Daylight Saving

I need to write about how I went away for two nights and my kids didn’t even miss me…will do that later this week, and I will also produce photographic evidence of everything yummy I ate and drank. Stay tuned for that.

It’s the last week or so of winter. It’s the last dwindling days of no color and cold.

The knowledge that it’s so close, so almost spring, has rejuvenated me.

Remember when we were kids? The seasons of the year were so long. It took forever for summer vacation to come. Weeks were like years. Summer breaks were entire lifetimes. Kids came back in September and it was like a twenty-year reunion. Girls had new hair. Your best friend had changed. Everyone’s style was brand new. Spring break lasted three months in adult years.

Now we’re old and time has sped up. The year clumsily jerks around, tilting dangerously. The bad news is that summer is over in a flash, fall can be entirely missed if you aren’t careful, but the good news is that winter is always almost over.

Even when it first began, I knew it would be short. I knew it would be my last winter with a newborn, my final three months of tired, homebound, discontent.

And I was right. Here I am. It’s March. It’s warmer. We can go anywhere, do anything. I’m even going to bring the baby to the gym day care. Freedom.

The last two weeks before it all comes into bloom.

It’s time for me to get moving again. I have a lot to do, and I’m glad to do it.


Cinco, five, the boy’s growing up yet somehow he seems too babyish for five months to me. I know that sounds insane, like, hello lady, the baby is a five month old baby! But in my hazy recollection of the last go-round I thought five months would see me happily sleeping at night for a little while, the baby in his crib, close to crawling, napping at regular times.

It’s partly Henry’s lot to be forever compared to an older sibling, and she was a precocious baby. By his age, she was floor swimming, trying to get up on her hands and knees for crawling which she would do in a month. She walked at nine months. Henry despises being on his tummy, still. He only wants to be carried and be propped up under his armpits in a fake stand. Sometimes I hold his hands, all his weight held on his own, and he is so hilariously proud of himself I laugh out loud.

He purses his lips and yells GGGAWOOOooooo! And he pretty much thinks he’s the king of the room. World. I don’t know that I do much to dissaude him from this. He can also rudimentarily grasp the idea of giving me a high five. He ate a Num-Nums. He’s practically driving (to the fast food drive-through, probably).

But in some ways, he’s so…baby. Still napping in a swing, still sleeping in a bassinet, hating his crib, nursing a lot at night. He sits up, but topples over easily. He refuses to roll onto his tummy probably because he hates it.

I’m not trying to be a Tiger Baby Mom, but he’s such a crank at times I’m hoping increased mobility will make him happier. But I can’t imagine him crawling in a month like Anna did. He seems so far away from that. Yet, he seems like a big, healthy, smart bruiser in all other ways.

I know all babies are different. It’s pretty fascinating to see that play out with my own sample size study of two.

Them’s the Breaks

When good things happen to you, do you feel lucky? Or that you’re reaping the rewards of your own hard work (mixed with whatever innate talents or strengths you posses, of course)?

I’ve been thinking about this question recently, since a few good breaks have come my way. Nothing major, just a few nice payoffs to some groundwork I’ve been laying over the last couple of years.

There’s a mental tic about good fortune I have that I’m sure others share…It feels too precarious, too precious, too fate-tempting, too big and scary to look at something and say, yeah. I deserve that.

We might pooh-pooh an accomplishment to friends; explain away meaningful project to acquaintances: “oh, that’s just a silly thing I’m doing.” Of course life is the unfairest gig around. It’s not exactly a meritocracy, but it’s not entirely a crapshoot, either.

Some things are just divine luck. Two perfect, beautiful, healthy children came to/through me. I did nothing. I just received them 

Sometimes I feel a bit guilty when I hear others complain about their marriages, or that their husbands don’t help them with their kids, that they’re not partners. Sure, my marriage isn’t perfect but I’m extremely happy and feel that we are a life team. Was I lucky to have met and married him, or was I smart to dump the jerks and pick a good one?

When a professional opportunity comes my way, I want to feel comfortable feeling that I deserved it. That I’ve earned it. That, yes, I have valuable talents, skills, and knowledge and that I’ve proven myself. I have worked hard.

Selfies: I’m sorry not sorry

There’s this quote that’s always floating around from Marianne Williamson. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but it’s certainly provocative:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

I went to something called Yoga Trance Dance on Friday night. I was tired, I just wanted to show up, get the material for my story and go home and sleep (for my four hours of blessed uninterrupted sleep.) I knew that the secret hippie part of me might sorta, kinda, love everything about it, though, and I was right.

We danced. A bunch of strangers, hopping around barefoot, swaying to drums. The teacher called out silly things like “Dance because you can!”

“Dance for the world, dance for a cause you believe in.”

And then it wasn’t really silly after all. If you aren’t scared to let others see you dance, achieve, succeed, say what you want, do what you want, you’re just stuck there in a corner. Watching the rest of the world dance because you’re too scared, not that you might look stupid, but that you might look like you believe in the dancing.

I’m getting old, and any embarrassment or wall of irony I may have greeted the world with is just crumbling. I lose patience with people who take themselves so seriously, who are scared to say, or do, within the confines of kindness and appropriateness. I’m going to dance anytime someone lets me. I will talk as long as someone will listen.

And I’m not sorry, or lucky. Just blessed.