Ophelia 5/21/24

Dear Ophelia,

I can feel we are on the brink of a sudden, steep drop. Not a decline, but a freefall into the wide open space of all that is next. I knew it was coming but I didn’t quite know it would feel like this, like saying goodbye. 

You are so lovely and funny and inspiring as you stand at the edge of adolescence. And sometimes you are moody and distant and someone I’m meeting for the first time…again. Sometimes I don’t handle it well. But god, to watch your details slowly etch themselves in over time, to see the shadows roll out, your depths come into focus – is phenomenal in the truest sense of the word. Even if I fumble my part in this over and over, I will still feel gratitude for the chance to watch from the front row as you go from girl to woman.

Recently you have finished your first volleyball season, been accepted into the visual and performing arts school that you will attend in the fall and got your first boyfriend. I hope it goes without saying that I am wildly proud of you. Every morning you greet me in what can only be described as the most fashionable ensembles of any 12 year old I’ve met. You’ve been a vegetarian for half your life at this point. You, my girl, have always had the courage of your convictions. 

Sometimes I get a little sad at how fast your childhood has flown by. I’ve tried to pin it down here and there but all the cliches feel so painfully true. My memory is always wandering back to when you were first born; you my shockingly blue eyed, pale-haired baby girl. I remember what it was like to wake up to you everyday and be reminded all over again that I got to be your mama, all day everyday. It’s a magic all its own. Sometimes I still feel that brand-new feeling when I look at you. Everything about you shines.

I love you forever and ever,

Your Prowie (remember?)

For Theta- 1/21/24

Dear Theta,

I don’t know how to explain our connection and my love for you other than we were made for each other.

We walked out of the dentist office last week and the words left my mouth before I realized I’d said it all wrong. 

“You’re going to have surgery.”

You made a guttural yelp of pain that I’ve heard only a few times from you before. I knew I’d screwed it up. Instead of the slow dip into what I knew would be a rushing current of anxiety for you, I plunged you right in. Quickly, I got down at eye level with you and grabbed your hands. 

“We’re going to get through this, I promise.” Slow, deep breaths. Steady hands. 

We stayed locked like this for what seemed like forever. I tried to answer every question you had with reassurance but most importantly, with truth. Because I have never gotten anything past you. Not once. You can sniff out a lie from me, even one told to protect you, in an instant.

And this is why we need each other. Because I swear I will help you get to solid ground. Seeing anxiety rock your tiny heart daily nearly breaks mine. But I promise we will figure this out together and it won’t always be this hard. 

Everyday as your mother is a call to live more authentically. You have this funny look you give me, your eyes darting to unseen points across my face. It feels like you’re peering around the mask. You forgive my inadequacies so effortlessly. At once, you make me feel like I am enough and like I want to be so much more for you. 

I love you, my little pickle pot. 

Forever and always,

Mama

For Theta girl

Theta,

I love you. I know you know that. We say it constantly; like passing a bottle of water back and forth on a long hike. We say it because it’s true and it makes things just a little easier to hear it so often.

I feel like I’ve been mothering you for a thousand years. I mean that in all the most beautiful and difficult ways. Mothering you is both beautiful and difficult. Mothering you takes work. It takes the kind of work that talks in your ear when you’re trying to fall asleep. It is soft and sweet work. It is relentless at times. But please don’t get me wrong. You are not a burden. You never could be. You are my greatest delight, pure starlight in a tiny package. It means absolutely everything to me that I have been entrusted with the most precious work of mothering you. Please don’t let anyone ever convince you that you are too much. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Your energy is something else. You seem to be in a constant state of cartwheel. You’re ready for anything at all times. I laugh when people talk about the idea of “wearing you out”. We’re going on 8 years of me trying to find that limit and I’m convinced it doesn’t exist. You love Star Trek and Buster Keaton. You hate brushing your hair and sitting down for any period of time. Every day I understand you just a little bit more. BUt you always keep me on my toes and I like it that way.

School is hard for you right now. You’re a strong reader and you love math. It’s the friend part that seems to be tough. I know you’ll figure it out.

You are magnetic. This was obvious right from the start. It’s wild to think of all the past versions of you that have added up to the you that exists at this moment. It’s like opening a matryoshka in reverse, remembering the smaller, less defined versions of you and imagining the bigger, more complex ones to come.

As your mom, I’m trying to focus less on “getting it right” with you. Not because I don’t want to get it right but because that kind of parenting is such a moving target. It has a way of driving me crazy and taking me out of reality. Instead, I want to just be present with you more. Present in all of your silly, frenetic, and fleeting little girl energy. I am acutely aware that we are coming to the end of my time parenting small children. It’s a little sad but mostly exciting and freeing. In the meantime, I want to squeeze every bit of sweetness from this season.

Love you brave one,

Mama

A Sunday letter

We walked the ditch this morning, just you and me. We talked about writing. You say it just comes out effortlessly. I didn’t tell you that I find your poems everywhere, that they make me cry when I read them alone in your room, that I didn’t know how deeply it would touch me to have a daughter with a writer’s soul too. You told me boys say you’re weird and I said yeah you are, and I am, and they’re boring as hell. You know. You already know. That’s why I don’t worry about you. Ok, lies, I worry about you every minute of the day. But I don’t worry that you will change who you are to fit someone else’s needs. And I don’t worry that you will pull away from me. Because I know you will. And I know that you will come back. And I will be right here all along.

I told my therapist the other day that all I want is to do right by you (and your sister) but that it only seems to get harder. Your needs are complex and so are mine. When you were born I never imagined there would be such a relentless push and pull between meeting my needs and giving you the life you deserve. It just didn’t really cross my mind. I’m a little wiser now, and a little better at the balance. But it still trips me up. All I hope is that when you look back on your childhood you can say I did, indeed, do right by you.

I love you, my girl. Forever and ever.

An overdue update

Hello Sweethearts,

My goodness, it has been too long since I’ve written to you. Sometimes I think of my writing to you as the only tangible thing that makes me a “good” mother to you. The months and years slip by and I never seem to be able to hold onto much. I misplace baby clothes, precious drawings, forget to leave a dollar for what seems like the 10th lost tooth this month. Things slip through the cracks every single day and so I am left wondering: What have I given that you will carry with you always? After all is said and done, what remains?

Despite all that is on our plates, it is not difficult to find things to marvel at. Ophelia, you have grown so much in your first grade year. The fall was rough for you. Leaving the soft cocoon of Kindergarten and entering the world of desks and schedules and diminished choice left you in a bit of a tailspin. It was hard for me and Daddy to watch you struggle so much…and to know deep down that you needed that struggle to grow. But you came out a stronger, more capable girl. You are a voracious writer, which of course delights me so. You churn out little books of poetry a few times a week, share them readily with a courage I wish I possessed. You are a prolific maker of all sorts. I often come home from work to find you have knitted something using sharpened pencils as needles or bits of beeswax have become tiny dolls you’ve made for your sister. The corners of our house seem to burst with your creativity.

Theta, you are a kick in the pants. You always have and always will be someone who others are drawn to. Near strangers often comment on your boldness, the fierce energy emanating from such a tiny human. You embody a mixture of defiance for the rules and sheer thrill seeking. In short, you’re my kinda gal! I love the way you use your hands and how your strength. You can be withholding of approval or affection unless someone has spent the time to get to know you. I love it! You’re nobody’s darling! This year has not been easy for you either. With work pulling me in so many directions and swallowing so many of my hours, you have flailed. I’m sorry, my Theta girl. I promise that summertime will be a sweet reunion for us.

My brave and funny daughters, you humble me. I often think back to being a new mother and how self-righteous I felt that I was making all the best choices. Oh yes, I knew that all of my homebirthing, breastfeeding, cosleeping etc. must have shaped you into the wonderful human beings that you are. And sure, I hope some of that played a role, but my sneaking suspicion is that even without those things, you would be just as amazing. You are incredible in and of yourselves.

I love you forever and ever,

Mama

Friday

Dearest girls,

I write to you from years in the past and who knows how many miles away. Tonight I am in the Bay Area, sleeping in the spare room of your Granny Mimi and Papa Phil's house. It will be a quiet night and with a little bit of luck I will even get some sleep. Tomorrow morning I will wake up and drive an hour to Marin County to spend the day delving into Waldorf early childhood education. This is what I do every other weekend: drive nearly 3 hours to spend an entire Saturday away from you and your daddy and then immediately turn around and make the 3-hour drive home. Tonight, Ophelia, I could feel your growing anxiety about my trip. You became teary and clingy and told me repeatedly that you hate it when I go, that it's boring, that you just want to be with me all the time. You are so earnest in your devotion to me, in your immovable assertion that I am that bit of magic that makes your whole world turn. It humbles me and makes me wonder how I have possibly come to be worthy of such boundless love. Theta, you are queen of the barnacles. I can't put you down for more than a minute before you are reaching for me, telling me in that mighty voice of yours, "I. Want. You. Pick. Me. Up." making sure to punctuate each word, less I fail to understand your seriousness. And god, the way you look at me when you say "Hi Mama," just about cracks me in two. You adore me. I adore you. We are the inseparable trio. And when I leave there are always tears. So so many tears. I try to placate you with chocolate and jokes but inevitably I do walk out the back door and turn around to see the two of you wailing in your daddy's arms. But what I can tell you now, in the safe keeping of this journal to future you, is that your pain, quite perversely, is my relief. You ask why I leave you, why I want to be away from you and of course I reassure you that I don't, that I just can't do the two things at once as much as I wish I could. But it's a lie. I need to be away from you. I need it so much I can feel my body thirst for it. Before you were born, before I met your daddy, I enjoyed many endless swaths of alone time. I happily rented my own apartment, cooked for myself (whatever the hell I wanted- quinoa! quiche! vegetarian whatever! And there was nobody there to complain!) walked to my favorite coffee house and sat writing for hours or just watching the baristas and other customers.  I wrapped myself in a blanket of solitude and although it was comfortable and familiar I longed for company. I longed to be a person amongst people. I longed to share the ripe juicy parts of myself with someone else. Sometimes I would drive to the farmers market on a Sunday morning, cloth bags dutifully slung over my shoulder and walk the aisles and wonder what it would be like to be arm in arm with someone. And then, in what has felt like the blink of an eye, here I am; so very far from being alone. In nearly every way and in every moment, there you are. And you and you. So I'm sorry, darling(s), if the truth is painful (for it often is) but you are not the one(s) I miss: I am.

the sum of your parts

Dear girls,

My eyes are hot and dry. My skin feels tight like something outgrown. Despite the open windows, it is stifling upstairs as I write this. The summer is barreling at us at full speed. We spend nearly every afternoon in the garden digging holes for seeds and transplants, striking pocket weeds that are still difficult to tell apart from our budding seedlings. Half of the time is spent shepherding Theta out of the veggie patch, occupying her with bowls of dirt or a few pushes on the swing. Ophelia, you are often reluctant to go outside, preferring quiet play with your dolls. But as soon as we kick ourselves out the back door you couldn't be happier. And every day, without fail, there is a quiet moment when I find myself alone and sweating over a shovel or spade. I look up to find the two of you in a corner of the yard, faces pressed together, sharing something whose depths I will never fully understand; something unfamiliarly beautiful.

Theta, I remember your anatomy ultrasound, getting that first real glimpse of your darling profile. There you were on the small grainy screen, an impression of our flesh and blood baby girl. That night as I put you to bed, Ophelia, I saw your own silhouette black against the light outside your window. The same rosebud lips, the same delicately sloped nose. Sisters. The word entered my consciousness as if for the first time. I was not just going to be the mother of two children, two girls. I was going to be the mother of two sisters.

I never worried much about how you two would get along. I figured it was as much up to the cosmos, to luck and chance, whether you would actually enjoy each other's company. Theta, the morning you were born you were in a big hurry. You had barely made your way earthside and up to my breast when Ophelia tiptoed out of her room at 5 AM. Still wrapped in sleep, Ophelia wordlessly came to the couch, curled her body against mine and softly kissed Theta on the forehead. It was so shockingly clear that this was not the first time you two had met.

Watching you girls together is incredible. Ophelia, you have a voice saved only for your sister. A sugary love voice. A while back you started calling Theta "Seuss" which has stuck like taffy. Theta, you save your bubbling laughter for Ophelia and if mama is away, it's your sister you need.

I try not to have expectations about how this sister love will grow and change. But sometimes I let my imagination run wild and you are traveling to Thailand together to celebrate your scantly spaced birthdays, sending long, confessional letters to your respective corners of the world, snuggling up on the couch of your childhood home, this home, when your wandering souls need a rest, need one another. I wish for you girls a lifelong bond that weaves through thorny lows and breathless highs. A bond that plants your feet in the earth and lifts your hands to the sky.  

I love you each immensely and yet somehow I love you even more together.

All my love,

Mama

Theta Eleanor

Dearest Theta Girl,

Tonight I write to you, just you. I often wonder how you will react to reading this blog many years from now. After all, this blog was never intended for you. More specifically, you were not intended. Please don't get me wrong, I do not mean to say that you were not wanted or planned (you were actually very much planned, right down to your gender). What I mean to say is that I always thought I would have one child and that that one child would be your sister. I wrote to her for years before I was ever even pregnant. I kept a box filled with old dresses, a dancing wooden bear; all my childhood treasures, just for her. For the longest time I held fast to this notion of a second generation only child, even swearing publicly that I was done having babies. But all of a sudden it crept up on me. You crept up on me. And I knew that you were out there, knocking on that proverbial door and waiting for me to let you in. I'm eternally glad that I did.

These last fifteen months have been beautiful. I can say without a doubt that I thoroughly enjoyed your infanthood in a way I wasn't able to do the first time around. This time I knew how to bounce, how to surrender. I knew that everyday you were needing less of me and that as stifling as that need felt at times, soon it would be something I would long for. We spent hours on the couch while your sister was at school, you reclined on my bent knees so I could simply stare at you. I was dazzled just making you laugh, stroking your hair and savoring the way your skin felt against mine when I kissed your buttery cheeks. At night I would fall asleep reading in the dim bedroom, your small body tucked against my side and in the very early morning the only way you would continue sleeping was if I brought you onto my chest and we could breathe in tandem for a few more hours.

I love the luminous little person you are. I love to watch your unfolding. I think of you as a small yet fierce, winged girl, my sweet Theta Bird. I love the way you fly to my hip, light as air. I love your warbling laughter, the nonsense words that fill my ears and heart like a balm.

There's more, so much more. There are so many words I want to pin down, hold still for you before they fly away. But they will have to wait. Now is time for sleep, or at least the idea of sleep. Most of the night will be spent chasing it as we configure and reconfigure our bodies around each other. But really, it's ok. Sleep will return someday. Right now you need me. And as is so perfectly clear, I need you too.

All my love,

Mama

Hello rock, hello hard place

Dear daughters,

At this very moment, you are living a fairly idyllic childhood. Eighteen months ago we moved out of the city, to the Sierra foothills. Our house, a solid, white farmhouse built in 1903, sits on a third of an acre on which you have free range. You run and tumble over spring growth so high it often pulls you down as you run through it. You turn over rocks to find earthworms, make "soup" out of rainwater and leaves and swing from the massive oak tree that shades the house. Soon a spring garden and backyard chickens will add to your fun.

Ophelia, you spend your mornings at the local Waldorf school; a five minute drive from our house. While you are there you bake bread, roll in the sand pit and cozy up in a loft full of pillows. You can't go a day without telling me how much you love your school. Each day you come home glowing and exhausted.

Theta, we spend our mornings together, either meeting with mama and baby friends for a crafting morning/walk, shopping at the local co-op for groceries or just hanging out at home and folding laundry. When we are out you wave at smiling strangers and hold my hand as you toddle your way from one place to the next. You are the sweetest companion.

Each night we light candles, say our blessing ("we love our bread, we love our butter, but most of all we love each other") and eat dinner as a family.

That is the picture of our lives in this moment. This is the picture we carefully crafted; a quiet neighborhood, a good school, a loving community and mellow days. A simple and full life. A childhood free of debilitating distractions. Hell, we don't even let you watch TV.

And I believe in what we are giving to you girls. I do, I truly truly do. We've worked hard. made personal, professional and financial sacrifices to live this life. But please don't hate me when I say this: I am mind-numbingly bored.

Maybe bored isn't the right word. How can I be bored when there is something to be done, someone who needs me nearly every minute of every day? There's no thumb twiddling. But I am restless. My brain is constantly looking for mindless tasks to complete because it feels so utterly useless otherwise. I loathe being asked to play make-believe. No, thank you, I would not like to eat raspberry soup from your wooden bowl. Again. And after you go to bed, there's just nothing left. I don't want to write. I don't want to read a novel. I want to watch Louie and eat peanut butter out of the jar.

As much as I love our life and I want the two of you to continue to benefit from all of this, I feel myself slipping away. I'm going through the motions: cooking the oatmeal, tying the shoes, wiping the asses. But I'm not really here.

So now what? you may ask. And truthfully I don't know. I just recently reread a blog post from when I was teaching in Oakland and just the thought of going back to work and feeling that same sadness to leave you scares the hell out of me. But even if we're not talking a full time job, I'd like to at least dip my toes in the water. How amazing it would feel to go 2 hours without having yogurt smeared across my shirt, to constantly unclip and re-clip my bra to nurse, to have someone ask my opinion about something other than whether I prefer burps or farts. So I updated my resume, drafted a cover letter and sent references out in the hopes that I will get an interview for a teaching position opening up next fall. I'm not sure whether I actually want it or whether I just want to get dressed up and talk about my profession for a while. Either way, here it goes!

I love you so very very much,

Mama

Introducing...

Hello dearest ones! This blog has been left alone for quite some time. In fact, when I look back at the archive of posts I see that I didn't write a single thing in the year 2015.

2015. Yes, that's the year your were born, dear Theta. I could apologize for the lack of documentation but I've been in the thick of it. For the past fourteen months I have been mama to two daughters. Two. Sometimes it feels gluttonous to even say it. For fourteen months I have been drenched in the light of your sunshine and also occasionally, drenched in bodily fluids. Yours, mine and ours, to be precise. And it's been amazing. Really truly, 2015 was the best year of my life to date. For the past fourteen months I have cared very little about writing, very little about personal pursuits in general. Only in the past few months have I begun to gets glimpses of my old self, the self that craves writing, alone time and quiet. For fourteen months I have let go of my introverted needs and lived in the noise, stink and joy of mothering two girls. I have you two to thank for that time spent away from myself. Really, thank you.

But all was not lost from that beautiful year. I did manage a few journal entries. This one from April 2015 pretty well sums up the feeling of last year.

" I am the mother of two astounding daughters, girls whose eyes stun me, whose hair burns a hole in the middle of my chest. Their beauty seers me. And I know, somehow, finally, that this will all be swept into the ocean when the tide of this moment recedes. They will be grown girls reading books with flashlights in the night, write their own journals, become enamored with horses or dolphins or fairies. They will stretch up into trees, their bodies becoming foreign entities. They will become secretive and mischievous. I look forward to all of it, to mothering them through it all. But now they are small, bitty things that I can fold up into my heart, that call for me. A part of me adores this phase, being their sun and moon. Part of me hears what older wiser mothers have warned and stops to kiss buttery baby cheeks, tickle chubby bellies and smell their wet hair. Part of me is immersed in this thing called motherhood like I've donned an extremely heavy but luxuriously soft cloak. But another part of me misses who I once was and wonders impatiently who I will be once the fog lifts, once they need me less."

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And of course, there were pictures taken. Many pictures but obviously not enough.

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I don't intend to try to "catch up" with this last year but I have been putting some thought into how this blog should continue now that I have two lovely daughters to write to. I won't set anything in stone but I think I will proceed by writing to both of you, sometimes together, sometimes separately. But for now, I am off to dust off a resume that has sat useless for almost 2 years. More on that later.

I love you my strong, precious girls,

Mama

Not the Puppet Master

Dear Ophelia, My sweet girl. There is so much to write about. There is so much I want to ask some older version of you. Did I do alright? Did I make the right decisions? Did you feel loved enough? There's so much left to faith in this whole parenthood gig. It's difficult for someone who does not pride herself on keeping faith in much of anything.

You and I are different people. I know it's such a funny thing to be landing on this far into our relationship but there's something profound in that realization. I have always tried to respect who you are as a person. This is not always easy when the person whose opinion I'm trying to respect is sobbing hysterically because we can't listen to Christmas Carols for the sixth day in a row in the middle of October. But I do my best to remind myself that your opinion matters and my job is not to control you. So you'd think that I would be perfectly clear with the fact that we are not the same person, that I do not get to decide everything for you. But here's my confession: for a long time it  seemed like we were, if not the same person, too entwined to ever be very separate. I've told you a million times that our relationship feels like one of the longest I've ever had. That's because I always knew you would be here someday. You. Not a child, not a daughter even. I knew it was you I would one day have in my life, who I would be lucky enough to mother. So when I became pregnant and you were born, it felt incredible but not unknown. I've always felt like a mother yet to have a child and because of that my vision of you has become threaded through my whole life experience. You feel like such an integral part of me.

Needless to say this is all very self-centered (go ahead, blame my only child-ness), I know. But it is what it is. So now as you become even more of a fiercely independent girl I am forced to step back and look at all the ways in which my expectations are absurd. Some days we get in these ridiculous standoffs and I realize I have no idea why I give a damn that you aren't doing exactly what I want you to do. The result is basically inconsequential to your overall wellbeing. I'm just being a control freak.

I know this is only going to get harder. In so many ways I feel the reigns slipping from my grasp. Every time you dance around the living room singing "I'm a pretty princess!" I ask myself what the hell I did wrong. I cringe when strangers say hi to you and expect some sweetness back only to be answered with a mean stink eye. But I am not your puppet master. I am your mother. This is your life. I'm here to provide for you and guide you but not dictate where that road will lead.

I know we'll figure this out. We may not be the same person but we're on the same team.

I love you beyond measure, sweetheart.

xoxo

Mama

Worth

Love of my life, It's still early, although I have been up for hours now. I can hear you and Daddy wake up and amble up the stairs of the Pine Mountain Lake house, your Yaya and Papa's house near Yosemite. In just a few hours the place will be flooded with family and we will be swept into our yearly ritual of swimming in the lake, creating and consuming one gargantuan meal after the last and pausing for just a moment to take in the fireworks spectacular tomorrow night. But for now the house is quiet, save for the sound of your sweet voice requesting a bowl of yogurt.

Ophelia, you are beautiful. Stunningly so, I would say. From the moment you were born people could not stop marveling at your huge blue eyes. Once an older woman walked by us on the street and just looked at you and said, "Those eyyyyyyyes" shaking her head slightly in disbelief but continuing to walk on by. Your white blonde curls seems to defy gravity and although you know your mother is not one for belief in celestial beings I find it impossible to look at you and not call you "angel". Of course, you are only two-years-old and not even teeth are permanent at this point but I feel confident you will always be a a beautiful person to look at.

But here's the thing, my love: none of it matters. Nope, not really.

Before you write me off as an ogre of a mother, let me explain. In light of recent political agendas and Supreme Court rulings, I've been thinking more and more about what these decisions will mean to you, what message our government and the culture we live in are sending. And I think I've boiled it down to one phrase: You are just a body.

Even reading my own words makes me shake with anger, leaves tears clawing behind my eyes. But there is no other conclusion that can be drawn when at every turn women are denied their rights to obtain birth control, to feed their babies without criticism or debate, to access legal abortions without threat of bodily harm and all the while, the protections we are due are given to faceless corporations, as if our lack of recognized personhood needed to be even more defined. You are just a body. And more over, you have very little say in what happens to that body.

It's dark, my girl, but it's reality. So here's the thing, and I know it's asking a lot of you but I think you're the girl to handle it. You need (in whatever future decade of your life you do read this) to decide that they are all wrong and to live your life accordingly. You need to decide that you are so much more than the flesh you live in. Whoever you decide to be, whatever job you decide to work or not work, whomever you decide to love; all of that, the strengths inside you, the people whose lives you touch and the change you make in the world around you are worth a hell of a lot more than what they will try to reduce you to. You need to say to hell with the idea that anyone else has any more say in what happens to your body than you do. I know that none of this is easy. Trust me, I still fight every day to remind myself of these truths. But as a woman it will be one of the most worthwhile fights of your life.

I love you, sweetness. I love you with such a fierceness that makes me want to turn the world upside down just to give you all that you deserve. Maybe someday we'll all succeed in that. But until then I'll keep fighting the good fight for you, darling and I hope that someday I can pass the torch to you.

All my love, Mama

Somewhere, something, somehow

Hi Sweetness,

I am writing to you from an unfamiliar, hazy place that they call "Working Motherhood." I don't know exactly how I got here, where I'm heading or how many hours of sleep I'll get tonight but here I am.

I started work full-time in January while your daddy went down to part-time and will be going back to school this fall. As much as I feel like Future Ophelia would be interested in hearing the particulars of my day-to-day (ok maybe not) I just can't go there. I feel as if I have been dragged through everyday, like those kids have wiped the floor with me. There's a strange new pounding in my right ear, something heavy yet invisible sits on my chest and I haven't pooped normally for months. You're welcome for the TMI. I look at my face in the morning and I wonder who the hell I'm looking at. I've never looked so tired.

I don't know what to say to you that is encouraging of someday being a working mother yourself. This feels like hell; the stress, of course, but seeing so little of you too. It feels so unfair to have this astounding and luminous little person in my life that I am only allowed to see for a few short hours at night and on weekends. I thought I'd feel fulfilled, connected to the world, excited for each new day but none of that seems to be true so far. I've never felt more isolated and unsure of my path.

The bright spot in all of this is that somehow you are thriving despite all of the tumultuous change in our lives. Your sunny disposition shines bright as ever. Remember those stones I told you that the midwife gave us when you were born? Joy. Serenity. Flexibility. Your blessings continue to follow you. You say the sweetest things I've ever heard. You like to add "little bit" to just about everything you say. For instance " Daddy is a little bit funny" or "I'm a little bit tired". You have definite opinions on the music we listen to saying to one song "I wuv it!" or another "I don't like this song" and demanding I change the station. You still think farting is the funniest thing on the face of the earth. You are clearly a Watts. No doubt about things there. The way you say "Hi Mama" can bring me to tears even when I just hear it in my head.

I love you beyond measure, Ophelia. If this time is difficult you don't show it at all. Thank you for making it easy to do the hardest things I've ever done. All I have to do is remind myself that I wake up everyday and go to work for you and suddenly there are no more questions. I just know that I have to strive to be the person my daughter already sees me as.

Love love love,

Mama 

Hey Baby Girl

Dear Ophelia, There's always so much to say about you that I find it hard to know where to start. You are TALKING TALKING TALKING! It's incredible. You repeat just about everything we say...even when I'd rather you not yell "CRAP!" at the top of your lungs. You're even trying out sentences and using our phrases by yourself. I tried making a list of all the words you know (as in, when I ask you what something is you correctly identify it or use it without me asking) but that soon became an exercise in futility because you learn at least 3 new words every day. I'm also kind of convinced that you can read. Yeah, I know. You're 18 months old but I swear to god you looked at the word frog (no pictures) and then said "frog". It's happened before too. But I digress into hallucinations.

You are fierce! Seriously, you are stubborn and sassy and funny as hell. You have these looks that clearly say "I mean business. Don't you know who I am?" But the best thing is that you can be giving me one of those looks and I'll give it right back to you and then we'll both burst into laughter. We're too alike. Oh and you are MOOOOOODY. I wonder who you got that from? ;)

Yes, you are smart as a whip and you've got a spine of steel but what I adore about you most is how tremendously kind you are. I've spent so much time with babies and toddlers that I feel like I have a good idea about the average 1.5 year old's capacity for compassion. You, my lovely, are exceptional. You hug random kids before they go down the slide at the park. If you see me get hurt or know that I am sad you run over to me to give me a hug and a kiss. When Daddy and I hug you insist that we pick you up for a family hug. You say hi to everyone and always have a smile, even for strangers. When I lie down with you to fall asleep, you give me a smooch on the cheek every couple of minutes. My heart just absolutely melts. Despite our challenges, I feel lucky everyday to be your mother.

Before I sign off, and get some much needed sleep, I want to thank you. Your mama has had a tough year, to say the least. But you are amazing. You wake up everyday with a smile on your face and pull me into real life. You remind me that the world keeps spinning despite my worries and stresses. So thank you, my girl. I will try to do the same for you.

Love, Mama

Goodnight

How could I forget?
Young eyes
Excited opals
Dancing at me like tambourines
How could I forget your wild arms,
Winding up for flight?

4/29/13

This is not a Mommy Blog and I am not a Mommy Blogger

Dear Ophelia,

Occasionally, very very occasionally, I entertain the idea of becoming a real blogger. You know, the kind that posts pictures of the amazing Halloween costumes they've sewn for their childrens, gluten-free pancake recipes and hosts product giveaways. Mommy Bloggers. I entertain this not because I think I would be any good at it but because I see the sponsored links on those blogs and I know that they are getting a tidy little check every month just for writing a blog they would probably keep up with anyway. That modest paycheck would be a very nice thing to have in addition to our 1.12123 income household (I made that number up if you can't tell). We want to do cool things like, I don't know, take trips, eat good food, send you to college. Any extra cash would be niiiiice. But then I come back down to Earth and I realize that there are a million and one reasons I should not and could not become a Mommy Blogger. Here they are in no particular order:

1. I don't even know how to post a picture. Seriously. I once knew how to do it and then our internet got all slow and now it takes seven hours to upload a tiny picture. And even when I do wait it out the picture is always awkwardly sized in comparison to the text.
2. I don't know ANYTHING about html codes or making a blog look pretty. I'm still not even sure I fully understand hashtags. People explain them to me and then I think "No, that can't be it. That's too stupid and unnecessary to be what they're for."
3. While I am pretty damn crafty, I should never really be the person whose example one follows, say, in a tutorial. I'm the crafter that gets bored sewing something and breaks out the hot glue gun instead. Or I start something with high hopes of finishing it in time for a particular holiday and then totally punk out and find something else I'd rather be making.
4. Despite the fact that I continue to read them, I kind of actually hate those blogs. I think they project a false idea of motherhood. Reading them you get this sense that having a kid consists of idyllic days of felt crafts, wholesome baking with toddlers and a house you aren't ashamed to post photos of online. I generally feel completely incompetent after reading a post or two then looking around at the avalanche of board books in my livingroom and the lack of dinner on the table. I don't feel the need to make other women feel that way just so I can have a little extra income every month.
5. I am a writer. Since having you I have had to be hyper-vigilant about carving out time for myself just to write. I'll be damned if that precious time is going to be spent writing for the benefit of someone else. Unless that someone else happens to be you. Which brings me to the final reason why this will never be a a Mommy Blog:
6. I'm writing this blog for you. Sometimes I am self-indulgent and I write about things that maybe you will never give a damn about. But I'm always writing for you. This is not to say that Mommy Bloggers are selfish for not writing for their kids but personally I need to stick to the reason I created this blog and that is to leave a record of my thoughts and your early childhood.

And that, dear daughter, is another self-indulgent rant. Thanks for listening.

Love,

Mama

Too too long

Hi wonderful girl,

Your mama has been totally remiss in updating this blog. It seems like the months have had their way with me and now here you are, 13 months old and quickly becoming the most amazing person I know.

You took your first steps the other day. It was March 5th. We were in the library and you were playing with some blocks and some little cars that you could hook up into a chain and drive around. I don't know exactly what you were going for, a toy, a book, maybe me but you took 2 hesitant, teetering steps and then fell on your butt. I just looked at you in astonishment, wanting to yell out "She just walked!" but I was surrounded by strangers so I didn't. But it was amazing. You are amazing. You looked so cool and nonchalant about it all, like you could have done it at anytime but decided it had to wait until that day.

We had your birthday party last month at Granny Mimi and Grandpa Phil's house. We kept it small and pretty grownup. Your friend Gracie was the only other baby there. We ate manicotti, lasagna and homebrew made by your daddy and a delicious salad made by Auntie Mary. You opened a few presents and then we had your blessing ceremony where everyone said aloud a wish they thought of for you and lit a candle. It was very special and sincere and I cherished every second of it.

You have been giving hugs and kisses. Grandma Watts is particularly over the moon about this. I love it too. You've even started giving your teddy bear hugs too which is just too adorable for words. And you know how some people are really crappy at hugs? Like they just give you a little squeeze or a lame pat and then let go? Well you will never be one of those people. You have the sweetest, most perfect embrace.

You say "hi" all the time. It's particularly cute when a stranger says hi to you at the grocery store and you surprise them by saying hi back. Sometimes you and I will go back and forth exchanging "Hi"s for a few minutes. You're so proud of yourself. I'm pretty proud too :)

You say lots of other words too but not very consistently. You like saying "kitty", "dada", "Mama" and "thank you", which sounds like "taykoo".

Whenever music of any kind comes on you light up and start dancing (read: bouncing on your butt). I've even caught you dancing to Brahms. I think I would be remiss in my motherly duties if I didn't enroll you in a music class in the next few months.

You're still a nursing champ. I would even go as far as to say a fiend. You can't be anywhere near me without demanding that I immediately whip out my breast. This is of course annoying but I'm trying to be compassionate. Your teeth have been giving you a real hard time lately and you're reaching out for your favorite comfort. Dear girl, you certainly have taught me a lot about patience and stamina in the last year.

You've started using "no" a lot and your comedic timing with the word is always impeccable. You still shake your head emphatically while saying "nahnahnahnahnah"

Your hair is still blonde as can be and you're finally starting to get those sweet curlyques around your ears. You look like a perfect little Kewpie Doll. 

You love peekaboo or pretty much any game with daddy. He still gets the best smiles from you.

Your newest thing is spitting when you are displeased with something. At first it cracked me up. Now I just roll my eyes and pray that this is a phase you will outgrow. I call you my little stinker all the time and you just giggle and giggle.

I'm going to be better about writing to you more, my love. It's hard when there's so much to do and you need lots of attention and love and kisses. But I do think this blog is important, if only to serve as a reminder someday how in awe I have always been of you.

Love,

Mama

You, right now

Right now. Your daddy calls you the girl with the golden hair. It's finally begun to curl right up around your ears. It sends pangs of loss right to my heart to see my baby turn into a child before my eyes.

Strangers always marvel at your eyes.

"Those eyes. Those EYES," an older Black lady said today as she passed you.

You love to wave at people and sometimes get so excited that both hands have to get in on the action.

Sometimes you open books and begin to speak gibberish like you're actually reading.

If I look away from you for even a second you look at me and cock your head in my direction as if to say, "Um hello, don't forget about me."

You squeal with delight at the kitties. You squeal in delight at a lot of things. Sometimes it quite resembles shrieking in terror. You're ambiguous like that.

The heart-shaped birthmark on your thigh is growing into something very unheart-like. I'm pretty sad to see it go.

You're pulling yourself up to standing and getting up on all fours but you remain disinterested in crawling. You continue to remind me that patience is a virtue...and so is having a baby that can't crawl before your house is babyproofed.

Your favorite toy is my wallet. You can get every single credit card, dollar bill and receipt out of it in seconds flat.

You are a ravenous eater, devouring everything from artichoke torta to shrimp and grits to plain yogurt. If I want to eat something in front of you I better well be prepared to share unless I want to witness a complete meltdown.

You nurse more or less constantly through the night. We need to fix this because my sleep deprivation is bordering on dangerous these days.

I have to keep careful track of what I give you to eat. You have been known to keep your fist clenched for hours around a tiny nugget of cheese without anyone (not even you) remembering it's there.

You love music, especially "Bom Bom" by Sam and the Womp. As soon as I put on the music video you start bumping up and down excitedly.

You give hugs and big open-mouth kisses but only to me and Daddy. We feel very special.

Right now,

You are perfect.

The Greenest Grass

Dear Ophelia, It is nearly 10'oclock and you have been asleep for hours but tonight I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop thinking about how quickly you've become my favorite person, how I can't look at pictures of you without grinning from ear to ear, how much you've brought your dad and me together and cemented us as a family. Sometimes I feel like these blog entries are getting redundant. I imagine you reading them one day and saying to me with a sigh, "Seriously, Mom? Couldn't you think of anything else to write other than how much you love me?" Maybe I write it over and over because at times it's a little difficult to process how deeply I love you. Maybe it's difficult to fathom that I am even capable of being so consumed by my love for another person. Or maybe, and I think this is the big one, it's that it is difficult to voice in any way just how much I have to lose. You represent not only the most precious thing in my life but the most precious thing in many people's lives. Certainly in your dad's, grandparents etc. And I am responsible for protecting you, loving you, teaching you, inspiring you and providing for you. Sometimes, just sometimes, it feels like a job that someone else would be better at.

Ophelia, you are amazing in so many ways. You are funny as hell, you are gregarious and charming, you are smart as a whip and you are deliriously beautiful. One thing you are not (at least at the time of this posting) is very physical. You turned 9 months old the other day and you are still not crawling. Truthfully, I'm not even sure you want to crawl. For the first six months of your life you would scream as if someone was sticking pins in you whenever we tried to give you some "tummy time". To this day it is still not your favorite thing. When I took you in for your regular check up a few weeks ago the doctor said that although you are still within the normal range for crawling time, you should be able to get from your tummy to sitting position by now which you cannot yet do. I walked out of there feeling guilty as hell and determined to give you your prescribed 30 minutes of tummy time every day whether you liked it or not. And for the most part, that's what we've been doing. And you've improved by leaps and bounds, scooting around the kitchen like a pro. My guilt, however, stubbornly remains. Not to mention the nagging urge to compare you to other children. And then of course I feel even more guilty for the comparison. And dear daughter, that comparison is a bitch. It is the thief of joy (to quote some wise person from Pinterest). I have decided for your sake and for mine, that I will not compare you to "the norm" any more. In the time that I've been dwelling on your less than stellar physical strength I have almost missed some of the precious and hilarious things you've been working on instead. The other day I noticed you opening up a book, staring at the pages and babbling a string of nonsense, as if you are actually reading. I've caught you doing this several times since. You're brilliant. End of story. Then tonight you amazed me by reaching for the book over and over each time I asked "Ophelia, where is your book?" So you see, my darling, your mother has the tendency to be blinded by comparison. But I'm working on it. And I will make a promise to you now that by the time you are reading this, it will shock you beyond belief that I ever worried you were less than average.

Thank you for keeping me in check, sweetheart.

Love,

Mama

Home is where the bay is

Dear Ophelia, This morning we packed you into the Scion and headed down to the Wells Fargo in Chinatown for our meeting with a guy named Jimmy. Our mission: get you a house. We sat in his office for an hour and half,  answering one personal question after the next while several older Asian women walked by and made googly eyes with you through the picture window. A petite Chinese woman dressed in staggering heels kept running in and out of the office, asking Jimmy questions in Mandarin and answering his in English. Your constant chatter and movement was a welcome distraction from the seriousness of what was at hand. I was sure we wouldn't get approved for anything; your dad was more optimistic but certainly removed. But to both of our dismay, we walked out of there with a letter approving us for more money than either of us thought we would qualify for. And more than anything else, that letter feels like a promise from me to you to find us the best home possible.

Making this decision makes me consider your whole childhood, how the home we buy now will become the framework for all your memories from your early years. You will garden with mama in the backyard, make "real" mac n cheese with daddy in the kitchen, hang Christmas stockings on our fireplace. I am incredibly protective over these memories yet to come.  I see myself as the keeper of the purity of your childhood. And call me a snob, but I want that childhood to be in Oakland. Sure, your dad and I grew up in the suburbs and turned out alright. We're even kind of, sort of, in our love of NPR and Barack Obama and CSA boxes and craft beer, cosmopolitan (stop laughing). I want you to remember a bazillion trips to the zoo, to Fairyland, to MOCHA and Tilden Park. I don't want Telegraph Avenue to be something you discover with wide-eyed fascination as a teenager...I want you to be on a first name basis with those homeless dudes by Kindergarten! I want you to have friends of all colors, creeds and sexual orientations and to be aware that you are privileged and damned lucky to be in the socioeconomic position you are in. I know these things are all possible in the suburbs too but I'm holding on like mad to the idea that we will find a home in Oakland that is A) not in a shitty dangerous neighborhood B) we can afford and C) makes us feel like we're finally home. The market is crazy and there are multiple offers on most homes, but we're diving right in. Let me know in 20 years if we made the right decision.

Love,

Mama