Negotiations

There is just no good way to say this: My daughter is a bit of a hoarder.

I don't know if I was like this as a child. I do know that Suzannah takes after me in many ways; she is very particular about where things should go, and she's extremely tidy, and she likes to be clean, and she's a little OCD when it comes to hand-washing. But her sense of order doesn't really mesh with mine at the moment. Meaning, I don't get it. To me, it just looks like her bed is covered -- and I mean covered -- with random stuff. Shortly before we left on our vacation, she spent a few nights sleeping on the floor of her room in a little tent; she was really excited to "camp," but also, I don't think she could get comfortable in her bed with all the stuff she had piled there.

I've tried to put things away. I mean, it's not just stuffed animals. It's books (she reads herself to sleep almost every night) -- okay, still normal. It's doll accessories, or random little toys. A comb. A piggy bank. Her Sesame Street doctor's kit. Two sets of mittens. A purple tutu. A teacup. A tiny plastic rake.

If you think that it might be possible to sneak in after she falls asleep and move any of these things (because you think she might roll off the bed in the middle of the night, otherwise, so precarious does her position appear to be), you would be wrong. She will wake up in the morning, take a brief inventory of her belongings, and crossly demand, "Where is my rake?" You will have about three seconds to produce the rake, and she will scowl and say, "You can't move my stuff."

Every now and then I lose my mind and ninja-clean her room. I'll set her up with a video, or I'll send her to the park or the grocery store with her daddy, and I will become a whirlwind of organization. I usually end up tossing or recycling several things (no, we do not need to save those stupid Happy Meal toys from four months ago, even if Matt Suzannah might still think they're fun). I usually end up returning several things to their rightful places in other parts of the house (my pens go on my desk, the key to Matt's gym lock goes in his backpack, the pumpkin basket can finally be returned to the closet stash of seasonal decorations). And then I put the rest of her things either in the stacking bins we picked out together at IKEA when I was feeling optimistic or in her toy box. I feel so proud of myself. I admire the expanse of carpet. I smile at the lovely bedspread I can actually see. And then my daughter returns. I hold my breath. I act a little too cheerful. I work a little too hard to play it cool, which must arouse her suspicion. And inevitably, Suzannah comes stomping out of her room one second after she enters it.

"Where's my stuff? Mommy, you can't move my stuff."

I try to talk to her about why it might be nice to have more space in the bed, or about how she would be able to find things more easily (although she has the uncanny ability to know exactly where everything is, no matter how chaotic it seems to me). She is not interested. (What's interesting to me is how neat she is everywhere else. At daycare/preschool, she has always been good about putting everything away -- in a "proper" place -- as soon as she's done using it. We went back for a visit so she could spend the morning with her friends a week or so ago, and it was like she'd never left. She knew where all her favorite things were, and no one had to tell her to clean up at the end. Even at home, she's good about putting away her toys in, say, the family room, even if sometimes she needs a little prompting.)

Tonight, we took a different approach: we bribed her with a "special" dessert. YEAH, I KNOW, you're not supposed to use food like that, I READ THOSE PARENTING BOOKS, TOO. Parents of the year, right here, and blah blah blah my kid was going to love her all organic vegetables and would never eat a chicken nugget and I wouldn't have to bribe her to eat her broccoli and I would never let her tantrums get to me because I would just patiently and lovingly redirect her and I would never find myself huddled in the study crying into my wine glass, and -- oh, suddenly this entry is about something else, isn't it? Anyway, yes, we talked up this special dessert, but in order to get it, she would have to consent to Mommy unearthing her bed from under this insane mound of Stuff. She frowned and thought it over for a moment.

"And you're going to wash my sheets, too?" she asked.

"That's right."

"Okay, then."

I probably should have just told her that in the first place, and I could have saved the Special Dessert for something else; she likes fresh sheets. We did end up adding a few more stipulations, though (unfair!); she had to eat all of her broccoli and a teeny-tiny helping of Cuban black beans, which is what we had for dinner tonight. I didn't know how that would go over. She watched me cutting up some green and red bell peppers while I was prepping dinner, and she very enthusiastically handed Isaac a couple of slices to munch on, but when I asked her if she wanted some too, she informed me cheerfully but emphatically that she doesn't like peppers, NO THANK YOU. (She does, however, like broccoli quite a bit, so I suppose I should be thankful for that.)

Food negotiations are both exasperating and kind of hilarious. I'll tell her she needs to finish a predetermined amount of food before she can go outside or before she can have more yogurt or cheese or whatever (because she'd happily eat nothing but that sometimes). I'll set aside a portion of broccoli, or half of a sandwich -- whatever I decide is reasonable. (Because I'm the mom! Hah!) She will then take a tiny bite and announce, "Okay, Mommy, I ate it."

"Suzannah, I said you had to finish that much."

"But I did. I did eat it."

"You took one tiny little bite."

"No, I took a REALLY BIG bite. That was a BIG bite, Mommy."

I mean, we are clearly just not even operating on the same plane of logic. She is trying to convince me that her bite was AMAZING and I am trying to explain to her that I see through her ridiculousness. Sometimes meals take awhile. I don't anticipate this changing any time soon, especially now that Isaac is learning how to feed himself "real" food, which mostly means smashing it with real gusto, stuffing it in his pants, and sporadically managing to shove some into his mouth. I don't really worry about whether or not he's actually eating; right now we're just letting him explore different tastes and textures. Our pug loves it; it's like she remembered that this is the part when having a baby in the house actually pays off. All she has to do is stand underneath his high chair and wait for the food to rain down upon her head. And I just smile and resign myself to the fact that every night is Bath Night now. I let it go last night, and my son woke up with the crusty remnants of some Trader Joe's flatbread on his nose. I kind of consider that a personal failing, like I was asleep on the job or something.

Anyway, in case you're wondering, Matt came home with fixin's for S'mores last night. That was the "special dessert." Suzannah actually ate the black beans without making any horrible faces. So she got to have a S'more, and unsurprisingly, she wound up with less chocolate on her face than her daddy did. And I did clean up her room and change her sheets, but she is still sleeping with one teacup, a tiny notebook, and her play wooden espresso machine.

And all I have is gratitude...

It's been a quiet day. Typing those words, though, I think the quiet is mostly in my heart; an observer possibly wouldn't notice much of a difference. That is the blessing (usually) of having two young children; the world just keeps on turning. But that's kind of absurd, isn't it? That the world always does that, no matter what's happening -- the greatest joys, the greatest losses. Sometimes a strange and chaotic mixture of the two. No matter what happens, kids need the same things -- breakfast and diaper changes or help going to the potty or help with their puzzles and kisses when they fall and someone to hear their stories.

Our day was fairly normal, and normal is usually good. We had breakfast. We drove to West Seattle for cupcakes and playtime; we chatted with a papa and three-year-old son we've seen before. We had lunch. The kids had naps (or "quiet time," in Suzannah's case). I ran a couple of loads of laundry and cleaned the bathrooms. This evening, we went hiking at Saltwater Park and ate Thai food on the way home. Nothing extraordinary, although of course the sweetest memories of our summer days are built upon ordinary moments: Smiling across the table at my little girl as she licks frosting from her lips. Watching Isaac laugh and laugh at his sister as she copies the goofy faces I make at him. Walking down the street in the sunshine, wearing Isaac in the Ergo, Suzannah skipping beside me. Smiling to myself as my daughter says, "I can do it, Mommy," before she firmly closes the bathroom door.

I had a moment this afternoon when my children were asleep (rather, Isaac was asleep and Suzannah was lying quietly on her bed, immersed in a pile of books) and I was folding their clothes. They were warm from the dryer, and I was lost in the rhythmic motions of folding onesies and t-shirts and making little piles on our bed. The fan was blowing, and my house seemed so quiet and calm.

I'd love to say I meditated myself into some startling epiphany in that moment, some profound realization about the Meaning of Life, something about beauty and truth and simplicity, but it wasn't really like that. I was just folding my children's clothes and feeling rather satisfied about the neat little piles on my bed. But I superimposed that moment, that feeling of calm, over the thoughts that have been running through my head all day: right now, at this moment, my friend Dori is in surgery.

Tonight, I learned that the surgery went well and that she's awake. I know she has a grueling road ahead of her. I also know she has a really huge cheering section. I'm sure she'll update herself when she's feeling up to it, and if you missed the link before, I'll post it one more time: Lumps and Lipstick: I am NOT my breast cancer. She doesn't shrink from the story she has to tell, and it is a deep privilege to witness.

So I was thinking about her all day today, a steady current of hope and prayer within the usual clamor of my daily life. And as I folded those warm little shirts and pants and pajamas in my quiet house, I just thought, how is it that I'm not aware of each of these ordinary moments and brimming with gratitude? Not necessarily gratitude for, say, a pile of my husband's smelly socks or a bag full of poopy diapers to wash, but -- well. Maybe that. Maybe just the wonderfully, blissfully normal.

I kind of go back and forth between trying to be intentionally grateful for the many, many blessings in my life and being this crazy, stressed-out, anxious person who thinks her life will be so much better if she can just get everything organized enough. My friends once told me I'm like a hummingbird. Sometimes I feel like a hummingbird on too much coffee or, even worse, I understand exactly what Anne Lamott wrote about in Operating Instructions:

It is so fucking bizarre and excruciating just to be. Just to be still. I mean, except when I'm in church or nursing Sam, nothing can make me more frantic than sitting and trying to just be. Have you ever tried meditating? For me it's about as pleasant as coming down off cocaine. My mind becomes like this badly abused lab rat, turning in on itself after one too many bouts with mededrine and electroshock and immersion into ice water...

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm kind of a basket-case sometimes. I like to pretend that motherhood has made me all zen about everything, but that's a total lie. And sometimes -- often -- the things that turn me into a basket-case later cause me to roll my eyes and go, really? Shari, really? This is what had you curled up in a hysterical ball in the corner, or at least scribbling page after page of pro/con lists and irritating your husband to death with your endless processing? Good God, woman, have a glass of wine and go watch one of your Golden Girls DVD's and shut up already.

I don't want to get preachy here, and I'd love to say that learning that my beautiful, young friend just sacrificed her breasts to beat her cancer at the age of twenty-six means that I'll never bitch about my own body and my stretch marks and all my imperfections again. I'd love to believe that I'll never have a tantrum about something totally stupid or tell you that I'm over getting all worked up over nothing. I'm human, though, and I know better.

I can tell you, though, that it has made me stop and think and pray. That while I've been perhaps a little bit pissy with God lately, I've also been brought to my knees with gratitude. (I don't understand why I get to keep my breasts -- why most of us do -- and Dori doesn't; I suppose this is one of those terribly irritating life lessons or something, and all in good time, and everything will be revealed, and blah blah blah.) I have more than I deserve. And the ordinary, laundry-filled moments in which I get this -- these fleeting moments in which I get this -- well. I'm grateful for them indeed.

The moments that lead us here

"It's funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools - friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty - and said 'do the best you can with these, they will have to do'. And mostly, against all odds, they do."
--Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies

Just a little over nine months ago, Matt and I sat on the couch at the Greenspot Tea House and Art Gallery, meeting with our doula, Patti Ramos. We spent the evening talking about our hopes for our upcoming birth and formulating a "game plan" of sorts. She asked us two questions that would prove to be very important: 1.) Would we consider a non-hospital birth? and 2.) Would we mind having her assistant attend our birth as well?

Tonight I sat at the Tea House again, feeling overwhelmed with gratitude and the ways in which one evening -- a cup of tea, a conversation -- can trigger a chain of events that forever alters the course of one's life. I know, that sounds dramatic. But when I think about the life-changing experience and the lifelong connections that spun from those two simple questions, it leaves me feeling -- well, awe, really.

I've been going to these monthly doula meetings since Isaac was born. I'm not sure I can explain why in a way that will make sense; I'm an English teacher. But Suzannah's birth triggered something in me -- something that would take a lot more than a single blog entry to explain -- and I became somewhere between "interested" and "obsessed" with birth. Birth stories, the birth culture in this country, natural birth, all of it. So I go to these meetings because I want this to be a part of my life, even if I'm not entirely sure what that looks like yet.

Anyway, when I became pregnant with Isaac, I knew that I wanted things to be different the second time around. I was pretty open about that with Patti; that's one reason I wanted her with us during the birth. She picked right up on my not-so-subtle desire not to have another hospital birth, and with her gentle encouragement, she led us to Nancy Spencer, a midwife at a free-standing birth center attached to her home.

"Here's her information," Patti said. "You can just set up a consultation, just meet with her, and see if it's something you might want to pursue."

I knew within one hot second of meeting Nancy that switching out of hospital care was the right decision, and that's how I ended up doing just that -- at 32 weeks pregnant. It was absolutely one of the best decisions I have ever made. Isaac's birth was so joyful and so peaceful and somehow just -- more than I ever could have hoped for. Nearly seven months later, I'm still processing the ways in which it changed me. (Of course, that's true for motherhood in general. Four years after the birth of my first child, I'm still processing that -- because Suzannah's birth turned my heart into something entirely new.)

Patti's second question wasn't something I thought much about until the night I went into labor. I'd said yes right away, because I trusted Patti completely. Anyone who worked with her, I knew, would only be an asset.

I first met Dori sometime after two in the morning on the night I went into labor with my son. It's really a hell of a way to be introduced to someone, I suppose; there I was, my water broken all over the place, moaning through contractions, wearing pajama pants and one of Matt's old t-shirts -- I mean, I'm just saying. I'm not sure that's how I'd choose to be introduced to someone for the first time, especially someone really awesome. And Dori was awesome. I was immediately comfortable with her, and somehow she just fit right in with the flow of our labor. She was there with hands-on support, doing hip squeezes or rubbing my back or whatever else when Matt ran to the bathroom (damn tiny Winslow bladder) or Patti was taking pictures or making suggestions, and she kept a log of my entire labor. That is one of the most beautiful things I have. I wrote my own version of Isaac's birth story -- I probably wrote about four versions, actually -- but reading it from someone else's perspective, someone who was there for the entire thing, was so special to me.

Nancy, Patti, and Dori were the only people with me, other than my husband, while I labored and gave birth. I felt both incredibly vulnerable and incredibly strong, not to mention totally supported and surrounded by love. So I suppose it makes sense that I feel a deep love for the people who shared one of the most intimate, powerful, defining moments of my life -- and helped make it exactly that. Whenever I remember my son's birth, I will remember these three amazing women.

Tonight, I went to the GreenSpot Tea House for the monthly doula meeting. I've been to a few of them, but this one was different than the others; this one was so deeply important to me on an entirely personal level.

First of all, Nancy was there as a guest speaker. Her new book, Heaven In My Hands: A Midwife's Stories of Birth & Life was just published. She spoke, told stories, answered questions, read one of her stories to us, and signed copies of her book. I've been waiting for this since before Isaac was born, and it was wonderful. I loved seeing her again, I loved hearing from other women who have had her attend their births, I loved pondering the connectedness in the room tonight as women recounted how Nancy was present not only at their labors but at the labors of their mothers, as well. Generations of babies, so much love.

Dori was also a featured guest speaker this time: Two weeks ago, she learned that she has breast cancer. She is 26 years old.

I read the news on Facebook while we were in Minnesota. I was sitting on the couch in the living room, checking in online, and I remember thinking at first that she was writing about someone else. I mean, I literally did not believe it was her.

I still go back and forth between not wanting to believe it and wanting to stomp my foot and yell, "That is not fucking fair." I'm sorry, but yes, those were my words. But this isn't about me, and I'm not going to be presumptuous enough to tell any part of Dori's story for her. She's doing an amazing job of that herself with her blog, Lumps and Lipstick: I am NOT my breast cancer. I feel incredibly privileged to read about this journey of hers, to witness both her profound vulnerability and her profound strength. What I can tell you is this: I haven't known Dori for very long, but I do know that she is compassionate and she is fierce. She is feisty and she is intelligent. She is courageous and she is determined. She is exactly the kind of person I would want to call my friend. And she kicks some serious ass. If anyone can beat cancer, this woman can.

I left the Tea House tonight feeling so deeply grateful for the ordinary moments that lead to these connections, these women in my life. Some people are just good for the world, and their fingerprints on my life make me want to live it as well as I can.