Birthday Weekend

“Let gratitude be the pillow upon which you kneel to say your nightly prayer." -- Maya Angelou

And just like that, I have an eight-year-old.

She isn’t too old yet to tire of her birth story. I share different details with her every year. Last year she was fascinated by photographs documenting her week tucked into the bili blankets in our kitchen as she recovered from jaundice. This year, I told her about the little ordinary details of the day itself, the hard kernels of memory that anchor her birth firmly in our family story. I told her that as soon as she was born someone brought me a grilled cheese, and it was the best grilled cheese I believed I’d ever tasted. As soon as I wolfed that down I turned to Matt and demanded a hamburger. He went off in search of one while they wheeled me into my postpartum room, my brand-new daughter in my arms.

We laughed about the nap Matt took on the little fold-out chair in our room that afternoon, how he slept so hard he didn’t even stir when a group of friends came to visit. (“Wasn’t that nice for you,” I grumbled playfully. Eight years out, I think I can finally laugh at the horror of sleep deprivation I faced in those first few days. The first night, I didn’t sleep because I was in labor. The second night, I didn’t sleep because I had a newborn who needed to be fed and who I couldn’t figure out how to feed very efficiently. The third night, we were home in our house with a newborn who would not sleep and I had no earthly idea what to do about that, so mostly I rocked her and cried.) I told her that eight years ago today her daddy changed his first diaper and he figured it out just fine. I’m not sure I even helped.

And I forget what prompted me to say this, some little show of attitude or resistance, but tonight I definitely said, “Oh yes you will, because I am your mother and I pushed you out of my body and it was a lot of work and it hurt and I think you can do this one tiny thing for me.” She laughed, rolled her eyes, and complied.

I crawled into bed with her for goodnight snuggles just a bit ago, something that still happens every night. More often than not I will say, “Okay, but nice snuggling tonight, not too silly, okay?” and then we wind up shaking with barely suppressed giggles. Tonight, we were both tired. I curled around her -- so different than curling around a newborn, to be sure -- and she pressed her backside into my stomach, tangled her feet with mine, and fell asleep. When this happens it’s hard for me to tear myself away, because I know these moments are limited, although secretly I hope that she won’t give up on the snuggling any time soon. I stayed there, breathing in the scent of her hair, the faint whiff of cake still lingering on her breath despite bedtime teeth brushing, and the slightly grubby undertone of elementary school kidness.

It is nothing like sleeping with an infant. But in some ways it is just as sweet.

We spent Memorial weekend in Vancouver, BC with my parents, Matt’s parents, and my brother and sister-in-law. Suzannah’s birthday gives us the chance to be together all at once and it was a nice reason to decide to take a mini vacation, so the ten of us squeezed into two Honda CR-V’s and headed north on Saturday morning. We stayed long enough to take in the aquarium and Stanley Park, eat a couple of good meals, check into a hotel, sleep more or less peacefully, and go swimming in the morning. I wound up sharing a bed with Suzannah, which didn’t surprise me much. We originally tucked the kids in together after all sorts of promises and admonitions to behave! and they were so worn out from walking that I really thought they’d just go right to sleep. But then Matt went out for a walk, and I tried to read for a bit before turning off the lamp next to my bed. Right away I heard the whispered “Tee hee hee!” and “Isaac, stop it,” and after about five futile conversations involving my patiently explaining to them how frustrated I was, I said, “Okay, that’s it. One of you is going to have to come and sleep in bed with me.” Suzannah popped right up and said, “Can one of us?” And that is how I wound up with Suzannah in bed with me, and when Matt returned I explained that I was very sorry but he would be sharing a bed with Isaac. Within about forty seconds of the switch they were both completely unconscious and sprawled diagonally across both beds. Matt and I curled ourselves between their limbs -- no amount of shifting and shoving could get them to keep to their own side of the bed -- and slept, too.

***
There is a particular tree in Stanley Park with a curved trunk that appears in a handful of our family photographs dating back to 1979, the year I was born. In those first pictures, I’m sitting on that curved trunk, nestled between my parents.

The summer I was nine, my parents took us on a two-week long road trip through the Pacific Northwest—Spokane to Portland, Portland to Seattle, Seattle to Victoria and Vancouver, BC. In Vancouver we watched the killer whale show at the aquarium. My brother and I planted ourselves squarely in the “splash zone,” shrieking when the orcas rose from their pool and belly-flopped again, sending a wall of water cascading over the lower bleachers. We were drenched and delighted. Afterwards, my parents took us on a little walk along the waterfront until we found it.

“This,” my father said, “is our tree.”

And so it was. I recognized it immediately. I even noticed the same name carved into the trunk—JAY, in block letters. Who knew how long ago someone had left his mark there? My brother and I arranged ourselves side-by-side on that strange curved branch, worn smooth over time. A Mountie rode past on his handsome black horse and offered to take our family photograph; then, he posed with my brother and me. When I look at the photographs now, I can see the faint crimp marks in my hair, flattened by that salty wave back at the aquarium—I can still feel the itch of salt drying on my skin.

We found it again this weekend, all ten of us, after a bit of blundering up and down the walking path. My parents and I attempted to recreate the picture from 1979 (I didn’t need so much help sitting upright this time), and then Aaron and I squeezed in together to duplicate 1988 -- a bit more challenging than it was when we were nine and seven, and our behavior hasn’t particular improved over the years. (“Smile! Shari! Put your tongue back in your mouth! Come on, a nice picture!”) And then I settled my own two children into the sturdy arm of this tree, taking my place in the background, my hand on the smooth wood. Isaac flailed and stuck out his tongue; Suzannah struck all sorts of bizarre poses. I’m sorry, Mom and Dad. They come by it honestly. Maybe they’ll try to look normal in pictures someday, but I wouldn’t count on it.

On a cellular level, I am every age I’ve ever been. I feel this often, especially when I look at my children. It’s a little disorienting to remember standing at this very spot when I was their age, to remember the way the moment felt. The itchy drying salt. The smooth wood. The oceany waterfront smell. Adding another photograph to our timeline of trees feels like a sturdy thread connecting my present to my past.

And what a blessing it all is, indeed.

The Bigger Picture

Matt and I have built our own family traditions around Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Instead of scrambling to find the appropriate gift, we try to just create space for each other to have the “perfect” day -- the “If you could fill today with your favorite things, what would it look like?” kind of day. I can tell you right now that for Matt, his perfect day will generally include a good hike, some good beer, and possibly a trip to Easy Street Records, which is why I can already tell you that we’ll probably get up really early on Father’s Day to head to West Seattle for brunch before the crowds hit (Easy Street has a pretty great brunch, and if you show up mid-morning you’ll be waiting a good long while) and then head to the mountains.

For the past couple of years, Mother’s Day has included a Mother’s Day tea at church, pho for lunch, a nap, a trip to the Elliott Bay Book Company, and dinner at Veggie Grill. Matt leads the kids in making cards and breakfast, and he usually takes the kids somewhere else while I browse the bookstore (and, yes, buy a few books), order a glass of white wine from the cafe, and read or write for an hour or two. That was my day today, and if that becomes our Mother’s Day tradition forever, I certainly will not complain.

So that’s our little family snapshot. But I’ve been thinking about the bigger picture of Mother’s Day, too.

I’ve always been a little puzzled by the vehemence with which some women proclaim that they raise their own children, thank you very much. (This often occurs in the context of some tiresome “stay at home” vs. “working” mother nonsense on the internet that, frankly, none of us should have any time for.) Because I’ll tell you what, I raise my children with a whole lot of help -- which is the way it should be. I emphatically believe we were not meant to do this alone. I’ve been thinking about this a lot today. If I thought I had to go it alone, I’d be so much more mentally ill than I probably already am.

I’m grateful on Mother’s Day, for so many reasons.

The obvious reasons are the ones who burst into my room this morning. One of them wept bitterly when I emerged from the bedroom instead of sitting in bed waiting for my English muffin and eggs and coffee, because she wanted me to have breakfast in bed. But her daddy explained that we don’t have a very good tray for delivering breakfast in bed, and also breakfast wasn’t ready yet. She pulled herself together to help crack the eggs over a pan.

When Matt asked her little brother to come and help with Mommy’s breakfast, he replied, “I don’t want to. You do it.” But he did make me a lovely Mother’s Day card. In fact, I overheard this heartwarming exchange before I got out of bed...

Isaac: This is Mommy. And this is Mommy’s blood!
Matt: Isaac! What? That’s not nice!
Isaac: Just kiddin’! I’m using Mommy’s red pen. It’s her mouth. Actually, she has two mouths.

The takeaway is obviously that four-year-olds can be very creepy. It’s also pretty easy to overlook such creepiness when the same four-year-old, five minutes later, wraps his arms around your neck and plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek.

Anyway, the bigger picture, for me, is gratitude for the community in which I am raising my children, for the other mother-figures whose influence in my children’s lives matters so much. For my own mother, who has loved me in ways I probably never understood before I had my own children, who has been my biggest cheerleader and best teacher. For my mother-in-law, who raised a son to be a wonderful partner and a wonderful father. For my sister-in-law, who lives only a few minutes away and who my children take completely for granted right now because they are so secure in her love, and who will be the person my children run to as teenagers when they decide I am cruel and unfair and horrible. (Their auntie will take my side, obviously, because I will be right, but she will be a safe place of unconditional love.) For my friends who love my children, whether or not they have children themselves, who are patient and kind and loving and don’t mind having lunch with me, kids in tow, who don’t mind fingerprints on their phones and constant tugging at their sleeves and occasional bouts of terrible manners. For the daycare provider who has loved and cared for both of my children since babyhood, who has convinced them to eat food I could never sell, and who is probably singlehandedly responsible for their potty-training. For my children’s teachers, at church and at school, who have known and loved and encouraged them. For the babysitters who have willingly engaged in bursts of unrestrained silliness and made my children feel important. For the mothers with more experience than I have, who remind me to be my own friend, who put the messiness of this whole endeavor into perspective when I need it most.

The point of Mother’s Day, I think, is not to lie around while people lavish me with flowers and jewelry because I have children; for me, it is to honor the community that cares for my children and me, the mothers and mother-figures, the friends, the family, the sisterhood of women who are in this life together.