i'm sitting here on a glorious fall afternoon, my life as good as it's been in awhile and it reminds of how precious life has been feeling lately.

always one to 'make love to life,' something urgent is waking me up to savoring more minutes in my day. it is making me say yes to going back into the art cupboard getting yet another piece of tape for temple's art project. yes to a trip to the dollar store for even more art supplies. yes to a matinee movie. yes to cuddling in bed, reading another book, yes to piggy backs and just yes to as much as i can. (i didn't realize how much i had started said no! and for no really good reason than just, ugh.)

maybe it is my grandmother meeting the end of her days and the loneliness i sense in her heart as she reviews her life. i want to feel full up when my time comes. maybe it is just me noticing the speed with which my babies are becoming these tall human beings with minds of their own. maybe it is the way my marriage is about to meet its 10th anniversary. or my birthday just around the corner...

i hope it is that list of things and not my intuition feeling something else, something darker. last week i sent an email to a friend and as i went with my rambling thoughts, this came out: where am i? that would be a very long email on its own :)  but in short, i am good. life feels amazingly, wonderously precious to me these days. i am full of gratitude and inspiration to live more fully present and awake. after feeling broken down the past few years, i am waking up to wonder. that's the only way i can describe it. on the flip side of that though  there is this feeling of foreboding. that my life is going to crack wide open with beauty, but it might be a tragic darkness that shows me the light. i can't put my finger on whether this intuition or fear, but it is there and has got me very curious.

even the stories i've been hearing lately feel prophetic. the beautiful, ragged, heart-wrenching stories of moms dying from cancer. children dying from cancer. my throat clenches. i gag. i hurt for them and i get scared. and then i realize their gift to me, in sharing their stories, is that - at least for right now, today - we are all healthy. i have the choice to enjoy a life not hindered by pain or illness and what a tremendous gift this.

when i think of it, it is overwhelming. the gift of health. the gift of precious loved ones. the gift of this:

and this:

in gratitude for this beautiful, glorious day - it is time to go out and make sidewalk art, lounge in the backyard, start up the grill for an outdoor dinner. and just hug my babies as much as i can. enjoy their smiles, their weight in my lap, the smell of their hair as they sit with me. carve pumpkins, give them a bath. and drift off to sleep filled up with memories of a sweet, simple day.

There is nothing better than lime popsicles and ginger ale when you are sick. I remember.

Hot papery skin, glazed eyes, fever dreams, the contented blur of dozing off over and over again with nothing to do but be sick and get well. And then the mama hand on your forehead, the sip of fuzzy gingerale from a straw, the cool of frozen lime juice on a sore throat. A clean bed after you’ve barfed for the thirteenth time in the middle of the night. Damp towels after a tepid bath. A cool washcloth over burning eyes. All those little mercies were heavenly.

I’m a firm believer in childhood illness and fever being good for kids. Partly for scientific reasons like building a stronger immune system. Or even spiritual reasons about our evolving souls shouldering their way to the surface a little more each time our body goes to battle to protect itself. 

But most importantly, it is the vividness of my own childhood memories about the hazy, dreamlike quality of being sick and how special I felt. Protected. Surrounded. Nurtured. Known.

Not only by my mom – who was a rockstar nurse for sure, the kind that showed up with cool washcloths and jello at just the right moment – but held by something even bigger. Some unseen force that was both within me and beyond me. The experience of a common cold or strep throat or a nasty stomach flu being transcendent in its very ordinary way.

While I was in this space (and coming out of this space) I was deeply aware even though I was often only dimly awake and usually feverish. There is no doubt in my mind that through this process – a day or a week – I evolved, just a tiny bit more, into a new person. The memories are so distinct and clear, more vivid than other childhood memories, that I believe these moments held some special magic.

It’s no secret that illness or physical challenges are often an opportunity for one’s spirit to grow. For knowledge to be uncovered, courage found, humor unearthed, faith instilled. And I believe it is the same for children, their unavoidable childhood illnesses somehow breaking down doors so insight and health and strength can come through.

My kids follow a pretty clear pattern: big growth spurt or developmental milestone = sick. 

Have a birthday, get a tooth, lose a tooth, learn to crawl, start a new school year…get a fever and throw up for a few days. It’s kind of like clockwork around here.

And so it was no surprise that both of my kids got sick on summer solstice – the day both of them lost another tooth in the unending cycle of baby teeth becoming adult teeth. They are both growing taller, getting leaner, reading more difficult books, asking more sophisticated questions, changing right before my eyes. Happening, as it often does, all at once.

This time we’ve been sick for 10 days. For whatever reason this was a rolling onset kind of sick. One, then another of us got in turns. Finally when I thought we were out of the woods and Temple had been feeling great for a few days, she woke us up two nights ago barfing in her bed.

There was Matt, scraping the barf off her sheets with a spatula while I layered clean towels and got a cool washcloth. As usual, she was a trooper. Our kids are brave about being sick. They actually celebrate and say “We are getting stronger!” (Matt’s done a really good job teaching them that being sick is a good thing because it makes your body tougher, stronger and healthier.)

Last night we all went to bed, again feeling ‘better.’ Only to wake up just after midnight with Satchel throwing up in earnest. And again, it was an all-night affair. He’s still sleeping it off now.

Of course inside my heart is breaking for them.  This has been an epic round of illness that won’t stop.

As a mom, it slows me way down when the kids get sick. Not just slowed down in terms of chores and work, but slowed down in really important ways. Like tuning in deeply, heart to heart. Connecting to them without words even. Just in the simple acts of caring for someone. Bringing water, freshening the washcloth, emptying the barf bucket, pulling the hair back from their face, getting them a glass of ice chips, running a bath.

Now that they are 11 and 6, this kind of slowed down pace, this extra attentive nurturing doesn’t happen as much as it did when they were tiny. We’ve encouraged them to be self-sufficient, to take good care of themselves, and so they need us less in the ways they used to need us so much. Sickness undoes all of that and they become ours to care for, to safeguard while they do their own important work of healing and growing.

Today, when I thought I was home free and ready to get back to the long list of things that were put on hold last week, I struggled with the frustration of another day of putting things off.  And then I remembered some words I’d read on childhood illnesses, inspiring me to cherish this moment and to witness growth.

I’ll close with some of these words here:

A child will attempt to remodel his physical body many times, breaking down the inherited structure through fever and illness in order to rebuild it anew and imbue it with his own individuality. Childhood illnesses promote the whole development of the child, working from above to below to support the healthy incarnation of body, soul and spirit. In this sense, fever can be seen as the instrument of the ego.

[As caretakers we can] promote the cleansing process and help the illness work its way out of the body, supporting not only the bodily functions, but also the soul and spiritual development, which encourages true healing.

“Children become ill in their own individual way and each illness will have a meaningful part to play in their biography and development.” (Dr Philip Incao, ‘The Reason for Childhood Illnesses”, 2001, Anthromed Library, www.anthromed.org)

Eight years ago I was sipping castor oil in a gin fizz. It was Easter and a girl has traditions. The baby girl inside of me was now two weeks past her equinox due-ish date and I was urging her along. But since the brother before her came at 43 weeks, I wasn't particularly worried. Just excited to meet her and wanting to make sure our homebirth went right this time.

I like pregnancy. In fact, I never feel better. So if the babes decide to stick around it's cool with me. I know how fleeting the transcendent experience of a little being moving, stretching, kicking, rolling, hiccuping...well doing all of that living right under the roof that is your heart, well, how fast that goes.

I also knew that this baby girl was smart as a whip. We had a language, her and I. She played games already yo. Seriously. I'd tap my belly and she'd kick. I'd tap again, she'd kick again. When we went to rock concerts, she danced. And when the music was done, so was she. When I needed her to move so I knew she was fine, I'd ask her and she'd oblige.

At the time I was running some serious mileage. All the way until a few days before she was born. She liked the rhythmic moving and she'd sleep. Then she'd wake to play. She was a fully formed human and I could tell. Or maybe I was just more aware my second time around.

But I digress. The gin fizz. Take notes mamas. Castor oil is notoriously, riotously awful. It is hard to get down so people have come up with lots of tricks to get the job done. Some swear by oj, peanut butter, scrambled eggs. Fuck all that. Go straight to the gin people. Straight to the gin. Whip it up with frozen lemon or lime aid, some half & half, lots of ice and you have a cocktail that simply tastes like someone else left too much lipstick on the rim.

My family, we all toasted to birth that Easter Sunday and after some slight action. Nothing. So the Tuesday after Easter I tried again. A sunny spring day and the blender on high and I was chilling in the back yard on our hammock when shit got serious.

Birth in retrospect, eight years later, is interesting. There are details that stand out as if they happened yesterday and others that have faded away completely until I read my old journals. But a birth story, eight years later, has been refined into a framework of  unforgettable moments. I'm sure critical details have been lost but the movie plays on in my head...

A parade of people filed in, one or two at a time. Sisters and brothers and moms and dads and my brand new niece in a sling on her mama. Night came. They brought balloons and heated the food I had prepared. Midwives with birth kits came. Music was on, candles lit, my room and bath a private sanctuary while all the people I loved most in the world were just beyond the doorway - holding space and being festive and waiting for our girl to arrive.

They cuddled little 5 year old Satchel who would come and go into the birth space and then out again. He high-fived me every time I said "FUCK" because I had prepared him for the intensity of labor and the lion roaring I might do and the blood and the sailor's mouth I would most likely have.

At some point I reached down and felt her head. Her hair!!! And I pushed and roared and pushed some more. The midwives opened sterile packaging and hurriedly arranged all the birthy things that a newborn needs.

There were only a few contractions that felt beyond my ability. When they came I'd barf and then I'd move on. But mostly it was do-able. So unlike the pitocin induction I'd had 5 years earlier with Satchel.

But soon minutes became hours and I had my legs on the door jam and someone else on the opposite end of towel so I could push (and pull) with traction. From hands to knees, from tub to bed to floor to toilet. A circus of activity and effort...and I couldn't budge her down and out.

Labor had been going for hours now. Something like 17 and I'd been pushing for over 6 of them. We made the call. I'd gotten to ten centimeters in the sacred space of my home, in the birth cave of my own making, in the tub that Matt had rigged with a shelf for resting and half-inflated birth ball to sit on, with Taras Riley playing in the background and candle light and ice chips and hard work and Satchel's sweet hand patting my head and Matt's strong arms holding me up while I pushed and pushed and pushed, with a protective shield of people around me and my sweet baby girl with hair I could touch.

Give me a minute I said.

I showered. Told my body that we were changing plans. That I would ride in the car to the hospital and that contractions could stop now. And they did. How I could get my body to stop contractions when I couldn't make them strong enough to push her out, I will never know. But I walked outside to our big oak tree and felt the sun on my skin. In that moment I made peace. A kind of peace anyway, that I had birthed at home and now I was going to do the rest of my birthing at the hospital.

Warmly welcomed by a midwife and homebirth friendly staff, in a gorgeous new labor and delivery wing in a wine country hospital, I was treated so kindly and they helped me birth my baby by cesarean. My baby girl was here.

Her eyes were so blue.

They placed her in my arms and all I could think was Who are you and where did you come from? What ride are you going to take me on little girl?

She clearly came to this planet with something to finish. With a destiny to fulfill. Her energy was sheer power and she was coming here on her terms. Her earthly home was a temple and she had work to do. I was in awe of her. And overwhelmed with a vibrating energetic love.

Our eyes locked and I felt the warmth of her in my arms. The weight just inside of me now resting against my skin. Somewhere in the haze of drugs and hormones I worried that she couldn't see. Not really but I was disoriented and confused and trying to get back in my body after the birthing journey.

Those crystaline eyes and thick black lashes, they opened up and looked right into my soul. My heart was no longer her roof. Now it was her home.

It took time to come to terms with another home birth turned hospital cesarean. It was a journey of its own. But the healing work I had done after Satchel's birth, and thanks to the profound work of Pam England and Birthing From Within, this time it was different. My spirit, though bruised, was in tact. Not shattered. I fairly quickly returned to normal. My heart was home to two gorgeous children and there was living to be done. Giving myself space for grief allowed me to work it all the way through.

I also believe that encapsulating (and eating) my placenta helped. My doctor-sister thinks I'm a nut job (in the best kind of way) but even she says that medicine is medicine if you believe it works. So whatevs, I believe in placenta magic. In traditional Chinese medicine the placenta is an organ with powerful uses. Once dried, it serves many purposes in addition to combating post-partum depression.

One of it's purposes is hormone replacement in menopause. My babies placentas have MY hormones. And if preserved properly the placenta has a long "shelf life" so when the next phase of life comes, I have leftover placenta sitting in my freezer. You can bet I will be dosing myself proper.

The placenta is also considered the baby's first home. It's own earth. It's first planet. The baby placed roots in this soil and grew, drawing nourishment from its earth like roots on a tree. And so it is used to ground and nurture the child through transition - physical and emotional. When Temple was a baby I used some of her placenta powder to make a tincture, much like her very own bespoke Rescue Remedy and I'd sprinkle drops of this on her crown chakra through temper tantrums, teething, and illness. Each birthday I have sprinkled a capsule of her "first earth" in a special cake just for her. To remind and re-root, to ground and nourish.

One of my favorite accupuncturists, Laurel Brody, prepared the placenta for me. She said 108 prayers over it as she ground it by hand and then capsulized it for me. Laurel tied Temple's umbilical cord in a sacred knot and dried that too. Then she wrapped it all beautifully like a gift. When Temple was 5 days old we took our first outing to the healing center where Laurel works, a beautiful piece of land in Sebastapol, and we collected the placenta pills along with heated charcoal packs for my belly, a binding band to help with womb support, and herbs for replenishing blood since I had lost a shit ton of blood in surgery.

Blood loss was significant. For weeks my gums and the inside of my eyes were pale from blood loss. It took me a very long time to regain my strength but great care from my midwife Claudette, lots of dark leafy greens, beef soup, and Floradix, I recovered without the blood transfusion they debated giving me in the hospital.

You can see how pale I was in this pictures. But mostly you can see how tender and little she was, and how precious she was to me.

Luckily she was easy on me. Allowed me to recover because she was such an "easy" baby. (I know that term is tricky, but to me she did feel easy, groovy, simple and attuned so we sailed right through.) Temple slept through the night in Matt's arms the first night at the hospital. From the beginning she was a sleeper. An easy nursling, a restful sleeper, content when she was in my arms or on my body. Or in Matt's lap in the hammock where they would swing for hours during the warm spring days. Matt was off work back then as we prepared to move to Vancouver BC for the next two years. We took advantage of the time to sink in as a family and enjoy the lull before what would become a 5-7 year storm of moving and a bad economy and building new businesses and basically be ON for years.

Looking back at the last months before she was born and the four months after, they were like heaven. She was a little human product of a heaven-like time in our lives.

Her habits have always been solid, robust, healthful. Sleeping , eating, pooping like a champ. She was born at nearly ten pounds and she was solid. My boobs made milk like cream for her. Her body put in the order at the milk factory and I complied, pumping out half and half instead of skim.

Affectionate, funny, musical, sensitive, silly, fierce, independent, willful, strong. This girl is a powerhouse in every sense.

With her work yet to be discovered and frustration with not being able to do the amazing, adult, complex things she wants so badly to accomplish, it makes her vulnerable and tender and even lost at times. She can be daunted by the things she most desires and her nervous system often gets sent into a tailspin.

Being her mother is an honor. Truly. Sometimes it's not easy and she is a beautiful mystery to me. And I have to stretch and reach and sweat and deep-breath my way to serve her. To be the guide she needs me to be. In as many ways as I have failed her, I think that mostly I get her. And when I don't, I keep trying. That I am her ally in this confusing world. That I am the caretaker of her sensitive soul.

When I found out I was having a girl - or rather, they confirmed my inner knowing that I was having a girl - it hit me.

A daughter. I'm having a daughter.

A wave of gratitude for her, for the opportunity to mother a daughter, a flood of recognition and legacy and hope filled me with a burning purpose to live as her guiding light. And then they put her in my arms, this little powerhouse, and I realized that I had it backwards. She was here like a comet to light the way.

My journey with Temple has been to stand back, to stand out of her way. To hold and shape and steer but there is no holding back a force like hers. Sometimes incorrigible and brazen, this little Aries girl is a do-er. A walk through flames-er. A get needs met-er. And I've taken note: Help her claim this power, don't make her shut it down.

From outfits that make me laugh, to those that make me cringe, there is little room for small fights with this one. She is big picture and she is self-knowledge. And she has the backbone to stand by her own side and shout her version from the rooftops. Who am I to take such a bright burning flame and turn her into a good girl?

Do you know how hard this is for a "good girl" like me?

And power like hers is a lot for such a little girl to handle. It runs hot through her like an electric storm and if her own mama isn't there to comfort, to be on her team, then the world is an insane place to puzzle through. So I deep breathe a lot. I realize that these are my triggers and she is paving her way. And mine. I'm relearning so much with her as my teacher. With her asking me to challenge my hot spots and see them through her eyes. To offer compassion and understanding. To worry less about being good or following rules and to listen more to the white-hot passion that guides her through this life.

She is a gift in so many ways. All children are. Her gifts have been a surprise. Unpredictable and juicy and sweet and difficult and heartbreakingly tender. She is trailblazer, pioneer, wildheart. She can tear shit down and build it back up. I love her for this. For teaching me these things.

We spent her birthday at Indian Springs in Calistoga, enjoying the mineral pools. The rose-scented spring air. Shuffleboard and croquet and watching the night sky while floating on life rafts in water as warm as the womb. Her head on my heart, we floated and counted stars.

Happy 8th birthday Temple Lova Tiger-Lily!

Love you woods to the ocean twenty and fifty.

xo

Mama

last year i made hoppin' john for new years. friends & family rolled by. we sat around a roaring fire and had lots to hope for in the year ahead. hope springs eternal and this year, the good caught up with us in greater measure than the icky, the stressful and the sad.

i'd say that 2013 looks grand but i'm superstitious and i don't want to jinx myself.  so let's just stay i continue to be hopeful. and grateful for health and family and joy.

we've had a lovely couple months. november and december were just plain ol' fun in so many ways. here are a few glimpses of november (3 birthdays, an annivesary, thanksgiving and visits from my sister's family & our awesome vancouver friends) and december (a 10th anniversary trip to nyc and a merry, festive season!)

winter boots

peas in a pod

pals

i call this couple 'party in a box' because you could rent them to make an party an instant success!

autumn art project

he-man

fall feather project

satch and his great-grandmother

birthday fun

baking with busha

"autumn leaf" biscuits

beautiful leaves...already gone

treats for school

board games with cousins

dress-up with cousins

abundance abounds

communal art projects

swedish fish martinis

did i say that november was the birthday month around here???

birthday couple = love!

...always.

this...the world's perfect baby...just might trick him into doing it one more time :)

it's that time of year again.

morning reader.

waiting for st. nick

christmas in new york!

view from our honeymoon suite

first lunch in new york...oldest dim sum restaurant in china town.

wildlife in the village.  this majestic falcon was epic.

along the way from lower east side lunch at katz's deli to shopping at bergdorfs.

waiting for the subway.

anniversary dessert at jean-georges nougatine

christmas in new york - is anything more spectacular?

turkish coffee on a cold day

9/11 memorial

a moment in time.

christmas jammies

christmas jammies in action

girls lunch

winter moon

coloring with dada

magic

christmas party

union square, san francisco

gingerbread house party

 
big brother. little sister. one of each. lucky doesn't even begin to describe it.

christmas eve morning...delivering presents to friends.

sparkling elf. (or is that 'elfe'?)

santa suave-eh

christmas dollie.

in training for burning man.

first tea party.

all good mommies sparkle.

on our way to see the lionking

first limo ride.

i see more limos in this kids future.

stocked up!

and we prepare to say goodbye to 2012. you've been good to us.

bring it on 20-13!!!!

wishing you all a happy new year!

happy clowns.

happy new year's everyone.  may it be joyful & blessed!

Lately I’ve been stunned wide open by life. By the brilliant yellow lemon zest in my chicken noodle soup and the disarray of legos on my coffee table, strewn perfectly in 9-year old intensity; by the piles of dollies laid to rest earnestly here and there by a 4-year old throughout the house and underfoot, always covered tidily with a blanket and usually snuggled in groups of two or three. By Matt’s clothes shed nightly by his side of the bed, a dark and wrinkled puddle to find the next morning, still smelling of him – a sweet gift of memory and desire as I carry them to the washing machine.

After 4 years of struggling to find my place, lately I’ve been a housewife who happens to also have a job that allows me to work from home. My days are filled with errands like dry cleaning and check cashing (thank you universe for clothes to clean and checks to cash), with making a pot of slow-cooked soup full of black eyed peas, kale and the ancient rinds of parmesan dug from deep in my freezer. But instead of stopping there, I punctuate my chopping and stirring by writing a story I will get paid for, by planning an event that will advance the success of my client. This is an unexpectedly happy swing on the pendulum after so many years of desperately scrambling to figure out just where I might land. What balance I should strike.

Working from home means that my ten minute coffee break can be spent in our backyard hot tub, immersed up to my neck in slick warm water, breath steaming, while I watch squirrels navigate ancient oak branches above my head, a frozen lemon sun peeking through the trees while winter roses defy the cold and offer brightly colored spots of surprising beauty amidst the empty sticks of long-dead summer vines.

January has brought an unusual cold snap to California. A very cold winter for wine country where the mornings mean I need to scrape my windshield of ice before driving the kids to school. Where the roadside is crusted with a white dusty sheen that stiffens the blades of grass, the muddy ditches made pristine with frost.  The weather bright and clear like a beacon, cold enough to make us alert, to make me straighten my spine and take note. This moment, right now, is important.

The icy brown sticks, the sun setting later as the solstice moves towards a spring equinox, the cozy slippers on our feet, the hush while green buds simmer waiting to burst, while lambs wait to be born, a fire crackling still in our fireplace. The Christmas tree only just dismantled even though it is mid-January. Games played as a family to while away the long evenings – Boggle, pick up sticks, Catch Phrase, Headbands. Chapters from Little House on the Prairie read aloud. Harry Potter and Native American stories like Pasquala for Satchel’s 4^th grade curriculum and a book report due next week.

We hunker down. Make popcorn sizzled in coconut oil, doused in kosher salt, chili powder & cumin. Matt’s birthday comes and goes – a chocolate cake of course. Presents he never anticipated, dinner with his parents – long-divorced but united by some invisible string that sometimes keeps distinctly different humans lovingly connected because they created another human being together.

Days weave in and out. Only two weeks into the new year and life is steadily creeping, trudging, beckoning us along. The kids go to bed at 8:30 because there is school and they need sleep…and we need adult time. Cocktails and HBO series rented on Netflix – Boardwalk Empire, Game of Thrones, Breaking Bad. We twist ourselves up in dramatic stories, enjoying the thrill of well-orchestrated catastrophe. Later we giggle and celebrate how we’ve avoided being so fucked up.

Lack of sleep was a brutal torture for a long while now. It’s been better. I drink less & eat less at bedtime. Somehow going to bed empty helps. But also I’ve rached a certain mastery in my new careers, the to-do lists actually doing their jobs. And I trust myself to get my work done. To get it all done rather than awake in a panic and obsess all night. I’ve also fallen in love with a magnesium sleep aid that really works wonders! Sweet sleep. It makes me whole again. A new woman.

Hot coffee in the morning is the first prayer of the day. And then there are hugs and kisses for the children. Devotion of its own kind - the intoxicating smell of sleepy heads, each one hiding a secret mystery in the fragrance that hovers at the base of their skull.  And each one so different. I dream of a third child – wondering - what would their own smell be? Their secret infinity that will take a lifetime to unravel and understand?

But the alternate reality hits me too:  Here we are, the four of us and everything is just as it should be. Just as it is. The four of us.

Briefly, in the bustle of lunch-making and breakfast-eating and coffee-sipping, we find each other…I steal a warm snuggle from Matt. Leaning into his warmth, his tallness, his sturdiness, solid and true. His unspoken promise that he will always be here. We rest briefly together - lots to do, a day to start - but my cheek finds his heartbeat under the tender light over the stove where French toast is cooking. Nothing too bright yet, just a gentle beginning in the midst of making sure the kids brush their teeth and the smell of browned butter from breakfast and an 8:15 school bell waiting to be met.

Let’s welcome the day. It’s a beauty. It’s a gift. Good Morning World we all say – a remnant of my own childhood, a tradition bestowed by the mothers in my family. Good Morning World. As we peek behind the curtains, lifting our eyes to the morning outside. A greeting that says we are in this for the next 24 hours – in it for much more than simply getting by. We are here to live.

Thank you 2013 for welcoming us so gently, so hopefully. This is what it means – I think – to live the good life: a peaceful and contented heart.

Dear Satchel,

For your birthday, I’ve been trying to write the story of you. Of who you are this year, what you like, who you are becoming. You are 10 afterall. A milestone! 

But for the first time since I’ve been sitting down to write your birthday letter, I have more questions than stories.  It is fun, this change. How exciting it is to watch you become a truly separate person. At 10 you keep your own stories – in the polaroids you take and journals at school and drawings and hobbies…and in your knowing, daydreamy places that are yours alone. 

You are a great mystery unfolding…What do you know? What do you love? What are you hoping for? Who are you becoming?

I vividly remember being 10 and well on my way to storing impressions of the world inside the sacred vault of my own truth. I was building my library of memories and experiences, heartbreaks and fears, joy and curiosity. And so too are you.  You are the narrator of your life now. 

I see you absorbing this world. I see your meditative, daydreaming gaze. In the wonder and escape of the storybooks you read silently to yourself, exploring exciting worlds all on your own. It is in your wild giggles as your run free with your friends, laughing about things I cannot hear, making jokes that are only funny to other 10 year olds. It is in your stoic acceptance when hard lessons or disappointment come your way - the resolve of your chin, the piercing realization mirrored in your soulful brown eyes that the world is not always magical and happy – but that it can let you down too.  That is part of life. You forge ahead, walking solidly into the life that awaits you.  Always with your joyful, boundless, ‘curse of happiness’ spirit.

Knowing how real this is, how we have passed an era and enter a new one, this makes big sobbing gulps stick in my throat. I am stunned by the quick and relentless passage of time. The sheer beauty of our moments together moving along at a speed I cannot fathom…launching the joyful days of your childhood into the future. Sand truly slipping through my fingers, a blur of happy days with my boy as he grows.

Mothering you is like any other exquisite moment of beauty that won’t last. The unavoidable human condition of trying to contain fleeting beauty while we can. Childhood so precious because it is a shape-shifting, evaporating, transcendent moment that we never, ever get back. Neither the child nor the mother. Sacred motion. Nothing to be done but surrender. And celebrate all that we have.

When I held your tiny body, so wiry and warm, when your wise and ancient eyes met mine for the first time, it was the most perfect moment of my life. I was ready to be your mother. Holding you was a memory of what I had always known. Oh, it is you! I vividly remember thinking to myself.

What I couldn’t fathom in those early days though, was how glorious it would be to also mother you at 10. How mothering you would only get better with time.

The primal recognition I felt when you were placed in my arms, when we touched forehead to forehead and I smelled your primordial newborn skin – some of you and some of me mingled together - I felt complete.  Innately one being, a connection so powerful it made me a raw and pulsing creature, fragile and broken wide open to divine love.

As time moves on, you become more dear …and more of a mystery. Your karmic story is unfolding. You are the master. I have done my best to hold your hand and guide you and honor you, I have gone from your being your beating heart to your milky nourishment to your protector to your teacher to your witness. Not realizing in those very early baby days how powerfully achey my heart would be watching you grow up, stand apart, walk away.  

This is destiny, what children are meant to do. Parents? We hold onto that record of our oneness while you become the explorer of your world.While I will always belong to you, you only belong to yourself.

There is the saying to new mothers nine months in and nine months out.  Recognizing the vastness that a mere nine months can be.

And now you have passed the nine year mark. You are a whole decade old. Two whole hands. Do you know this snuck up on me? Where did 6, 7, 8 and 9 go???  Now we only have nine more years together until you are officially considered an adult – less time ahead than we’ve shared from birth til now. 

I snuggle in to watch you here in this liminal space – between child and teen. I watch you for the light in your eyes. To make sure that I can help explain things when you need me to and to let go when it’s best to stay silent. I struggle to know what you need and try to meet you there. Trying to trust myself now the way I always have when it came to your needs. Trusting that you chose me and I am good enough.

We’ve entered new territory. Thoughtful territory. As Steiner says, the mother is the child’s veil for the first three years. That, for me, was an easy part of mothering. Intuitive; a constant conversation between us as if we were two parts of one being. And then you became this delightful child. Happy, cheerful, polite, exuberant. That too was easy. Next, you were a good student. Helpful, kind to others, eager to learn. I’ve heard from other parents that 10-12 are the golden years before adolescence. Lucky for me this is another happy phase for us. I’m enjoying it all, enjoying you, so very much.

You continue to trust the goodness of this world, trust that we travel with you and are always here for you. You giggle when I tell you to stop growing, proud of yourself for becoming so tall, for nearly outgrowing me. You are enjoying life so very much.

In my heart you are and always will be the age you are now and the tiny seedling that took root within me – a love like nothing else.  The only love that would actually be my undoing. A love that made me become a new person. A love that makes me always want to be better, kinder, more patient. You are a gift Satchel. A precious and amazing gift.  You are a bright soul and an example for me. Your kindness and compassion and gentleness inspire me everyday.

Thank you for picking me to be your mama. I think we are a pretty good team.

(Thank you to Sophia Metzner for the beautiful images of Satchel!)

since weekends are pretty work-filled around here -- can you say: real estate and vacation rental management and an events-driven industry like pr? -- we decided to take advantage of spring break and have a little mid-week fun!

there were a few criteria to planning the trip:

1) within 3-5 hour driving distance

2) warm and (hopefully) sunny in april

3) unstructured play opportunities for the kids

4) water of some kind, preferrably ocean

5) fun excursions & outings nearby

6) mellow and relaxing

7) no lines or waiting

after an abandoned attempt to pull off Venice Beach + Disneyland halfway through planning (see # 6 and 7 above) matt suggested the central coast near los osos where he lived one year after college.

so later that night, after the kids were in bed, we opened a bottle of wine and started researching our trip - me on my laptop and matt on his ipad. within the next hour, we had our whole trip planned and hotel reservations made! (and had fun planning too!)

it was, by far, the least thought-out and quickly-thrown-together vacation we've ever planned. and in the end, it was one of the best trips we've ever taken! i can't say enough about spontenaeity, flexibility, lowering expectations and just going with the flow.

we settled on avila beach as our homebase and got mid-week steals at an oceanfront property with pool & hot tub. we had a large porch facing the ocean with sunset views over the mountain. at night we slept with only the wooden shutters closed so we could enjoy the salty night air and the sound of fog horns. we were literally steps from the beach and protected by a pedestrian walkway along the boardwalk where the kids could run wild. the kids really loved the hotel breakfast where they could make their own mini waffles in a belgian waffle maker :) we'd make breakfast and then eat poolside each morning, taking a hot tub while the fog rolled out and the sunshine came in.

the beach was so nice we could have just stayed right there for four days and had a blast, but we did a bit of adventuring too and headed each day to see something new.

on our way south we visited the freakishly dilapidated winchester mystery house and we bookended the return leg of our trip with the extravagently retro hearst castle. in between we filled the days with sand dunes and picnics, volleyball and sand castles, fish shacks and pubs, waves and wind, hot springs and walks, sunshine and beach towns, salt water taffy and sea salt cookies, sunsets and dinners with views, plaus the very lively san luis obispo farmer's market where we watched jugglers on unicycles, ate kettle corn and listened to live music.

perhaps the highlight for the kids was 'bubblegum alley' in slo - a recommendation from my mom who found this through national geographic kids. this is an alleway near the mission in downtown slo filled with gum from back in the 1960s. it was both cool & gross...the perfect combo for kids.

on our drive back north, we decided to enjoy the whole day as part of the vacation (which we rarely do, rushing home to start the work week instead) so we stopped in a cute beach town called cayucos for sea salt cookies (yum) and then made our way up to san simeon where we visited hearst castle. (i'd never been and it was beautiful - especially the underground roman pool!) aftewards we drove up highway 1 and through big sur watching the waves and catching a setting sun.

we came home feeling rested, relaxed and - best of all - really connected as a family. four days never felt so rejuvinating.

beachfront boardwalk at sunset

beach and pier all to ourselves

relaxed (that doesn't happen often enough!)

boy wonder. (it's pretty much true. and for the record, when he realized what it said, he decided that this tshirt is embarrasing.)

the beach is the perfect place for this girl! she shines, wild & free.

road trippin...one of my favorite things to do.

a cardigan and a bathing suit counts as 'dressed' in pismo beach.

now that this boy loves to read, harry potter even comes to the beach.

golden days.

babe-n beauty

fresh from a game of volleyball with satch

 loving the sunshine (even got a little sunburned to prove it!)

what trip to the ocean is complete without some salt water taffy?

fighting seagulls for our lunch at morro bay (fish & chips...yum! and the birds knew it too)

$3 on souvenirs never went so far!

fascinated and horrified in bubble gum alley (but we left our mark!)

the backstreets are worth a walk in san luis obispo

behind the nightclub

sunset

crescent moon and new orleans jazz band at farmer's market

morning under the pier

wave runner

the road home

hearst tower

morning cuddles, happy family style - back at home and trying to keep vacation alive.

if a picture is worth a thouand words, here is a quick way to catch up on the past couple months. (wow it's been a while!)

temple turned 5 and had a parisian birthday party.

jasmine bloomed in our yard.

and spring came to the valley.

we had a may faire

(yes, my 10 year old boy with long hair still wears flower crowns on may day!)

my nephew emil turned 1!

and my grandmother turned 90

matt and i had a few awesome date nights:

including bottle rock in napa (where we both drank too much - can't you tell?)

I got to go with two other main men to the macklemore concert

(my brother zak and satch - who dressed just like his uncle shotgun...down to the giants hat, chartreuse shoes and white bandana out of the back pocket)

we played lots of dress up

and entertained ourselves during satchel's baseball lessons

a memorial day trip to hog island oyster farm was cold, but fun

(and delicious...we had to order a second round.)

i went to vegas for work, and all i have is a picture of the hotel room bed - which was heaven.

We've had dinner parties with fun friends

(anyone who makes sugar daddy rum, limoncello and hooker's house bourbon obviously knows how to have a good time!)

father's day was spent on the russian river

and bob treated us to a giants game just because

summer solstice, a super moon and storms came too... so i charged some magical moon water under a rainy full moon.

satch had basketball camp, baseball camp and baseball lessons.  it's a summer of sports here! 

temple lost her first tooth!

(and i can't the image right side up but it's too cute to leave out.)

fourth of july was spent with ALL the family (including the Vargases who are coming home! HOME!) and good friends. and of course, the hometown parade.

cousins came...and are moving home to sonoma for keeps!

(did i already mention that? i'm pretty excited.)

i spent many early mornings drinking my coffee in the hot tub this summer

and one night i realized that satchel's hands are almost as big as mine

temple likes to wear bindis, tattoos and flowers in her hair

and just last week, we went on a family camping trip on the mendocino coast. cousins, uncles, grandparents, aunties.

tent city, aka 'the neighborhood'. a few of the tents in order of appearance:

mine, my mom's (busha's), aunt sue & uncle joe, sacthel & his cousin ike (the big boy tent)

busha & emil (world's happiest baby!)

zak at camp (aka uncle shotgun)

aunt sue's prayer flags and my dad's pavilion in the background.

all tied up

unle oso

rummy nights - cards with my brothers and mom

fueled by whiskey shots

(karaoke too but i didn't get a picture of that.)

sand dunes

sea glass and art projects

tide pools and magical beaches

guppy at camp with another mike conner gadget

(that would be a fire starter made from an air mattress pump and tin foil)

horseback riding

my nephew ike, so happy!

cousin justin

family pizza night at the fishing pier in point arena

temple in my dad's 1967 volkswagen camper van

(that would be her fifth tattoo on her thigh. it's a dream catcher in case you were curious.)

(they love each other most of the time...until she gets pissed.)

deconstructing camp

it's a wrap.

(uncle joe, aunt sue and my dad)

kids couldn't be dirtier. or happier.

let the next chapter begin!

i woke up to rain this morning and for some reason, this made me very happy.

my baby sister turns 25 today. i remember the day she was born. it was my freshman year of college and i came home just in time for her birth. tonight we will celebrate with mexican food, a chocolate cream pie and (don't read this camille) a cashmere sweater. every woman needs a cashmer sweater in her wardrobe by the time she turns 25.

waves of sadness over nanny being gone today. driving by the church, remembering all the monday's she and i would do our shopping day together, then standing in line at the grocery store and looking at all the flowers near the register. it made me think of her and how much she loved a vase of flowers on her kitchen table.

sneakers today, and running clothes. a run too of course. good way to start the week.

standing in the kitchen this morning, while i packed lunches, matt came up and kissed me sweetly on the back of the neck. married almost 11 years and i still get chills when he does this.

it is apple season. honey crisp. granny smith. beautiful small rosey ones straight from my cousin's farm. some with worms. some used to make pie and homemade apple sauce. apples with peanut butter too.

equal days and equal nights. moving towards the darkness of winter solstice. this shift holds me securely in its grasp.

ordering halloween costumes. and this year they flip flopped: temple wants to be a scary vampire just as sathel decides to leave scary behind and try a funny costume for a change.

satchel wanted to know if he is too old to trick or treat. the kid still believes in santa and the tooth fairy so i told him no, you are not too old to trick or treat. (i still think it's cute he was worried about it.)

i didn't sleep at aaaallll last night announces temple this morning. wonder where she is hearing this? matt and i decide to quit complaining about insomnia. it's a pact.

taupe nails are a good sign that it's fall. so are suede boots.

basketball tryouts, ballet class, dahlias and spider mums, share & tell at school and candy corn are also good signs that fall is here.

worried that satchel has been having daily headaches lately. keeping a log of headaches and possible triggers. going to see the doctor next week.

i've decided that condolence cards are another form of love letter. the peace and support i've felt from the outpouring of love for nanny has been incredibly healing...the people who showed up for her service. the people who sent flowers and cards...i'm reminded to never let another death go without telling theirloved ones how much someone mattered.

cousins make me happy. and they bring good farm treats. like apples. and blackberry jam. and family photos. and late night talks over wine and tea.

currently reading life after life by kate atkinson. what a wonderful novel with incredible twists.

tears are a really good way to feel instantly better.

so is writing. i've forgotten how much i miss it.

Today the key turned in the lock. I didn’t know I was waiting for it, or that it even needed to happen, but there it was, the undeniable click. Tiny grooves on a metal skeleton cracking an internal code. All of a sudden places were taken, lids screwed on, doors opened, hunger fed, skin shed.

Satchel’s hand reaching for mine in the grey early morning. Too feel into that space rather jump out of bed to hurry breakfast. 10 years old and reaching for his mother like it’s the most natural thing in the world. An intimacy left over from babyhood still not broken.  How did we get so lucky?

Dark purple berries on brown and wintry vines that just yesterday were a brilliant overgrown green.

Forgiveness for my broken places. For the promises I don’t keep to myself. It washed over me and stayed through the darkness of night and into the daylight.

Unbelievably painful ache of tenderness for Temple at 5. She is so earnest, hilarious, industrious, raunchy, helpful, inquisitive, certain, hopeful. I think 5 is one of my most favorite ages. Both of my children were crystallized versions of joy  and contentment at this age.

Blurry vision gone. Heart wide open. Certainty in my core. These things feel very good.

Imagining the first skinny peppermint mocha of the season but still drinking iced tea.

Aching for downtime. For a long weekend with nothing more to do than meet each moment with possibility. Sleep in? Sure. Hop out of bed? Why not. Lounge under a blanket with a book? Sounds good. Pack lunches and venture out on a hike? Okay! Head to San Francisco for a day of adventure? Let’s go!

This season of dying, why did it have to be real ones too? My grandmother and now our friend Pete. Leaving a wife and two children behind.  His story leaves me with both heartache and, sadly, fear.  Illness so random, so unfair…so easily anyone of us.

When in doubt, make good food. Feed people good food. Eat good food. Send presents. Send thank you cards too. And emails just letting people know you are thinking of them. Go to bed early. Read a novel. Take a hot bath. These things sustain me.

And if you are really wondering what to do, clean out a drawer. Make a bed. Do the dishes. Wash the car. Really, being useful and accomplishing something can change the day.

a month ago today nanny died. she slipped away, as unexpectedly as a 90 year old woman can. she also slipped away peacefully, holding my mom's hand. for that i will always be grateful.

here is the photo that went along with her obituary:

and here is the eulogy i delivered at her funeral. it was a hard thing to do, but in the end, a very healing experience. she had a rich life, with lots to be proud of.

******************************

Nanny was especially known for a few things: Her beauty, her love of a good party and her adherence to propriety.  Because of her high standards for the “right way” to do things, the first question we asked ourselves when planning her funeral – and the question we asked every time a decision needed to be made – was “What would Nanny want?” So as I sat down to write her eulogy, I asked myself “What would Nanny want me to say?”

We live in an era of disclosure. Of the personal made public. Nanny – and most of her generation – did not. However, I searched my heart about how to best honor her life, and I think my grandmother had a lot to be proud of. Things that give perspective and bring dimension to a life she kept mostly private. Things about Nanny that I feel are worthy of sharing and deserving of respect. Things I am proud of and want to share with you today.

So instead of writing a eulogy, I decided to share what I wrote the night she died, trying to gather my thoughts about her life:

Today, even in death as your head rested peacefully on stiff white hospital sheets, your beauty never betrayed you. Translucent, flawless skin. Your regal forehead and pretty lips. Your rosy cheeks and blue eyes, they were an ally to the end of your days.

Ladylike, elegant, devoutly Catholic, charming, flirtatious…Most people would agree that these adjectives described you. But what many people didn’t know is just how stubborn, tenacious and willful you could be. And these traits too were your allies until your dying day.

Perhaps being born to immigrant families just 6 years before the Great Depression, in an America paused between wars that would define important moments in your life, had something to do with the grit you developed. Mile markers like WW I, The Great Depression and WW II have a way of making life stingy, fearful. But instead you cultivated a life of plenty and laughter and family gatherings that reminded us all that it isn’t what we have but who we have.

Perhaps having a mother who worked three jobs and a father you adored but who liked his Irish whiskey a little too much also gave you the courage you would need to carry on. The rationed butter, Aunt Ann’s handmade dresses made from hand-me-down fabric, the non-divorce “divorce” between your very Catholic parents at a time when such things were whispered, shameful secrets…all of this gave you resolve.

The unexplainable jaw tumors that caused you to lose your teeth at 15 – just before your first prom (and yet you went anyway with a closed-lip princess smile so you wouldn’t miss the party) – and the broken back that sent you to a Berkeley Chiropractor three times a week (long before such things were cool)…the same back that plagued you with chronic pain to the end of your days…these painful experiences gave you the ability to tolerate pain with little complaint, to suffer in silence and instead to distract people from your distress with wit and charm and sassy jokes.  In fact, you were frustratingly good at changing the subject when you didn’t want to talk about something!

Perhaps being of an age to choose a husband in the middle of a war that sent young men to unknown fates had something to do with the tenacious way you and Papa stayed married through thick and thin for 60 years.  While I always knew the Oakie boy wooed the City girl, and that you were a wartime bride, it took me years to discover that you and Papa actually eloped instead of having a formal wedding! You, with all your rules of propriety, managed to sneak off during a summer vacation to Minnesota leaving only a note for your poor mother so you could escapee on a Greyhound Bus to meet Papa in Bremerton, Washington before he was shipped off to Pearl Harbor.

After only a day as a married couple, you bravely sent your new husband off to war, returning to San Francisco as a new bride with no husband beside you. Because there was no other option, you were forced to drive the car - a stick shift no less – back from Washington to California even though you had never driven before! Gasoline was strictly rationed so your only choice was to hopefully fill the gas tank with tractor gas stamps – sent by the father-in-law in Oklahoma you hadn’t met yet – if and when your tearful pleading could convince the gas station attendant to accept them.

Your love for Papa made you grow and adapt in ways I’m sure you never considered possible when his flashy smile and bright eyes swept you off your feet. His rough and raunchy humor against your proper ways. His late night kitchen raids and your endless bowls of chef salad. His childhood on the farm and  yours in the City. But you two made a good team, a balance that created a beautiful family. You cheerfully accompanied Papa on trips to Oklahoma throughout his life – in the early days by  Greyhound bus when Larry was an infant, changing cloth diapers in 100 degree heat with no where to put the dirty pants other than taking them along to the next stop and rinsing them out in cracked and dirty bus stop sinks.  Always a trooper, you bathed in tin buckets, snuck off from his Baptist relatives for Catholic Mass when you could, you drank sweet tea and ate fried foods or homemade ice cream…far cries from your San Francisco life.

Growing up in San Francisco was an important part of your legacy and would always be a source of pride for you. Born on a farm in Minnesota, you were the youngest of three children which earned you the nickname “Babe.” When you were 3 years old, your parents moved to San Francisco’s Mission District to raise you and your older siblings – Billy and Lauretta. Growing up in the city you raced down hills on metal rollerskates, rode the cable cars (or “dinky’s”) and made a general ruckus with your siblings and your best friend Claire.  There were tennis lessons, a walk across the Golden Gate Bridge the day it opened, and kick the can in the street. Once you even hid for hours behind a basement door after kicking a boy so hard you thought he would chase you home.

Your religious and social life centered around Mission Dolores church and Notre Dame, the girls Catholic school where you attended through 12^th grade.  While they forced you to become right-handed by pinning your left sleeve to your uniform skirt, in the end this sacrifice helped you cultivate beautiful penmanship that we all loved. One of my favorite stories from your days at school shows just how willing you were to dig your heels in and make a point, to right a wrong. There was a greedy rich classmate who was forever asking to nibble at your lunch. Week after week she wanted to take the best parts of your lunch even though she had the best lunches of all the girls. To get even, you executed an elaborate plan to give her a sandwich of thinly sliced Ivory soap the next time she asked for your lunch. It worked and she never asked for your lunch again.

Mission Dolores had other memories too. Your sister Lauretta was married to Leonard there, at Christmastime you always reminisced with happiness, with Poinsettias on the altar still.

After high school you amused yourself with dances and weddings, with brief stints at the post office and as a short hand typist. But you especially loved being an usherette at the Golden Gate Theater with your good friend Tootie. Here you met Ronald Reagan and once even ditched a famous actor after he asked you out for a date. You gave him the slip out the back alley – famous or not, you said, he was too short and fat for your taste!

Like anyone with a long life, you were no stranger to loss. You said goodbye to your gorgeous one-year old nephew and grieved with your sister whose loss no mother should bear. Then you lost your own father while pregnant with my mom. You lost a child of your own through miscarriage though women in those days really didn’t talk about that.  In the late 1960s there was bankruptcy and the loss of your home which forced you to move to an apartment where you were responsible for scrubbing and painting them, always worrying what the neighbors would think of your beautiful and bohemian hippy daughter who did her best to dress up in Catholic school uniforms…until she got pregnant and I was born and that was the end of that. Luckily this fortunate accident brought you my dad, who became another son to you, and who you saved from Papa’s wrath by placing him in the kitchen chair and chopping off his long hippy hair with your sewing scissors so that he could actually date your daughter.

Your fighting spirit was a pain to us all at times, but in retrospect, in light of all you have faced, you needed your stern backbone to stay alive.

I give you so much credit Nanny for being a fighter. I’m sorry if I’m telling truths that you kept secret for so long, but we need stories like yours for courage…to put in perspective our good fortune and easy lives. You could have told them all sooner, but your stories came out quietly, reluctantly, hardly at all really until the very end of your life. Fortunately, I had the privilege of getting to know you not just as a granddaughter but as a woman. You and I would spend hours together in the car, or sitting at your kitchen table and chatting while we paid bills or I organized your pills into little boxes for you. You were a new widow. I was a new mom. We helped each other through the last 10 years and in the process, I learned so much about you. I am proud of your story and I think you should be proud of your life in all of its grief and glory.

As a grandmother you gave the best back tickles, let us sleep in bed with you – staying up late and watching tv – you made sack lunches for school and took us on vacations to Disneyland, Oklahoma and to Circus Circus in Reno. You and Papa came to almost every school performance, sporting event and important occasion. We worked beside you in the garden, made jam together, and went to church with you on Sundays. You instilled good habits like making beds each morning, doing the dishes after dinner and putting our laundry in the laundry bin. And you had certain Nannyisms like bringing us to the window in the morning, opening the blinds and saying: Good Morning World! And you signed your birthday and holiday cards not just with “Love” or “I love you” but with: I love you TOO much.

As a woman you taught me three very important lessons:

1. A woman always needs her own rat hole. (Hidden pocket money for herself alone!)
2. Black catches everything but men and money.

And…

1. Never reveal your fragrance. Or your age. (While everyone knew you wore either Chanel No 5 or Shalimar, you did successfully lie about your age until your best friend Claire passed and it no longer mattered that you were a year older than Papa!)

I consider each of these to be very important lessons. Whether we choose to live by them or not.

As you got older, and life got harder to live, it never stopped you from attending basketball games or school functions for the great grandchildren. You forged ahead, wheelchair and hearing aid and Victoria’s Secrets and all. It also never stopped you from attending your annual Notre Dame reunion Mass and luncheon. (I am honored to have become an honorary member of the Class of 42 as your tablemate year after year.)

When it was time to say goodbye to living in your own home, you resisted, not very excited to move into a senior community. But you soon adapted and looked forward to your daily lunches with ‘the girls’ at Merrill Gardens. It often struck me that this was the college dorm room experience you never got to have as a young woman and I saw you thrive. Wheelchair and all.

Just two months ago you survived yet another health crisis, ready to return home but needing round the clock care. Luckily, this time, it was really home to a beautiful house with your family all around. The last couple months of your life was spent with 5 of your great-grandchildren under your wheelchair day after day – probably driving you a bit crazy! These were happy, glorious, fortunate days. You came home to a feast in your honor, a table full of loved ones and happy faces to welcome you home. In the weeks that followed there were many family dinners, parties, afternoon football with hors d’ouevres and your grandsons, manicures with the girls, Sunday drives and afternoons sitting around the table in the backyard making peach pies. You were loved and happy.

Once you finally realized that your family kept their promise to you and never let you die in a rest home, you had won the battle and said goodbye to the war. The war of constant pain, and exhaustion, and wanting to live life but just being too overwhelmed to actually do your favorite things anymore.

We were surprised to see you go Nanny. If the death of a 90 year old could be a surprise, yours was just that. We thought we had months left with you and we were all looking forward to at least one more Thanksgiving. One more Christmas. But the blessing was your peaceful passing. If death is a birth to another realm, then yours was the easiest kind of birth. You crossed over so peacefully. Your hand in your daughter’s, a quiet gift of closure and a goodbye.

Nanny, as you always said: I love you too much.

Well that is all I want to say to you: I love you too much. And I’m so proud of you.

There is nothing better than lime popsicles and ginger ale when you are sick. I remember.

Hot papery skin, glazed eyes, fever dreams, the contented blur of dozing off over and over again with nothing to do but be sick and get well. And then the mama hand on your forehead, the sip of fuzzy gingerale from a straw, the cool of frozen lime juice on a sore throat. A clean bed after you’ve barfed for the thirteenth time in the middle of the night. Damp towels after a tepid bath. A cool washcloth over burning eyes. All those little mercies were heavenly.

I’m a firm believer in childhood illness and fever being good for kids. Partly for scientific reasons like building a stronger immune system. Or even spiritual reasons about our evolving souls shouldering their way to the surface a little more each time our body goes to battle to protect itself. 

But most importantly, it is the vividness of my own childhood memories about the hazy, dreamlike quality of being sick and how special I felt. Protected. Surrounded. Nurtured. Known.

Not only by my mom – who was a rockstar nurse for sure, the kind that showed up with cool washcloths and jello at just the right moment – but held by something even bigger. Some unseen force that was both within me and beyond me. The experience of a common cold or strep throat or a nasty stomach flu being transcendent in its very ordinary way.

While I was in this space (and coming out of this space) I was deeply aware even though I was often only dimly awake and usually feverish. There is no doubt in my mind that through this process – a day or a week – I evolved, just a tiny bit more, into a new person. The memories are so distinct and clear, more vivid than other childhood memories, that I believe these moments held some special magic.

It’s no secret that illness or physical challenges are often an opportunity for one’s spirit to grow. For knowledge to be uncovered, courage found, humor unearthed, faith instilled. And I believe it is the same for children, their unavoidable childhood illnesses somehow breaking down doors so insight and health and strength can come through.

My kids follow a pretty clear pattern: big growth spurt or developmental milestone = sick. 

Have a birthday, get a tooth, lose a tooth, learn to crawl, start a new school year…get a fever and throw up for a few days. It’s kind of like clockwork around here.

And so it was no surprise that both of my kids got sick on summer solstice – the day both of them lost another tooth in the unending cycle of baby teeth becoming adult teeth. They are both growing taller, getting leaner, reading more difficult books, asking more sophisticated questions, changing right before my eyes. Happening, as it often does, all at once.

This time we’ve been sick for 10 days. For whatever reason this was a rolling onset kind of sick. One, then another of us got in turns. Finally when I thought we were out of the woods and Temple had been feeling great for a few days, she woke us up two nights ago barfing in her bed.

There was Matt, scraping the barf off her sheets with a spatula while I layered clean towels and got a cool washcloth. As usual, she was a trooper. Our kids are brave about being sick. They actually celebrate and say “We are getting stronger!” (Matt’s done a really good job teaching them that being sick is a good thing because it makes your body tougher, stronger and healthier.)

Last night we all went to bed, again feeling ‘better.’ Only to wake up just after midnight with Satchel throwing up in earnest. And again, it was an all-night affair. He’s still sleeping it off now.

Of course inside my heart is breaking for them.  This has been an epic round of illness that won’t stop.

As a mom, it slows me way down when the kids get sick. Not just slowed down in terms of chores and work, but slowed down in really important ways. Like tuning in deeply, heart to heart. Connecting to them without words even. Just in the simple acts of caring for someone. Bringing water, freshening the washcloth, emptying the barf bucket, pulling the hair back from their face, getting them a glass of ice chips, running a bath.

Now that they are 11 and 6, this kind of slowed down pace, this extra attentive nurturing doesn’t happen as much as it did when they were tiny. We’ve encouraged them to be self-sufficient, to take good care of themselves, and so they need us less in the ways they used to need us so much. Sickness undoes all of that and they become ours to care for, to safeguard while they do their own important work of healing and growing.

Today, when I thought I was home free and ready to get back to the long list of things that were put on hold last week, I struggled with the frustration of another day of putting things off.  And then I remembered some words I’d read on childhood illnesses, inspiring me to cherish this moment and to witness growth.

I’ll close with some of these words here:

A child will attempt to remodel his physical body many times, breaking down the inherited structure through fever and illness in order to rebuild it anew and imbue it with his own individuality. Childhood illnesses promote the whole development of the child, working from above to below to support the healthy incarnation of body, soul and spirit. In this sense, fever can be seen as the instrument of the ego.

[As caretakers we can] promote the cleansing process and help the illness work its way out of the body, supporting not only the bodily functions, but also the soul and spiritual development, which encourages true healing.

“Children become ill in their own individual way and each illness will have a meaningful part to play in their biography and development.” (Dr Philip Incao, ‘The Reason for Childhood Illnesses”, 2001, Anthromed Library, www.anthromed.org)

Eight years ago I was sipping castor oil in a gin fizz. It was Easter and a girl has traditions. The baby girl inside of me was now two weeks past her equinox due-ish date and I was urging her along. But since the brother before her came at 43 weeks, I wasn't particularly worried. Just excited to meet her and wanting to make sure our homebirth went right this time.

I like pregnancy. In fact, I never feel better. So if the babes decide to stick around it's cool with me. I know how fleeting the transcendent experience of a little being moving, stretching, kicking, rolling, hiccuping...well doing all of that living right under the roof that is your heart, well, how fast that goes.

I also knew that this baby girl was smart as a whip. We had a language, her and I. She played games already yo. Seriously. I'd tap my belly and she'd kick. I'd tap again, she'd kick again. When we went to rock concerts, she danced. And when the music was done, so was she. When I needed her to move so I knew she was fine, I'd ask her and she'd oblige.

At the time I was running some serious mileage. All the way until a few days before she was born. She liked the rhythmic moving and she'd sleep. Then she'd wake to play. She was a fully formed human and I could tell. Or maybe I was just more aware my second time around.

But I digress. The gin fizz. Take notes mamas. Castor oil is notoriously, riotously awful. It is hard to get down so people have come up with lots of tricks to get the job done. Some swear by oj, peanut butter, scrambled eggs. Fuck all that. Go straight to the gin people. Straight to the gin. Whip it up with frozen lemon or lime aid, some half & half, lots of ice and you have a cocktail that simply tastes like someone else left too much lipstick on the rim.

My family, we all toasted to birth that Easter Sunday and after some slight action. Nothing. So the Tuesday after Easter I tried again. A sunny spring day and the blender on high and I was chilling in the back yard on our hammock when shit got serious.

Birth in retrospect, eight years later, is interesting. There are details that stand out as if they happened yesterday and others that have faded away completely until I read my old journals. But a birth story, eight years later, has been refined into a framework of  unforgettable moments. I'm sure critical details have been lost but the movie plays on in my head...

A parade of people filed in, one or two at a time. Sisters and brothers and moms and dads and my brand new niece in a sling on her mama. Night came. They brought balloons and heated the food I had prepared. Midwives with birth kits came. Music was on, candles lit, my room and bath a private sanctuary while all the people I loved most in the world were just beyond the doorway - holding space and being festive and waiting for our girl to arrive.

They cuddled little 5 year old Satchel who would come and go into the birth space and then out again. He high-fived me every time I said "FUCK" because I had prepared him for the intensity of labor and the lion roaring I might do and the blood and the sailor's mouth I would most likely have.

At some point I reached down and felt her head. Her hair!!! And I pushed and roared and pushed some more. The midwives opened sterile packaging and hurriedly arranged all the birthy things that a newborn needs.

There were only a few contractions that felt beyond my ability. When they came I'd barf and then I'd move on. But mostly it was do-able. So unlike the pitocin induction I'd had 5 years earlier with Satchel.

But soon minutes became hours and I had my legs on the door jam and someone else on the opposite end of towel so I could push (and pull) with traction. From hands to knees, from tub to bed to floor to toilet. A circus of activity and effort...and I couldn't budge her down and out.

Labor had been going for hours now. Something like 17 and I'd been pushing for over 6 of them. We made the call. I'd gotten to ten centimeters in the sacred space of my home, in the birth cave of my own making, in the tub that Matt had rigged with a shelf for resting and half-inflated birth ball to sit on, with Taras Riley playing in the background and candle light and ice chips and hard work and Satchel's sweet hand patting my head and Matt's strong arms holding me up while I pushed and pushed and pushed, with a protective shield of people around me and my sweet baby girl with hair I could touch.

Give me a minute I said.

I showered. Told my body that we were changing plans. That I would ride in the car to the hospital and that contractions could stop now. And they did. How I could get my body to stop contractions when I couldn't make them strong enough to push her out, I will never know. But I walked outside to our big oak tree and felt the sun on my skin. In that moment I made peace. A kind of peace anyway, that I had birthed at home and now I was going to do the rest of my birthing at the hospital.

Warmly welcomed by a midwife and homebirth friendly staff, in a gorgeous new labor and delivery wing in a wine country hospital, I was treated so kindly and they helped me birth my baby by cesarean. My baby girl was here.

Her eyes were so blue.

They placed her in my arms and all I could think was Who are you and where did you come from? What ride are you going to take me on little girl?

She clearly came to this planet with something to finish. With a destiny to fulfill. Her energy was sheer power and she was coming here on her terms. Her earthly home was a temple and she had work to do. I was in awe of her. And overwhelmed with a vibrating energetic love.

Our eyes locked and I felt the warmth of her in my arms. The weight just inside of me now resting against my skin. Somewhere in the haze of drugs and hormones I worried that she couldn't see. Not really but I was disoriented and confused and trying to get back in my body after the birthing journey.

Those crystaline eyes and thick black lashes, they opened up and looked right into my soul. My heart was no longer her roof. Now it was her home.

It took time to come to terms with another home birth turned hospital cesarean. It was a journey of its own. But the healing work I had done after Satchel's birth, and thanks to the profound work of Pam England and Birthing From Within, this time it was different. My spirit, though bruised, was in tact. Not shattered. I fairly quickly returned to normal. My heart was home to two gorgeous children and there was living to be done. Giving myself space for grief allowed me to work it all the way through.

I also believe that encapsulating (and eating) my placenta helped. My doctor-sister thinks I'm a nut job (in the best kind of way) but even she says that medicine is medicine if you believe it works. So whatevs, I believe in placenta magic. In traditional Chinese medicine the placenta is an organ with powerful uses. Once dried, it serves many purposes in addition to combating post-partum depression.

One of it's purposes is hormone replacement in menopause. My babies placentas have MY hormones. And if preserved properly the placenta has a long "shelf life" so when the next phase of life comes, I have leftover placenta sitting in my freezer. You can bet I will be dosing myself proper.

The placenta is also considered the baby's first home. It's own earth. It's first planet. The baby placed roots in this soil and grew, drawing nourishment from its earth like roots on a tree. And so it is used to ground and nurture the child through transition - physical and emotional. When Temple was a baby I used some of her placenta powder to make a tincture, much like her very own bespoke Rescue Remedy and I'd sprinkle drops of this on her crown chakra through temper tantrums, teething, and illness. Each birthday I have sprinkled a capsule of her "first earth" in a special cake just for her. To remind and re-root, to ground and nourish.

One of my favorite accupuncturists, Laurel Brody, prepared the placenta for me. She said 108 prayers over it as she ground it by hand and then capsulized it for me. Laurel tied Temple's umbilical cord in a sacred knot and dried that too. Then she wrapped it all beautifully like a gift. When Temple was 5 days old we took our first outing to the healing center where Laurel works, a beautiful piece of land in Sebastapol, and we collected the placenta pills along with heated charcoal packs for my belly, a binding band to help with womb support, and herbs for replenishing blood since I had lost a shit ton of blood in surgery.

Blood loss was significant. For weeks my gums and the inside of my eyes were pale from blood loss. It took me a very long time to regain my strength but great care from my midwife Claudette, lots of dark leafy greens, beef soup, and Floradix, I recovered without the blood transfusion they debated giving me in the hospital.

You can see how pale I was in this pictures. But mostly you can see how tender and little she was, and how precious she was to me.

Luckily she was easy on me. Allowed me to recover because she was such an "easy" baby. (I know that term is tricky, but to me she did feel easy, groovy, simple and attuned so we sailed right through.) Temple slept through the night in Matt's arms the first night at the hospital. From the beginning she was a sleeper. An easy nursling, a restful sleeper, content when she was in my arms or on my body. Or in Matt's lap in the hammock where they would swing for hours during the warm spring days. Matt was off work back then as we prepared to move to Vancouver BC for the next two years. We took advantage of the time to sink in as a family and enjoy the lull before what would become a 5-7 year storm of moving and a bad economy and building new businesses and basically be ON for years.

Looking back at the last months before she was born and the four months after, they were like heaven. She was a little human product of a heaven-like time in our lives.

Her habits have always been solid, robust, healthful. Sleeping , eating, pooping like a champ. She was born at nearly ten pounds and she was solid. My boobs made milk like cream for her. Her body put in the order at the milk factory and I complied, pumping out half and half instead of skim.

Affectionate, funny, musical, sensitive, silly, fierce, independent, willful, strong. This girl is a powerhouse in every sense.

With her work yet to be discovered and frustration with not being able to do the amazing, adult, complex things she wants so badly to accomplish, it makes her vulnerable and tender and even lost at times. She can be daunted by the things she most desires and her nervous system often gets sent into a tailspin.

Being her mother is an honor. Truly. Sometimes it's not easy and she is a beautiful mystery to me. And I have to stretch and reach and sweat and deep-breath my way to serve her. To be the guide she needs me to be. In as many ways as I have failed her, I think that mostly I get her. And when I don't, I keep trying. That I am her ally in this confusing world. That I am the caretaker of her sensitive soul.

When I found out I was having a girl - or rather, they confirmed my inner knowing that I was having a girl - it hit me.

A daughter. I'm having a daughter.

A wave of gratitude for her, for the opportunity to mother a daughter, a flood of recognition and legacy and hope filled me with a burning purpose to live as her guiding light. And then they put her in my arms, this little powerhouse, and I realized that I had it backwards. She was here like a comet to light the way.

My journey with Temple has been to stand back, to stand out of her way. To hold and shape and steer but there is no holding back a force like hers. Sometimes incorrigible and brazen, this little Aries girl is a do-er. A walk through flames-er. A get needs met-er. And I've taken note: Help her claim this power, don't make her shut it down.

From outfits that make me laugh, to those that make me cringe, there is little room for small fights with this one. She is big picture and she is self-knowledge. And she has the backbone to stand by her own side and shout her version from the rooftops. Who am I to take such a bright burning flame and turn her into a good girl?

Do you know how hard this is for a "good girl" like me?

And power like hers is a lot for such a little girl to handle. It runs hot through her like an electric storm and if her own mama isn't there to comfort, to be on her team, then the world is an insane place to puzzle through. So I deep breathe a lot. I realize that these are my triggers and she is paving her way. And mine. I'm relearning so much with her as my teacher. With her asking me to challenge my hot spots and see them through her eyes. To offer compassion and understanding. To worry less about being good or following rules and to listen more to the white-hot passion that guides her through this life.

She is a gift in so many ways. All children are. Her gifts have been a surprise. Unpredictable and juicy and sweet and difficult and heartbreakingly tender. She is trailblazer, pioneer, wildheart. She can tear shit down and build it back up. I love her for this. For teaching me these things.

We spent her birthday at Indian Springs in Calistoga, enjoying the mineral pools. The rose-scented spring air. Shuffleboard and croquet and watching the night sky while floating on life rafts in water as warm as the womb. Her head on my heart, we floated and counted stars.

Happy 8th birthday Temple Lova Tiger-Lily!

Love you woods to the ocean twenty and fifty.

xo

Mama