Sometime in the last week, a shoebox lid fell behind the shoe cubbies by our back door. It was worked on, then set down for another project. A four year old child saw the letters and traced them. The desire to write keeps him (and us) awake at night.  His mind is a blender, mixing alphabet soup. Cognitive leaps in children are often accompanied by sleep interruptions at night. Babies and children on the cusp of walking, talking, writing, or reading can’t turn their brains off. During my son’s night wakings I try to decode him. But he can’t answer my questions. He’s decoding the world.

Dinner’s ready but where are my diners?  Stretched out the floor, under sofa cushions, curled up in a ball on the stair landing.  “Dinnnnner!” I call out. My children are tired from the start of school. So tired, they can’t drag themselves to the table. And it’s only 5:45 p.m. “What are we havvvvvving?” someone listlessly whines back, after a long, echoy silence.  I dread this moment. In this phase of family life, our children have opposing food preferences. Nightly I contend with two ideologies that can’t be reconciled. Mac and PC, Coke and Pepsi, Jack Sprat and the Mrs.  “We are having something deeee-licious, ” I say vaguely, like a politician. No reaction. We all know I’ll be carrying them to the table.

I prop their boneless bodies up in the chairs. “Is there any meat in this?” my daughter asks, peering into her soup. “I don’t like this!” my son fires at me, looking suspiciously at the garbanzos in his bowl. The food is not new to them, but this level of fatigue & depletion is. They like the meal I’ve made; they inhaled it the last few times I cooked it. They’re normally open-minded, polite kids. This is not about what’s on their plates. So I break out my secret weapon: the Gateway Food.

Every kid has a Gateway Food–a tasty morsel she will always eat, even in the heaving hell of a stomach virus. For my daughter, it’s Greek olives. For my son, it’s raspberries. If my children are face-down and groaning on the dinner table, reason, bargains and threats hold no sway. Instead, what works is to slip a little saucer of the Gateway Food alongside their dinner plates. “Have an olive,” I’ll suggest, turning on my heels and returning to the kitchen on a phantom errand. They need space to eat their tender treats without it feeling like surrender. A few minutes and few bites later, their blood sugar, spirits, and manners revive. Then, and only then, will they be able to tackle their dinner. Watching them chitchat happily as they eat, it’s hard to resist the “I told you so’s.”  But resist I must, if Gateway Food is to remain the power drill of my maternal tool belt. Next up: selling toy pick-up and baths.

My ninth-grade government teacher taught me the term “zero sum economy.”  As I understand it, a zero-sum economy has no ability to grow and expand. A finite amount of wealth exists, and if one person has it, another does not. America, I learned, is not a zero sum economy. This country possesses the capacity for its citizens to prosper without displacing the wealth of others.

People say that raising children is expensive, and it is. But the true currency of parenthood is time. The minutes available in a 24-hour period are zero-sum. There’s no expanding the limits of a day; it’s a celestial thing. So we trade time advancing our careers for the ability to be with our young children, or vice versa. We trade our desire to read and rest for chores so that our homes don’t descend into filth. We trade hygiene for sleep. We trade outings with friends for the time to cook homemade meals so our food-allergic children will be safe. We trade reason for intuition, and social acceptance for authenticity.

If we were to pull apart the seams where our choices meet, the edges would be imprecise and filled with gaps and pockets. We may choose to work, but there are days when the babysitter doesn’t show or our child has a fever. Snagged in the seam: the decision to suffer our boss’ consternation for a personal day at the pediatrician’s. We may choose to stay home with our children, but may unravel from the lack of adult contact and alone-time.

There are also swaths of life where no seams exist between the known and unknown: the newborn months, times of change in family structure, periods of illness, moves to new towns, even school spring breaks and summer vacations. Peer between the threads and watch us dart to re-establish routine. Even on regular days, we frey when we question the trades we’ve made. The seam-rippers, Guilt and Longing, stand ready to tear us apart. Relatives and friends stitch us back together with their calls and casseroles. These acts of kindness remind us that while our time is zero-sum, our capacity for love and courage is not.

“Sell your cleverness and buy uncertainty.” -  Rumi.

For anybody out there who’s bringing home a new baby, putting a child on the bus, dealing with health challenges, changing jobs, moving to a new house or town, or is otherwise taking a leap of faith. We get by with a little help from our friends.

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A homemade "play place" using toys and furniture cushions

“Every act of creation is first an act of destruction.”    –Pablo Picasso.

Neat homes are overrated. Sure, it’s good to tidy up at the end of the day. Putting toys and clothes away is a good habit to instill in children. But there’s a place and time for everything, including messes. As an artist who spent a few years being blocked, I’ve learned that joy and flow are among the most precious commodities in life. To most young children, experiencing joy and creating without inhibition is a natural state of being. Encouraging creation in our home is among my greatest pleasures. I believe that respect and self-actualization are the birthright of every person, regardless of age.

"Welcome to the Play Place." Sign made for the door.

I’ve been fortunate to learn about Maria Montessori’s approach to early childhood education. She advocated the careful observation of children, of how they question, learn, and solve problems on their own.  I love to observe my children while they’re creating. They are like radio towers receiving transmissions from the divine.  If the house becomes quiet for a few minutes, I tiptoe to the room where the children are and peek in to make sure they’re safe. I avoid being noticed. What I often find is my son and daughter, heads bent, working silently on a tent structure or on a  book they’ve fashioned, authored, and bound. I respect the sanctity of their concentration.

Do not disturb.

Sometimes when our children’s friends visit, they remark (to their parent’s mortification) that we don’t have many toys at our house. We actually have a lot of toys, but we cycle them through so our children can move about freely in their home.  They need room–actual square footage–to make their string sculptures that stretch across the dining room chairs, around the stair railing, and over to the living room sofa. Within this one “mess,” they’ve practiced measuring, unrolling, cutting and tying string–all fine motor skills. They’ve assessed distances and solved simple spans. They’ve analyzed the intersections of different materials. They’ve directed their own efforts. Most importantly, they’ve taken a vision in their minds and manifested it in the physical world. It would be difficult to design an activity that could accomplish so many worthwhile ends.

And then there’s the beauty! The beauty of what the children have made, and the radiance of their faces when they share their work with those they love. A little hand grabs mine: “come look what we made!”  I’m tugged towards the new project. What will it be? By now they know not to draw on the walls, so there’s no worry. We arrive and I sit on the floor so they can tell me everything, eye-to-eye. . “A rollercoaster launcher, you say? Yes, I see!”  Their work is important, welcome and worthy. It’s a fine mess. The finest.

Outdoor string "web" sculpture

Costume made from duct tape, colander and cereal boxes

Flying reindeer, using packaging tape stretched up at an angle between doorknob and chair

project under construction + ringing phone + babysitter just left + 100 degrees + children need to be inside + email: please review this plumbing fixture schedule + make lunch + text response:  I’ll call you in a few minutes + ear ache + call pediatrician + tupperware + straw + water + 1 T. dishwashing soap = 6  minutes for 2 calls, we’ll take the 3:40 appt. with Dr. Michel;  yes, the Kohler ‘Verticyl’ oval sinks with the Hansaform faucets in polished chrome.

—tated lyrics can be heard around our house a lot nowadays. Not only our usual bungled refrains and creative interpretations of mumbly songs. Lately we’re consciously cooking up new lyrics for old songs, particularly those that hail from less-enlightened times.  In June I took my daughter to see a local theater company’s production of  “The Sound of Music.” Ever since, my husband and I start the day flipping eggs to “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” and shut down the house at night to “The Lonely Goatherd.” It’s more than a nervous system can take–especially when some of the content is uber-dated. My girl’s especially partial to “You are Sixteen, Going on Seventeen,” which by any measure, is a great song. But the message, holy crap! I can’t take Liesel’s smack about needing someone older and wiser telling her what to do. Not sitting down, anyway. That’s where the concise and impactful words “NOT!, LOTS! an HA!” come in most handy. The timing works out just fine, too. Enjoy this revisionist version with your little girl or boy soon…
(Rolf)
You are 16 going on 17
Baby its time to think
Better beware
Be canny and careful
Baby you’re on the brink
(Liesel) NOT!

(Rolf)
You are 16 going on 17
Fellows will fall in line
Eager young lads
And grueways and cads
Will offer you fruit and wine

Totally unprepared are you
To face a world of men
Timid and shy and scared are you
Of things beyond your ken

(Liesel) NOT!
You need someone
Older and wiser
Telling you what to do
I am 17 going on 18
I’ll take care of you
(Liesel) NOT!

(Leisl)
I am 16 going on 17
I know that i’m naive
Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet

And willingly I believe

NOT!

I am 16 going on 17 innocent as a rose
Bachelor dandies
Drinkers of brandies

What do I know of those -LOTS!

Totally unprepared am I
To face a world of men
Timid and shy and scared am I
Of things beyond my ken
HA!

I need someone
Older and wiser
Telling me what to do
You are 17 going on 18
I’ll depend on you ”

NOT!

Behold $40. Forty dollars of agony and ecstasy.  The agony of paying for food with cash, the ecstasy of eating delicious fresh produce from local growers. I had a breakthrough this week at our farmer’s market. I realized that my biggest roadblock to buying food from nearby producers has not actually been the lifelong supermarket precedent, the lack of nearby parking, two small children in tow, the heavy bags, or the crowds. It’s the money. Specifically, the cash. For years debit cards and check books have anesthetized me to the reality of paying for things. It’s almost painful to hand crisp bills over for anything, even the most worthy sweet yellow peaches.

On Saturday I decided that since I typically spend $40 a week on fruits and vegetables at the grocery store (we eat mostly vegetarian), I’d try spending this same figure on produce from the farmer’s market.  This tact represents a more deliberate approach than my piecemeal “hey these tomatoes look good” strategy to date. How far will this $40 get us? Two days into the week, we’ve already downed the yellow squash (gratin w/gruyere), okra (boiled, then seasoned w/butter and salt), tomatoes (bruschetta), zucchini (soup, w/garlic & basil) green beans (blanched, with olive oil), corn (steamed) and half of the herbs. Will I make it to Saturday with just the Asian eggplant, peppers and cucumbers?

Some of the money-management books I own advocate paying for all things in cash. With bills, there’s no hiding behind hypnotically-hologrammed doves or dizzing routing numbers. I buy things and witness the money leaving my possession. The local food movement is similarly about immediacy and  transparency. The bills you press into the farmer’s hand feed the children helping out in his market stand. Crops and cash, both green, living entities. Michael Pollan, meet Suze Orman.

There are great moments in marital life. Like when you see the joy a flat screen t.v. will bring your husband and decide to forego your usual schtick about expense and practicality. Then there are other moments, like when you bicker over stupid stuff. Worse, in front of your children.

At the beginning of the summer, my daughter beckoned me to the yard to see this:

“Ooh, it’s a bumble bee’s nest,” I said, stepping back. The previous summer I’d unexpectedly uncovered a bumble bee nest in our yard while gardening. This qualified me as an expert. My husband ambled over. “No way,” he said. “It’s a fungus.”  “My daughter looked back and forth between us, as if watching a tennis match. “Nest.” “Fungus.” “Nest.” “Fungus.”

Enter (into my mind) David Sedaris, who I’m fairly sure would never even briefly imagine himself a relationship counselor. As the nest/fungus debate stretched into hours, escalating to Google Image searches and the like, I remembered Sedaris’ essay about the chef with the rubber hand. (In France, where Sedaris lived at the time, “chef” means “boss.”)  In the essay, Sedaris comes home one night and reports to his partner Hugh and their dinner guests that his boss has a prosthetic rubber hand. Hugh finds this notion ridiculous and insists that the prosthesis must be made of something else. The two go on to argue about the rubber hand endlessly. At the essay’s conclusion, Sedaris says something to the effect of (and I’m paraphrasing): “Even in death there would be no relief. My headstone would read “It was rubber.”  And Hugh’s adjacent tombstone would fire back “No it wasn’t.”

Joe was right, it was a fungus. Even before we figured this out, I dropped the debate. He started poking at the mysterious cluster with a stick. As I watched from the window, I took comfort in the fact that the bees would deliver their own special brand of justice, should there be a need. My kids ran out to join their father in the mulch after he gave them the all-clear sign. The three of them wildly kicked the once-neat cluster of buds to flying white smithereens.  As each spongy chunk landed on the ground, it bounced a little. Like…rubber.

10  things nobody (esp. Hollywood) tells you when you become a new Mom:

1. Mothers give birth to newborns, not infants.

Newborn

Infant

2. Babies may cry briefly and vociferously immediately before falling asleep. If baby’s showing sleepy signs then quickly toggles into a minute or two of wailing, she could be on the cusp of slumber. If her diaper’s ok and she’s not hungry or otherwise in distress, stay cool and quiet for a couple of minutes and see if she conks out.

3. Aforementioned sleepy signs: rocking head, yawning, crying, blowing raspberries, thousand-yard stare, syllable repetition (”MaMaMaMaMaMa”). Babies have sleep ‘windows’ just like grown ups. If you see these signs and are able, hightail it to wind-down mode.

1,000 yard stare

4. C-section ladeez: the numbness at your incision may last a long time (years).

5. Nursing/feeding can get baby’s G.I. tract moving. If your baby wakes late at night with a full, wet diaper, wait til mid-feeding to change it. That way if there’s a ‘code brown’ after some chow, you don’t have to change him twice. Unless of course baby fires another missle after the second half. Best case scenario: baby finishes feeding, has a full belly, empty colon, clean diaper, easy burp, and you and he fall right back to sleep.

6. Light and noise stimulate baby late at night. Keep baby drowsy for maximum family sleep by changing diapers by nightlight. Just wipe everywhere thoroughly for good measure. Or if you have a closet with a light, crack the door and use that light to switch him out. Don’t talk more than you have to, and do so in a whisper voice. Unless of course your little one’s sad and needs reassurance. When it’s daylight, chat that baby up big time!

7. It’s ok to “hit the deck” like a soldier in a bombing raid if your sleeping baby stirs while you check on her. We’ve all done it. Some of us have opted to stay pinned under the crib for an hour rather than risk waking a colicky baby. Partners, say what you will. Sleep trumps all, mo-fo!

9. Postpartum depression (PPD) or other mental strife can happen anytime in the first year after a baby’s born. The sooner you get support, the better. Not only for you, your baby and your family, but for your pocketbook. When depression is diagnosed within the first 6-8 weeks postpartum, it is considered a medical complication of pregnancy. It can be treated by your OB/GYN in a straightforward, self-contained way as part of your prenatal/delivery universal fee.  After 6-8 weeks postpartum, PPD considered a behavioral complication of pregnancy. You will likely be referred outside your OB/GYN’s practice for care, and your insurance company may make a bigger deal of it. Bottom line: if you need help at any point, run, don’t walk to get it and let the insurance chips fall where they may. You are not replaceable and can deal with insurance shenanigans later. But remember that sooner is better. Find support for PPD here.

10.  If you feel like you’re the only one up late at night, take heart. There are leagues of us schlepping down the hall in the day clothes we never changed out of.  Even those of us with toddlers and elementary school kids are rockin’ the midnight shift sometimes. The lights in your neighborhood may be out, but someone somewhere is switching out wet sheets or soothing a child after a nightmare. Feel that crooked barette in your hair and the car keys in your pocket as you fall out of bed. You’re on the 24-7 catwalk in good company, hottie!

11. Yeah, I skipped #8. Mama tired (son having 2 a.m. night terrors.)