Push and Pull

The weather's been so weird

lately.

Blazing hot

turned to

gloom

turned to

rain

turned to

mug.

The air feels

still and heavy.

Paul's been working a lot

and so have I.

And we kind of just pass one another

in the halls of our home

and the halls of our life

and we're working to pay bills

from the past

and build dreams

for the future;
working to keep the train moving,
all housekeeping
and play dates,
basketball schedules
and school applications.

And everything is safe

and calm

and very sane.

It's all

same.

I meant sane.

I meant same.

I'm not used to either.

What do you do

when you've

spent your whole life

telling yourself

you're a seeker

and a wild child

and everything you've sought

is here in your hand

and all the wild

is anchored,

tethered,

to dreams

that have actually come true?

That question

flaps its wings inside of me

and

I don't know the answer.

Probably because

the neurosis in me
can't comprehend

the simplicity of

enjoy it.

My friends are all having babies.

Instagram feeds

a mile long

filled to the brim

with wrinkly newborn skin

and soft downy hair.

My babies are 9 and 5.

I don't have babies,

I have boys.

I can't remember
the weight of them in my arms,

and I so long to.

Presently I exist

with an ever lingering
sentimental craving

for another baby.

This desire to remember,

and be,

to plan and make

to soak it all in

because I didn't do that with

my other pregnancies.

I was propelled through the experience;

holding onto my sanity as best I could,

pretending to not be afraid,

just trying to survive man

and now they sleep through the night

and they smell like sweat

and they dress themselves

and

I want back into Babyland.

Ticket please.

I had a meltdown yesterday.

There was traffic

and

I was hot

and 

I was tired

and

James had basketball in an hour

and

I couldn't find Lucas' basketball shorts

and

my job is exhausting and unfulfilling

and

we struggle to make ends meet

and

I kept thinking about all of this

and

then Paul found me in the boys' room

wrestling with the hamper

and

the dam burst.

Because I'm still

just trying to survive man.

But also trying to hang onto

every morsel of this life

because it's flying by.

Days and weeks and months

and grades

and please don't let go of my hand

and please let me be here

without being concerned with there

and tomorrow

and shopping lists

and laundry

and food menus.

This is my mom's life.

I have my mom's life.

And I feel like an imposter sometimes.

And then I feel trapped.

And then I feel guilty for feeling trapped

because this is all I ever wanted.

"And you want another one",

Paul will say

as he holds my tear-streaked face

and keeps kissing my nose while I sob.

And I do not undervalue

the man who loves me in such a way

that I can fall apart like that,

he who keeps a straight face

while I cry over my perceived ineptitude.

Holds me silently

as I stand in the middle of the chaos

that is every day living

for a family of four,

because this is some real shit you guys,

no Instagram filter here.

I've fallen from Neverland.

I used to be a Lost Boy

but now I am a pirate.

Plus side:

I get to ride the coattails

of my two Pans.

Marry Who You Love

James' expression =

how I feel about the Supreme Court today

Four and half years ago

Prop. 8 passed

and I was

angry

and

sad

and

disappointed.

How could this happen?

Why don't people understand?

I knew we had

to head to

West Hollywood.

Onward to the safe house,

to Santa Monica Blvd.,

to light candles

and

hold hands

and make noise

because that's all

you can really do

when you feel

like you're not being listened to.

I stood there 

lit candles in hand

with my baby brother.

The 18 year old young man

who had come out officially

just months before.

The one who broke my heart

when he told me that

he had endured

being bullied in high school.

Had been teased,

mistreated,

called a faggot.

He had just voted
in his first election
and the election
did not go his way.

How could this happen?

Why don't people understand?

I have cried
over knowing
that some of my best friends
have faced
the same battle.

I have cried over
the taunts
and
looks
and
not holding the hands
or kissing the lips
of their partner
in public
because they're afraid.

I have cried
over every story
of every kid
bullied to the point
where they have
taken their own life.

How could this happen?
Why don't people understand?

Today's Supreme Court ruling

lifted my soul.

The existing wedding rings

(and the ones to come!)

on the fingers

of my friends

meant more today.

They always meant everything,

but today they meant more.

Because these marriages

and families

always existed

to the people in them,

but now they exist

in a way that says,

you are real!

Even to the people

that haven't wanted

to acknowledge that.

You are real!

And safe!

And we're not going to let this happen!

We understand!

I have never been raised

to see sexuality,

or color,

or gender.

Thanks to my mama

we love everyone.

All are welcome.

Please come in,

there is room at the table

for all of us.

Always.

Endless thank yous
to the Human Rights Campaign
and Equality Now
for their tireless efforts
in rectifying a wrong,
to the plaintiffs
who fought for their love
and for the love of those who couldn't,
and to the Justices
that voted yes to the strike down.

My two little boys
and their mother
are eternally grateful.

We have hope today Harvey.

They gave us a whole lotta hope.

#loveislove

Instinctually

My intent was to write about

our weekend camping trip.

The fishing and sunshine

and stolen moments

with my guys.

Our first trip

as a foursome.

And while it is

something to be shared,
if you follow me on Instagram
you pretty much saw it,

and what's really on my mind

is this:

I want to talk about fear culture

and how it can dominate

us moms.

Heavy huh?

Sorry.

But I think it's important,

because by the end of 2013

10 women I know

in varying degrees of closeness

will have become moms.

Some for the first time,

some for the second

and some for the 4th.

And I want to talk about it,

ok?

Ok.

As a mom of two boys

and a woman feverish for a third,

I can tell you that after 9 years

of being a mom

the only thing I know for certain

is that mothering is not by the book.

Like ever.

Like you can
eat all of your veggies

and take all of your prenatals

and exercise every day

and do EVERYTHING

they say to do

and still end up
gaining 65 lbs.

with a kid with asthma

(Hi James!)

or 85 lbs.
with a kid with epilepsy

(Hi Lucas!).

Because one kid will
refuse to be potty trained
and poop his pants
until he's three
and the other
will climb onto the toilet
at two years old
and pretty much train himself.

One will walk at 8 months
and the other at 1 year
and they will
speak, sleep and lose their teeth
whenever the hell they want.

When I was pregnant with Lucas

I spent hours in Barnes & Noble

trying to find the directions

on how to be an unwed and single

20 year old new mom.

There weren't any.

And hey someone please write a book

that isn't filled with advice and suggestions

for the "husband" or "dad-to-be"

because FYI publishers,

sometimes there isn't one.

I'm a bit rant-y today.

No sleep.

Sorry.
Again.

But I digress.

I read new books

and classics

Happiest Baby on the Block,

What to Expect When Your Expecting,

and whatever was the most well-rated text

(in 2004 and then 2008)

on Amazon and BabyCenter and Google.

I read and

I searched

and

I message boarded

for hours.

Because in today's digital age

the information is so accesible.

Accessible

and

helpful

and

empowering

and
terrifying
and

overwhelming.

I read breastfeeding

would be a nightmare.

Chapter upon chapter
dedicated to how impossible it would be

and what to do with the impossibility.

"How will I feed my babyyyyyy?!?!?!"

"No formula everrrrrrrr or you're a terrible mom!!!!"

"Don't introduce the bottle!  Nipple confusion!

Ahhhhhrkjthertgbweirut?!?!?!?"

And while I do not doubt

that women everywhere

have a difficult time,

I made a decision for myself 

that humans had been nursing their young

for centuries,

and

I'll figure it out god dammit.

And yes

Lucas was improperly latched

for the first few days.

And yes it hurt like hell.

And yes

he lost a few ounces by his first check up,

BUT WE FIGURED IT OUT.

The books said
not to let the baby
sleep on its stomach,
but mine wouldn't sleep otherwise
so I guiltily allowed
for that rule to be broken.

They said no blankets,
but one night at 3am
while I sobbed and changed
my pee soaked newborn
for the 3rd time,
my mom
made the executive decision
to cover the baby
and guess what?

He was finally warm enough
to sleep and not pee.

Whew!

Going against the expert opinions
is such a pitfall
for moms new and old
because there are far greater forms
of fear and guilt
than the fear and guilt
of a new mother.

We want to do it right
and that desire
puts us up against ourselves
and often,
our fellow mamas.

For me
and for better
and for worse,
I've done it all.

Lucas
ate Gerber
but I steamed and pureed
for James.

Lucas
was nursed for 8 months,
my milk never really came in
for James.

Both were supplemented with formula.

Lucas
loved the pacifier,
James
hated it,
and for the record,
the non-pacifier kid
is the one with
the crooked bottom teeth.

Lucas
was in the Baby Bjorn,
James
I wore in a wrap,
both of them co-slept.

I staggered immunizations
even though some of the autism links
had been convincingly refuted
by the time James was born.

Last night whilst perusing Facebook

I came across a year old article

about our preferred brand
of baby/kid bath products.

Both of my boys have sensitive skin
to the point of forming scaly patches
on their arms and trunk.

A few years ago I worked
as the personal assistant
of one of the green
"mommy bloggers".

She was (and still is)
a lawyer and writer
and master of
detoxifying and greening
your home, life and self.

She is very active on Twitter,
calls out companies
for their shameful green washing,
and was responsible for a MASSIVE
recall on a glassware giveaway
from McDonalds.

This woman means business
and I trust her opinions.

So when Lucas' ped
suggested steroids for the eczema
I asked her what she thought,
and she told me to try the natural route,
which I gladly did,
and she also suggested
a line of bath products she stood behind,
a product I have trusted for years,
a product I recently gifted
to a new mom-to-be friend of mine.

A product that has
all but cured
the boys of any skin ailments,
and a product that has
apparently been under fire.

It appears that as they grew
(once online only, they are now at Target)
they may have begun
to compromise some of their values.

It sucks and I'm bummed
but I'm also going to do some research
before I turn my back on them completely.

Because nothing is cut and dry
in a straightforward forever sense
and all the articles and research
just can't compete with my instinct.

The information
becomes a mire
if you let it
so I try not to let it.

I try to sail by my instinct first
and always.

Because that's what mothering
has come down to for me.

Instincts.

And they've led me right and astray
and every dizzying direction.

But they're mine and I trust them.

And if there is any shard of advice
I'm willing to pass on
it's that.

Trust. Your. Instincts.

And let other women trust theirs.

Mom on ladies!

Mom. On.

Oh and here's a picture

of our preschool graduate:

Dream Makers

A few weeks ago

Lucas and I were driving home

when fun.'s "Carry On"

started playing on the radio.

He loves that song

so I turned it up

and we began to sing it

at the top of our lungs

"...If you're lost and alone.."

Suddenly
like a ghost from the past,

I remembered.

New Year's Eve night

2007.

6 months pregnant with James

5 days after I'd asked his father to leave.

"...Or you're sinking like a stone..."

I had gone to bed early

wanting to sleep through midnight.

I was so sad

and felt I had nothing to celebrate.

2008 was already breaking my heart.

At midnight
the cheers and fireworks

and welcoming of a new year

pulled me from my dreamless sleep.

I laid there,

one arm around Lucas

while the other held my belly

and I began to sob.

A deep, smothering sadness

pulled tears from my eyes

and forced my shoulders to shake.

When my mom came into to kiss us

she found me crying,

threw her arms around me

and whispered,

"It's going to be ok honey,

you're going to be ok."

But I didn't believe her.

"...Carry on..."

Every Mother's Day

since Lucas was born

has been bittersweet.

I've made it about my mom

and tried to enjoy my children,

but I'd be a liar

if I didn't admit that celebrating

without the boys' fathers

always hurt.

Holidays always made me feel

like I'd failed

at making a family.

"...May your past be the sound..."

As Lucas and I sang

down the 605 freeway

I began to cry.

Not out of sadness

but out of joy.

Because I remember

that New Years Eve

like it was yesterday.

I remember feeling

helpless

and hopeless

and

like I'd never get it right.

"...Of your feet upon the ground..."

Saturday night

as we kissed the boys goodnight,

me to Lucas,
Paul to James

and then a switch,

I heard Paul whispering to them about

Mother's Day.

I didn't know what they had planned,

but knew there was nothing I could want

that I don't already have.

"...carry on..."

I awoke yesterday

to bright faces

and breakfast in bed.

Opened crayon decorated packages

to paintings and drawings and handprints.

I got to sit in bed

with coffee and the paper

while Paul manned the kids

and the house.

We went to Ports O'Call

and ate seafood

and snowcones

and I'm just so love in love

with these guys
I could just melt

into a puddle.

We spent the rest of the day

with family

and ended at home

where I discovered

the newly erected planter

and freshly tilled soil

Paul gifted me.

Because I've been talking about

vegetables and snapdragons

and a zillion hopes
for that little corner on our patio

and he made it happen.

Nothing could make my life sweeter.

This life with my three guys

is beyond

my dreams.

"Not me," I thought for so many years.

Girls like me
don't get the happy ending.

But sometimes,
we do.

You Are Nine

You are tall and lanky.

Eyes the color of chocolate

and permanently tousled hair.

You still crawl into my lap

to watch America's Funniest Home Videos

and your belly laugh

has a domino effect on me.

On Monday you asked if I had heard

about the tragedy in Boston

and then we talked about it.

You said it made you feel confused

and interested and scared

and I didn't know what to say

because it made me feel

all of those things too.

And I didn't have an answer to why

but I wanted you to know that

when terrible things happen

you will always see some good.

There will always be people

who run toward the madness

just so they can help.

There will always be light

and humanity

and for your gentle heart

as with mine

this will offer some peace.

It was our first conversation

about a worldly event

and I found your maturing insight

fascinating and a little sad

because my ability to shield you

lessens more every day.

You lie in bed reading chapter books

and lecture me on the perils of smoking

and I'm mourning the ticking clock

of the little boy years.

Where is my tree climbing

mud slinging rascal?

He's there in your lanky limbs

and broadening shoulders.

He's in your silly jokes

and comforting squeeze

on your little brother's

tantrum throwing shrug.

We have the life I've always wanted for us.

We share a home with your dad and brother

and I tell you all of the time

that I feel happiest

when we are all together.

Feel luckiest

piled on the couch

with my best guys.

The two boys

who handed me the map to joy

and the man

who loves us best.

It is a great life.

A magical life.

And it is all because of you.

I couldn't be me without you.

We couldn't be us.

The story began with you Lucas.

It started with you,

my first mate

and copilot.

You are my north star.

 In the rockiest of waters

you steered us

into the safe harbor.

And before anything else

there was you.

Grandma always said

her wishes

for Uncle Gregory and I

were to have strong roots in who we are

and the wings to fly.

Roots and wings.

Those are my wishes for you too.

My sweet Pan,

This life is frightening and exhilarating

frustrating and joyful.

You will feel and know

all of these things

and because

you are so much like me,

you will feel them deeply.

It is a blessing and curse,

this empathetic spirit of ours,

but it makes

for astounding love and beauty.

Kindred spirits you and I,

forever and ever.

Love that smile baby bird.

Happy nine.

Love,

Mom

My Jamester

I knew I was pregnant with you

on a Sunday morning in August.  

Four years to the day

that I had found out 

I was pregnant 

with your brother.

I don't know how or why

but I just did.

We went to the fair that night
and rode all of the rollercoasters
and I ate deep fried oreos.

One of my favorite pictures
of your dad and I
was taken in a photo booth
that same night. 

We are laughing
and you are there too.

Those months were hard months.

You grew in my belly
beneath my broken heart
and tangled breath
and much of those days
are a blur.

But the night you were born
I woke up.

***

Earlier that week

I had been dismissed 

from the hospital

for false labor,

so that Sunday
I refused to go back

until I knew for certain

that you were really coming.

When I was admitted at 11:30pm
it was too late for an epidural

and so you came into the world

quickly and loudly

at 12:46am on April 7th.

Mine and your screams filling the air
on the same date as Clinton's birthday
at the same hour and minute as your brother
who had also been born at 12:46.

Seven pounds
and seven ounces
on the 7th.

777

My new lucky charm.

They brought you to me,

placed you in my arms

and the moment our eyes met,

I knew we were meant to be.

Later that morning

Grandma brought Lucas

and we sang you happy birthday

over a candle lit cupcake

and I sat there

on the hospital bed

with both of you on my lap

and we were whole.

You had been

the missing puzzle piece

and I hadn't even known it.

***

James Maddox,

My curly-haired sweetheart.

Master of make-believe.

Conductor of giant emotions.

You are funny and fiery

and greet me hello

with an enthusiasm

that feeds my heart.

You are sweet voiced and gentle,

tender hearted,

and tempermental.

My sweet boy...

Sometimes at night I creep into

your room

to watch you sleep.

Becoming drunk

on the small hand

that still grips my finger.

The soft breath,

peaceful face

and curled eyelashes

of the one

who brought the sun.

Happy 5th birthday my love.

You are wonderous and amazing

and I don't know how we ever lived

without you.

Love,

Mommy

From Hair to There

January 2013

For as long as I can remember

my hair has always been 

a prized possession

and an indicator 

of my emotional state.

When I was little 

it hung down to my waist

and my Grandma Maggie would

sit me down every afternoon 

to comb and curl 

and fasten with giant elastic ponytail holders.

The unwieldy holders 

with the big colorful balls

that would regularly snap from around my hair,

hit her knuckles 

and squeeze an "Ay!!!!"

from under her breath.

I'd sit with my drying curls in my hands

and watch "Facts of Life"

before going to play GI Joe

with my cousin Kevin.

My mom kept my hair long

and treated it with 

the most expensive shampoos and conditioners.

A luxury I didn't truly appreciate

until decades later 

when I lived on my own

and could only afford Suave.

The first time my dad took me to get a haircut

I told the girl I wanted it to my shoulders.

My dad begrudgingly gave in

wholly regretting it later 

when my mom met us at the door

with tears and shrieks
and

"Oh my god you're HAIR!!!!!"

I was 11
and it was my first rebellion.

At 14 I dyed it burgundy
with an ancient box of Clairol

and she grounded me for a month,

and when I was a senior in high school

and the cheer coach quit
at the beginning of the year,

I felt angry and abandoned

and like I needed a new identity.

So I cut off a foot and a half of hair

and said goodbye to my cheer ponytail

forever.

The summer before college,

in love with Paul but feeling

like my skin didn't fit,

I left the Newport beach house

my friend's parents rented every summer,

walked to a local salon

and paid $100 to cut it all off.

My poor boyfriend
wondered what had happened to me.

As the years have worn on

it's been every length

and every color.

Long and short and in between.

Dec. 2009 - My favorite 3 year old girl is also in this picture

Jet black and sassy.

February 2006 - mine and my BFF's best hair day ever

A reddish Louis Brooks interpretation.

 

Summer 2011 - Ugh with the cigs

I am secretly addicted

to cutting my own bangs in the mirror

at midnight 

with fabric scissors

and having to get them fixed 

by a professional

when the sun rises

the next day.

With both babies

the mixture of hormones and prenatals

made for long luxurious locks,

but without fail I would come 

to take shears out on myself

when months later
I couldn't make sense of anything

let alone what to do with long hair.

The last time I dramatically cut my hair

James was 10 months old

and my relationship with his father

was a mess of knots.

I wanted to cut away the past,

the energy,

the memories of some pretty tough years.

For months I had pleaded with my girlfriend Renee to chop it,

but believing it only to be a case of the baby insanity,

she refused.

Finally after months of my relentless insistence,

she caved and cut my bra band length hair into a pixie.

March 2009 - That baby face is killig me

It's been growing for almost 4 years

and I can't remember the last time I dyed it.

I'm sprouting grays

and sometimes I fantasize

about doing something crazy

with the cut and color,

but truly the desire is not there.

Sometimes I think it's because now I'm boring

(which I kind of am)

but also I think it may be because I'm content.