When the Bloom of Friendship Fades

When I was pregnant with my first child and tried to imagine all the ways my life would change once I became a mother, I didn’t think about my own friendships. I worried about the inevitable loss of independence and freedom, about the impact, positive and negative, of a child on my marriage, and about silly vain things like getting fat and my boobs shrinking. Yet I didn’t really give much thought to the role that friendships play in my life and how much my relationships with my close friends would evolve and change in the coming years.

Some changes come with the territory of being married—we do (appropriately enough) turn more to our husbands now than we do to our friends for advice and solace. As a result, we share less with our friends, and consequently our friends are less in tune with the nuances of our lives. Some of it has to do with age—we go out less, have quiet nights at home more, and socialize less. But a lot of it has to do with having kids. Continue… »

See Mommy Run

I was running one of my favorite loops from our house: an easy lope down Baltimore Canyon, a straight uphill grunt on Barbara Springs Trail to snaking, flat, smooth Crown Road, then up, up, up Huckleberry Trail, until I was finally on top of Blithedale Ridge where I could see the ocean in one direction, Mt. Tam in another, the city another, and green everywhere. I relished every minute, having gotten a one-hour hall pass in the middle of an unusually busy Saturday morning – come lunchtime, we’d be hosting my husband’s soccer pals and their families for a barbecue. At last count, 20 grown-ups, 15 kids.

At the crest of the last hill, I took off my sweaty shirt and ran with it balled up in my fist. I realized I was pushing the clock, so I picked up my pace, which
meant I was hammering down the spine of the ridge, zoned-out, when two bikers came whizzing around the corner, nearly crashing into me. One of the men laughed and said, “Hey, we just wanted to meet you!” His buddy skidded to a stop next to him, watched me run by, and called out, “Whoooee! Nothing wrong with that!”

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Music of a Different Sort for a Mother’s and Baby’s Ears

We were all tired. 

My four-year old was exhausted from a day of heavy play at Stinson Beach; my eleven-month old was pooped from missing his morning nap so that a friend could drive both our kids to the beach, and my husband and I were tired because we’d just run the Dipsea Race from Mill Valley to Stinson before playing three hours worth of Frisbee, sand castle building, and chase-the-crawling baby. 

Both kids fell asleep the minute we got in the car to drive home, but I knew that my son needed more than the thirty-five minutes of sleep that the drive afforded.  So I unloaded my husband and daughter at our house and kept driving sleeping Asa round and round the town of Larkspur.

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The Voices that Reside in Every Mother’s Head

For the better part of the last year or two, I have had the incessant and annoying company of a small but loud voice in my head that catalogues every virtuous/maternal/helpful deed I perform throughout the day.

“Look at me, I’m doing the laundry. Now I’m ordering more diapers and wipes online. Thank God for me. And now I’m remembering everybody’s jackets and hats and snacks as I head out the door, and on my way out I’ll take out the trash and put those letters in the mailbox. Check, check, check.”

With each action completed, I itemized all the ways in which my being at home with our children was necessary, beneficial. How hard I was working! How much was getting done because of me! And, yet, no one had ever questioned the importance of my role. Not one person in my life had so much as commented on the way I have chosen to spend my time: raising our children.

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My Son is ALL Boy

Asa is six and a half months old.  A boy in the house, amidst all of Adeline’s girliness.

Such a solid little person, in every sense.  Physically, he is dense.  Fruitcake dense.  Nearly off the charts in the percentiles the pediatricians give you.  If he’s in the 98^th percentile for height and weight, what do the other two percent look like? 

When you pick him up, it’s a commitment.  Not like other kids, who you can carry and continue to buzz around, picking up toys, making lunch.  Holding Asa with one arm is sustainable for only a short period of time before your wrist begins to ache and your shoulder starts slumping forward in a way that can’t be healthy. 

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