Mother's Day: with or without?

Perfect Mother's Day last weekend. Completely off-plan: was going to be alone time for me, scoping out my favorite knitting store and getting rest while daddy spent the day with kidlets.

Daddy got horridly sick Saturday night. So instead I took Sprout to play basketball at local playground while daddy stayed home with Blossom (who was supposed to be napping but whose eyes Blinked Awake five minutes after I left). Then lovely nap with Blossom. BBQ dinner by the feeling-much-better daddy.

Made me wonder: how many of us really accomplish the self-time Mother's Day? How many of us really want to? It seems like a good idea, but whenever I've tried it, I just miss my kids and feel slightly unhinged and cheated. My favorite activity on this day turns out to be mindful, wondrous, observation of them: how did they get so big? why are they so amazingly beautiful? who are they turning out to be? how can I be ever more encouraging of who they are and more present to them?

And why does a gift made by your kid blow the top off your head? Is it the proud smile and completely transparent vulnerability of them offering up themselves for your approval and delight? What greater joy than accepting the gift with pure and also theatrically exaggerated expressions of gratitude! How wonderful, the giggles of collusion that they surprised you (despite telling you repeatedly what the surprise in the bag was, and what it was for). Ahh, it makes my ribs ache just thinking of it.

Seasons of Life

In January, my long marriage flew wholly off the rails after grinding along for awhile. It wasn't because of having kids--we adore them, we adore parenting them together (most of the time). In fact, we adore them so much it has been easier to focus on them than the worn spots in our relationship or our individual psyches. The why will be saved for another time, but we have both been working hard at it after a few months in which we had to decide if it was worth trying at all.

Last weekend, we did a family photo shoot with two amazing photographers, Sara and Scott. It has been a dream of mine for awhile. I had a list (yes, I'm a little type-A) of the photos I wanted. I waffled up until the last minute of whether I needed to let the photographers know I was ambivalent about pictures of me and the husband or, truth be told, of all four of us together.

I needn't have worried. These are consummate seers: they captured what was there. What I see is a family where there's lots of love, two people who adore parenting their kids, two astonishingly gorgeous and secure and lively (in their own two different ways) children. These pictures gave me so much hope. First, because our kids look whole and healthy--a small grace note amidst the effort we've made to ensure our rough patch hasn't damaged them forever. There is not much couple-ness in these pictures, but that feels true and right. We have been bruised and are rebuilding that. But it also helps me see why family can tug at the couple strings: there is simply so much to do to build that larger unit, two little people who need attending to, that you are--literally--called in two different directions. I am proud that we give our little ones one-to-one and sometimes two-to-one attention, and the reality of that is this: we get less of each other. It's not bad, it just is. This is the season we are in. But we must be in that season mindfully, or risk running off the rails again. No marriage can afford to go on autopilot. As my Friend A and DH say, we will be all that's left of this once these two little people launch themselves into the world, so they can't get all we have.

The family pics also tell me this: this is why it's worth trying. Together, we are the N's. It started with a marriage, but now it is something so much larger than that. In my darkest, most selfish, most agonized moments, I had friends who reminded me of that when I couldn't feel it--that the family alone was a reason to try. I'm thankful for that.

Age: what's it good for?

It happened again today: the question. Am I Blossom's mother or her grandmother?

Eeek.

Despite my not-now-prematurely silver hair, and two bouts of nine months of doctor visits where my chart bore the icky designation "AMA," I am always surprised. And a little worried: as the third adopted child of a fiftysomething (true story) mom, I remember too well the squirmy embarrassment when people asked me whether she was my mother or grandmother. Life repeats? I don't want this for Sprout or Blossom, that squeaking hot paralyzing sense that something. is. wrong. with. your. family.

Got me thinking: what are the plusses of life-seasoned parenting? (Don't need to catalog the drawbacks: I'm reminded every time I climb the stairs with my 17-lb baby and lament my wonky hip.) Well, let's get it out of the way: resources. We fortysomethings have usually toiled away at careers and can more easily provide the requisite Robeez, right? (At least until #2 arrives and the monthly daycare bill rivals the mortgage payment.)

Wisdom? I'd say so, but life's tipping point--the one my therapist assures me comes to everyone at some point, where you question the whole foundation you've built your world upon and nearly every single one of your life choices--has spectred its way into my world of late. But maybe that's wisdom of the first order, knowing that you will face confidence-shaking moments, that life can infinitely surprise you, that you must be open to the awakening, that being cautious and denying life is the greatest risk of all. It sure has made me realize what I want for my kids is safety, freedom, the unshakable knowledge that they are cherished (not in a fussy protective way but the grounded-to-go-and-meet-the-world-my-young-one way).

Patience? Yes, most days. Not when facing the Aristotelian essence of dawdling that is a three-year-old boy brushing his own teeth. Especially after a hard day toiling away at that Robeez-providing career.

Here's what it must be: presence. I lived long enough without these little creatures, and then made a decision to bring them here. I know now what I would have missed without them. It makes me savor their every word, thought, emotion, developmental milestone. I want so much more for them than I got, even though what I got was okay. I want to be better for them, to be all that they deserve. I want to, as my Friend A says, parent from the inside out. And maybe, at fortysomething--if you've been paying attention--you know that inside better than you did at 20. Despite huge missteps and bumping my head on the same mistakes over and over again, I do.

relatedness

Recently had my 39th birthday. Wrote this post partially the day before:

I am an adult adoptee. For most of those years, I would go foggy--not entirely painfully--with wondering who, where, why, is she thinking about me? around this time. Not so much since Sprout's birth.

Today at lunch I listened to This American Life: Switched at Birth, an episode about the Millers and Macdonalds. Two babies switched at birth in 1951. One mother who knew immediately the baby was not hers, whose husband made her take no action for fear of offending the doctor who provided their large family with free medical care, who said, heartbreakingly in the interview, "I knew I'd lose my husband's friendship if I [pressed the issue] and that would damage my marriage. . .I had seven children to raise." Her talk of gratitude for the child who then became hers--a sunny, popular child unlike her six serious others, a gift to the family. The two grown women's reactions and dances to find their places once the story--an open secret in their small town--came out. The other mother's sense of grief and loss, that she did not get to raise the baby she'd wanted so much and waited so long for. A story of fears and jealousies and irreparable actions and inscrutable behaviors and then ham-handed attempts to remediate. . .

I think about this today because my own adoption--like so many--was couched in the socially norming idea that you can rewrite biology with laws, religon, and the resolute blindness of patriarchy. The belief that you can disregard that growing a child inside you means something--not everything, but not nothing either. It is the second and last birthday I will spend pregnant with the only individuals I've ever known to whom I am related by blood--this time a daughter.

It is arrogance--largely male arrogance, I believe--that causes us to try to rewrite the most basic rules of being human. Not counting the Amazons and perhaps any other matriarchal warrior tribes throughout history, what mothers have not thought of war as a tremendous waste? Regardless of the sociopolitical conflicts at issue, don't we all just think from our wombs that, jesusgod, I spent all these months and years growing this (usually but not always) boy up?

This mother let her husband take away her child because of his own misguided belief that one child was as good as another. And she had to let him because without his husbandly protection (such as it was--by all reports the family was abysmally poor because of his choice of careers), she would've been cast adrift financially and socially. Her voice, her speech pattern, her girlish but squeamish laughter while she told this grim story--sounded so much like my own adoptive mother's resigned explanation of her making herself smaller to suit my incompetent and blustering father, I could hardly listen without throwing the MP3 player across the room.

It's not easy being a modern woman. Sometimes more choices just makes my head spin. But I know to my core that I don't need a man, that I can make my way in this world--and my children's ways if necessary--without one. But because I know how slippery a slope it is, it seems like a good day to ask myself, what are the compromises I make to be partnered, even with someone I love so much? Just how imprinted am I with the mores of the culture and family I grew up in, not so dissimilar from the crazy woman who allowed her baby to be given away: that the husband is the head of the home, and that the woman's job is to comply, to make herself fit his need, his idea of her, his want? Where it has insidiously shaped me, what has it cost us both?

a new day

Already the pundits are at work dissecting--was it a memorable, historical speech? Does Justice Roberts' blunder make any difference? But all I know is that, for the first time in more than 8 years, I can watch our president speak and not cringe. I can listen and feel proud. I can be inspired for the hard work to come. It seems like we've reclaimed some sober, conscious, optimistic, measured, idealistic leadership in the world. Even if this weren't a historic day because of our president's race, it feels like a momentous one of reclaiming the right American values of thrift, hard work, sacrifice, and moral responsibility after so many years of neoconservative parsing of domestic and international law so that we could "legally" do unspeakable things, all behind an unprecedented veil of secrecy. Tomorrow there will be political decisions. Likely there will be moments of failure and compromise and falling short of what we believe is possible. But today, I'm terribly optimistic.

january is for hats

January and I are not friends. This year, however, the fallow stormy post-holiday blah and too much work busy have a side effect: my knitting addiction seems full of possibility, a luxurious use of time when there's no house to sell (2008) or baby to prepare for (2007). Suddenly all I can think about is knitting hats. I have great stash yarn for hats, have scoped a couple of gorgeous hat patterns on ravelry, coveted a friend's hat at my NYE party.

So I've decided to frog this (it isn't happy trying to be this cable scarf, but I think it wants to be a hat):

On another note: Madrona's just a few weeks off! It's my annual preserve-mom's-sanity weekend "away" from home. I can't wait to take classes on Latvian mittens, Yarn Harlot's knitting faster, Sally Melville's knitting essentials, Elsebeth Lavold's Viking cables, etc. Rumor has it there will be some Blue Moon sock yarn as well. Anyone going?

omg, it's actually an FO!

Leaf lace socks
Originally uploaded by on the sticks

And a short knit (for me). Great Evelyn Clark pattern but needed to make it shorter and with a stretchier cast-on and ribbing--wee bit too tight. Love the STR yarn, but I really like this pattern in lighter, solid-color yarns.

here's what's been occupying my time

Sprout likes smoothies.

(it's been awhile since a Sprout photo)

If only I could post with sound--he's been talking nonstop lately, much of it intelligible, especially when he signs along with it. Tonight I was treated to a monologue--very involved story--about doggies and corn and daddy and bye-bye in the car. Consequently, we've been laughing a lot lately. My mother, who's getting quite senile these days, asks me several times in each weekly phone call, doesn't he bring you joy? don't you love being a mother? isn't he wonderful? At first I thought I must not be giving her the right answer because she just keeps asking. I keep saying yes! yes, and yes! Now I realize that my mother has one of those peculiar cruel fates of mothers--she loves her children desperately and doesn't understand them one whit. Meanwhile, I'm making my own set of mistakes that Sprout will blog in 30 years, probably ones I don't even know yet.

finished Sprout daycare blankie

Finished Sprout Daycare Blankie detail
Originally uploaded by on the sticks

Oh, yeah, another one! This one was done at the time of my last blog entry, but no pics. The crochet border turned out a wee bit wonky on one side, but all in all, it's a great blanket. It's now been washed several times, and the Lion Brand New Cotton Ease blend is holding up well. Sprout remains indifferent to blankies, but this one is long enough that he stays covered most nights. (oh, hey, I love this "blog this photo" feature in flickr--saving a step makes all the difference in actually posting or not!)

don't look now, but something's almost finished!

Sprout's JoJo sweater by BeesKnees knits
Originally uploaded by on the sticks

Finally, an almost-FO! I've had a few delicious days off this month and so finally cranked through the hard parts--picking up stitches along the button bands and placket and around the collar. It's pretty clean, though I won't show the undersides just yet. I spent a long time picking out the (almost) perfect buttons. I know it's crazy, really--I held it up to him the other night, and he'll MAYBE get to wear it a couple of times. Oh, well. I shouldn't have let myself get stalled at Thanksgiving, but getting ready to move and then moving and work and all. . .let's just say it doesn't help my procrastinatitus. But I do love how the stripes (Lang Jawoll Aktion colorway 132.0192) turned out. I don't have a pic yet of the cute little square intarsias on the back, but they turned out really cute, too. Now I just have to do the sewing-up (ick).

journeys

Almost 6 weeks ago, a major journey came to an end, and a new one started: we have moved from our first house, our home of 12 years, to our next house.

It's a journey we started in earnest at Thanksgiving and is the primary reason why I haven't blogged or finished a knitted object in months. Last night I finished Sprout's daycare blankie, begun nearly a year ago, and will post a pic soon.

Returning to the new normal has begun. There are still boxes to unpack, rooms to paint. Items get placed, then moved, then moved again. I could not imagine ever tiring of shopping for house furnishings, but after 4 different shower curtain purchases in an attempt to match the counter in the guest bath, I can't face another white sale, Pottery Barn catalog, or cardboard box to break down.

A problem with journaling (or blogging, if one is an infrequent blogger) is that I feel compelled to "catch up." It's a further deterrent. All I really wanted to write tonight is this: the view out my office window is tall trees, wind, and a broad swath of sky. It's a feast of restfulness after weeks and months of motion. The quiet is like food, nourishing in a life that seems lately filled with meetings, conversations, words, tasks. Also I'm discovering that motherhood really is a joyful servitude--there is never, ever, ever, nothing to be done, and I'm like every mother I ever wondered about why she couldn't just sit down for awhile: driven. So this moment and view is sweet.

Now I'm off to do the dishes, but if you're a mother: sit down, just for a moment. In solidarity for all your sisters.