ones, but to see it in practice truly solidifies that I am blessed. 

And so, we plod on.  My mom always reminded my siblings and me growing up that there is no perfect life.  You can peer down the block and assume, but every house has a story.   Every person is tested.  I read tidbits from strangers online about how recovery came slowly, after three months, after six months.  How they just learned to suck from a straw again after a year.  How after 45 days they could finally close their eye.  I guess that is what keeps me buoyant.  A few signs of progress.  A little twitch of my upper lip here and a half-centimeter more on my eyebrow raise there.   In the meantime, life goes on.  Dinner parties, work trips, dirty diapers, and a modest investment in eye lubrication companies.  And maybe some morning, some innocuous morning while I am feeding my daughter apple cinnamon oatmeal and the sun is streaming through the front window, just maybe, there will be a blink.   And that would be life-changing. 

I Worry

I come from a long line of worriers.  My grandfather was fastidious about being never less than ten minutes early for anything and thus; I nibble the insides of my cheek whenever I am cutting it close.  My mother was convinced my siblings and I would drown in the turbulent undertows of Lake Michigan and to this day, I rarely wade in deeper than my shins.  And me?  Every time my baby tries to gum the shopping cart handle, I am certain the person before us had strep throat or dribbled raw ground beef onto the child’s seat.  As a result, Bridget will probably bathe in antibacterial gel as an adult and contract some rare microorganism all because her mom didn’t spoon-feed her enough germs as a toddler.


Growing up I was a nervous kid.  I agonized about a “B” soiling my Jr. High transcript and contemplated whether my sixth grade perm made me look like a lion. Resounding yes.  I fretted over outfits and secret crushes and whether or not my parents were going to get a divorce. Since everyone’s parents were seemingly getting a divorce.  I vexed about not knowing the names of all the New Kids on the Block and someone asking me to recite them.  In public.  In front of said crush.  Later, I developed a knot in my stomach about going off to college without ever being kissed, and then worried endlessly how I would fare if the outlandish opportunity ever presented itself.

As a teenager, death became something I worried about a lot.  After seeing a Hollywood thriller where a character is impaled by a ladder shooting through the windshield, I stopped driving behind maintenance vans.  I had this morbid notion that if I conjured up every possible awful scenario then I would be safe.  What if an intruder was hiding in my closet right NOW or I was attacked by a rabid squirrel or a funnel web spider or an Irukandji jelly fish?  What if this building collapsed while I was eating tater tots in the second floor cafeteria or this plane plummeted into the Atlantic?  Check. Check. Check. Check.  I figured what were the chances of me premeditating my own fluke demise.

But, I will tell you that I never once worried about being divorced at 27.  Never even considered it. I never thought my father would become so depressed that he would spend several years exclusively living in the basement.  I can tell you that a friend’s sister-in-law likely never worried about being diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer as a newlywed and nonsmoker.  And another who never imagined she would have to endure two consecutive miscarriages.  And I guarantee you the parents in Newtown, CT didn’t give a second thought to dropping their chatty 1st graders off for school the Friday before Christmas break.  No.  They were worried that the pork chops they had bought last Sunday were spoiling in their fridge or that Noah would be ridiculed during lunch for bringing olive loaf.  They were worried about saving enough for Michael’s college fund and whether or not Anne would spot Elf on The Shelf for sale in Target.  But, they were not worried their kids were going to be shot during story time.

This was the first school shooting since I became a parent.  I know there were others that came before. I lament that there have been others: Columbine. Virginia Tech.  But, this one leveled me.  With the news flashing overhead, I saw my sweet one year old, pretending to roar like a lion at her Fisher Price Farm set, while perched on her tippy toes and I thought… that’s her in four years.  I was humbled by the sheer randomness.  The blatant unfairness.  Why those little kids?  Why that town?  Why that school?  Why any school?  Because it’s a beacon of our kids’ safety?  Because there are people out there so disturbed that they are compelled to destroy what is most pure?

I don’t pretend to have any answers.  Gun control.  Mental health assistance.  The fact remains randomness permeates everything around us. People do win $250 million jackpots just as people do die in tsunamis while vacationing on a beach in Thailand.  Good people.  There are a whole bunch of straws out there and a few in the pack are inexplicably short.  All of us pretty much go through life not knowing what we hold until we are forced to stare down at the tip of that thing and then we realize.   I pulled a short one.

The truth that is so terrifying as a parent is not how little control we have over own lives, but the paltry influence we have over protecting our kids.  I worry now about Bridget choking on a teething biscuit or drowning in two inches of lukewarm bath water, but those are all within my motherly domain.  Home.  She is growing and her world is expanding and pretty soon, she will be out there on her own, coexisting with all the kind, evil, and indifferent.  She will be scampering down the sidewalk with a backpack swinging off her shoulder and driving behind vans with ladders on top.  She will be wading too deep in the ocean or tiptoeing too close to the edge.  And really there is nothing I can do to clip her wings.  I just have to trust that she is sensible.  I have to hope she is just your average, every day, American kid. And that she doesn’t pull a short straw.  It is this glaring vulnerability, the utter helplessness, which far supersedes any amount of bacteria-laden raw meat in a shopping cart.

This is my new worry.

Going Back

I brought my baby back to “The Farm”. (The Stanford campus, that is). I had visions of doing that back when I was a student, but at the time it was a romanticized fairytale. It involved me parading around two perfectly groomed, French-braided toe-heads while they sighed in wonderment at the campus’ beauty, dropped to their knees, and swore on the spot that they would excel at school, practice the oboe twice a day, master Portuguese, and start a non-profit so they could one day attend my alma mater.

In reality, at eleven months, my daughter wasn’t exactly game to sit through a 4+ hour football-fest and the tailgate fell smack dab in the middle of nap time, but at the very least, I’m quite certain she was inspired by the colorful koi fish in the Sheraton’s pond. Much to my dismay, I also had to consult the dorky alumni map on several occasions, exclaiming to my amused husband that ‘Ten years is a long time, dammit. Not to mention, as a student I was always on a bike which is a TOTALLY different vantage point from just walking around. No wonder we got slightly turned around’. And so, although Bridget never even got to see The Tree, we did buy some very cute and very over-priced toddler pjs adorned with all things Stanford. And let’s not forget the child also got to set foot in her first winery during our bonus visit to Sonoma after the weekend festivities. In fact, she was extremely well-behaved at the tasting and would probably post a very nice TripAdvisor review of the complimentary poppy seed crackers if she knew how to type.

In any case, our pilgrimage west reminded me of something I had written a half-decade ago after my fifth reunion. I dug it up and reread it, mentally comparing it to this recent visit. As it turned out, six months after writing it, I would find myself going through a divorce at the age of twenty-seven.
As time passes, life continues to teach me, a born planner, that we are not privy to The Grand Plan. It still amazes me how differently and yet, somehow gracefully my life has evolved these last five years without me trying to choreograph it – without the little French braids. I suppose as we age, we must quietly learn to trust in the imperfections and revisions. Going back to campus still felt wonderful. I was invigorated with that intangible collegiate energy and reminisced with friends about all the old haunts and crazy stunts, but it was a little more tempered this time around. I think we all felt a little older, but probably wiser too.

Although, secretly I may still tell Bridget, the oboe isn’t such a bad idea.

******************************************

November 2007

                                 Cement

I confess. I finally succumbed to the most selfish of modern human curiosities.
I googled my name last night.

There they were - all the articles I had written for The Stanford Daily as an aspiring young journalist, in my quest to emulate the perky blonde version of Lois Lane. Each one, cataloged in perfect order, collecting virtual dust on the World Wide Web.


I scrolled down and a feature story I wrote my junior eye caught my eye, “Farm-Sick in Sydney.” I had been abroad, studying at the University of New South Wales that semester, basking in the Aussie sunshine and backdrop of the 2000 Olympics. And yet, come that October, I was overshadowed with a sense of longing.


“It was as though I never expected life at Stanford to go on without me. I didn't actually realize I'd be missing out - that there would be basketball games and bike accidents and Frosty Mints at the CoHo and that I wouldn't be there for them. It was the first time being abroad didn't feel so glamorous, so superior to Stanford.”


They were the nostalgic musings of a twenty-year old girl, treading thousands of miles away in the Southern Hemisphere, having forgotten she was there to experience the new and unknown and simply yearning for the familiar.

Admittedly though, a similar longing prompted me to visit the Farm this past year as a real veteran this time, a five-year alum. I hadn’t been back since graduation and although life was good, I was anxious to return to a place that had been home for four enviable years.

In the beginning of Reunion weekend, there was the tangible flutter of anticipation in embracing old friends, fretting over names, and running into past flames. However, by Sunday morning, I found myself alone for the first time in days.

A hush seemed to have settled over the foothills. I decided to take a stroll and breathe in the campus before I left it again for another five years. I didn’t set off with any particular destination in mind but I found myself passing some of my cherished spots - Moonbeams Cafe, the trees behind Castano, the shaded steps off the Quad, looking out onto Palm Drive.

It was a glorious Stanford morning, crisp and cool with a white sun steadily burning through the haze, promising an afternoon of short sleeves. I eventually found myself at Wilbur Field, peering across the grass at my old freshman dorm, Otero, a building I had resided in for half my college years. Once as a skinny 17 year-old novice from the Midwest and again as a senior RA, queen of all dorm-planning and masking throw-up stains on maroon carpets.

I crept around the side and into the back courtyard, studying the tiny middle unit on the first floor. I wondered who was living there now. Did she know about the ridge of cement that fanned out ever so slightly from the foundation, forming the perfect step up to the window if you ever got locked out? Probably, I thought.

The familiar hint of yeasty waffle batter wafted past me and I glanced around at the swarm of bleary-eyed students in sweatpants and flip-flops, dangling key chains and negotiating their spots on picnic benches sorely in need of a paint job. They looked unbearably young. I flinched with unexpected pangs of jealousy.

I wondered if I might still blend in. If they might mistake me for a fellow freshman or perhaps a mature upperclassman here to visit some privileged bottom-feeder. But, then I glanced down at my conspicuous Stanford bookstore bag, bursting with paraphernalia. The truth was that I was bike-less and showered at 11:30am on a Sunday morning. Probably not. I just hoped they didn’t think I was somebody’s mother.

I turned back to Otero and all the memorable vignettes it housed for me. I heard far-off giggles from the checkered sofas in the lounge, the sharp sound of cues hitting pool balls, the rap-tap melody of clucking keyboards from the poor saps in the lab who didn’t yet own a PC. How many dorm meetings had I sat through on that very carpet? How many times had I breezed through that glass door, rushing off to class or meet a friend or cheer on the basketball team? Faces I had struggled to picture en route to the reunion took shape for me now. I smiled, remembering. My time here had been a happy one.

What a tribute to Stanford that even now as an adult, its sights, smells, and sounds were able to evoke such nostalgia in me. Perhaps even more as an adult as I stood there, yearning for a life before taxes, rent checks, wedding debt and corporate quotas. I suppose this is what every passing reunion must bring – a wistful reminder of a time of youth.


I tried to picture myself in another five years on that very spot, peering out at a new batch of freshman inhaling doughy waffles on wobbly picnic tables, and reminiscing about a simpler time, before potty-training, aging parents, mortgages, and those extra ten pounds. I think it would again feel like a privilege to return to my roots and bathe in its essence for a while. Even if by then I really did look like someone’s hip young mom.

I just hope in the meantime they don’t sand down that sliver of cement. Some things, I think, should simply stick around for the ages.

A Mother's Wants

I look at you, Daughter, and marvel at your metamorphosis after eight short months. The way the corners of your mouth now twitch just before you are about to laugh. How your tiny toes curl in anticipation as you prepare to nurse and how you squeal like a parakeet when daddy comes through the back door. You are beginning to craft your own distinct personality. At night I rock you in the leather chair and press my nose to your head to inhale the scent of you. I know you won’t always let me cradle you like this. Every day, you become more alert and aware and interactive. You are slowly learning what sounds to startle at, what surprises to smile at, and what ideal gouging targets my eyes make for your curious fingers. I get the sense you have already figured out that orange “mush” makes you glad while green “mush” makes you gag. I swear you eyed me with blatant suspicion the other day when I pretended to ingest pureed peas with a gusto usually reserved for sprinkle donuts.

I wonder how your dad and I can possibly teach you all of the intangibles you will need to know when we are both still learning ourselves. Right now, the lessons are easy. Triangle, apple, yellow, duck, ball, wet. The lessons get harder and the directions more complicated. At home, you adore this mini toy house that echoes back to you in opposites: “Door Open / Door Closed.” “Light On / Light Off”. I find myself wanting to warn you. Life isn’t always one or the other. There’s a lot of grey. There’s a lot in the middle.

As your mother, I suppose I cannot shield you from pain, disappointment, and even danger any more than I can promise you joy and fulfillment. However, I can promise that I will still attempt to control these things out of love and instinct despite knowing that I am trying to control the wind. Your defeats will be my own and your celebrations will be my elations. And while you are small and depend on me to carry you up the stairs and fetch your toys and read your books, I want to tell you a few things. Since in ten, fifteen, twenty years, you may not be as apt to listen. Remember our conversation. Remember my words.

I want you to know that it is okay to be different – that you don’t have to wear the “right” shoes, listen to pop music or worship the color pink. In fact, you will find as an adult that those individuals who buck convention are often a lot more interesting to have over for dinner.

I want you to travel. Be open. Form opinions and ask questions.

I want you to realize you possess the inner strength and courage to pursue the dreams you know in your soul you are meant to pursue. Don’t let fear bog you down. Fight for your passions early and often.

I want you to trust others and hold dear the friends who make you laugh.

I want you to try sardines, beets, and sauerkraut every five years... just to see.

I don’t want you to rush into love, but when you do make sure you find someone with kind eyes and a good heart. If this someone makes you feel beautiful and safe and inspired AND fills your car up with gas after you have been dating a year, you have found the one.

I want you to experience a broken heart. Just once.

I want you to pay attention to red flags and small print. And avoid short-cuts through alleys.

I want you to wear wide-brimmed hats on the seashore and scarves in the winter.

I want you to keep a Kleenex in your pocket and an extra tampon in your purse.

I want you...no, implore you, to learn how to properly throw a baseball. I don’t care if you are an athlete, musician, or spelling bee wizard, but turn your shoulders and follow through.

I want you to read more than you watch. In actual books that smell like libraries.

I want you to tell the truth.

I want you to go on long walks at dusk, especially in the fall when the leaves are falling, the air nips at your cheeks and a melancholic hush has settled over the world.

I want you to keep a journal and reread your nibbles of consciousness every year on some random Tuesday night when you are tempted to turn on the TV.

I don’t want you to worry about perfection. It is unattainable and frankly not very fun. It is our dents and dings that are the most endearing to those we love.

I want you to splurge on pedicures, cashmere and organic vegetables.

I want you to smile when you make eye contact with strangers. Unless they look creepy, smell like cigarettes, or are wearing a sleeveless undershirt. I realize this may indirectly contradict the whole embrace all free-thinkers rule from above, but I trust your judgment.

I want you to learn a second language and challenge your parents to follow their own advice. And yes, you have my permission to speak to us exclusively in Spanish until we have complied.

I want you to stand up for yourself, but master the delicate technique of arguing your point with logic versus volume.

I want you to realize that things are nice, but memories are better.

I want you to know we are all tested and deflated at one time or another. Take comfort that your ascent can be gradual and communal and will offer up vantage points along the way that will allow you to glance back and relish in your progress.

I want you to have faith that the hardest, most painful moments in your life will yield the most personal growth and sweet rewards. Be patient. Nothing is permanent while we are walking the earth. Most everything will make sense afterwards.

I want you to understand from a young age the power and grace that comes with giving and that pure inspiration can be deliciously infectious.

Most of all, Daughter, I want you to remember you are entirely unique, 100% worthy, and even if you utterly ignore all of the above, hopelessly loved.

MWF w/ I Seeking F w/ I

So, I started dating again. I am back in the saddle and in truth, just looking for friends with benefits this time around. The “benefit” of course being that they have a kid. Non-procreators need not apply. And if your offspring is the same age as mine, I’m even willing to pick up the turkey-n-avocado-on-wheat lunch tab. Oh, and did I mention, I’m really only interested in women at this point? Mr. Moms’, I commend you for bucking the gender stereotype (even though you likely ironed the grilled cheese and stapled the Woobie) but I’ve decided I’m a boob gal. Because let’s face it, we ladies want to the freedom to complain about our sagging girls and in the next breath, criticize our husbands and how they STAPLED the beloved Woobie! Can you believe it? What a jack-ass. Unless you’re gay and willing to badmouth your man, you’ll have to find your own playgroup.

It’s weird being back on the prowl. Sizing up other moms up at the petting zoo, in the grocery check-out aisle, on the playground. Stealthily calculating who appears to be somewhat “normal”. I’ve heard church can actually be a goldmine, but I’m not sure I am ready to open up that can of worms. I think its best to avoid politics and religion, at least until the second date. I am open to “virgins” as well as moms who have been around the block a time or two. I find both contribute to a budding relationship. I can whine about sleep deprivation with the other first-timers while the veterans offer sage advice and always seem to have stains on their shirts which makes me feel better about myself. Either way, I strive to present a wholesome and mentally stable image when my daughter and I manage to expunge ourselves from the house. I actually wash my face and accessorize Bridget (my chick-magnet wing-baby) in her adorable gingham jumpsuit and socks with bows. Terrible to admit, but she is an excellent prop. I’ve discovered that moms of boys seem especially attracted to pink frilly tots and you never know who you may run into.

The hunting mom does have to be cautious. No surprise, there are a lot of freaks out there. Avoid groups with matching Land’s End polos and umbrella strollers who are chuckling at the park in a tight U-formation with their iced lattes. They are TAKEN. You will not be able to break into that clique no matter how cute your baby is – so just accept your losses and move on. Avoid the over-zealous La Leche chicks – unless you find it socially acceptable to express breast milk into your coffee mug at the local Panera. (Disclosure: May be a slight exaggeration) Avoid all perfectionists who actually put on mascara for a play date, fit into their pre-maternity cloths after a month and generally make you feel like a frump. Avoid the visibly exhausted who were genetically socked with a devil child. Empathize – but move on. She won’t be able to sit still for more than five seconds and Junior’s atrocious behavior will only rub off on your little darling. Pay attention to those shy reliable ones in the back corner of music class. They are often times the keepers.

It is a delicate dance to appear vulnerable and approachable without coming off too desperate. Women can smell it like a poopy diaper and retreat because clearly something MUST be wrong with you if you are THIS starved for companionship. But, I sense the majority of moms are very open to exploring the domain of female dating. I recommend an initial casual one hour lunch date and if all goes well, the official phone number exchange in the iPhone. But, best to wait 72 hours before calling or texting again. Better yet, play hard to get and let her pursue you. Always good to be in the driver’s seat.

After much consideration, my personal ad would read something like this:
MWF (Married White Female) w/ infant Seeking F w/ Infant. Looking to pass the time - whether it be meandering stroller walks in the park, Target returns, or comparing sleep-training strategies at the corner table at Starbucks. I want a woman who doesn’t claim to have all the answers or have it all together, but is willing to chuckle about our attempts at juggling chaos. I want a woman who can swear, sport a ponytail, and does NOT have the energy to peel, chop and puree her own acorn squash into baby food. I want a woman who shops for onesies at Marshalls instead of Bloomingdales and doesn’t judge me for using pacifier wipes. I want a woman who is willing to quietly sing Farmer in the Dell in the line at the bank because it makes her baby laugh. I want a woman who is smart and dreams of taking a vacation in ten years so that she can actually read a book without pictures. (And bonus points if her husband is actually “normal” as this opens up a whole other dimension of swing dating with the men in tow.) If this sounds like you, call me. If you get my voice mail, I promise to wait the appropriate 72 hours before stalking your home.