Pictures of my babies

I don't ever think about posting pictures on here, but! I'm branching out today.


Hi, I'm going to pretend I don't love having my picture taken.


She thought it would be hilarious to wear Matt's glasses.


I love the baby pout. Love it. He made this face right after I said, "I'm sorry, Son, but you have poop on your foot and milk on your neck." Mostly, he takes his baths like a man.


HE IS SO ROUND AND SOFT. Also, he is tipping the scales at over THIRTEEN pounds now.

I loved you before I knew you

I can't remember who asked me how we came up with our children's names, but I've never really written about it in one place, so here are their stories.

Shortly after Matt and I were married, I had a dream about Suzannah. This was a few years before we planned to have children, but it was such a vivid dream that I never forgot it. I dreamed of a daughter so real I could smell her, could feel the fuzz on top of her bald baby head. I was standing over her crib, and she gave me the sweetest smile -- her very first baby smile. I called to Matt, "Get over here! She's smiling! Hurry, you'll miss it!"

He rushed over, but by the time he got to the crib, she'd climbed out of it, gotten on a two-wheeler, and pedaled away.

I'm sure there are lots of ways to analyze that. But what really stuck with me was her name; I knew with absolute certainty that this was our daughter and her name was Suzannah. And it's funny, because the entire time I was pregnant with her I thought I was having a boy. (It wasn't a preference; I think I wondered if I'd just have boys, to teach me some kind of lesson about learning to live with a bunch of messy procrastinators. What better way to learn patience and grace, right? I'll tell you a better way: I was given a daughter who is, in many ways, uncomfortably like me. I think that's probably going to teach me a whole lot more about patience than living with miniature versions of my husband, but that's another post.)

Matt and I agreed on Suzannah as our girl name right away; I didn't have to talk him into it, and we never really had any other names on the table. Choosing a boy's name was much more difficult. I like a lot of boy names, really; in general, boy names are so much easier for me, so it's probably a good thing we never really had to debate our girl name. However, every time I'd present an idea to Matt, he'd shoot it down. The best response I ever got for a boy's name was, "It's not awful, I guess." (Note that he never actually came up with any himself.) We finally decided on one we both liked, but when our daughter was born, despite my weird belief that we'd have a boy, I felt the most profound sense of recognition -- of course. Of course it was this child. Our Suzannah.

When I got pregnant with Isaac, I didn't have any sort of intuition about the sex of our baby. (And given my track record, I didn't even try.) In the last couple of months of my pregnancy, I began to strongly suspect that we'd have a boy -- but mostly because Suzannah was adamant about this, and they (who are "they" anyway?) always say that the siblings know these things.

Interestingly enough, we tossed around a handful of girl names, and the one we finally settled on was beautiful and I loved it, but I kept trying out others. ("What do you think of this one?" I'd ask Matt, right up to the end of my pregnancy. And he'd shake his head.) But Isaac's name was our boy name from the very beginning. Even more interesting: our top boy name from my pregnancy with Suzannah didn't feel right. At all. And Isaac was never one of our choices when I was pregnant with her.

I'd forgotten all about this until today, as a matter of fact. But I was flipping through my journal, and I ran across an entry I wrote last winter, months before I saw that second pink line: I had a dream early this morning about giving birth to a baby boy, about nursing him. His name was Isaac. I don't even remember writing that, but reading it now I do remember the dream. It was very much like the dream of our daughter; I knew that this simply was our son, at least in my dream. And while we didn't find out whether our baby was a boy or a girl this time either, when Isaac was born I felt that same sense of: Of course. I just knew him.

I never thought twice about my children's names after they were born. I did plenty of second-guessing our boy names the first time around and our girl names the second, and if things had turned out differently I might have felt just as comfortable with the other names we'd chosen -- but all I know is that once my babies were in my arms, I knew exactly who they were.

A man and his principles

I'm going to let you in on a little secret about an issue in my marriage, in the hopes that if I make it all public I'll wear my husband right down. I've only got three years left to do this, so, you know, the PRESSURE IS ON.

Do you know what I've been dreaming about for our tenth wedding anniversary? Which is in three years? Room service. Seriously. That's what I want. I want to go away somewhere, say, like, New York City or EUROPE or something, but even just a fancy hotel here will do in a pinch, and I want to order room service. You know -- a tray full of overpriced food delivered right to your room, and you get to eat it right there in bed watching TV (as someone who doesn't watch TV at home, this also excites me. I annoy my husband to death when we stay in hotels because I cannot stop flipping through the channels).

Except that there are few things in the world my husband opposes more than room service. Because he is cheap frugal, and he just doesn't see the allure of paying to have food delivered to your door when you can just get dressed and walk down to the lobby and make your own waffle or whatever. (Note: for our tenth anniversary, I'm kind of thinking I'd like to stay in a place that doesn't have a continental breakfast. Those are great for road trips. I love our road trips. But I'm dreaming big here, folks.) He considers this a ridiculous waste of money. He's probably right, even, but I still want it. I don't know, I might even agree that it's a totally frivolous expense, and I might only want it so much now because he is SO VEHEMENTLY OPPOSED to the idea. This has become our battle.

So I bring it up every now and then. Like on Saturday night, as we drove home from an afternoon in Seattle.

"Baby?" I said. "You know what I was just thinking about?"

"What?"

"In three years, we'll have been married for ten years. You know what I'd really love to do for our tenth anniversary?"

"Here we go."

"Seriously."

"Let me guess. You want to stay somewhere and order room service."

"You don't have to snarl when you say that, you know."

(And here I would type out his response, except that it would be like twenty paragraphs on why room service is a stupid waste of money.)

"Think of it this way," I said. "I'm incredibly low-maintenance in so many ways. You know, lots of husbands have to get their wives jewelry for their tenth anniversaries. Or, I don't know, really expensive stuff."

"I guess you're right."

"I mean, lots of women apparently want DIAMONDS for their tenth anniversaries. Or big fancy ring upgrades. I just want a piece of twelve-dollar toast."

"See, I was almost ready to go for it, but then you put it like that. That's ridiculous!"

"But in the grand scheme of things, it's not that big a deal. Come on. I'm not asking for a huge diamond pendant. I just want some eighteen-dollar eggs."

"But that's -- no! I can't do it!"

"You don't love me enough to buy me some overpriced breakfast food? Or overpriced dinner? Just once in our lives, so I feel totally pampered and can eat Eggs Florentine or steak or even a stupid hamburger in bed?"

"That's not even fair. I just don't see the point when we can walk downstairs and get the same food without paying a ridiculous amount of money to have it delivered. There is no attraction for me in eating it in our room. Or if you need it in our room, I can go down and get it myself and bring it back."

"That's not the point."

"What's the point?"

(I struggle to find a point.) "Well -- just that I want to spend that frivolous money and have that experience sometime. I want to be totally comfortable and lazy and have a real dinner delivered that isn't pizza. Doesn't that sound romantic at all?"

"Not really."

"Can't you pretend? Because you love me? And it's our TENTH ANNIVERSARY?"

"OKAY. FINE. WE WILL ORDER ROOM SERVICE. BUT I WON'T BE HAPPY ABOUT IT."

"Okay, I changed my mind a little bit. I want room service and one other thing."

"What's that?"

"I want room service and a conspicuous lack of poopy attitude on your end."

(There is a sigh from the driver's seat.)

"I AM NOT ASKING FOR DIAMONDS, WINSLOW."

"I know. But from my perspective, it's not poopy. It's the principle of the matter."

"Wow, principles are so romantic. Look, I haven't bought a new pair shoes in, like, two-and-a-half years. Except for flip-flops this summer. Do you have ANY idea what kind of woman you COULD have married?"

"I wouldn't have married that kind of woman."

"Matt."

"Okay, FINE. We'll have room service and I won't be poopy about it."

"I don't believe you."

"Well, I'm sure I'll hear about it again sometime in the next three years. Just a guess."

Life, just life

Last week we had so many sunny, clear breaks in the weather that the kids and I went out walking every day. I could smell spring; it starts early here. I am a Montana girl at heart and I will always love winter, true winter, but there is something so optimistic and unutterably sweet about these green January days with their freshness and damp earth smells, life right there at the surface with all the promise of blooming soon.

So we walked, the three of us. We walked through our quiet neighborhood and up the hill where there is a view of Puget Sound, and Suzannah held my left hand as I pushed the stroller with my right. We stopped to touch pine cones and dry crunchy leaves. I don't always feel like the most present mama when we stay home inside all day -- there are always a million little things tugging at my attention. But when we remove all that, when it's just me with my babies in the world, I feel such deep contentment, such unencumbered joy. I notice things. The world is huge and new every day, and even though I suppose I am living a very simple life right now, I can't imagine wanting anything else because what I have is more than enough.

On Friday afternoon, Kyanne came over with coffee and held Isaac while I threw myself into one of my organizing projects (boy, will she tell you I know how to have a party). I pulled out a couple of huge Rubbermaid bins filled with Suzannah's baby clothes and sorted through them, planning to give them to someone who can hopefully make better use of them than I can right now. I haven't looked at them since I packed them away an impossibly long time ago, but touching each little onesie and pajama sleeper and play outfit and dress brought her babyhood rushing right back to me. One striped pink sleeper reminded me of when she learned to sit up by herself; it also reminded me of Sunday nights when I'd get her dressed for bed and head over to Kyanne's house where we'd watch Desperate Housewives and I'd nurse my baby to sleep on the couch. There was the red-and-white outfit with the little roses; Suzannah wore that when her great-grandfather held her for the first time, in his hospital bed, when she was eleven weeks old. There was the little jumper she wore in our first family photo.

I saved a small pile purely for keepsakes, the way my mother saved some of my baby dresses. I almost wanted to save it all, because in those brief moments of sorting through them, I had my baby girl again. (And those brief moments were juxtaposed with my three-year-old jumping in one of the empty containers, yelling "Mommy, I HAVE A BOAT!" It was rather disorienting.)

But I also have pictures and journals full of these totally ordinary moments I want to remember, and I think we can all use the occasional reminder not to attach so much importance to what is really just a bunch of stuff in a closet. And maybe it's partly that I can't tear myself away from stories about Haiti right now, but it seems ridiculous to sit here and fret about whether or not I'm going to miss a particular cotton sleeper that my daughter wore when she was four months old. (It seems ridiculous to fret about a lot of things I happen to fret about, when it comes right down to it.) Besides, how could I really wish my girl back to babyhood when the little girl she is is at the very top of my life's blessings? I can separate my memories from the objects themselves, I think, and they're not going to do anyone any good packed away in Rubbermaids in a closet, anyway. Storing them away doesn't serve to make my memories any richer.

In other totally mundane news, yesterday I left both kiddos home with Matt for an hour while I went to get my hair trimmed. (Note to those who know about my HAIR ATTACKS -- I waited a WHOLE WEEK to do this. Normally when it occurs to me that I have to cut my hair, whether it's a teeny little trim or a major hack job, it has to happen THAT DAY. My mother will tell you that I used a bathroom pass to get out of class once when I was in the ninth grade so I could sneak down to the office and call her at work and BEG HER to make me an appointment. See? I have learned SO MUCH PATIENCE since the ninth grade.) When I came home, Suzannah reached up to touch it. I'm always a little nervous about how she'll react when I change anything, probably because my mother also likes to tell the story of how she came home with a perm when I was about Suzannah's age and I said, "Mommy, TAKE IT OFF." But my daughter said, "I like your hair, Mommy. It smells good." I tucked her hair behind her ears and told her I liked her hair, too (even though I am barely allowed to touch it). Then she placed her soft little hands on my cheeks and said, "I like your cheeks, too." She leaned in to kiss me, and I felt, as I so often do in these moments, that this exactly where my heart begins and ends.

And all I have is gratitude...

Last weekend, Matt and I were invited to our doula's wonderful Birth Preparation Workshop to be guest speakers. (I promised Matt that he wouldn't have to actually speak, but I may have lied a little bit.) I have to admit, finding myself in a room full of pregnant women made me feel a little wistful, because for the most part, I really loved being pregnant (no matter what I said during the last two weeks, okay?) and because soon, these lovely ladies will all be meeting their babies, and OH NEWBORN LOVE! See, technically I guess Isaac is a newborn for another week or so, but he just seems so big to me now. And I love it. I love watching him grow, I love how he's rounding out -- all belly and cheeks, YUM! -- and turning into such a solid little guy. I love how alert he is. I love all the little glimpses into his personality -- little gifts of insight each day.

It's just that it goes so fast. Every parent says this, and it's one of those things you hear so often it loses its meaning -- until it's your babies outgrowing all their newborn clothes and rolling over and learning to walk and starting kindergarten. Watching my children grow is the single greatest joy of my life, but still, sometimes I wish I could hold each moment just a little longer.

As we left the workshop, I may have turned to Matt and said, "So, let's have like SIX MORE BABIES, okay? I want more new ones!" (Ladies, just a heads-up: this type of declaration is probably a really great form of birth control after you have a baby. It's just not sexy talk, is what I'm saying.) Matt stared at me and said, "Man. You have a newborn addiction."

People say that when you're done having babies, you just KNOW because it feels THAT FINAL. I remain unconvinced. I'm pretty sure I'll always feel a little wistful when I see pregnant women or hold a newborn -- and that doesn't mean I actually want to have eight babies, despite the fact that Matt and I broke off eight rings of our kransekake at our wedding reception. And honestly, I am more than happy to focus on the two children we have, because they're more than enough and more than I could hope for. I just really like babies, and I often do miss being pregnant. (Although I have to admit that this time I did feel quite ready to be done.) But in the spirit of not wasting too much energy mourning the past when I have so much to be grateful for today, here are some things that are particularly awesome about the right now of my life:

-- Getting into bed and getting comfortable is so easy. I'm not remotely picky about what position I fall asleep in (when Isaac isn't nestled against me, anyway) and Matt doesn't have to listen to me grunting as I heave my huge belly into bed and struggle to create the right arrangement of the twelve pillows that make sleeping even slightly comfortable.

-- There is no tiny human pressing against my bladder. Which means I sleep as long as Isaac will let me, as opposed to having to heave myself out of bed and waddle into the bathroom every ninety minutes, all night long. (Five hours in a row the other night! Can I tell you how easy it is to be completely in love with your kid after five whole hours of sleep?)

-- I haven't had to take a Zofran since early December. I wake up feeling like I could sleep for ten more hours, sure, BUT! I don't spend the first ten minutes of my day hunched over a toilet bowl, and that feels fantastic.

-- I can breathe again! I don't miss pregnancy sinuses. I don't have to spray forty blasts of saline solution into my nose three times a night just to sleep.

-- I can put on my socks all by myself! Because I can totally reach my feet!

-- I was going to write something about how great it is that I don't have to wear maternity clothes anymore, but it's not like I have my pre-pregnancy body back, so I'm going to have to pass on that. Plus, there is a distinct advantage to maternity jeans. When everyone else was unbuttoning their pants at Thanksgiving and saying they'd just like a tiny piece of pie, I was all, I'LL HAVE BOTH KINDS, PLEASE, with whipped cream. So get back to me when I fit into my real clothes again, and until then, nevermind.

-- I miss feeling my baby kick, which is absolutely my favorite part of pregnancy, but I also really love kissing his feet outside my body.

-- I love seeing Isaac's expressive little face, especially after he finishes nursing. He's beginning to smile (love those milk-drunk grins!), and the rest of the time, if he's not just sacked out peacefully, he makes the goofiest little faces. (Many of them remind me of Suzannah's newborn expressions, and while Suzannah and Isaac are obviously very different children, I also love noticing the things that connect them in such subtle, intimate ways.)

-- Witnessing the developing relationship between Suzannah and Isaac is a blessing and a privilege. This deserves its own entry -- probably lots of entries -- but for now, I'll just say that each day I'm struck by how lucky I feel that Matt and I were chosen to be parents to these particular children. It may seem rather obvious, but I'm still kind of amazed by how perfectly Isaac fits into our family, how he's exactly the right sibling for Suzannah. I can't articulate why; I just know that he is.

-- Little onesies and little jammies and little socks. ALL FILLED WITH BABY.

-- That newborn smell. You know what I'm talking about. That newborn smell pretty much destroys all sense of reason.

In other news, tomorrow begins my third week of staying home with my babies. We're hanging in there. Last week I actually ventured out with them almost every day, and it was much less scary than I thought it would be. It's also very, very good for this mama's sanity, which is probably why this Sunday seems a little less daunting.

On being enough...

Some days are like this:

You wake up late, your arm aching and bent awkwardly because a baby boy is sleeping there with you, tummy to tummy. You rush through a shower, chug a cup of coffee while nursing the baby, and forget to eat breakfast altogether. You bundle your little family into the car and head to church, confident that it will be smooth-sailing because! There are two of you against the two of them, one for each, and you are equipped with colors and books and you're old hat at this business. Things begin to unravel almost immediately. You have to slip out and nurse the baby, but you neglected to clear this with your three-year-old first, and moments later you hear her wailing behind you. By the time everyone has calmed down, the service is nearly over and you and your husband have grown snappish with each other. It's been a long time since your firstborn has behaved this way in church, and you are certain that this is somehow a reflection on you -- forget your earlier optimism. You drive home, remembering the chaos that awaits you there, the remnants of soggy cereal still in the bowls, piles of dirty laundry, a floor badly in need of vacuuming, and an endless array of little projects that didn't seem quite so daunting the day before, but suddenly their completion seems both stupidly important and totally impossible.

You grow a little weepy.

Your husband makes espresso on the stovetop, and the kitchen fills with the smell of coffee and something scorched and foul because of whatever spilled on the burner last night. Later, you steal a moment to wipe it down and somehow slice your thumb wide open. Before you can wrap your bleeding hand, the baby wakes, the three-year-old cries for you, and the dog barks to go outside. Your husband takes the baby and suggests that you take a nap, but you've finally managed to strip the bed and throw the milk-stained sheets in the wash. You opt for the couch, but you can't quite relax enough to fall asleep, and soon enough the baby needs to nurse again anyway and no amount of swaddling and swaying and shushing and changing will satisfy him in anyone else's arms.

You curl up on the couch with your baby boy, feeling suddenly as emotional and hormonal and wrecked as you did five days after he was born. You're so ridiculously in love with him; you trace the soft curve of his cheek, you listen to the sounds of his contented swallowing, you cup his head in your hand. You burp him and bury your nose in the soft hair at the back of his head, in his neck. You kiss his cheeks, you tickle his toes, you kiss the tip of his nose. You realize it's all going too fast; already he feels so solid, so unlike the tiny newborn you birthed four weeks ago. You haven't had nearly enough time to just stare at him, to memorize every sigh, every goofy newborn expression, every single little detail about the baby he is in this moment. He's the baby who gets strapped to your chest as you go about your day with your daughter; he's along for the ride. You'll never have the luxury of lying with him for hours, just the two of you, breathing in his newness, the way you did on those lazy summer afternoons with your girl three-and-a-half years ago. And you feel guilty. You feel guilty for shortchanging him. You feel guilty for disrupting your daughter's life. The rational part of you understands that you shouldn't see it this way, that their relationship will be important, that siblings are a good thing and you never wanted your daughter to be an only child, but the rational part of you is also trying to function after a night of fractured sleep. The rational part of you is lost underneath the spit-up staining the shirt you couldn't be bothered to change.

You look at your tiny, perfect little boy and think of your beautiful, perfect little girl and wonder if they deserve better than this -- someone who isn't so wrecked and crazy and completely undone by ordinary life some days.

But finally, the baby goes to sleep and your husband says, "Go have that bubble bath." So you grab the novel you'd hoped to finish reading before you gave birth and lower yourself into a tub full of water so hot it nearly scalds you. Your husband opens the door, glass of wine in hand, trailed by your three-year-old. He suggests that they give Mama some privacy.

"No, I wanna stay here. I wanna stay with Mommy," you daughter insists. You sigh and close your eyes. Your husband suggests any number of things to her: a puzzle, a story, even a movie, but --

"No. I just wanna stay with Mommy. Please," she says. You open your eyes again and there it is, that trembly little bottom lip, those huge blue eyes -- they break your heart. Nothing about the allure of fifteen minutes alone is powerful enough to compete with your little girl's need at that moment. You sigh and tell your husband, "It's all right." And it is, sort of. Your daughter closes the door firmly after her daddy and returns to the side of the tub, where she dips her fingers in the water, offers her own rubber duckie, and beams. She stays with you for awhile, totally content to hang out next to the bathtub, chattering happily. Every few minutes, she says, "I'm staying with Mommy," as though she needs to make sure it's real, this uninterrupted time, just the two of you. You remember how thrilled she was ten days ago when you took her to Starbucks, just the two of you, just for a half hour, drinking hot chocolate and sharing a cookie. ("It'll be just Mommy and Suzannah," you'd said to her, and she grinned and grinned and echoed, "Yeah. Just Mommy and Zannah.")

And it is okay. It's even good. Suddenly you don't really care about the book you wanted to read, and somehow this moment is enough. It's enough to make you get out of the bathtub and smile and mean it. It's enough to make the chaos seem manageable. It's enough to bring you back, to do it all again tomorrow.

2009 Reading List

I've been whittling away at this for a few days, but here it is: my annual Book Review. It's the longest entry you'll see from me for awhile, I'm sure, especially now that I'm on full-time Mama Duty with two kiddos (today was DAY ONE and we're all still alive and reasonably happy, although I didn't get a chance to shower). Anyway, here you go:

Out Stealing Horses -- Per Petterson
I loved this book. It's a quiet novel, but the writing is gorgeous. I read the entire thing in almost one sitting at Barnes and Noble one night last January, shortly before discussing it with my juniors. They loved it too, which surprised me a bit -- perhaps because it is such a quiet book. However, it is also a rich coming-of-age novel, and I found myself underlining heavily beginning with the line, "We decide for ourselves when it will hurt."

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society -- Mary Ann Schaffer and Annie Barrows
I don't ordinarily love books that are written solely through the perspective of letters or journals, but I did enjoy this one -- I liked the different characters and their voices, and the story was captivating -- both entertaining and, at some points, a little gut-wrenching. I'm also a sucker for stories that read like love letters to good literature, and this one pays homage to the great stuff.

The House on Hackman's Hill -- Joan Lowry Nixon (reread)
I read this book when I was in about the fourth grade and it terrified me -- in a delicious, don't-turn-out-the-lights kind of way. I looked for it for years, but it seemed to be out of print; then Kyanne found me a copy. I read it again on a January night, perhaps trying to recreate that cozy/delicious feeling that accompanied my childhood reading. The verdict? It's pretty cheesy. AND IT STILL TERRIFIED ME. So I basically had a blast rereading it, which is why even the not-so-great writing earns four stars from me.

Appetites: Why Women Want -- Caroline Knapp
I liked this one even more than Drinking: A Love Story. It's about appetites in every sense of the word -- and why women deny themselves things they desire, or feel guilty for wanting them. While it's true that Knapp suffered both from anorexia and alcoholism, the book reaches beyond that. I found it insightful, a little heartbreaking, and, at times, uncomfortably familiar.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close -- Jonathan Safran Foer
The writing captivated me and the ending destroyed me. Sometimes I want to hate Jonathan Safran Foer for his "Oh, look at me, I'm innovative, and also, Joyce Carol Oates discovered me" success, but he deserves all the acclaim for this one. At the center of the novel is Oskar Schell, a young boy whose father died in the September 11 attacks, leaving behind a mysterious key. Oskar begins a quest to find the lock, and the journey is, of course, more important than what he thinks he's looking for. I laughed out loud in many places and sobbed at the ending.

Wintergirls -- Laurie Halse Anderson
I was lucky enough to read a galley copy before it was released, and I think it's her best work yet. Fans of Laurie Halse Anderson (especially those who loved Speak) won't be disappointed.

Weight -- Jeanette Winterson
I love Jeanette Winterson and I love retellings of myths. This one, from the same series as Margaret Atwood's The Penlopiad (which I also loved), focuses on the myth of Heracles and Atlas. I read this one in one sitting at Starbucks, and I loved nearly every sentence. I keep coming back to this passage, which is really at the core of why I love these retellings: If only I understood that the globe itself, complete, perfect, unique, is a story. Science is a story. History is a story. These are the stories we tell ourselves to make ourselves come true.

The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven -- Sherman Alexie
The first time I heard Sherman Alexie speak in 2007, he said he still thought The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven was his best stuff. Interestingly enough, until now I've read all his fiction except this one -- I don't know why I waited so long -- and now that I've read it, I completely agree.

Revolutionary Road -- Richard Yates
I read this before I saw the movie. It was gorgeously-written and left me completely emotionally drained. I'd say I loved it, because I think Yates is a brilliant and terribly underrated writer, but it's not really a story one can love. Still, I want to read more of him.

Like Water for Chocolate -- Laura Esquivel (reread)
I read this for the first time in 2005, but I reread it before teaching it again in the spring. It's still a ton of fun.

A Swiftly Tilting Planet -- Madeleine L'Engle (reread)
I loved this just as much as I did when I read it for the first time -- maybe more. I still think A Wrinkle in Time is one of the best stories I've ever read, and I'm savoring the experience of rereading her books -- it's always interesting how much they deepen for me with each reading.

It Sucked and Then I Cried: How I had a Baby, a Breakdown, and a Much-Needed Margarita -- Heather Armstrong
Okay, I love dooce.com. Seriously. But I didn't love this book -- for one thing, I'd read pretty much all of it on her blog already. For another thing, I was looking forward to a bit more meat, I guess. The book is funny and honest and I appreciated her writing for the reasons I love her blog, but I think she really glossed over the postpartum depression, which I thought would really be the focus of the book. Instead, it was a bunch of funny anecdotes about pregnancy and motherhood and then, like, two pages that can pretty easily be summed up by the title. She was depressed, she threw a lot of stuff at her husband's head, she went into the hospital and a wonderful doctor finally prescribed meds that worked, and yay, the end. She alludes to her history of depression, but just barely -- I was ultimately disappointed, because I felt like she could have gone so much deeper and the book would have resonated so much more. I regret spending the money on a hardcover copy.

The House of the Spirits -- Isabelle Allende
As I read this, I kept thinking, why have I waited so long to read Isabelle Allende? It's just gorgeous. I love magical realism, I love sweeping family sagas, I love her writing -- it reminded me of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, which is probably what everyone says, but I responded to her in much the same way -- with laughter and awe. She writes about politics and family and relationships in this huge, searing way -- it's hilarious, but she doesn't shy away from the horror, either. The ending was breathtaking.

Behind the Scenes at the Museum -- Kate Atkinson
I enjoyed Case Histories, so I was looking forward to this one. I read it on the plane between Seattle and Omaha when we traveled to my brother-in-law's wedding last spring. It was the perfect distraction on the flight and subsequent drive. Who couldn't love a book that begins with the literal conception of the protagonist, a joyful proclamation of "I exist!"

The Beekeeper's Apprentice -- Laurie R. King
Oh, this one was fun. It's the story of Mary Russell, an orphaned fifteen-year-old girl who meets the retired Sherlock Holmes. Holmes becomes her mentor, and soon the two of them are thrust into the midst of a high-profile kidnapping case. I haven't read a good mystery in awhile, and I enjoyed this -- a lot.

Unaccustomed Earth -- Jhumpa Lahiri
I've only read one of Lahiri's short stories, but I loved it -- so I picked up this collection shortly after it was released and finally got around to reading it this summer. Overall, I really enjoyed it. After awhile I thought the stories began to seem a little too similar to each other -- she revisits certain themes and motifs again and again (interracial relationships, ivy league schools, the Westernized children of first-generation immigrants) although I suppose many writers do -- but I greatly admire her craftsmanship. I think it was Barbara Kingsolver who once said that a good short story accomplishes everything a full-length novel does, and I think Lahiri succeeds in this regard.

The Shadow of the Wind -- Carlos Ruiz Zafon
I read all 486 pages of this book in two days -- I could not put it down. A friend recommended it to me last fall after I read The Woman in White and was in the mood for another over-the-top Gothic novel, and while this one is a contemporary novel, it's definitely Gothic and definitely over-the-top. It's got mystery, murder, lots of dark rainy streets and haunted mansions, separated lovers, family secrets -- the works. And ultimately, even better, it's really a love letter to literature, to storytelling. This would have been a fabulous book to read around Halloween when Seattle is usually foggy and rainy, but it was also a fun summer book. Loved it.

White Noise -- Don Delillo
I don't know. I guess I can appreciate this book, in a sense, or understand why some people would regard it so highly. It has some interesting themes -- the media, fear of death, consumerism, etc. -- and I suppose it's a fantastic example of postmodernism. The book certainly isn't badly written, and it's a fairly accessible read, but I just wasn't into it. I kind of shrugged at the end, glad to be able to move on to something else.

A Monstrous Regiment of Women -- Laurie R. King
I read this on our trip to Minnesota this summer -- also very fun. I'm looking forward to the rest of the series, and I'm not really one for series.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao -- Junot Diaz
This book was amazing. It's funny and raw and heartbreaking and edgy and the writing is fabulous -- Diaz gets the different voices exactly right. I honestly don't even know how to describe this book or my experience reading it. I went into it with virtually no idea what I was in for, and I think it was probably best that way. (I will admit that it took me fifty pages or so before I was hooked, but once I was in, I was in all the way.)

Purple Hibiscus -- Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie
Think Things Fall Apart -- only told from a girl's perspective in present-day Nigeria. I read it on the recommendation of a friend and colleague, who thought it would make a great alternative to Achebe's novel in the sophomore curriculum -- and I agree.

The English Patient -- Michael Ondaatjie
This is maybe one of the most beautiful novels I have ever read. Period. I wanted to underline almost every sentence and finally just gave up and let it wash over me. Clearly, I need to read more of Ondaatjie's work.

Your Best Birth: Know All Your Options, Discover the Natural Choices, and Take Back the Birth Experience -- Ricki Lake and Abby Epstein
Yeah, I know, RICKI LAKE, blah blah blah, TRENDY, blah blah blah. It's still a good resource (kind of like the print version of The Business of Being Born, a documentary I highly recommend). I read it pretty recently and a lot of this wasn't really new to me, since I've been sort of obsessive about the subject since my daughter was born three years ago -- but the information is sound and the book is very readable. It's really a book about understanding what your options are regarding your birth experience -- and you do have options, but your care provider might not always share them with you. The book is obviously biased in favor of natural birth, but I didn't think it particularly demonized women who have a more "medical" birth experience, either by choice or by necessity (Epstein herself had a C-section).

Birthing from Within -- Pam England
Ina May Gaskin's Guide to Childbirth -- Ina May Gaskin
Ina May's book was a reread for me, but Birthing From Within was new to this pregnancy. I realized long ago that if I wanted any chance of achieving the natural birth I wanted, I would have to spend a lot more time immersing myself in positive birth stories and learning everything I could about how to advocate for myself in the face of horror stories, people's skepticism, and unnecessary hospital interventions. These books are wonderful, especially Gaskin's. I'd recommend her to anyone interested in pregnancy and childbirth, regardless of the kind of birth desired. I loved them because they acknowledge pregnancy as a natural process and not a medical "condition" requiring "treatment." My husband even read both of these, which meant that he was completely on-board with my desire to give birth in a non-hospital setting; they also helped him learn how to provide the best support during labor.

Jane Eyre -- Charlotte Bronte (reread)
I've read this more than once, but not since college. I reread it this fall because I taught it to my pre-IB sophomores. I still love it.

South of Broad -- Pat Conroy
I wish I could give this 4.5 stars, but I can't quite bring myself to give it 5 -- only because of the inevitable comparison to The Prince of Tides. There are definite similarities in the storytelling -- the relationships between siblings (especially twins), between mother and son, between friends. Mental illness, of course, and the South, and dysfunctional families. Race. Social class. Naturally, there's a football game or two. (Interestingly enough, though, the protagonist's father is radically different than pretty much all of the fathers in Conroy's other books -- Leo King's father isn't brutal, he's awesome.) It's a story that's so over-the-top that only Pat Conroy can write it without eliciting eye-rolls -- but he can, and he does. Sometimes his sentences are so perfect they almost hurt to read, and in his most recent novel he succeeds in doing what he does best: using language to carry the reader through the entire spectrum of human emotion. His stories are dark -- but they're laced with real humanity and real humor, so I found myself both laughing out loud and feeling completely devastated.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo -- Stieg Larsson
So I think I liked this. The first half of the book moved rather slowly for me, and I wasn't IN LOVE with Larsson's writing -- but the story definitely intrigued me. The second half moved very quickly, though -- I couldn't put it down -- and I kind of love Lisbeth Salander. So much so that I'll probably read the other two books featuring this unconventional heroine. A little warning: this book could be pretty triggery for sexual abuse/assault survivors, and Larsson doesn't shy away from some mighty disturbing content.