1000

My son has been alive for 1000 days.

One. Thousand.

In honor of this milestone, I have decided to write him 1000 words. 

Dear Nugget:

It has been 250 days—one-quarter of your life—since March 13, 2020, when the governor of Louisiana closed schools for a month, and your father and I decided to move to Birmingham to ride out the storm there. You got so much extra time with your grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins… (and also your parents and sister). Your days with your oldest cousin yielded a blossoming verbal vocabulary that everyone was so proud of, as your words had come in reluctantly… just like your arrival into this world (past our due date) and your appreciation of solid food and your teeth and your desire to walk.

You take things in your own time. You go at your own pace. It is maddening, exhausting, and beautiful.

A friend posted that something we didn’t know about our own parents when we were kids is that they were figuring this all out, too. I am learning how to be a parent and partner every day, and you expect that I have the answers and reasons and agenda already figured out. I am trying.

From the moment I found out that I was pregnant, I prayed for you to be viable. When we learned that you were not only viable but healthy, I prayed for you to be curious and kind. For more than 1000 days, I have prayed for you to be curious and kind. I want you to be so many other things, but those two words summarize my deepest dreams for you.

I hope you listen to teachers and scientists. I hope you will recognize rhetoric from politicians and priests and parents. I hope that your first memories are not colored with the dread and uncertainty that every adult around you has felt for the past 250 days; I hope that they are vibrant and bold moments of picnics in parks and by the River, of learning to ride your balance bike, of porch parties.

I hope we have hidden our anxiety from you, because you give us enough anxiety!

I told a group of colleagues yesterday that one of my greatest achievements during the pandemic has been keeping a two year old alive. They clapped for me, and I blushed.

In the nine weeks that I was on paid leave to care for you during the pandemic, I told my friends that I was in an abusive relationship. “He hits me, he kicks me, he withholds affection, he controls how I spend my days, he expects me to do all of his laundry and cleaning and cooking… and I love him too much to leave him.” You can try my patience, and you have made me a more patient and caring person. I will probably be grateful one day.

Everyone says that their first weeks with a newborn are a blur, and they are. You were a pretty good sleeper from the beginning, and you were silent and compliant until well past your first birthday. Much to what I had not planned, you were not the best breastfeeder: yours wasn’t nipple confusion; it was nipple convenience, and a bottle was far more reliable than my breasts.

You were a very sweet, docile baby. No one could understand how I had such a good baby. I couldn’t understand how I had such a good baby. I joked that I feared for what was karmically in my future, like you might knock up half of your middle school.

… Then at around 15 months, you learned how to destroy things, and you basically haven’t stopped.

When people ask me to describe you, I say “joyful.” Even though you have become defiant in the past 250 days, you remain joyful. Which is why you’re still alive, 1000 days later.

You don’t nap at school like you should, and you don’t listen at home like you should. You, like your mama, are your teachers’ favorite. I think it’s because you have already learned how to (dis)please people.

My first memories of you were terrifying. We both almost died in childbirth, a story I’m sure you will eventually hear and want to immediately unhear, the way that I rarely want to tell it. The doctor handed you to me, and I was so scared. But we did it, because we are warriors. You thrived, and I learned how to. I watched you be healthy, and it motivated me to follow suit.

You got to have two birthday parties with lots of people at them. You are unlikely to get to celebrate your third birthday that way because we believe in germ theory. You got to spend two Mardi Gras Days on the parade route. All three of your half birthday parties have been attended by the same people; they are our bubble, although we didn’t know that word until this year. They’re the family we chose for ourselves and for you, and I am reminded daily of how well we chose.

In your first 1000 days, we flew to London, New York City, North and South Carolinas, Florida, Austin. You were an incredibly easy baby to fly with. You’ve been to one wedding, no funerals. You’ve met all of your living great grandparents, of which you are blessed enough to have three.

I imagined that you would know your great grandparents by now, that you would have core memories of them. I grieve this loss, among so many others, big and small.

You are a fabulous person to take an adventure with. You love playgrounds; all forms of things that go, especially emergency vehicles; and books. You understand that we wear masks and don’t get to ride busses or streetcars because we love our neighbors. You are an exceptional eater and sleeper.

I love watching you discover the world. I love answering your questions. I love being your guide; I know I’ve been a good one. I will love when you develop empathy.

I will always love you.

Stay curious and kind.

Mama

renewal

Wow. I haven't written a blog post since the flu epidemic of 2018.

Did we call it an epidemic then? I remember that I did, because I was great with child and therefore given a carte blanche for hysteria. I had to cancel or reschedule a Board meeting because so many members of my Board were or had been or would become ill.

I digress.

I have promised myself to write every day in November. 

I need a 30 day challenge, regardless of germs or politicians or hurricanes or holidays or what my next ____ is. I need an agenda I can control.

It will be my way to express gratitude, even if it's just for soil that produces acorn squash every year at this time. 

(There was an acorn squash in my produce box this week. I welcome your suggestions for what to do with it.) (Also seeking suggestions for eggplant and okra and sweet potatoes, which I am frankly tired of cooking and need inspiration for, because these items have been in season for approximately the past 18 weeks of boxes.)

I am grateful I can buy fresh produce--both that I can afford it and that it is available to me. I am grateful my family eats nearly anything. I am grateful to know how to cook. I am grateful I am not the only person in my home who knows how to or has the desire to cook.

But I do not want to ask or answer "what do you want to eat?" more than 50% of the time. Neither does anyone else in my home.

I should be grateful that I am the primary cook, because I like to control the agenda.

Here's to reviving a small part of myself again.

the things she carried

at 34 weeks pregnant
she realized she was carrying more than a five pound fetus
one that would easily live outside the womb
(in america)

she knew she was carrying a boy:
the blood test had said XY
and the pictures had shown testicles clearly
and she was carrying high
(if wives' tales are to be believed)

and because it was she carrying the boy
she carried a white boy
who would be born into privilege
(not every privilege, but enough)
because he was being born in america
to parents who would love him
to parents who had been to college
to parents who work hard

she carried Board meeting agendas
fundraising events
class passes to three studios
two swollen feet (one markedly moreso)
a parental leave/business continuity plan
what felt like a sobriety coin
water, vegan snack bars, Poise pantyliners
insomnia

at 34 weeks pregnant
her husband got sick with the flu
so she carried her husband's daughter to a bed
she had made on the floor of a friend's house
(a quarantined inn)
she woke the child up to give her medicine
she took her own medicine
she carried herself to the bathtub
and less gracefully out of the bathtub

she carried groceries and more medicine
and clothes and toys and soup

she carried a phone that alerted her a faraway friend--
one she had chosen as her son's godmother--
had bought her
a spa gift certificate

she carried messages of
where are you registered
who is your doctor
when are you due
do you know the sex
you want to do it naturally?

a five pound fetus
a nation
bloodwork
pictures
a Masters degree
a workload
volunteer obligations
stepmotherhood
a yoga mat

(a lot of extra weight)

she was carrying a firstborn son
dreams and expectations
hopes and wishes and fervent prayers
(anywhere you go, a mother has already prayed for that journey)

she carried the future
(an heir, the class clown, someone's groom)
tried to focus on the present
(plenty of rest and fluids, all the nutrients, keep blood pressure low)
tried to let go of the past
(doubts, debts, unkindness)

and focused on the most important thing she'll ever carry, ever give, ever bestow or be bestowed:
love.

schedule

A local parenting blog recently asked me to join their team to write a "step parent" column. I submitted three posts for editing and was told they wanted a more personal, less synthesized voice. I'm not comfortable speaking publicly about the challenges of coparenting, remarriage, etc., so I withdrew from the project.

But since I'd already written this post for the holiday season, I wanted to share it. I hope each of you are able to find warmth in some part of this season, regardless of how unconventional your season may be.

*

Navigating two weeks of time off from school with four parents who work full-time and four sets of grandparents who wish to spend time with your family is not easy… especially when you add in religion (which church to attend, if any?) and Santa (does he visit?) and if Christmas Eve or Christmas Day is a Bigger Deal. If one house is significantly wealthier than another, older children may recognize a disparity in quality and quantity of gifts. Or Santa may bring both houses a Playstation. Or children may be in a Christmas pageant one year and absent from church the next.

I’m not going to pretend I have answers. My husband and I both have mothers who would prefer to spend every Christmas with us; neither of them live in this time zone. We are lucky that they are understanding of our desire to balance our time as a couple, as parents, and as children.

Many people love the families they were born into and are able to spend time with them during the holidays; many people love the families they were born into and are not. Many people don’t like their families or prefer their spouse’s family or prefer to travel or prefer to simply not have to eat three (or more) huge meals in the span of 24 hours.

And this is just the adults—before you add in whether it’s Mom or Dad’s year to have custody. Some children whose biological parents are not together spend part of the holiday with each parent. Some biological parents are able to spend Christmas together with their child(ren). Some parents do not see or speak to their child(ren) at all if it’s not their custodial day.

In every instance in which my husband is navigating a schedule—he does not have a court order detailing how it must legally work—we always try to keep my stepdaughter’s best interests in mind. Of course we want to see her. Of course we want to at least talk to her!

But what’s in her best interest is to be able to spend the whole day with one parent/family. What’s in her best interest is only to speak to her father, and not me, when she calls. These are our expectations, for now, and what seems to work best for her, for now.

We are able to make the time we have with her special, regardless of whether it’s a Tuesday during the school week or the first day of the year. Every day is a holiday, and every meal is a feast. May the new year offer us all opportunity to give, receive, and feel love.

first Tuesdays

I attend monthly lectures on spirituality put on by the Loyola Institute for Ministry and hosted at the Church of the Immaculate Conception, one of the most beautiful and holy spaces I've ever experienced. I've heard some really powerful thoughts from people of all faiths over the past few years, and I enjoy the fellowship and perspective it gives me in the middle of my work day.

At the end of today's lecture, the Ignatian priest asked us, "When did you feel God today? Where have you seen God in your life today?"

Admittedly, I have not been much focused on today. I had a huge Board meeting yesterday, and tomorrow is my stepdaughter's birthday. I had 13 Board packets and a testimony to prepare yesterday; I have 29 people dining in my home tomorrow.

So I hadn't given much thought to today. I got through emails and text messages this morning. I made myself breakfast and drank lots of water. I got makeup on. I got to my lecture on time, walking by new construction in the Quarter to see how it was going.

I honestly didn't find much about the conversation today compelling until the priest posed those two questions. And then, suddenly, today started to mean something more than GiveNOLA Day. It meant more than a gateway from yesterday's challenges to tomorrow's celebration.

I have not felt God in this damn cold that won't quit me or Beau. I definitely don't see God when I look at our mountains of used Kleenex. And I'm not sure where God fits in to this scenario, but we haven't kissed on the mouth in days.

But I feel God every morning I get to wake up beside the person I love most in this world. I see Her in the sunshine and low humidity of early May. I feel Him in my ability to walk to my meetings.

I see God in the police officers I communicate with almost daily, as they try to protect our community... but I don't see Her when I hear about the rape of a mentally incapacitated woman.

I tried to help a friend see God in me by stealing her away for afternoon coffee and listening to her cry. I try to show God to others in the way that I laugh and forgive and connect... even if that means tracking down RSVPs at the last minute.

I did not feel God in the two giant spills/messes I made tonight or when I snapped at my husband for something really dumb or when I blew my nose for the 87th time today... but I think She was there for dinner on our back patio, surrounded by our garden at sunset.

I see God in my stepdaughter: her sheer joy, her solitude, her empathy.

And I will make a more conscientious effort to feel and see God in my every day, in the mundane, in the work and the blessings and the laughter, in the low grade fevers and the perspective of strangers, in the tears I've been entrusted to witness, and in the patience and grace my husband grants us.

The sun rises, and the sun sets. It's up to us to be honest with ourselves about how we can love our neighbors best, one day and one moment at a time.

those who save us

(originally posted May 2, 2016)

My beau has a daughter. She doesn't remember a time in her life when I was not a part of it. She calls me her stepmom. Her friends and her friends' parents and my friends call me her stepmom. I could be. I should be. 

But it's not all cupcakes and champagne. 

As I said goodbye to one of my Board members one afternoon this week, I wished her happy Mother's Day if I didn't see her before then. She said, "Same to you."

It makes me feel like a fraud. I feel embarrassment, shame, and all other manner of self-deprecating emotions that are largely uncommon in my life when people wish me a happy Mother's Day. It's a ridiculous reaction. Nia Vardolas, the actress in/writer of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, wrote an amazing book, Instant Mom, about her journey towards motherhood that included adopting a child from the American foster care system and argued that "If you've wiped a butt, you're a mom."

N'est-ce pas? 

I rationally know that I matter to my beau's daughter. I rationally know that she loves me and enjoys spending time with me and admires me and considers herself my daughter. I rationally know that the day will come--and, at this rate, soon!--when she tells me with so so so so so so much anger that I am not her mother. To which I will respond, "but I *am* your parent."

When it comes to how I parent, I feel like I am constantly questioning myself. Especially lately, because the lessons on how and why to wear socks are far easier than the lessons on how and why to empathize. The tantrums that she mostly missed in her second and third years have arrived with foot stomps, exclamations of "I'm so so so so so so angry!", and slumping onto the floor in protest. Sometimes I wonder how we got a teenager trapped in a kindergartner's body.

I cannot imagine a circumstance when I get to spend Mother's Day with her. My brother got married last year on the night before Mother's Day, and that Sunday at brunch, everyone was wishing the women happy Mother's Day. Except not one person said it to me: no one in the family I was born into, no one in my new family, no one in the family I have created. 

And I felt like a fraud for being bothered by it.

I feel a constant search for validation: even though her father and I aren't married (yet? ever?) and that I didn't give birth to her, I desire a sense of belonging to a club I haven't biologically joined. The other female caregivers whose children are in her class have been really accepting of me; they offer advice whenever I ask, they encourage me via text message, and they refuse to let me belittle myself because I'm "just" a stepmom. They help me realize that all of us are questioning ourselves all the time, even the ones whose bellies and thighs and breasts stretched in ways mine haven't (yet? ever?). These neighbors and strangers recognize that beau's daughter and I love each other and that I put great purpose into always putting her best interests first. 

Which is one reason why I laugh at her when she gets alligator tears over having to choose which uniform to wear to school: validating her ridiculousness is not in her best interest.

So, this Mother's Day, I am going to try to put all of my ridiculousness away. I'm going to be grateful for my own biological mother and all of the other female caregivers and friends who have been the village that raised me. I'm going to be grateful for all of the female caregivers who have helped me improve as a mother. I'm going to be grateful for beau for being a wonderful partner and for sharing his beautiful and sweet daughter with me, for entrusting me, for loving me. 

Because embarrassment, shame, and all other manner of self-deprecating emotions are not in my best interest. I am not a fraud; my love for beau and his daughter is not a fraud. And it's in my best interest to find gratitude and grace today and always.

Sinatra

Old blue eyes croon/swoon
Luck be a lady tonight:
Be mine, forever.