It's hard to fall asleep while the world keeps spinning

I'm propped up in a bed in a motel with I40 through the Navajo Nation in Arizona as the soundtrack to the constant replay of images and thoughts in my head. I lie next to my eight-year-old daughter and marvel at how she sleeps, for she is like me. I used to lie awake in bed at night, one thought leading to another and another and then the world and the universe and the solar system and how small we are and how large and unending the universe, and what lies beyond the universe, and the stars, and then beyond.
Usually, she lies awake for a minimum of an hour, eyes steadfastly open and brain visibly whirring in the beautiful ocean storm of their depth, but tonight my daughter sleeps while semis roll by outside our room. She surrendered quickly tonight, her strong and vital eight-year-old body exhausted by a small and violent war with a stomach and respiratory bug. Ever the resourceful mom, while she was barfing into an (empty) produce bag in a small and run down Safeway down the road from our motel with her brothers witnessing in their pajamas from perches in the shopping cart, I was readying an offering of baby wipes and ginger ale I had yet to purchase but was already claiming as my arsenal. We'll use whatever we have, us moms: spit and a kleenex usually, as detested by me in my youth as it is by my daughter in hers.
She lies sleeping, and to my left her brothers are splayed in questionable sheets, protected by over-loved teddy-bears and wooden trains. I am awake, and amazed. These are my children. We are in the Navajo Nation because I am driving home to California from Santa Fe and a visit with my parents and the city they raised me in, and my sisters and their miracle children and pregnant bellies and worrying husbands and the beautifully cruel reminder that we are all getting older much, much faster than we bargained for. When did it change from growing up to growing older? It's only a difference in semantics, as far as I can tell - in so many ways I am still that girl looking at the stars through the crack in the curtains, feeling my size and insignificance in the universe. And yet. If we are so insignificant, why does it hurt so much when one of us goes?
I love where I grew up. I love where I live now. I am so, so lucky to be lying here next to my beautiful children, missing my husband, reminding myself to breathe and not just wait in fragile suspense for the next piece of glass to shatter. I am holding in my heart the memory of my beautiful friend, Stephanie who died just two nights ago, and having to remind myself to breathe: that it is not me watching over my children in a hotel room on I40 at night that will protect them from harm. Just as it was not me keeping one hand on each of my sisters' beds at night in our small bedroom that kept us all from spinning out into the universe and beyond. It was enough then to imagine my brother safe and with us in his bedroom, so I will imagine them all safe now and hope, believe it is enough, at least tonight. There are stars, and streetlights, and headlights outside these curtains. I want to protect these beautiful creatures inside from the pain of loss they already have had to trace with baby fingers, but I know it is futile, and they only way to keep them from the pain would be to restrict them from love in equal measure and there is no possible way or desire to keep such perfect creatures from that.
My parents amaze me, and I see how in it's spinning the world just cycles us back through the understanding of what they felt for us, and we now feel for our children, and feel identically in our parents getting older. I want to hold my breath and know that nothing will ever change, that I can stop my parents from their cycle, but I want even more for my children to know the joyride that is life on this beautiful, spinning planet. In the Navajo Nation I remember my highschool friend, Travis, who is, or isn't, somewhere in this spinning. In my father's house I remember his second wife, and in my beautiful nephew's eyes I remember my sister's first husband. In the questions of my children holding up a photograph I remember my parents' first son. A beautiful tiny girl named Ella, my grandmothers, Aunt Virginia, a prayer flag of names unfurling in the wind. There is no shortage of loss, though in just this one hotel room it's effects are far outpaced by joy.
Stephanie, my dear friend, we raised our children these early years together and I am taking a deep, deep breath and believing you are somewhere in this marvelous, cruel universe laying a loving hand on our mattresses to keep us from spinning out into the stars, as I am keeping a hand on your boys' heads, and my own childrens', while I tell them a story of you.
It's time to close the laptop, to surrender myself into sleep that will ready me for whatever onslaught of illness or adventure or joy tomorrow offers. I give myself up to the spinning, so tomorrow I can steady myself and move us forward into our journey. I will always love you, sweet friend, I am grateful to remember all those who are gone, and all of those with whom we still have time to live.

Our Santa, Who Art in Nebraska

Come Christmas morn, someone’s going to have a lot of explaining to do. My two oldest children’s letters to Santa read like a laundry list of all the things they’re not, ever, going to get as gifts.

Jordan, my nearly 8 year-old first-born is perched on that tenuous ridge made by the convergence of the slippery slopes of imagination and, well, the dawning understanding of real life. Her enthusiasm at the existence of Santa and the possibilities Christmas holds is ruthless as she gets older and reality knocks ever more insistently on the door to childhood. Her list reads like an inventory of Dr. Doolittle’s household: a horse, a chocolate lab, another kitty (that won’t take a joy ride in mama’s mini-van engine compartment and bail out somewhere in the wilds of our county), a snake, a mouse (not in the same cage, I presume), a hamster, a guinea pig, an egg about to hatch into a fluffy, cuddly duckling or chick, and the fencing, houses, warming lights and so on to go with them all. In case live animals can’t be wrestled into Santa’s bulging bag of toys, she’s also included the four most expensive items from the American Girl catalog, a tome on par with the damage potential of the Tiffany’s catalog.

Sawyer’s list is even more difficult to fulfill. He starts it off with these three little doodads: “I want us all not to die. And not get sick. I don’t want any bad dreams.” Santa’s pretty much already Mr. Grinch as he draws his empty hands out of the ol’ satin sack on those requests. Writing Sawyer’s Santa letter with him I was able to fulfill a few of his wishes, finding odd toys and swim medals he thought he’d lost but I’d put in their appropriate place. “I’d like Santa to find that stuffed snake Autumn gave me last Christmas,” he dictated, followed soon after by the exclamation, “So that’s where that’s been!” as I pull it out of, where else, a basket full of stuffed toys. Because he still has big-sister worship he also wants American Girl dolls, but boys, which only come in twin sets to the tune of semester of college if you get the beds he wants with them as well. Clearly, I need to have a chat with my children about Santa’s budget in a recession.


Clavey's desires are clear, oft voiced, simple and easy to fulfill. They are, in this order, "Book. Ball. Cat." Check.

Sawyer’s certainty in Santa’s ability to deliver us from evil is indicative of the stage he is in. I remember well when Jordan was in it – there’s a lot of talk about death, and about who made things like air, water, and the earth. There’s this rising awareness of the world around them and this need to understand it, to find our place in it from early on. Time is slowly becoming less vague through heart-stopping questions like “Will I be alive next Christmas?” followed by the revealing, “How old will I be then?”

We’ve not raised our children with organized religion. We haven’t hidden religion from them, or disparaged anyone’s beliefs, and we welcome the study of all religions at school and in talking with friends and reading the amazing diversity of library books. We have explained the origin of the earth from the scientific perspective, which I find infinitely more miraculous than the seven days it took Him in the Bible, and we answer the questions of where flowers and birds and snakes came from with a watery explanation of Darwinism. It’s challenging as a parent to shift from reminding someone to wash their hands after using the potty straight into answering questions on where we go when we die.

I was raised Catholic for the first twelve or thirteen years of my life as it was the religion my mother was raised and has since questioned, adapted and reformed her views of. While I am grateful for the lessons in morality it gave me, I found virtually no solace in its notions of heaven and hell and felt there were far too many inconsistencies and contradictions in it for me to be able to simply BELIEVE. I don’t consider myself in any way atheist, science and nature being so miraculous as to inspire faith in there being a web that connects us to the smallest organisms of our world. But I am seeing now that religion gave an answer, albeit temporary, to these questions my son is peppering me with. The simplicity of understanding the world through religion allows for a believable explanation to an imaginative five year-old’s question about who made air.

I think it’s that need for understanding that guides my son to believe in the omnipotence of Santa. The man in red is, according to Sawyer, the only person who won’t die, won’t get sick, and can grant us absolution from our failings. When we guide Sawyer to a cursory understanding of the big bang theory, however, it’s my hope that we instill in him not only the beginnings of awe at the miracle of nature and web of life, but also the beginning seeds of empowerment, of knowing that he is ultimately responsible for making sense of and finding purpose in his own life.

Christmas is celebrated in our house not as a religious holiday but as a time to celebrate family and friends. It is at its roots a religious occasion, and we've explained the story of Christ's birth and the origin of the holiday, and we sing the carols. Hence, my daughter knows who Jesus is. She and I were in Seattle following the birth of my nephew 20 months ago when on a walk we came upon a fountain featuring a statue of a man and a boy. "I think I know who that is," she said. "God and Jesus."

On a bus bringing a jolly post-wedding party back to my sister's house we passed the same statue. My sister pointed it out saying "Look, Jordan, there's the Jesus and God fountain." Clearly Sawyer had been listening, and in some mysterious way processing. We hit a bump a few minutes later and Sawyer explained emphatically, "That was Jesus."

Over the last few years, my husband and I have had a few phone conversations with Santa in front of the children, answering his purported questions regarding our offsprings’ questionable behavior. This year, the kids bugged and pressed me for Santa’s number after our first threat of “you’d better watch out”. I first claimed I didn’t know it, then that I wasn’t allowed to divulge it to children, and finally, I simply Googled it. I discovered that Santa charges a mere $17.95 for the first four minutes of a phone conversation with your child and will pen a reply to their Dear Santa letters for an equally astounding sum. Googling again the area code given for setting up these appointments with His Jollyness, I discovered that one of the miracles of Santa is that he, while living at the North Pole, receives his calls just outside Omaha. Miracles abound.

Jordan was at Tae Kwon Do class tonight and I headed to the hospice thrift store next door where I killed time with a 14 month old who has no respect for the dojo and a five year-old needing distraction. Christmas is easy at the thrift store. I found Jordan a 54 cent angel for the top of the tree to replace a shattered one she’d been mourning. Clavey found two balls at a dollar apiece and was immediately in heaven. Sawyer hit the motherlode, finding a stuffed Diego doll only slightly smaller than himself that he was immediately enamored with. As it looks like Christmas from Santa might be a little disappointing this year, I ponied up the $4. He’s going to need a shoulder to cry on. It's not looking good for cookies next year, big guy.
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The Bully in Me, and in You

There’s a playgroup I’ve been a part of since my middle son was just about a year old. It started as a group of four or five families with kids right around the same age and has, in the four-plus years since, turned into gathering large enough to warrant an Excel spreadsheet of contacts and a lifesaving rep with monumental proportions.
With about a month left before the last presidential election, I was at playgroup at the house of a woman I’d grown close to over the last three-plus years. I’d shown up at her house when her dad passed away unexpectedly, and we’d shared a lot as our sons passed through toddlerhood together.
Launching into a discussion on the election, I’d made the automatic assumption that she, like me, was a Democrat. She’d shared enough about her past, her early adulthood, her life now that I obviously felt safe in the assumption, but she quickly steered me in the right direction. She was a registered Republican. She wasn’t sure what that meant anymore, but her parents had been staunch Regan Republicans and the identity had stuck.
What happened next was really kind of awesome: I had the best conversation since my college days about politics. She confessed to having downloaded the entire platform of both Obama and McCain and was diligently making her way through them in order to come up with an educated and informed vote. I vowed to her to do the same, and coming home from that playgroup got promptly on the internet to do just that. This was after a long, heartfelt conversation in which I was given the gift of really being asked to define, explain and justify my political position. I learned that I was not a knee-jerk Democrat, that I had been listening, that my passion for this new candidate came from a position of being informed and not just party-centric.
I credit my mother highly with this: in her house, we had dinner as a family and we each had to bring to the table current events. You had to have a news story of the day that you could summarize and explain why it mattered, and you had to understand it enough to explain it in detail. You also had to have a backup – with four kids, chances were excellent that someone would spill your chosen story before you got there and so you had to have a second story in your pocket in case this happened. I still read a few newspapers every day with that kind of negligible intensity – enough to make a few stories count but not enough time spent to make me really, truly informed (For that I depend on NPR).
What was really important about what I took from that playgroup was the eradication of the assumption that I could assume that because I liked someone or respected them as a parent or was comfortable in their house, that I could assume that I was politically aligned with them. What this took away from my assumed comfort zone first was the inane one-liners that give us that sense of clubbiness: the pot shots about a village in Texas missing their idiot or a instantaneous scoff at anything that came from Palin’s mouth. It made me a better Democrat.
What it also really made me aware of was the necessity for civility in how I chose to discuss politics even with those I considered close.
Lately, the issue of bullying has come front and center in our media. Thankfully. A problem of monumental proportions that defies politics, gender, race and religion (or perhaps, rather, it fails to exclude anyone based on these and many other factors), bullying is a new hot-button topic. Parents, school officials, community leaders claim uncertainty as to the origins of this growing problem.
To me, it’s obvious. The emergence of the tea party illuminates it more than ever: the way we identify politically is no longer civil. As a parent, married to an educator and involved intimately with how children learn and grow it is very clear to me that it’s all in the modeling. We learn how to behave, what is appropriate from our parents and, secondly, from our peers.
Never have I been so grateful to not have television at our house than this year., in this political season. The few times I was exposed to what is constantly broadcast in an election were the few (and I do mean few) hours a week I spent at the gym with seven televisions on full-time closed captioning blaring soundlessly and relentlessly with their constant political messages of hatred, lies and vitriol. It was nauseating. The political attack ads are unbearable in their acidity and rudeness. The one-liners from the parties on posters and especially on bumper stickers are cruel.
A parent with a “This is my peace sign” bumper sticker featuring a gun sight image wonders why his son is being called into the principal’s office for blatant disrespect of another student. This election I saw so many “I hate liberals”, “ I’ll keep my guns, money and freedoms, you can keep your ‘change’”, “NObama”, and so many stickers in that same vein it made me nauseous to drive down the road. I felt guilty for laughing at the “Somewhere in Texas a village is missing it’s idiot” stickers of the Bush era.
None of it is okay. If we’re going to have Democracy, let’s have it based on it’s own merits rather than this horrible bullying that’s going on. I’m disgusted on Facebook to see Michelle Obama referred to as Chewbaca and for the abject glee referenced at the introduction of new scandals on either side of the divide. Democrats are often ridiculed for passivity or for taking up a path of individualism but I applaud that after what I'm seeing this presidential go-around. Not that the Democrats aren't to blame as well. It's time each party started lauding its merits and accomplishments rather than the vicious lashing out at the other side.
A wonderful group called Sojourners has led a movement towards civility in politics that is astounding to me. Raised Catholic for a good part of my youth, I wouldn’t now consider myself a Christian, simply youth-educated in the teachings of Christianity. I signed up to receive e-mails from Sojourners because I wanted to be able to counter the radical religious right with this open-minded and loving Christian perspective on politics. I find it incredibly disturbing that religion has been co-opted by politics in this country and felt I needed to keep on my toes for the debate. I receive Sojourner’s daily “Verse and Voice” e-mail which offers a daily bible verse, and have been humbled and awed by their movement for Truth and Civility in politics (which of course necessitates an end to the disgusting and unbelievable legality of attack ads).
That simple message of truth and civility is one that, if heeded, brings an end to the scourge of bullying.
I believe there is bullying in religion: that the polarity in politics is seeping into so many churches and that for those who identify as Christian the pressure is on. A professed Christian friend who lives in Florida revealed that he's being constantly barraged with messages that Obama is a Muslim, that he doesn't have a birth certificate, that he's not a true Christian. Everything I learned in catechism points me away from this kind of vitriol and towards a belief in loving your neighbor and treating them as you'd like your children to be treated.
The message of truth and civility doesn’t require that we believe the same things or vote the same ways, but it necessitates that we allow the existence of one another, and acknowledge the pure and simple right to simply be and to believe.
The fear mongering – questioning our president’s citizenship, loyalty and even religion is dirty. We are teaching our children to discredit others based on their citizenship, religion, race, and politics. We are teaching that fear trumps truth. It’s not okay.
When the presidential election was happening, my husband and I taught our children in simple terms what it was about and why we were choosing to vote for Obama. We didn’t teach them to disparage McCain though they could root for Obama as loudly as they wanted. They know the Pledge of Allegiance and insist on singing It’s a Grand Old Flag every time they see an American flag flying. Patriotism is a part of who they are because of their parents’ dedication to the political process. We take them with us to vote. They fight over our “I Voted” stickers. They respect the role of the military in our country and speak proudly of the fact that their dad served as a Marine. They know we were against the war in Iraq and that we show gratitude towards every soldier we encounter and that the two are not in contrast, as the Marine and Obama stickers on my husband’s tailgate illustrate.
I don't think I'm alone in feeling personally attacked every time I see a bumper sticker that is insulting, that implies that Obama isn't patriotic or that it was a mistake to elect him (I really dislike that OOPS sticker in particular.The implication that what we did as a nation was akin to knocking over a glass of milk at the dinner table.)
I have huge gratitude for having had that conversation with my friend across the imagined political divide. Reading the statements of both Obama and McCain was necessary homework and reminded me that I can’t ever rest on my political laurels. I don’t know if my husband ever tires of hearing me talk back at the radio but he’d never try to quiet me. I get into political discussions on Facebook though I try not to, and my rule is always to model respect and civility, which to me leaves plenty of room for passion.
We are so divided politically, so entrenched and so impotent because of our rigidity. More importantly, we are less and less civil in our partisanship and we’re teaching our children to be less inclusive and more derogatory in their world. The results are showing up: for children and teens we call it bullying. For adults, we call it politics as usual. For all of us, we need to dedicate ourselves to making it right: Truth and Civility. I pledge my allegiance. Will you? Please?

'Tis the Season

I can't remember if I have always felt on this much of an up and down carnival ride at the holidays, or if this is a particularly special year. Not remembering bit is pretty darn indicative of another phase I know I've been in for a while but can't, um, remember how long. I'm guessing it corresponds with the pregnancy or arrival of number three - and that a lot of the up and down is tied into that as well.

He's beautiful, my third. So squeezably full of joy and good cheer and sweetness that my heart and jaw ache with it. Giving away the crib after #2 was done with it showed some foresight into how difficult a third might be, but giving in to having #3 was even easier than giving away the baby things. What was surprising to me is that opening the door (so to speak) for having that third and now knowing that he's my last makes me breathtakingly sad. The reasons for not going beyond three children have mostly to do with barely keeping up with three and how quickly, at forty, my age now seems to be catching up with (or overtaking) me. Like my minivan with 215,000 miles on it, things are starting to break, fall off, and make strange noises, and the gas mileage is nowhere near what it used to be. And there are dents. Lots and lots of dents.

Being a parent challenges me everyday. Challenges my sense of control, of reason, of purpose. What is most staggering to me is the infinite beauty juxtaposed, near instantaneously, with the infinite difficulty and helplessness in raising these three beings. Going to sleep last night, Sawyer roused himself from near sleep to remind me to remind him to add to his Christmas wish list "that we not die." And a few moments later, "that we not get sick." I'm doing my darndest with the latter, but the former is inevitably going to come and kick all our butts. And there's nothing I can do about it, no way I can protect these three perfect beings from that un-fairytale ending. No matter the marvelousness of your partner (if you are so lucky as to have one), they are equally useless in this regard.

There is this grave futility in so many things we do, and in how we do them. Or so it can seem. When my daughter woke up this morning it was clearly on the very, very wrong side of the bed. I wake up and am, for five minutes, Mary Poppins, singing the children out of their beds, inspiring them with talk about how lovely the day will be, cooking their uber-fresh free range organic happy chicken eggs, packing their preservative-free lunches. And when we are going on five, then six minutes late out the door forty-five minutes later I am all fangs and venom and screech. Although I am trying with greater consciousness while my patience is being tried. When my daughter had her all-out breakdown this morning after my sixth attempt to get her to dress, I tried to be the mama I would want her to remember, the mama I would want to spend the rest of the day being. Which was supportive and patient and still - nearly - on time.

I am trying to be more patient with myself. I am trying to be in each moment of the chaotic morning rather than just trying to be one step ahead of the chaos. And to enjoy the moment. I am trying to let go of the to do list and still feel productive for the sheer fact of raising loved and appreciated children. I am trying to accept this body, this job, this path without going by the societal accolades of success or the media yardstick of parental worthiness. I am trying to succumb to the spiritual awareness of what richness my life has evolved into rather than panic at the drumbeat sound of time that is an inevitable soundtrack to the ongoing movie of watching your children grow. Thankfully, it is merely the metronome for the real music that if you pause long enough to really listen, is what was most important all along.

Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Ladybug, Ladybug

So Jordan was going to run away today. She got her Hello Kitty suitcase out and halfway packed before I coaxed her into a bath, my water pixie. She'd poked her brother, hard, and gotten in trouble for it and was wailing that it was too hard to be a big sister, she wished she and Sawyer were twins.

Hmm, run away, huh? Now Mama's gettin' ideas.

Last night was a rough one, Clavey's tum was really hurting, he was arching his back, wailing, not wanting to nurse but hungry. From about 1am until 3:30 am we were awake, completely unrestful until all the massaging, medicine, and finally nursing worked. Until 6:15. So I'm going on fumes right now, and the poking, fighting and crying are making it really difficult for me to be the peaceful, centered mama I'd like always to be. Which isn't to say that it's been a miserable day at all - Jordan and Sawyer used to be best buddies and when they hug each other, share laughter and embark on projects together it brings me great joy. Until someone gets poked.

I used to think baths were a great way for me to relax. I still think they are, but not necessarily with me in them. After the poking incident led to the packing of the running away bag, I put Sawyer in one bathtub and Jordan in another. I plopped Clavey on the bed and he does something neither Jordan or Sawyer ever did which is to fall asleep unassisted. Smart boy. I ate my three hours old breakfast (we've been baking all morning and the cleaning never ends) while reading e-mail and facebook posts, visiting each bathroom every few minutes to distribute water and kisses, check on Jordan's ear infection, peek in to see if Clavey's erupting tooth or bad cold has him restless.

Sawyer got out of his bath, putting away the seventy or so bath toys that had just joined him on some fantastical journey. Jordan got out of hers, putting down her book (she gets that from me for sure - bathing with a book) and asking for a cuddle. I sat down and took her in my arms, so much more of her spilling off every time - she's this huge person now in every way. All my children are so substantial in size, in personality, in joy. Funny that, with such minimalist parents.

Now I've got a baby in my lap and two peaceful children in the living room, paintings drying an the table, bread baking in the oven. My husband is on his way home and when he arrives there's a part of me that will want to run away - to sleep if nothing else, and to not pick clothes up off the floor and wash another dish, but most of me will want to stay as I don't see him enough as it is. I'll want to stay and watch these naked little beings be and grow right in front of my eyes - little loaves rising in the oven of our home.

Mother of the Year

Well, I'm out of the running for that one. But I've actually been out of the running since I think 8:45 am on January 1 which is when the first injury or argument or something happened - we were camping so it probably involved an injury of some kind.

There have been a few incidents since then (few - ha ha) that keep me out of the Also Ran category. Some favorites from the last month and a half: Jordan asked one morning if she could wear a light blue leotard to school as a shirt. "Sure," I said, "it's a little tight though - if you don't mind an all-day wedgie, go ahead." The next day at school her teacher said she had a funny story to tell me. At recess the day before, the playground monitor looked over in shock and said to Ms. Eileen "Is that Jordan? What is she doing?" Jordan was no longer wearing her skirt, just the too-small powder-blue leotard while playing with a hula hoop. "Jordan, where are your clothes?" "What?" replied Jordan, clueless as to what she was talking about.

"What are you wearing?"

"What?" responded Jordan, as if to say "What could possibly be wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Jordan! That's not appropriate clothing for school!" said Ms Eileen. "Oh." she replied, as if confused by these ridiculous adults and their meaningless rules, and went to put on her skirt.

Part of me thinks this puts me back in the running for mom of the year - I have a 7 year old daughter who doesn't care if she's cool, doesn't care if she's doing what the other kids are doing. She's busy quite literally dancing to the beat of her own drummer, immersed in the world of her own imagination. (For the record, today is "crazy hair day" and she doesn't really want to get TOO crazy - just a couple of pigtails put into buns.) She dresses just like her mama did at her age, lost as I was in a world of my own invention.

On the less potentially optimistic side of losing mother of the year contest, a couple of nights ago I called the Poison Control Hotline for the first time (already had it in my phone, so I don't lose the round entirely) when I found Sawyer just before bed pouring an entire bottle of a Hyland's homeopathic remedy into his mouth. This is a little boy who could easily develop a sugar addiction and here he was, feeding the monster -the tablets are basically little sugar pills. “Oh, Hyland’s?”, the man at other end of line said, “We love those - he could have three whole bottles that stuff and be fine.” So Sawyer lost his stories, Jordan got freaked out by my telling him what cold happen if he took too much medicine a different kind, and I got freaked out when I saw him swallowing the whole bottle - had an absolutely horrible flash forward to imagining him as a teenager or adult liking pills way too much. I’ve been cavalier about leaving medicines within children’s reach because I’ve always told them how serious it is. It makes me wonder if I’m failing in some way or myriad ways with having less time for him with the new baby. How easy it is to find fault with oneself as a mother!

And Clavey, little Clavey, beating on my breast as I nursed him yesterday afternoon, wanting more milk that wasn't there. He clearly hates rice cereal. We'd been given leftover babyfood from friends and so he tried - and liked - bananas. So much for veggies first and only a week after rice cereal and so on and so forth. His big sister fed the rest of the bananas to him this morning while I made lunches and breakfast and I peeled the dried remnants off his face while nursing him an hour or two later. So I just spent $50 on Organic babyfood at Safeway. I'd like to cook, puree and freeze it from scratch like I did for Jordan and Sawyer, but I haven't yet unpacked from a trip we returned from five days ago, and so little jars it is, at least until I am back on the dry land of finished laundry, healthy children, and the many projects stashed in corners throughout the house.

This morning after Clavey woke up happy as a clam at 5, I heard Jordan and Sawyer fighting in her bed at 6:30. "YOU'RE PULLING MY HAIR!" I went in and Sawyer was crying, still half asleep - "I'm not pulling your hair, I'm squeezing orange juice." He'd made orange juice himself a week or so ago, theraputically twisting and squeezing the oranges into defeated little orange shells. He'd gone there again in his sleep, apparently. Five minutes later he was accusing his sister of smothering him with a pillow. So five minutes after that when, while folding laundry, I heard raised loud voices coming from my bedroom, I got my serious, deep, loud, no-nonsense, don't mess with me voice on and went preaching into the bedroom. I saw two sweet little faces looking up at me. "But Mama," said Jordan, "Sawyer was only saying 'tickle tickle tickle' to Clavey." I stopped and laughed and looked my children right in the eye. "You think I'm a little bit crazy right now, don't you?" I said to them. They half-laughed and smiled at me, and I thought to myself that these are the moments that will possibly bookend their childhood memories. I'd better choose carefully who I want to be in the chronicles of their past.

Over the five days we were in San Diego, we went to Sea World where Jordan fell in love with Shamu and the idea of being an orca trainer. She wanted nothing to do with the water rides, but if you'd told her she could jump in a tank with four killer whales, she wouldn't have hesitated. She sobbed when a trainer told her she couldn't pet Shamu. And all weekend she played Shamu in the swimming pool with any adult willing to toss her in the air, push her through the water, help her do tricks. It tickled me and touched me to see my mom in goggles and swim cap attempting to swim through my daughter's legs underwater, laughing and giggling with her. My mother's got a good sense of humor about our childhood memories when my siblings and I get together and poke fun at her, and it gives me hope that I'm not earning them a permanent spot on a therapist's couch with my own parenting.

I'm thankful for great role models. And a great co-parent. So I'm not mother of the year, but I think my children will love me all the same.

A Year in the Community – The Trailer Retrospective

So much can change in a year. And so much can stay the same. We came close to pulling the trigger and buying a bigger trailer last month – close enough to accept a counter offer from a dealer who was then too lazy to dig the one we wanted out from behind another two on his lot, thereby losing the sale. Perhaps a sign: what we have is enough. So we’re driving down Highway 17 into Santa Cruz, three car seats in the back of the truck instead of just two, and two dogs in the same trailer instead of just one. Some things still the same, some significantly different.

In my mind I’m already remodeling our little trailer - I love the size of it and want to fit in it but a year ago yesterday little Clavey was conceived, emerging into the trailer community three months ago. Already we can’t remember what life was like B.C.: thinking about our two-week trip last Christmas I tend to insert him into the memories, such is life with a newborn. Remodeling my memory along with our lives and eventually, our trailer.

I have a little bit of guilt that since our day at the soup kitchen last Christmas we haven’t volunteered at homeless shelters, built homes with Habitat for Humanity, planted more trees. I’m a laptop activist instead this year, signing petitions online, writing to my congresspeople, shopping for Christmas gifts on the Hunger Site and the Breast Cancer Site. But it’s about balance. I haven’t had a whole lot more to give as far as energy goes: we’ve chosen jobs that are meaningful in a way that can be looked at as being altruistic – watching my husband’s first year as a teacher and the amount of time, effort and supplies he’s “donated” and how that’s involved sacrifice from all of us gives me a sense of absolution from the sins of not doing enough. We donate a lot through our rafting company as well, and we work hard at being good community members. I feel as good as I think I can about how we live, knowing always that we can do better. Striving for balance.

We had a good run in the trailer this year. We drove home January 1, fulfilled from our trip and excited to travel more. Just after we found out that we were expecting, the trailer housed river guides who flew in from far distances for the memorial service for Brooke, a fellow guide. We did a long weekend at Sunset Beach in Santa Cruz in the spring, then drove north with it for spring break, having decided that morning to leave and that first night loving the convenience when we pulled off the highway into a tiny campground in a forest, parked, and the kids climbed back into their beds and were asleep within minutes. I felt like we were an enormous turtle or snail, self-contained and at home on the road. Four days later I felt slow as a snail towing the trailer at a max speed of 65 heading for an airport, trying to get to Seattle in time for the birth of my nephew. The trailer didn’t fail me.

We did one last trip as a family of four, escaping for a rare river season work-free weekend to Santa Cruz where my sister joined us at the KOA for two nights. As winter campers we got a taste of why it’s worth braving colder temperatures for smaller crowds, but loved the escape from the dry heat and the chance to change our scene for a little while. John and Angie camped in the trailer at Max and Willow’s wedding at Camp Lotus, needing a better bed at 8 months pregnant than a tent and a paco pad would provide.

Ever since we found out we were pregnant we’ve thought about getting a bigger trailer to accommodate our bigger family. We expanded by another dog as well, so we’re a significantly larger community than we were a year ago. But as the famous quote goes, perhaps a change of self is needed more than a change of scene. We’ve never used our kitchen sink, used the stove two or three times, and we’ll never use the shower, so there’s our extra bed: some work to remodel, but quite possible. And cheaper than a new trailer. Tom’ll be off the floor and the dogs can have their space back – I hope we’ll be overcrowded with two dogs for a long time. We’ll figure out the awning for the rain, fix the lights and the electricity eventually.

Tom spent the three days prior to this trip putting laminate flooring in our house. If we weren’t going away, he said, he needed a home project and this one’s been on the top of my list. One three-day project and it looks like a whole new space. So now I’m dreaming of putting the leftover flooring in the trailer, painting the trailer walls when we paint our kitchen, and using the old couch covers to make new curtains. It’s not at all that I’m unhappy with the trailer – I just envision how it can be better. Same goes for me – I’m planning on another marathon in the New Year, rock climbing again (if we go with another adult who can watch the baby), publishing something (as a goal to write more regularly and to get it out there), and as a family volunteering more so I can instill in my children and myself a sense of gratitude for all we do have, and empowering us by serving those in need. I’m happy with who I am, but I know I can be better.

So now we’re in the car on the way to Santa Cruz and then Half Moon Bay. Megan and Gordon will join us tomorrow. No matter where our little trailer takes us, as long as there are people I love around me, it’ll be paradise. Happy New Year