So how ’bout that weather?

Ben Folds croons about Jesus on the Bose speakers as afternoon sunlight slips and trickles into the living room. Thomas is serving himself from this morning’s pot of oatmeal while finding the delivery trucks in each of his truck books, squealing as every new one is found. It is the kind of warm, thick day that we never saw all summer, not bearable but insistent enough to make you stop and say, “yes, this is summer.” Iced almond latter weather – I’ve been cobbling together a homemade version every day this week. Mornings with toes dipped in the chilly Atlantic weather. Don’t go running until dusk weather. Sit out together on the patio after the toddler goes to bed and count the stars weather. No knowing where skin ends and atmosphere begins weather. 

It’s easy to overlook these days, to cruise right by. The days when the double batch of banana bread (one with fresh cranberries, one with coconut) bakes up just right, when knitting projects look and feel like they’re progressing, when Ray LaMontagne follows Van Morisson follows that previously mentioned Ben Folds. Pillow fights. Made up songs about backhoe trucks. A half-naked barbarian child drawing scribbles in my notebook. Fridge and counters full of good food. Paychecks coming in. 

In twenty days, he’ll be two years old. And I have been mothering for over 700 days. I guess we’re doing pretty well. 


An Indian summer, it seems, as the heat we evaded and outran through June and July and most of August sneaks up on us, leaving all of the heavy vines and laden stalks wilting and wanting. And my own belly ripening, too, suddenly so very insistently visible, the baby already claiming her (his?) place in my body, in this world. I’ve pulled out maternity shirts and dresses, not wanting to stretch out my own usual wardrobe. I’ve told everyone. 

I am two, the baby and I. But I am two in so many other ways. I have told the husband that I can’t stay here forever, can’t grow old with shifting beach sands beneath my feet. But that is only one of my selves. The other knows we will stay, knows this place will be good to us, to our children, with farms and live music, with friends and bike rides and swims in the pond, with family nearby and the weather near spot on for what we dream. The first self wants wilderness and rebellion, off the grid, out of touch with society, in touch with dirt and trees and mountain bones. The second is still searching for the best way to pay the bills, to pay for the home birth in the spring and Montessori preschool in the fall and organic tahini and gas for the car. 

Twin sisters in my spirit, each grabbing handfuls of the other’s hair, scratching with sharp nails, biting, tattling. Neither can stand to lose, to give in, and neither knows how a compromise could even begin. 

I love my son. He drives me crazy. 
I’m thrilled to be pregnant. I’m terrified of what it will do to my soul to do this all again, the lack of sleep and financial worries and living always at baby/toddler pace.
I love the friends we’ve made here. I can’t stand the tourists, the sand, my coworkers. 

I wish I could sell my novel. Or two of them.
I wish there were reasonable half-time jobs, something at which I could earn more than minimum wage, something that wouldn’t mean 7-9 hours at a time on my feet, something that wouldn’t leave me smelling of mop water and Toasted Coconut coffee.
I wish, I wish. 

I’m knitting again. Making bread. Restless fingers, restless hands. Aching to work, to earn, to accomplish, without abandoning my son, without giving up all sleep. 

The scales shift and settle. There are so many good things. There are so many hard and frightening and worrisome and exasperating things. At least I am feeling. 


I am tired. 

Bone tired.

Muscle and mind and heart and hands tired. 

Tired like I’ve battled sea waves with only a breaststroke in my arsenal. 

Tired like I’ve scaled peaks, scraping limbs and carrying cargo all the way.

Tired like I’ve spent lifetimes under hot sun. 

Tired like we don’t seem to have stopped since I learned of this life within me. 

Tired like I shoehorn all of my work into three days of the weekend, 
all of the digging and carrying and standing.

Tired like I have not been on my own and awake, save in this moment, in as long as I can remember. 

Tired like I am creating an entire new life within my own humming, working, proud body. 

Eight weeks down, thirty-two to go. 

I am tired. 


This is not about mothering…

… except that it is about the world into which I have brought one child and will bring another.

Sometimes the world clobbers you with stories and ideas along the same theme. Sometimes you can’t help but sit down and wonder why. The day we came back from England, I learned about Robin Williams and Kevin Ward Jr. Today it was Lauren Bacall and Michael Brown. Today the main character in the novel I’ve been reading (Woolf’s The Voyage Out) was struck down by an unexpected fever, and tragedy struck in Gaza on the West Wing episode I watched with my husband, multiple killed and injured. An online mom group I’m a part of is having a mini spat about politics, not about specific issues but more about whether we want to invite discussion of political issues into our group. I have the unshakable feeling that the universe is trying to say something, but I haven’t processed enough to know what, yet, exactly.

And then there’s this, too, which feels linked all the same, an article on the values of our current culture and what that means for us as individuals, on the way that a market-driven free economy is not “free” or fair.

Maybe it’s all just coincidence. Maybe it’s just life, thousands upon thousands of people dying every day on this planet, even if we don’t notice a vast majority of them.

I feel like I ought to be paying closer attention. I feel like I don’t have nearly enough time or focus to sort through the galaxies of “information” available to me in order to really know what’s going on, what can be helped and how. Does this make spending time with my husband and son, meeting with friends, taking time to run by myself more or less important? What does all of this being human stuff mean? 

I miss college. I miss being not only encouraged but required to dig more deeply and think through more thoroughly all of these ideas. I miss the community of people with whom I could discuss it all, in person, over coffee or at parties or in class. I have trouble maintaining the steam to press on all by myself, when there are dishes to wash and bills to pay and a toddler to eye and a baby to grow.


a secret

Another. An other. The size of a chickpea, a heart no larger than a poppy seed, but the promise of so much more.

I’m pregnant.

It is unreal as yet. Despite the frequent hunger and constant thirst, despite how tired my whole body feels most of the day, despite the breathless rolling mood swings, I still have trouble believing it. We had only begun to allow for the possibility of pregnancy. A lark, a laugh, a midsummer dare, we left caution behind six weeks ago, and four weeks later every test was positive.

I don’t consistently put much faith in astrology, but Thomas is so clearly a Libra that I was soon curious about this future love: An Aries. A spitfire, a rebel, impulsive and blunt and passionate. Due at the start of April, on the opposite side of the year from the first, a fool in the making. Oh, this little one! What challenges and adventures will it bring? From the start I called Thomas the trickster; who will this one be?

I’ve no desire to knit in this heat. We have most everything we’ll need, at least at the start. I haven’t even called our midwives yet. Instead I read Virginia Woolf and think about picking up the Greek again. I want to clean our house, though that could just be the result of coming back from a week of travel. I savor time with my growing boy, his body lengthening, his songs more elaborate, his person so charming. Less than a month left of summer, the grace period before the school year and pregnancy proper and more editing work. Two of my husband’s brothers with their wives and children due to visit next week, wanting to be at the farm, wanting to swim, wanting chips & pico, spicy ginger ale, shooting stars, date nights. Wanting to enjoy this time of we three before we are four.



Six weeks whipped by. We’ve driven up and down this coast, north to Maine, south to the Carolinas. Hours in the car, books and NPR, CDs played loud, water, coffee, pretzels, diner food. Rain and sun, mountains and sea, strangers and friends and family. Looking forward to trip #3 next month, not just out of state but out of country, off continent, and we say “never again,” my husband and I. We earth signs, we introverts, we were not meant for so many days of change and upheaval. We haven’t kayaked once this year, have hardly seen our rocky beach. No hose fights in the backyard, too few cookouts. When we are home, I’ve been working. Two days each week slicing infinite bagels, throwing together sandwiches and salads, endlessly wiping coffee and juice and milk off of counters. At least one precious afternoon a week at the farm, digging potatoes or weeding or harvesting squash. And editing, too, two jobs in two months with the potential for much more coming in the seasons ahead. No time to write. No time to remember that I have this space. I haven’t been stretching enough, haven’t been writing enough. And I can say that last sentence over and over again, aloud and in my thoughts, but I still can’t seem to take care of myself, to break through the haze of my not-quite-thoughts and ACT. Nap time, my oasis each day, has dried up, as I’m working through it or we’re in the car or we’re out of the house, or he skips it altogether,


And that post was begun early this past week and abandoned; I don’t even remember why.

But I’m between editing work, and so there has been more slow family time this week. Walks to the beach, swimming at the pond, reading books together. Still farm work, but it can hardly be called work to stand under the sun with the ocean breeze slowing and quickening and pick blueberries or string beans or even squash for an hour. And coffeeshop work, but it’s compressed into the weekend, leaving five free days before I need to go back.

Thomas has reached an easy phase. I am so proud of the way he sings songs and tells stories, climbs rocks unassisted, tests his own boundaries and judges them well. He is so in love with this world as he daily becomes more familiar with it. He is friendly and curious and independent. And he is stubborn and mischievous and sometimes downright wild, but he is a toddler and a human. I am proud that he will be stubborn enough to keep his own mind and mischievous enough to surprise people and wild enough to feel free. He listens so well, understands so much. We weaned on the trip south, and now is asking to hold hands throughout the day, willingly giving us fierce little boy hugs. And Wednesday night, after we had a late dinner with his grandparents, I pulled him out of the car and he threw his head back. “Stars. My looks at the stars.”


Tired here at the end of the day, but the good kind, the kind that says my body and my mind and my voice have all been made use of today. The weather was strange from the start, a warm breeze from this direction, a cold one from that, sunlight dimming and brightening through inconstant clouds, a moment or two of drizzle. It was a little off-kilter, the internet radio not working, the knowledge of mercury being in retrograde buzzing around my brain. Five minutes into our morning walk, as he dawdled even more than usual, I turned us around, changed my clothes, and off we went in the jogging stroller, four miles looped through the neighborhood at a strange midmorning hour I hardly ever spend running, but it worked for us today to go with intuition and signs and symbols and against the usual flow. Everything happened earlier or later or more easily or longer than I expected, but by the end I was rolling along with it, with threatening rain and a last-minute call for a few hours’ work at the farm, with rambunctious toddlers and conversations no one wants to end, with an offer of a freelance job that is just the right size at this moment. The universe shook things up today. Or maybe not the entire universe. Maybe just that full, fat June moon that’s up there beyond the clouds somewhere. Maybe it’s all her doing that I’ve been sidestepping and ducking and swinging this way and that to find my way today. And now that way leads to cool sheets and a warm husband…

“Paint it today…”

A drizzling, misting, light gray day in June. June. Where was the spring? Oh wait, we missed it.
After breakfast and the tug of war to change from robot pajamas to potty time to a clean diaper to clean clothes, we made our way outside regardless of the weather. Exploration of the mysterious compost bin, piled with eggshells and onion skin and apple cores, clouded with gnats, warm. Digging in “his” patch of dirt, between the garlic whose scapes are suddenly not just sprouted but tall and the newly planted tomatillo and pepper plants. Walking the “balance beam” of 4×4 at the edge of the raised bed. Squatting to examine moist soil. Squealing with delight as he watches a bird fly through the roped-up hop vines and into the bittersweet that flows from – into? – the neighbor’s yard.
Meanwhile, I drink my milky black tea and stretch a little. Three miles run Sunday, five yesterday, and my legs are muttering about it. But these legs! Suddenly my thighs are run through with iron, the soft places thinning to reveal tensile strength beneath. The baby/toddler/boy and I lie in his bed in the evenings and stretch our feet to the ceiling, shake out the stiffness, reach for our toes, roll like pencils across the thin futon mattress. He climbs on my back while I breathe through a plank. He crawls below me as I shift into downward dog. He begs to ride in the stroller, mostly because he knows we’ll visit the chickens at the farm halfway or stop on the way home at a friend’s place to descend over a hundred stairs to the shore, run around on a beach far sandier than ours, climb the rock wall, and then step up each of those stairs again, back to the stroller, back home to the dog and to dada and to dinner.
Not today, though. A rest day. For puttering around in the thick wet air. A day for more tea. And maybe some poems.

photo (2)

Even though it took four times as long as usual, he had so much fun helping me sweep. He learned the word “tidying” as I scurried around, clearing off the floor, finding home for things with him. He ran after me with the dust pan, scooping up dog hair. He snagged our big broom whenever I set it down, clearing for me. He watched our neighbor gardening outside and called her by name. He sipped water and begged for more cashew milk (he’s just started drinking anything but water, at his own request, and it feels like such new, big kid territory). When I sliced my finger on a rough bit of the faucet, he, too, needed a bandaid, like mama. When I didn’t stop sweeping to give him another prune, he plucked the container of them off of the counter, took two, put the lid back on, and replaced it where it had been. He climbs chairs to get to where he needs to go, and even though he might ask for help getting down, usually all it takes is “remember? how do we get down?” and he can do it. He ate two bowls of oats and raisins and yogurt for breakfast, asking for extra [flax & chia] seeds. The weather is gorgeous after two days of clouds and rain, and on our walk today, we picked up and discarded stones and sticks, watched the mailman for a long while, listened for a rooster crowing somewhere and talked about the difference between boy chickens and girl chickens. He knows butter comes from cows, eggs come from chickens, mint and garlic come from the backyard. And with all of his insistence on helping, he’s learning, too, about our values, our world. When washing the dishes, we turn the water off when we’re not using it because a lot of people need to work very hard to clean it after it goes down our drain. We don’t leave the fridge open too long when putting things away because we don’t want to waste the energy. This yucky thing may go in the trash, but that yucky thing may go in the compost to help feed our baby garlic, baby hops, baby tomatillos. Learning, learning. He’s learning to help put on his own shirt, pull up his pants. He brings me clean diapers when I tell him it’s time for a change. He says “please,” “thank you,” “excuse me,” “mama, hold hands,” “I love you.”

The dog woke up him up fifteen minutes into what is usually a 2-3 hour nap. I still need to buy groceries for dinner tonight (friends are coming) and take the recycling to the transfer station. I really don’t want a cranky nap-free baby tonight, nor am I terribly excited about missing out on that slice of afternoon that I get all to myself.

I have trouble remembering sometimes, how fortunate I am, we are. I have trouble disconnecting from all of those things I worry about getting right and noticing the things that are going better than I could have anticipated. We toured a lovely, homey Montessori school on Wednesday; he wouldn’t go until fall of next year, but we found a day in the school year my teacher man could take a day off and his mother could take the morning to babysit. As much as our guide very gently, firmly told us that it’s not the right school for every child, we were struck again and again by how it will so much be the right place for ours. His independence, his polite communication, his curiosity and focus. And even the visit itself, the obvious concept of avoiding doing for children what they can learn themselves, has rubbed off on us, as we continue to invite Thomas to help us water the plants, wipe his face and hands, put away his clean laundry.

There’s no grade in a grade book. There’s no raise, no new title. There’s no awards ceremony, no convocation. You just wake up, as a parent, and recognize that it’s a new mini era.