Isaac's Birth Story: One year later

(Suzannah's first birthday happened to occur over Memorial Weekend, which afforded me the luxury of spending the day reliving the morning we became a family and gave me plenty of time to write her a long letter in the journal I keep for her. Today, I foolishly did not take the day off from school and I wish I had, because I am having the hardest time actually doing all the professional things I am supposed to be doing. I really just want to sit here and look at birth/newborn photos all day long. And right now I should be grading a bunch of sophomore notebooks, but there is no way I can concentrate on any of that until I write this out.)

One year ago at this time, I was snuggled on the couch nursing my brand-new baby boy. I spent most of the day there, sending Matt out for food and calling people on the phone and just basking in Isaac's perfect newborn smell. Patti, my doula, called a few times and gently reminded me to get some rest -- but I was riding the most incredible high of my life. It didn't even matter that I hadn't slept since midnight the night before, when I dozed for about forty-five minutes before my water broke in a giant, splashy, dramatic way as I jumped out of bed and vaulted into the bathroom.

I remember singing at the top of my lungs on the way to the birth center; Matt had made me this great Labor Mix that included songs like "Revelation Song" and "Float On." I remember the way he grinned a bit when I chanted along to Modest Mouse when I wasn't moaning through contractions. I remember turning to him and saying, "We're having a baby today!" I remember the light covering of snow on the ground out at Lake Tapps, and the way it made everything seem so beautiful and clear and impossibly perfect. I said to Matt, "When we tell our child's birth story, it will begin with 'You were born on an icy December night.'"

I never posted his birth story here, mostly because I am wordy and it is long, and also possibly because I was a bit distracted in the days and weeks following his birth -- but I thought his first birthday, a day on which I am practically drowning in nostalgia, was an appropriate time to share a part of it.

Nancy was waiting for us when we pulled into her driveway shortly after two in the morning. The outside lights snapped on, and Matt hurried around to help me out of the car. Nancy was beautifully dressed -- I swear she doesn't ever sleep -- and the rooms were warm and dimly-lit, with soft music playing in the background.

She did a quick check -- I never thought I would want to be checked at all, but suddenly I was terribly interested in exactly how far dilated I was or how much "progress" I'd made. When I arrived at the hospital with Suzannah I was 6 cm already, and I was just so confident that I'd made significant progress already this time, too. Matt helped me lie back on the bed and I realized my legs were shaking uncontrollably, although I didn't feel cold. Nancy reassured me that it was totally normal. It was not the last reassuring thing she said to me throughout my labor; she has a way of being both fairly hands-off but very competent and in-control, so I always felt totally free to do what worked for me but also very well cared for.

"Well, you're about 2 cm dilated," Nancy said. Her tone of voice was as soothing and cheerful as if she'd told me I was 8 cm. I was unimpressed. Two? TWO? I was two at my last appointment. I'd probably been at TWO for the past three months. Two? Are you fricking kidding me? What about these contractions?

But I tried not to dwell on it much. Nancy's demeanor was so calm and in-charge that I didn't feel worried or tense, just momentarily discouraged. She asked if we wanted to watch a movie or anything to distract ourselves, if the contractions weren't too unmanageable. Patti wasn't there yet, so we popped in Sleepless in Seattle. I'd always thought I'd start my labor at home that way -- watching some mindless comfort movies or something -- so the thought appealed to me. I wasn't in agonizing pain yet, so it seemed like a decent way to pass the time.

Except that Patti and Dori, her assistant, arrived about thirty seconds after the movie started, and I promptly lost all interest in watching anything. For one thing, I was just so happy to see her; for another thing, the contractions were slowly getting stronger, and I realized I didn't really want to watch anything. I much preferred just talking with Patti and Dori. They were so cheerful and upbeat and seemed so genuinely happy to be there; Patti hugged me warmly as soon as she came in the door, and I felt so loved and supported. This was such an important part of the entire experience for me; I knew I was completely supported and safe.

I did, however, express my disappointment in my TWO. FRICKING. CENTIMETERS. Patti reminded me that I was still making progress, that these contractions were working for me. I'd been sitting on the couch when she arrived, but as the contractions picked up I moved to the birth ball, which felt wonderful. At first I just rocked back and forth and swiveled my hips while Matt applied counter pressure and did hip squeezes. This worked for quite awhile, and in between contractions, we all talked and laughed about a million different things. It was so relaxed, even enjoyable. Patti and Dori kept complimenting me, telling me I was doing such a great job of letting my body move and work, that they practically had to beg some women to move because labor just made them lock right up. The idea of sitting still or lying down was drastically unappealing to me, so this was difficult for me to comprehend.

As the contractions picked up, I found it more comforting to have Matt in front of me, so I could lean against him. Patti and Dori took turns doing hip squeezes through the contractions, and they all breathed with me. At one point, Matt had to run to the bathroom, so Patti stayed in front of me and rubbed my shoulders and stroked my forehead and the side of my head, reminding me to stay centered, to let go of tension, to go deep inside myself, and I found that incredibly calming. She's so gifted at what she does, truly -- she always seemed to sense when I really needed her to be hands-on and when she could work better by helping Matt support me.

Later, Patti remarked about how happy I seemed through it all -- I'd just smile after every contraction, a mixture of sheer relief and excitement. I just felt like I had the best cheerleading section on the planet. At one point, I felt a contraction coming on and I turned around and grinned at Patti: "Here we go!" And everyone laughed.

After awhile, Patti asked if I wanted to try leaning over the birth ball instead of sitting on it, so I did that for awhile. She talked me through some pelvic rocks, and at that point I could feel the baby kicking a bit. It felt strange to feel kicks during contractions, but in a weird way I tried to pay close attention to them because I knew that soon I'd be missing them (as eager as I was to kiss my baby's feet outside my body).

Sometime after 4:00 in the morning, they asked if I'd like to try the tub. OH, YES. I'd been so looking forward to laboring in Nancy's huge tub, and at that point it was really sounding wonderful. Nancy checked me again and announced that I'd progressed to "somewhere between four and five centimeters." Everyone was so encouraging -- that's great! You're making progress! Your baby is moving right down! -- so I really felt okay about the fact that I wasn't as dilated as I originally thought I "should" be. The contractions were definitely picking up in intensity, but I still felt that they were completely manageable.

I climbed in the tub around 4:30 in the morning, and things began to change. At first I knelt in the water, leaning over the side. Between contractions, I would lie back in the water or lie on my side, which felt wonderful and soothing during the breaks but didn't work during the actual contractions. I had a harder time relaxing between contractions and became decidedly less chatty. I think Patti sensed that I was growing more tense about what was still ahead, so she reminded me that my body was acclimating to the contractions gradually, that I didn't have to cope with the worst all at once, and that 2/3 of labor is the rest between contractions.

I never once wanted to be anywhere else. I still marvel at how completely safe I felt there. I'm not going to say I never felt fearful or tense, but those moments were fleeting, and I completely credit my birth team with helping to keep me centered and relaxed and trusting in my body's ability to birth my baby safely.

I hit transition in the tub, obviously, although I'm not sure when. After a particularly strong contraction, Patti asked if things felt different; I said yes, and that I felt queasy. She gave me a little bottle of peppermint oil, which I found immensely soothing and relieved some of the nausea. And then things picked up -- the contractions were hard. I was really struggling to work through them without panicking. But Patti and Matt and Dori continued to breathe with me, and I managed not to think about what was coming -- I just kept thinking, I'm doing this one. I can get through this one. I grew tired of kneeling in the water, or else I just felt like I needed to move again, so I slipped down in the water and turned over on my right side. Someone slipped a washcloth underneath my head. And then things really changed -- I had, I don't even know, two contractions in that position and I suddenly felt like I couldn't do anything to stay on top of them. I tried to keep my face relaxed and breathe or chant my way through them like I had been, but my body just took over. Something about shifting into that position, at that moment --

"I'm pushing, I'm pushing, I'm pushing! Oh, God! I'm PUSHING!" I found myself howling, suddenly totally panicked. Because that's exactly what was happening -- my body was pushing, and I couldn't stop it. I was terrified, because I thought there was no way I could possibly already be ready to push. I really thought I might break apart. Instantly, I felt hands on me, and Patti and Nancy were both right there saying, "It's okay! It's okay! Don't fight it, let it happen! Let your body work, it's okay!"

(Later, Patti told me that they never thought my labor would progress so quickly. Nancy had mentioned that she thought my contractions weren't quite strong enough to make it a fast labor even though they were obviously helping me progress, and when she checked me she noted that the baby still had to come down quite a bit. But neither one of them let on that things were anything other than moving beautifully, and for that I am so grateful. Not that it would have been a problem or an issue if things had continued as they had been for awhile, but I think I would have been discouraged had I tried to think about how long it could be. Trying to do labor math is a BAD IDEA.)

At that point, I just had to get out of the tub.

They placed towels on the floor and Nancy draped one across my shoulders, and all of them eased me out of the tub. I just wanted to get to the bed; at that point, I wasn't thinking at all. Matt helped me up on the bed and the next thing I knew, Nancy was saying, "Honey, reach down! Your baby's head is right there! Reach down and feel the head!"

I couldn't believe it, but there it was.

Pushing, at that point, felt wonderful -- I mean, oh, yes, it burned. But I had never felt anything so powerful in my life. I pushed with everything I had, and just like that, I felt my baby's head come all the way out.

"Matt, catch your baby," Nancy said.

And with another push, our son was born into his daddy's hands.

"It's a boy!" he cried.

When Suzannah was born, and I heard "We have a girl!" I cried tears of sheer joy.

When Isaac was born, I laughed.

I laughed as he was delivered to my chest, because I couldn't hold it in -- the force of that joy. I laughed because I heard my son's cry and it was beautiful and strong. I laughed because the relief I felt in that moment was profound. I laughed because I knew him. I laughed as I brought him to my chest and kissed his warm head and welcomed him into his family.

Matt cut the umbilical cord and the three of us curled up together. Isaac was so beautiful and so alert and he immediately latched on and began to nurse. Nancy covered us in warm towels, and it was all so gentle, so peaceful. It was exactly how his entrance into the world should have been.

After awhile, Nancy took him over to weigh him: eight pounds, nine ounces. She measured him on my chest, and he was nearly 22 inches long. A perfect, healthy boy.

I felt so good. So good. The high I felt in those first moments was unlike anything I have ever experienced in my life. It was just sheer bliss. I felt -- and still feel -- overwhelmed with gratitude: for my strong, loving husband; for Patti's loving support; for Nancy's gentle wisdom. For the beautiful baby boy born in such a beautiful way. And for the love and support of everyone who was thinking about and praying for us that morning.

One year later, I can't begin to describe what it feels like to look at my beautiful baby boy as he squishes his cake and frosting between his chubby fingers, to listen to his shrieks of laughter as he splashes wildly in the bathtub afterwards, to nurse him to sleep in my arms. To be the mother of these two beautiful children -- to see them together, to watch them grow, to watch Suzannah pat Isaac's head and call him a "silly boy," to watch Isaac break into a grin whenever Suzannah pays him the slightest bit of attention. To touch them both, to kiss them and hold them and breathe in the absolute sweetness of their skin. My family. My arms are full. My heart, oh, my heart -- it is full.

Staying present and giving thanks

Today started out so well. It's hard not to be in a good mood when one has had plenty of coffee, when one's students are being mostly lovable and when the two who are kind of psychotic have been suspended for a few days. Matt's parents are in town. Our Christmas tree is up and filling our little house with the smell of joy. My little boy turns one year old in a few days. And it's Friday.

Then someone apparently got wind of my good mood and decided it was unacceptable, so she smoked a few cigarettes and dumped her stinking ashtray right on top of all of my happiness. She put on big, muddy boots and traipsed all over my positive attitude. She came into my classroom -- my turf, thank you -- and ruined my good mood by being horrible and abrasive.

It has been a tremendously stressful year at school for lots of reasons, almost all of which are completely beyond my control. I tend to think of my classroom itself as somewhat of a haven from all the absurdity (although believe me, my students create plenty of absurdity of their own -- it's part of their charm). Today, someone invaded my space and decided to be a TOTAL JERK about it. She ruined my day. Unfortunately, I gave her that power. I went to lunch and actually cried, which violates my own personal rule (Do Not Cry At School). I also may have threatened to burn my teaching certificate. I love teaching, a lot, but I also have a very full life and two beautiful children and a family -- I don't have enough space in my head to give it out rent-free to HORRIBLE PEOPLE who SUCK AT COMMUNICATING IN REASONABLE WAYS.

I'm sorry this is so cryptic (it has to be, when I write about school). Anyway. I took a few deep breaths, talked to some good people who communicate well and are kind enough to say all the right things when I'm threatening to burn my teaching certificate right then and there, and decided that I probably won't say "To hell with this stupid job" today. And probably not before Christmas. Possibly in January, but not right now.

Then I came home, where I was greeted by my two beautiful children, and I spent the rest of the afternoon evening with my family and my in-laws. We ate dinner together, and we watched as Isaac and Suzannah splashed happily together in the bathtub, and then Suzannah ran around the house stark naked wearing only a pair of Matt's swim goggles, and Isaac laughed at everything she did, and then I zipped him into his sleep sack and nursed him for a long time, and then I rocked him to sleep, and then Suzannah asked me to lie down with her for a moment and we snuggled in her bed, and in between all of this there was lots of silliness, and I realized something very obvious that hits me every now and then:

Everything I need, everything that matters -- it's right here.

I love my job, and I believe it matters, but it is not my life. And I am guilty (guilty guilty guilty!) of sacrificing my sanity and peace of mind for people who should not have that much power. Profound, huh? Wouldn't it be nice if I could learn this lesson once, and it would just stick? Wouldn't it be great if I could just be this peaceful and enlightened all the time? Sadly, it's a lesson I have to keep learning and learning and learning, which, oh my word, is kind of tiresome. But tonight I'm really trying, and I feel better than I have all day. Nothing about school has changed, and I'll still have the same challenges when I go back on Monday, but sometimes a little perspective can make a world of difference in how I approach it all. (How wise. I should write this down for later.)

Which reminds me: I never did write my Thanksgiving List here. It's something I try to do every November -- just write down little things for which I am thankful. Partly in the spirit of Thanksgiving, and partly because it's so easy to succumb to stress and crankiness and chaos during the months of November and December (perhaps that's why all of us have been fighting these ridiculous colds for about a hundred years now). Thanksgiving has come and gone, but it's never too late to remember to be grateful. And, I suppose, to just stay present.

So here is my list -- the obvious, the ordinary, the daily:

Matt, the best partner and friend I could hope to navigate this life with. Suzannah, who is so funny and sweet and empathetic and stubborn and spirited. Isaac, who is the most joyful person I have ever known, who fits into our family so perfectly. Students who talk to me about books they're reading that have nothing to do with school. Falling asleep to the sound of rain. Netflix on Friday night. Starbucks holiday drinks. Students who bring me cookies for no reason. Students who keep in touch after they leave high school. The way my pug jumps into my lap after the kids are in bed. Reconnecting with people I haven't seen in a long time. Friends who keep me sane when I feel crazy. Friends who see me go crazy and love me anyway. My coffee cup pajama pants. My favorite hoodies. Fuzzy pink socks. Green pilot pens. A four-mile run in the cold, damp air. Good wine. Bubble baths. Rereading Traveling Mercies when I need it most. The fact that Pat Conroy is still alive and writing beautiful sentences and keeping me hopelessly in love with language and writing and books and my glorious, ridiculous job. Cooking cozy dinners with my husband. Friday night gin-and-tonics. Chocolate truffles. Our little house and all the history it holds. Christmas decorations. The Concordia Christmas concerts and A Muppet Christmas Carol. Christmas cards. Reading lists. My books. Nutella. Date nights. Living so close to my brother and sister-in-law. Phone calls from our parents. Good people who love on my children. The smell of clean laundry and knowing I won't have to do any over the weekend. Nursing my son in bed in the morning and the sound of my daughter's feet padding across the hallway to join us. Stories.

What are yours?

She loved winter, snow, and ice

Last night was a little too December 2006 for me, only with snow.

Confession: I love snow. I do. I love snow, and winter, and storms, and ice, and the kind of freezing temperatures that call us to sit inside with hot drinks and good books. I could write hundreds of entries about my love affair with this time of year. However, I do not love power outages, or worrying about loved ones who are traveling on icy roads, or driving on icy roads myself. We were hit with a fairly impressive storm this week -- impressive for Seattle, that is -- and yesterday morning when I made my way to school the roads were already thick with ice and slush, with more snow continuing to fall. Unsurprisingly, the kids were released a couple of hours early. Temperatures continued to fall throughout the afternoon, and by dinnertime the wind was flinging snow and leaves and tiny evergreen branches against our windows.

Then, shortly after seven o'clock, just after we had finished with dinner, the power went out. I immediately told Matt that I didn't particularly care about anything else in the freezer, but by God, we were going to save my frozen breastmilk stash. I'm still haunted by the memory of pouring it all down the drain after the Great Windstorm of 2006, in which we lost power for three days. By the time I remembered my stash, it had thawed. And I cried. And I swore, AS GOD AS MY WITNESS, I WILL NEVER WASTE BREASTMILK AGAIN. After I had finished freaking out about that, I decided that there was no immediate need to panic, considering the temperature in the garage was well below freezing and the freezer hadn't been opened, so instead we busied ourselves lighting candles and digging out all the flashlights in the house.

Suzannah thought the whole thing was a grand adventure. She finished up her bath by lamplight and prepared to go "camping" in her room with one of our thick sleeping bags. We handed Isaac a flashlight to play with, and he was equally as thrilled -- best toy ever.

I was pretty much ready for bed by eight o'clock. Not only was there not much to do, but I was so anxious and tense -- but trying not to show it -- that my body kicked into sleepy survival mode. I kept peering out the windows; lights were out everywhere, but the sky was eerily bright from all the snow and I could see across our backyard and into our neighbor's. Little swirls of snow kept rising up out of the covered grass, and the tree branches were tossing violently in the gusty winds. Four years ago, we spent the first night of the power outage huddled in bed with six-month-old Suzannah, listening to the winds howling and praying that our huge tree wouldn't fall on our house. We spent the next two nights huddled in bed, bored to death and freezing and eating Sun Chips and Swedish Fish and watching Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail on Matt's laptop. We spent the afternoons making grilled cheese and soup on our camp stove in the backyard (Matt) and scrubbing the refrigerator (me). The memories are not altogether unpleasant, but the romance wore off quickly, and I wasn't looking forward to days without power again. Something told me it might be a bit more challenging with a four-year-old and a mobile baby.

I wasn't about to let Isaac sleep alone in his freezing room, so I zipped him into his fleece sleep sack and hunkered down in bed with him, saying a little prayer that he would actually sleep. I was just about to nurse him into sleepyland when the hallway lights came on and the heater roared to life.

But it was a pretty traumatic eighty-three minutes. Luckily, school was cancelled both for today and tomorrow, so I have time to recover.

In other news, during the month of November, I do this crazy thing where I write 50,000 words of very rough fiction, which I blame for my lack of writing here. Since 2003, I have participated in National Novel Writing Month; this is my sixth actual attempt. I finished in 2003, 2004, 2006, and 2008. In 2005, I gave up after 10,000 words because throwing up and sleeping took over my life (I was seven weeks pregnant with Suzannah on November first), and last year I skipped it with the excuse that I was just too pregnant and tired and wasn't sure I would make it to November 30 before I gave birth anyway. I skipped 2007 altogether, choosing instead to continue revising the novel I started the previous November, because I was pretty attached to my characters. I still haven't abandoned it, although it hasn't gotten much attention in the last two years. In 2008, I decided at the very last minute to participate again, despite telling myself that I was going to skip it because I didn't have anything to prove. I can write 50,000 words of crappy fiction in a month, and I actually do write at other times of the year, so I didn't need it! But I succumbed on November first anyway, and once I started, I had to finish, because I'm stubborn and weirdly competitive like that.

I had absolutely no intention of doing NaNoWriMo this year. None. I'm busy and I'm stressed and there are plenty of other, more reasonable things I could be doing with my time. But once again, I made the mistake of visiting the site on November first and skimming the message boards, and then I felt all nostalgic, and then I thought, well, I haven't written anything except journal entries for a long time -- it would be good writing practice. And maybe I felt the need to prove to myself that I could be a mother of two children and still write. Maybe not well, but writing is one thing I do that helps me keep breathing. And anyway, 2,000 words a day is not actually an unreasonable amount of writing for people who do it regularly. After all, the only way to write stuff is to write stuff.

Still, I spent most of the first Monday of the month hemming and hawing and having little outbursts about how ridiculous it all is, and I grew increasingly dramatic about it, announcing to my husband that I should just delete everything I'd ever written anyway, it all sucks, I can't write and be a mom and teach, and also THERE IS NO POINT TO ANYTHING IN THE UNIVERSE. At first, he just sighed patiently. By that evening, he was like, OH MY GOD, if you're going to do this all month we will ALL go crazy, so PLEASE JUST GO START WRITING.

So I did. And I'm doing it, mostly at night when the kids are in bed, and I have just over 40,000 words to show for it tonight, on the twenty-third day of November. But I'm pretty sure this is my last year.

Eleven months

Every night now, I nurse Isaac to sleep or to almost-sleep in my arms before I carry him into his room. His head goes down on my shoulder; he fits so perfectly against my neck. He sighs sleepily, heavily. He holds on now, my shirt in his little fists. Or he rests one hand on my left arm, the other hand on my chest.

I close the door behind us; he likes the room dark. I play the same CD for him every night. It's a different one than I used to play for Suzannah; each of my children have their own night music, songs that I associate with particular times in their lives. The songs hold an unbearable sweetness for me. I rock him in my arms, standing up, breathing in his sweet sleepy smell, kissing his warm head, kissing the back of his neck. A few times this last week, I've found myself tearing up -- because I want this moment to last forever, because someday I won't be able to hold him like this, because he sleeps better on his own now, because he's growing so fast, because I just want to keep and hold this, this this this. It is a strange and exhilarating blend of joy and grief.

I hold him for a long time. It's like slow dancing.

The same songs, every night.

Someday, somewhere beyond this moment, I know I will hear these songs again, and I already know how suddenly and deeply they will return me to these nights of holding my infant son in the dark, swaying with him as he snuggles against my shoulder. But for now, it's almost more than I can take to just lie him down, to let go.

Appetites

"What liberates a person enough to indulge appetite, to take pleasure in the world, to enjoy being alive? Within that question lies the true holy grail, the heart of a woman's hunger." -- Caroline Knapp

The other day, I swung through the office at school with a friend of mine. Someone offered us cupcakes; I can't remember why. Probably they were leftover from something. I hesitated, because I'd just wolfed down a Twix bar and wasn't particularly hungry -- but even so, I almost never turn down cupcakes. Plus, these were red velvet cupcakes, and even though I KNOW there is nothing actually special about red velvet, I still find it hard to resist their gimmicky goodness. But before I could actually say anything, another woman said, "I wouldn't think you would want a cupcake."

And I was like, wait, what? Because anyone who knows me at all knows that I have this serious thing for cupcakes. Why do you think anyone who visits from out of town always asks me to take them to my favorite cupcake place? (Which, by the way, I have not visited in eons; I hope they've been able to stay open without my business. And I hope they don't think I'm cheating on them with another cupcake place. It's just that I've been rather lacking in extra time and money lately.) I furrowed my brow, indicating that I didn't know what in the flipping hee-haw she was talking about.

"Well, it's just that you've gotten all skinny," she continued. "You probably shouldn't be eating stuff like that."

I don't even remember how I responded, but I can tell you exactly how I felt: angry.

Why do women do this? Why do women scrutinize each other this way? Why are we so critical, so cattily observant, of every pound someone else gains or loses? Why do we feel it's our place to judge, or to snark? I shouldn't have a cupcake, because I've worked hard to achieve this healthy body? So, if I weighed thirty pounds more, no one would mind? Or if I weighed thirty pounds more, would they secretly judge me for eating one because I should want to weigh less? And would they feel smug about that?

Perhaps I'm overthinking this, but the fact is that I listen to comments like this from women I work with (or, to be fair, probably women in general) all the time. So-and-so has gained weight. So-and-so has lost weight. More often than not, the comments are directed towards people whose changes in weight -- in either direction -- would probably have gone unnoticed by me. Why does one actually bother to point out that someone has gained five or ten pounds? Just to be superior, bitchy, smug?

On the other hand, I don't want to give the impression that I don't like hearing compliments when I have worked hard to get in shape. I'm pretty sure most women, especially after having a second child, would appreciate that kind of notice. And I do! It's certainly not that I've turned into some supermodel, for heaven's sake -- I mean, would anyone like to talk about stretch marks (among other unavoidable effects of bearing children)? And also, I will probably never think of myself as "skinny." But I am healthier and in better shape than I have been in years, definitely since I got pregnant with Suzannah -- although not because I deny myself the things that I love (hello cupcakes, gin, chocolate, buttered popcorn -- the things that make Friday nights and weekends so glorious). It's because I discovered that I'm breastfeeding not a baby but this TOTALLY INSATIABLE KOMODO DRAGON who demands a great deal of nourishment so he has enough energy to destroy my house every single day. This burns a lot of calories, people.

But also this:

We almost never eat out. This is partly because it makes much more financial sense to cook at home, but it's also much healthier because I control what goes into our food. I certainly don't cook "diet" food, but almost anything we have here is going to be healthier (and cheaper) than what we would order in a restaurant. When I look for new recipes to try, I make a conscious effort to choose healthy (yet satisfying and delicious) ones. And we eat a lot of vegetables.

I also run at least a few miles a couple of times a week. I've written about this before; it's something I realize I actually enjoy, and it's one of the most effective ways of clearing my head.

That's pretty much it. Those are my secrets. I don't do trendy diets, and none of this happened overnight or in the kind of time frame promised by infomercials.

I most assuredly do not deny myself cupcakes. And while cooking healthy foods at home means I have more of a taste for them when we do go out, you know what? Once in awhile, I don't want hummus or grilled vegetables, I want a hamburger. With fries. Dipped in ranch dressing. Sometimes, I want Pizza Hut, with an order of cheesy breadsticks on the side (and obviously, the ranch dressing is pretty crucial there). And I don't want to have to rationalize it. Or, worse, apologize for it.

But I'm tempted to do that all too often. In fact, I'm pretty sure I annoy my husband to death when I do order that hamburger. I tell him I'm getting a burger, dammit, with fries, because I went for a run that morning! Also, I'm breastfeeding! Also, we ate roasted veggies and quinoa last night! Matt's usual response is to cut me off and say, "Baby? It's fine. Have a hamburger." And sometimes he asks me, "Is this really what you want our daughter to hear?"

That one hits home. Because while of course we want to instill healthy eating and exercise habits in our children, while we want to model those things, I also don't want my daughter to grow up thinking she is somehow more virtuous, or more ladylike, if she suppresses her appetites. Certainly, she won't be happier. In Appetites: Why Women Want, Caroline Knapp writes:

A mother who is tormented by diet and weight, who appears preoccupied with her appearance and disgusted by her own body, cannot easily teach her daughter to take delight in food, to feel carefree about weight or joyful about the female form. A mother who finds her own sexuality frightening or dangerous or dirty can't easily revel in her daughter's. And a mother whose experience of desire is based on taboo and self-denial, on feeding others and concealing her own pangs of unsatisfied hunger, can't easily steer her daughter towards a wider landsape.

I wrote this awhile back, after listening to a couple of co-workers snark another woman we worked with because she had apparently gained weight before her wedding: I want my daughter to be confident, but I also want her to be kind. Above all, I want her to be kind. She will learn this from me, as well. I am not going to be that person, the one who takes a certain amount of satisfaction from dumb things like the pretty girl gaining a few pounds. I'm not going to be the snotty girl who feels powerful when someone else is under a microscope. I don't want to be the person who makes anyone else feel small. I have been that person before, I'm afraid, and I've also been the girl who feels insecure and inadequate. Quite frankly, neither position feels all that great.

I don't want to downplay the health problems and obesity we face in this country -- that's real. Yes, Matt and I care about eating healthy foods. Yes, we care about exercising. But let's not pretend that women who say things like, "I wouldn't think you would want to eat that!" are speaking out of concern for each other's health. Or that making a point to comment on someone's five or ten-pound weight gain is anything but bitchy.

Why do women feel so virtuous when they are hungry? Why do our appetites make us feel so guilty? Why would we rather fill ourselves with self-loathing instead?

I wish I could say that, at thirty-one, I've learned to rise above that. But perhaps the very fact that a relatively innocuous comment bothered me so much, and that I'm still thinking about it several days later, proves that I'm just as sensitive to the scrutiny of other women as I was ten or fifteen years ago. I'd like to think I'm fairly comfortable in my own skin these days, though, and I suppose that's the best protection I can give my daughter -- and hope to heaven it counts for something.

Look out, world, here he comes

I read once that the silences in a journal can speak as loudly as its words. This is how I tell myself that it's sometimes okay to be a little quiet here. Our lives have been more than a little stress-filled lately, but we are all healthy and together and generally okay, so I really do try to stay grateful.

Matt just asked if I was hopping on the computer to announce the reason I probably won't be able to blog more than five words for the next couple of years. It's a slight exaggeration, but sometimes it doesn't feel like one. Isaac, you see, has decided to choose this particularly stressful month to begin crawling. I remember how much fun it was when Suzannah started to crawl, how excited we were for her to reach all of those milestones -- but a.) I know better than to want to rush that with the second child and also b.) Suzannah did not move this much when she was ten months old. Or possibly ever. I remember feeling rather weary when she flung all of my books off the shelf for the fifteenth time in a day, but she was also fairly happy to just sit in the middle of the mess she'd created and watch me clean it up.

What I'm saying is that my sweet little baby who used to just sit and be all, Hey! Look how cute and fat I am! has suddenly turned into Isaac the Destroyer. I left my happy, mellow little guy sitting in the middle of the floor one afternoon while I worked on starting dinner, and then I made the mistake of turning around for one third of a second; when I turned back around I saw my son's big diapered butt disappearing into the laundry room. I scooped him up just as he was about to dive headfirst into the dog's bowl. And that's how it's been ever since. It doesn't help that he has absolutely no interest in appropriate baby toys; no, he would much rather chew on the cords for Matt's laptop, lick the dog's face, pull his sister's hair, and try to race his mama to the electrical outlets. He looks like a happy little Komodo Dragon, all barrel-chested, swinging his meaty arms in front of him as he drags his body and kicks his legs.

We could also talk about how much fun it is to change a poopy diaper when he wants to be in any other position than on his back. I remember when the biggest challenge to diaper changes was that he couldn't keep his hands off his built-in plaything. I'm almost nostalgic for that.

Anyway, I'm exhausted, and I hear my own voice come out of Suzannah's mouth eleventy billion times a day: "No no, Isaac!" Today I heard her say, "Come back here, little boy!" I peeked around the corner (I'd been brave enough to dash into the next room for a moment) and saw her sitting on the floor behind him, one of his fat little legs grasped in both of her hands. It was almost like she was trying to walk a dog that was too large for her to manage properly. I'm sure it's only going to be a matter of days before he starts climbing up on the back of the couch and flinging himself off of it. Playgrounds are going to be out of the question until he goes to kindergarten, because my heart just won't be able to take it. I remember taking the kids to the park once this summer, and a tiny blonde boy -- probably not more than eighteen months old -- managed, in the second his mother's head was turned, to shimmy up some complicated climbing structure that was definitely not meant for those in the just-started-walking crowd. When his mama saw where he'd managed to climb she let out a panicked shriek and went running to his rescue, and as she plucked him from the bars I swear he winked rather wickedly at me. And I thought, wow, I wouldn't want to be his mother.

My in-laws are visiting next week, and we're so excited -- the kids will love spending time with their grandparents, and we'll enjoy it too, but I have to admit I'm so desperate for an evening out alone with my husband (no diaper bag? No kids' menus? I can finish a sentence and linger over a glass of wine?) that the thought almost makes me cry. I won't cry on our date, though. Promise.

Motherhood: Just one self-esteem boost after another...

Me: I love you, Zannah!

Suzannah: Well, I love sandwiches.

Thank God it's Friday

Oh sweet, sweet Friday nights!

I loved them when I was on maternity leave, because, of course, I loved the weekends with my whole family. Matt and I make a good parenting team and it's nice to have him around for a couple of days. But Friday nights during the school year when I'm teaching have a special sweetness to them.

I remember looking forward to them with something like desperation during my first year of teaching. It wasn't that I hated my job; I loved it, even that first year (although I would never, ever want to repeat the first year, ever ever ever). It was just that I was constantly struggling to keep my head above water, so to speak. Each Friday afternoon a huge wave of relief would wash over me, and I would wonder -- is this it? Is this the weekend from which I will emerge refreshed and whole and totally on top of things? I was convinced, every single weekend, that I would get all my lesson planning done for the entire week. I would catch up on grading. I would enjoy my life, I would relax, I would sleep enough. And yet, despite my intentions, I'd still find myself floundering on Wednesday because Tuesday's lesson didn't really work all that well and that messed up the next day and what in the freaking heck was I going to do on Thursday and AUUUUGHHHH WHY DIDN'T I JUST GO TO BARTENDING SCHOOL.

Ah, memories.

But Friday night has always been sweet.

This is my tenth year of teaching (I was a BABY when I started!), and I no longer have to panic over my lesson plans. I love playing with ideas and experimenting with new ways to teach literature. It's very much a creative process for me, and also, experience means I don't have to agonize over how to plan for a certain period of time. I can pretty much anticipate what I need in order to fill fifty minutes or eighty minutes, and I usually have more to do than I have time for (which is so much better than getting through all my stuff and realizing, crap, I still have fifteen minutes left). Last Friday night, my friend Becca came over and we planned a couple of weeks' worth of stuff for our classes before dinner, and that was with my children crawling all over us. My, how things have changed.

Now, my Friday nights are all about shucking my school clothes in favor of sweats (isn't Matt lucky to come home to such PURE SEX APPEAL?), sipping wine and cooking dinner with my family, doing our bedtime routine without worrying too much about whether or not anyone is up a bit late, and then, after the kids are asleep, watching whatever we've got on Netflix and eating popcorn and chocolate. (I have fantasies of date nights in which we actually go out for dinner, by ourselves, and don't have to deal with children's menus and crayons and diaper bags, but I just have to trust that will happen again sometime. In the meantime, I love our "dates" at home after the kids are both finally in bed.) Friday nights are free of planning tomorrow's lunches, packing diapers, making sure the breast pump is clean. Friday nights are just about being.

This was my first full week teaching after nine months off (although perhaps "off" isn't the right word, am I right, fellow mamas?). To be honest, for much of my maternity leave I was absolutely not looking forward to returning. Not because I don't love teaching -- I do -- but because of, I don't know, some internal identity crisis? Feeling like I don't really know what I want to be when I grow up? (I still don't know for sure.) Loving my time at home? School issues I choose not to write about on my public blog? But I decided that I'd give it another year and see how it felt, and now that I'm doing it again, I can safely and honestly say I made the best choice for me and for my family, at least for now. It's been so, so good. And I know it's September, and if you're a teacher you understand that there's a certain romance about September, and I might feel a little more worn-out and cranky in, say, January or March, but I really do just love this. I love the energy and passion of high school students. I love having conversations with them, and trying to plug them into the stuff I love. It's September, so I'm still excited and energized.

Recently someone said to me, "God, you're optimistic -- such a bleeding heart." Scoffed it at me, really. But what's the alternative? Bitterness and cynicism? Not having a heart at all?

***

The kids -- as in, my kids -- are happy and healthy and wonderful. Suzannah is thriving in preschool. She couldn't wait to go back. I so enjoyed staying home with my children, and I'm grateful we could make it happen for as long as we needed, but I'm equally grateful that Suzannah is around other kids again, every day. She scampers off as soon as we walk through the door. I chase her down and make her hug me good-bye, and she all but rolls her eyes. On our drive home in the afternoon, she chatters nonstop about everything they did that day, right down to what she ate for lunch. (Yesterday she said to me, "I only like green beans at daycare, Mommy. Not at home." The same holds true for vegetable soup. She eats that at daycare, but not for us.)

Isaac is still the happiest person I know, so cheerful and good-natured. He loves being around the other kids, and every time I pick him up, if he's not still napping after lunch, he's just hanging out and taking it all in with wide, totally interested eyes. He still grins when he sees me, though. (His big sister is occasionally too busy to acknowledge me immediately.) He is refusing to have anything to do with a bottle while I'm away, though (despite taking one from Matt without too much trouble every now and then). He's all, I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TRYING TO DO THERE AND YOU ARE CRAZY. However, he eats "real" food now, so he's certainly not starving. He makes up for his six boobless hours by working in an extra nursing session at night, and I'm totally okay with that. In the meantime, I pump bottles for him anyway, and my freezer stash is getting to the point where I may or may not have said to my husband, "SOMEONE in this house is going to drink that, even if your son doesn't. We are NOT wasting it." I'm still traumatized by the memory of pouring my entire freezer stash down the drain in December of 2006 when a horrific windstorm knocked out the power for several days. Yes, I actually cried. I can't bear the thought of wasting it all again FOR ANY REASON. (So, hey, Matt, I know you like your coffee black, but...)

(You're all wondering -- just a little -- if I'm serious, aren't you?)

***

It's Friday night, I know what I'm teaching next week, and I don't have any papers to grade. Tomorrow we're going to the Elliott Bay Book Company so I can get an autographed copy of Freedom by Jonathan Franzen (whatever, say what you want about him, he probably is an ass, but The Corrections is one of those books that I turn to when I want to study how writers write and I can't wait to read this one). We're going to the Elliott Bay Brewery for dinner. I'm going to clean my house, I'm going to hang with my family, I'm going to finish reading Mockingjay. I'm going to go for a run. I'm going to drink good coffee. I'm going to drink a gin-and-tonic or two. I'm going to write. I'm going to emerge from this weekend refreshed and whole. It's the eternal optimist in me.

And right now, I'm going to sign off, because there is a dance party happening in my family room and my four-year-old is waiting.

(One last thing: Am I the only one who is instantly transported back to 1989 when she sees the letters "TGIF"? Anyone else remember when Full House and Family Matters were on TV? T-G-I-F! ....Anyone?)

Running, Part II: My first 5k

It's now been just over a week since I ran my 5k for the Northwest Hope and Healing Foundation, so this update is terribly overdue. However, school started this week and I have been just a little bit busy; I know you'll all forgive me.

The short version: I ran the entire thing, and my time was 33:05. I wanted to run it in under 33 minutes, but I'm actually fairly pleased; my only official goal was to run the entire time, and I did. I also met my fundraising goal (the one I set less than three weeks before the race) thanks to some wonderful people.

It was a fantastic day.

The long(er) version: I woke up early, before the rest of my family. I threw on my shorts, toasted myself an English muffin, grabbed a banana for later, and headed out the door. Matt and the kids were going to meet me up in West Seattle, because the thought of getting all of us up, fed, dressed, and out the door by seven o'clock was far too stressful. I met Kyanne at the park and ride, and we hit the freeway around 7:15. The parade route would be closed starting at eight -- the race was at nine -- and we wanted to allow plenty of time for parking and registration. (I did, anyway. Kyanne came along because she is a very, very good friend. I'm pretty sure she just wanted to allow plenty of time to get coffee before the race.)

I probably talked my head off and annoyed her to death on the way up there; I was a little wound-up. And inexplicably nervous, which was probably sort of silly; it's not like I was being graded on this run. (Here I have nightmarish flashbacks of running the mile in gym class.) Anyway, I was all, "I secretly LOVE being out this early on weekend mornings! There's no traffic! It's so quiet!" And because Kyanne is a very good -- and generally very tolerant -- friend, she did not throw me out of her car and go back home to her warm bed.

We parked a couple of blocks from the waterfront. A few people were heading the same direction we were, and I immediately began sizing up the competition. (I know, it's not a competition, blah blah blah.) We wound up walking behind a group of fit looking girls with cute little pony tails and running clothes, and I think this was the point at which I turned to Kyanne and started bitching about how I don't have "good running hair." (I know. I sometimes can't imagine why she's friends with me. I think she asked me what "good running hair" even meant, and I was all, "UUNNHHH!")

We hunkered down at the Alki Bakery, which, blessedly, was right next to the starting line. Bliss! We could sit inside and stay warm right up until the race started. Our friend Becca met us there -- she hopped off the bus shortly before eight, right in front of the coffee shop -- and the three of us spent a pleasant, relaxing hour waiting for the race to begin.

...Except that's a lie. I'm sure Kyanne and Becca would have enjoyed a pleasant, relaxing hour, but I basically ruined their coffee/pastry time by talking a mile a minute and alternating between such reasonable things as, "I am going to be so depressed if I'm, like, the slowest runner" and "Those people clustering over by the starting line better WATCH OUT, because I am NOT going to be stuck behind anyone!" At some point I noticed all these hyper-looking skinny Runner Types jogging frenetically back and forth in the street.

"Why are they DOING THAT?" I demanded. "They are making me antsy."

"They're just warming up," Kyanne said. "They have no body fat." (Wow. Poor them.)

"Should I be warming up?" I said. "I don't really know how this works. I already ate a banana because my friend Julia is a REAL runner and she said that's what she does before a race. But -- should I be out there? Running around?"

Kyanne very patiently explained that "those" people are the ones who do all the races and they are Serious Runners. (We all know I am a "runner," not a Serious Runner.) I relaxed marginally, only to be set off by millions of other dumb little things for the next hour. I don't even remember what, but at one point Kyanne did have to say, "Shari, you need to reign in the crazy." And I hadn't even had coffee.

Shortly before nine, we noticed people clustering around the starting line in the middle of the street, so we went out to join them. Kyanne and Becca were walking together, but they very kindly hung out with me (I lined up with the "joggers") until the horn blew to signal the start of the race. I had never in my life been so excited to run; the adrenalin was surging and I hadn't even started.

I started my music -- I start all my runs listening to Lady Gaga these days -- and started jogging. Except the crowd was moving so slowly at first; I immediately tried to weave in between people so I could actually run and not just sort of bounce up and down in more or less the same place. I'm pretty sure I heard either Kyanne or Becca call after me, "Use your hallway elbows!" (You know what I mean if you teach in a crowded high school.) It took approximately one minute for me to make it to the actual starting line, and by that time, there was enough room to run.

I don't know if I can accurately describe the sheer elation that took over at that point. I had initially been worried about trying to run too fast in the beginning and getting tired later on, but I settled into a comfortable pace right away. The route took us right along the waterfront with a beautiful view of the Seattle skyline; the morning was gray and cool and felt absolutely perfect for a run.

The first half was effortless. I was flying. Not necessarily in terms of speed, although I quickly passed basically the entire "jogging" group (note to self: Next time, you can line up with the runners!) and I'm pretty sure none of them passed me again; it was, simply, one of the most exhilarating things I've ever experienced. Running with this huge group of people was incredibly energizing and inspiring. Almost immediately I began to notice people in a way I hadn't been able to do prior to the start of the race. I saw a family running together -- at least I assume they were a family -- wearing the same t-shirt with a woman's face and her name on the front. (Most of us wore the race shirts, but several teams wore their own customized shirts.) I saw countless people wearing pins bearing names and images of women they loved, women who have battled breast cancer. There were people -- adults, children, families -- lined up along the street, cheering. Some held signs. The power of that, and of all that collective motion, was immense.

I teared up several times during the first half-mile or so. I thought about my friend Dori, about my friend V's mother, about all the people who have shared their stories with me -- when you tell people you're running for breast cancer, or probably for anything, really, you're blessed with these stories if you take the time to listen. I thought about all the women who inspired a thousand runners to take to the street on a cool late-summer morning, and I'm telling you this: I didn't have to worry about my legs or my lungs or whether I'd chosen the right music, because I was carried on the wave of those stories, along with everyone else. It might sound dramatic, but it was one of the most profound moments of my life -- to recognize and honor the interconnectedness of people who share these stories. I mean, this is at the heart of why I read and write at all -- I tell my students all the time that it's about reminding ourselves of our humanity. It occurred to me last Sunday that I was running for the same reason.

The route returned along the sidewalk down the same street, so the people who reached the halfway point would be running back in the direction from which they came. This meant that as people turned around they were facing us, and as the first (impressively fast) runners turned and passed us, those of us still heading for the turnaround point burst into cheers.

When it was my turn to pass the halfway mark, I was excited to see people (and several little kids, which I just loved) holding out cups of water for us to grab as we ran by. Now, okay. I'm all proud of myself for running this race, but I actually jog at least three miles a couple of times a week, and I do not generally need water halfway through. However, I really wanted this to be as AUTHENTIC AS POSSIBLE, which meant that because it was a REAL RACE, I thought I should definitely grab a cup of water and chug it without stopping. Hello, validation! However, it turns out that gulping water while running requires more coordination than I was prepared for, so I wound up tossing the entire cup directly onto my chest. I might have caught a stray drop or two on my tongue, since my mouth was wide open. I really hope none of the onlookers with cameras caught that dignified little moment on film.

I started to feel a little tired probably around mile 2, but then I saw one of the little runner girls that had walked to the race just ahead of Kyanne and me. I was suddenly filled with the insatiable need to pass her (hello, more validation, even if it's only in my head! Where lots of things are!), so I picked up my pace a bit. I didn't sprint past her, because I wanted to finish ahead of her. I became absolutely fixated on this, which is ridiculous, but it worked, because I found the extra burst of energy I needed. I passed her, and I totally finished ahead of her. YEAH. It would have been so much more satisfying if I could have stopped to explain to her that I was winning, of course, but what can you do.

Seeing the finish line was pretty fabulous, too. Even better: seeing my husband on the other side, holding our children. Suzannah was dressed in capris and a pink sweatshirt and mittens, and Isaac just looked cheerful and gamely interested in all the commotion. Matt didn't manage to snap my picture as I crossed the finish line, but I probably didn't look quite as amazing as I did in my head, so this is really very okay. (I like to preserve the integrity of my fantasies as much as possible, thank you.) We sat inside the bakery and shared a chocolate chip cookie with Suzannah while we waited for Kyanne and Becca to finish. They arrived to find me bouncing up and down and announcing that I felt AWESOME and wanted to do it again RIGHT! THAT! SECOND! I totally could do it, and that would be a 10k! Hey! Wouldn't they like to do a 10k with me?

...No?

(Kyanne and Becca are seriously really good friends. I can't imagine how irritating I must be when I'm feeling that excited.)

The six of us went out for a celebratory brunch at Easy Street Records, where I ate the absolute best breakfast burrito I've ever had and drank one of the best mochas. And then I went home and took one of the most satisfying hot showers of my life. It was a really, really great experience and a wonderful day, and I absolutely want to do it again. My goal for next time is to beat my time. Considering I was the girl who wanted to stay home from school on days when we had to run the mile for gym class, I feel pretty okay about my first one, though.

I have no idea how I can possibly go for runs now without crowds cheering along the street, but I suppose I'll manage.

(Matt did get some pictures, by the way. I'll try to remember to post one or two of them soon.)

Running, Part I

I've mentioned before that I was pretty much allergic to running for, oh, the first two decades or so of my life. And I still don't consider myself a runner, to be honest -- I consider myself a "runner." Yes, in quotes. Because I'm definitely not fast, and I'm probably not all that dedicated. It's just this little thing I try to do a few times a week. I do it because it's an hour or so out of my day in which no one is touching me or needing anything from me and my mind can just do whatever it wants, and as a nice little bonus, it's helping me keep my pregnancy weight off.

I started jogging several years ago after I realized that the twenty-five pounds I put on during my first two years of college weren't going to lose themselves, and I wasn't yet totally willing to give up the 4.99 medium pizzas that Dominos delivered right to the dorms on nights when dinner at the campus dining service just sounded disgusting. (Later, after I finally started going to the gym -- often dragging my roommate with me -- we also started cooking more because we had our own apartment and our own kitchen. That helped. A lot.) Surprisingly, I kind of enjoyed it. I liked listening to my favorite music and just going into (while at the same time getting out of) my own head for a little while. It turned out to be a huge stress relief for me. I also learned that I ran farther and faster when I was angry or upset, so it was a nice little coping mechanism, too. By the time I moved to Washington after college, I could run a few miles without wanting to die.

I decided to take it more seriously in the year or two before I got pregnant with Suzannah. Instead of jogging sporadically down at the boardwalk, I joined a gym with Kyanne -- which actually did motivate me to go, since I didn't want to waste my money. By the time I got pregnant in the fall of 2005, I was in better shape than I'd been since, oh, basically forever.

Of course, when I got pregnant, I gained ten pounds as soon as the pee hit the stick, and I spent the next eight months reassuring myself that I was eating for two, so it was fine to eat nothing but Clucks 'n Fries from Red Robin with a milkshake on top. (In my defense, the smell of broccoli made me want to throw up. The smell of almost everything made me want to throw up, and many of those things did make me throw up, so, for the first four months at least, I ate whatever sounded good. I'm sorry that what sounded good was often pizza and not huge pans of roasted vegetables.) Anyway, blah blah blah, I had a REALLY FABULOUS TIME gaining a lot of weight. Then I had a baby and lost, you know, nine pounds or something. Then I lost a little more, and when Suzannah was around four months old I hauled myself back to the gym. But I wasn't great about making that a regular habit. I think moms will understand -- if you have a free hour to yourself, the choices are so mind-boggling. Do you exercise? Read? Write? Clean the bathroom? Take a shower? Take a nap?

Somehow, it became easier for me to commit to jogging after I had Isaac. I lost all of my pregnancy weight in six weeks, which always seems to impress people when they hear it except a.) I still had leftover pregnancy weight from Suzannah (what? I can call it pregnancy weight four years later!) and b.) I can't take any credit for that. It was all breastfeeding and no will power, because I ate all the cupcakes and bread and alfredo sauce my little heart desired. But at that point, I thought, hey! I could start jogging again, have a little time to myself, and potentially feel really great. I made myself do it a couple of evenings a week and maybe once on the weekends (plus, I was out walking with the kids nearly every day; fresh air is one of the keys to our collective sanity). There are so, so many things I would love to do with my "free" time, but the allure of an hour with no one needing anything from me, without having to make any sort of conversation at all, was (and still is), frankly, irresistible.

I've learned that I probably run best at the gym, where I'm faced with both my actual speed and time right there on the treadmill display. It's mostly strictly work there, and if I didn't have my running music I would find it excruciatingly boring. (A month or so ago I forgot my music and almost gave up and went home; it definitely wasn't my finest workout.) My favorite places to run are outside, though: the streets around my neighborhood, some quiet and some taking me along a steady flow of traffic; the boardwalk along Puget Sound, only a few minutes from my house; long quiet stretches of highway in Montana. I still remember so clearly the afternoon I went for a jog up the highway north of Gildford when I visited my grandparents one summer. It was hot, and I can only imagine what I looked like as I huffed my way back into town. As I approached my grandparents' house, I could see my grandpa standing in the yard, shaking his head and gaping, one hand on his hip.

"What I can't figger," he hollered, "is why in the hell you'd wanna ram yer ass up through yer hips like that in this heat."

I admit it: When I run, I suffer from Acute Delusions of Grandeur. This is the danger of going into one's own head a little too much, I guess. When I run, I am Lady Gaga. I can sing, I can move (don't worry, I don't try to actually do these things -- at least not while I'm running -- but you'd better believe I am the best singer IN THE WORLD when I am in my car), and I have huge crowds eating from the palm of my hand.

In my head I become the teacher from Dangerous Minds. Jonathan Franzen takes writing advice from me. In my mind, I go back to the day in June when Matt and I stopped by Louise Erdrich's bookstore in Minneapolis (Birchbark Books -- fabulous little shop) and not only is she there but we strike up a conversation and she clearly loves my beautiful kids but she basically wants to be my best friend because we just immediately click. I am also curing cancer, and no one can believe how fast I'm running this 5k. I run with determination and grace and a quiet fury. People take my picture at the finish line and I look healthy and flushed but basically good enough to be on the cover of a magazine. My hair is tousled just slightly in that way that supermodels work for hours to achieve.

When I come gasping through the back door at home, Matt politely asks how my run went.

"It was awesome," I say. "I'm pretty sure that was my best run ever." I'm not slightly flushed; I am beet-red and pouring sweat and my hair is stuck all over my face and neck. The dog immediately busies herself slurping my legs. I try to explain how I'm expecting my Nobel Prize for Amazingness to be delivered to the front door any second, but I suspect it's hard to take me seriously. (Once, on a summer weekend retreat with a few co-workers, I went running around a huge park -- I did about three miles -- and they just hung out and watched. When I finished, one of them said, "Well, you look just awful.")

Matt smiles and says, "Cool." He might not quite understand just how amazing I have been in the last forty-five minutes, but he's probably the one human being who could actually look at this sweaty, red-faced woman with the messy pony-tail and say, "You look good." And even seem to mean it.

(I'm running my 5k tomorrow morning -- wish me luck! And again, thank you so much to those of you who donated for this very worthy cause and those of you who've been my best cheerleaders. I appreciate each and every one of you.)

Some things about us

I've been a little under the weather for the past few days, thanks to a sinus infection, but! I refuse to let it get the best of me and instead choose to focus on the fact that if I must get sick (after a solid ten months of blessedly wonderful health), better to do it now than, say, a week from now when I am gearing up for school again and running my 5k for the Northwest Hope and Healing Foundation. I've raised 75% of my goal and have until next weekend to complete it. (Thank you so much, again, to each person who has donated so far! I deeply appreciate it.)

I'm hoping that by tomorrow I feel well enough to go for an easy run, with at least one "real" run before the big day next Sunday. In the meantime, I've been drinking a lot of juice, taking naps (thank goodness for weekends and supportive husbands), and reading Catching Fire, the second book in The Hunger Games trilogy. These books are amazing, if you haven't heard. Matt and I have both been devouring them. The third book comes on out Tuesday, and Matt hasn't even tried to convince me to wait for a library copy. Or paperback.

I also feel the need to share, mostly for my mother's benefit, that I finally committed to the sinus wash thing. I have been terrified of these for years because they are SCARY and GROSS. When I was newly-pregnant with Suzannah I came down with a horrible sinus infection and kind of tried to do it a couple of times, since I couldn't take any really good drugs, but I don't think I was doing it right and I never really tried it again until now. This weekend, at a friend's gentle urging, I sent Matt out for a NeilMed Sinus Rinse Kit. I even watched a couple of youtube videos to make sure I was doing right, and they made me want to cry. I told Matt I could happily watch birth videos all day long (which is true; I love them!) but watching water pour out of someone else's nose totally DOES NOT MAKE ME HAPPY. But I was very, very brave and I watched the scary videos anyway and then I mixed up the little bottle of solution and then I squirted it up in my nose and I KEPT DOING THAT even though, yes, it is pretty gross, but you guys? IT WORKS, and it feels REALLY, REALLY GOOD. Just in case anyone here has every been plagued with sinus issues but has been afraid to try it. It works about a hundred times better than any cold medicine I could have taken, which I tend to avoid anyway because a.) I find most of them useless and b.) I don't want any of them to mess with my milk supply, since some of them can have temporary drying effects.

Aren't you proud of me, Mom? You were right! (She is probably both nodding her head and rolling her eyes because it took me a good four or five years to come to my senses and just learn how to do this already. I understand. Once you've seen the light, it's so aggravating when other people don't immediately convert.)

Anyway, being sick is no picnic, but I'm grateful to get this out of the way now. My biggest worry is that my kiddos will get sick, which is so much worse. Isaac has never even had so much as the sniffles; we've been lucky. Sick babies are so, so sad.

Speaking of my babies, here are some things about them:

Suzannah does this interesting thing where she says that anything she doesn't like is outside or "in the clouds." We'll have a conversation like this --

Suzannah: Mommy, are we going to get cupcakes today?

Me: You don't like cupcakes!

Suzannah: I do!

Me: Cupcakes? Eww!

Suzannah: They're not ew. I took the ew off.

Me: Where did you put the ew?

Suzannah: I put it in the clouds.

We do that when we're being silly, obviously, but sometimes if something upsets her she'll say it's "outside." I'm trying to think of a specific example right now, but all I can come up with is a memory of me apologizing to her for losing my cool awhile back and she said something like, "We put it outside." (The "it" was being angry.)

Bedtime continues to be ridiculous, and it probably always will be; we have our bath/jammies/teeth/potty/stories/songs/hugs, and then she thinks of five thousand reasons to get up. She has to kiss us again, or she has to squeeze out three more drops of pee, or she has to kiss Isaac's head, or whatever. The other night she came padding out of her room at 10:30 (good grief). I asked her what in the world she was doing up, and she looked at me with these huge wounded eyes and said, "I need to kiss Daddy's elbow."

She's long and leggy and such a kid. Sometimes I can't believe she was ever a baby, and sometimes I can't believe how fast it's gone. She still wants to snuggle with us; she still wants to rock in the big recliner when she's upset or sleepy -- and then sometimes just the way she tilts her head and says something like, "Hmm. That's interesting," makes her seem so heartbreakingly grown-up.

Pretty much everything about her delights me.

Isaac has a tooth! It poked through on the bottom last week, and actually, tonight I could feel another one on the verge of poking through right next to the first. So far, it hasn't seemed to bother him at all. I can only hope that all of his teeth come in this easily, but I'm prepared for the fussing and fevers and runny noses that plagued Suzannah whenever she popped a tooth.

We feed him more or less whatever we're eating, which means he gets some of it in his mouth and actually swallows it (we know, because we change his diapers; sometimes it's more obvious than others), and a lot more of it is dropped or squished in his fat little fists. He'll put anything into his mouth and gnaw with real enthusiasm, though. Slices of cool green pepper are a huge hit; I think it feels good on his gums.

He goes down so easily at night, anytime between 7:30 and 8:30. He sleeps in his room for a few hours, and then he comes into bed with us for the rest of the night. I still love sleeping with him, even though he's getting more restless in the bed sometimes. Sometimes, when he wakes up very early and won't settle or nurse back to sleep with us, I put him in the pack 'n play; he usually does fall back to sleep then, so it appears he just wants his own space a bit sometimes. Usually, though, he stays asleep with us until Matt gets up to shower, and then he'll blink his eyes open, stretch his meaty little legs, and smile at me. I love those moments more than I can put into words.

He's huge, wearing a combination of 12-month and 18-month clothes. I don't know what he weighs now, but at six months he was nearly 22 pounds. When we're out and about and he's beaming at strangers, people ask how old he is. When I tell them, their eyes always widen a bit and they say, "Wow -- he's a big boy!" I still wear him every day in the Ergo, though. Why didn't I have one of those with Suzannah? I wore her in the Moby until she was older, and I carried her in my sling until she was a toddler -- how did my shoulders even handle that? The Ergo is still incredibly comfy, though, even when I wear Isaac for a long time. I'm certainly not one of those anti-stroller people, because sometimes when I'm out and about with two children it's NICE to be able to put him down so I can, oh, eat with free hands, and he seems to like the stroller just fine, too, but what often happens is that we'll be at the zoo or something and Suzannah will say she's tired after awhile, so I'll end up wearing Isaac and pushing Suzannah. (Which is funny, because she refused to ride in the stroller at all starting at about age two. I think she just didn't want to be a baby or something. But now, sometimes, she likes to.)

Isaac absolutely adores his sister. Every time she pays any attention at all to him his face breaks into the most radiant expression of joy. If she's anywhere near him and does something goofy (makes a face, climbs on something, tries a somersault, whatever) I think everyone in our neighborhood must hear his delighted shrieks. (And he does shriek. He loves his voice so much. Suzannah was never a screamer; Isaac screams. But he doesn't scream when he's upset -- he screams when he's just so happy he can't contain it for a second longer. And then he looks terribly pleased with himself.)

I think he is the happiest person I have ever known.

Two things

I've fallen a little behind in keeping up this blog -- at least to my expectations. But, you know, it's summer, and my days have been filled with all sorts of blissful things that might not make for the most interesting reading. We play at parks, we run through sprinklers, we spend mornings at the zoo and afternoons in the backyard. It's a lovely, ordinary life. (Because I need to stay sane and because it's what I do, I try to write something every single day, but I'm pretty sure anyone can understand why I might not be inclined to type up all the pages of my notebooks. It can be pretty noisy inside my muddled little head sometimes.)

I do have a couple of entries waiting in the wings, but for now, two things:

1. I am running my first 5k in two weeks. I've been running pretty regularly since Isaac was born, a couple of times a week anyway, and it's helping me keep the baby weight off -- also, it gives me a little time to myself, to get in my "zone" and think. Or just be. To exist purely in the motion, feeling healthy, feeling like I'm doing this one thing to take care of myself. I am not at all a fast runner; in fact, I was pretty much ALLERGIC to running for the first couple of decades of my life. But I can jog a pretty comfortable 3-5 miles, depending on where I'm at and what my mood happens to be like and what music I'm listening to. I've thought for awhile that I might like to attempt a 5k, something OFFICIAL. And then Kyanne sent me a link to the Alki Beach 5k Walk/Run benefiting the Northwest Hope and Healing Foundation and women battling breast cancer. This is particularly timely, since my friend Dori was recently diagnosed with breast cancer -- it just seemed like something I can do. So I'm running for breast cancer awareness and I'm running to raise funds for breast cancer patients here in the Northwest. (Did you know that Washington has the highest breast cancer rates in the nation? I didn't.) I'm running because I'm healthy and because I can.

I know there are so many causes worthy of people's time and money, and this is just one of them -- but Dori is the face on the statistic for me, and that makes it personal. If you're inspired to give even a little, I would deeply appreciate it.

(Click here for the link to my fundraising page.)

2. On the same note, 20% of all sales at Art Deco Dame from now through August 21 will go to Dori's rising medical costs. Even for those lucky enough to have decent insurance, this kind of medical expense can be pretty staggering, you guys.

(Click here for awesome, cancer-fighting vintage!)

In other news, our mostly-cool summer temperatures are skyrocketing up into the 90's for the next couple of days. We're going to spend tomorrow at the lake with Kyanne and her husband and rediscover what summer is supposed to be about: the smell of sunscreen on my children, swimming in the middle of a cool lake, and grilling food outside because cooking anything inside is just crazy.

Chemo sucks; parties don't!

"I swear, the next time I go to a 'Cancer Sucks' party, I will drive up to West Seattle and buy the good cupcakes," I muttered to myself yesterday morning.

"What's that?" Matt said as he entered the kitchen.

"Look at these," I said. "It kind of looks like I wrote in blood."

He peered at my pink-frosted, cherry chip cupcakes. I'd written CANCER SUCKS in red icing, one letter per cupcake. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

"Oh...no, it doesn't."

"I mean, I just am not cut out to decorate cakes. I'm way too impatient."

"Baby, it's fine. They're fine."

"This is just not what I had envisioned. This is more like, 'Hey, in honor of your starting chemo, I slit my wrists.' It's just a little bit morbid, is what I'm saying."

Fortunately, Dori didn't seem to mind. Of course, she's also the girl who handed me her drink to try -- a surprisingly good combination of beer, lemonade, and vodka -- and said, "Don't worry, you can't catch cancer." The theme of the evening was "Chemo Sucks; Parties Don't!" I wish like hell she didn't have to face what's ahead of her, but what better way to start than with a party, hey? I knew it would be a good one when we pulled up in front of her house and saw the pink streamers and the bras hanging from a tree in the front yard. And we did have a wonderful time; even my reserved little girl was scampering around happily after awhile, bravely petting Dori's dogs (strange dogs make her nervous at first if they try to sniff her) and bringing crackers and snacks to Patti (whether she wanted them or not). Dori's family is incredibly gracious and friendly, and witnessing all the love surrounding her was truly a privilege.

Send good, healing thoughts her way. She's an amazing woman.

In other news, I'm going to get a tattoo soon. It's something I've wanted for a long time, and I've finally decided to just do it. I guess you could say it's a little back-to-school present to myself.

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.