Posts Tagged Under Maya Creedman
Nutracker in a Galaxy Far, Far Away
I bought tickets to a local performance of the “Nutcracker.” I thought this would be the beginning of a holiday tradition: a special “mommy and me” event, perhaps even a monumental moment in my almost four-year-son’s cultural development.
A few days before the show, I reminded Kai, “On Saturday, we’re going to see the Nutcracker.”
“Mmm, hmmm,” he mumbled balancing his Jedi Star fighter on the edge of the table.
By Maya CreedmanLooks Just Like His Father
It happened the first time I ventured out alone with my firstborn.
“What’s your husband?” the lactation consultant asked as she scrutinized my two-week old’s face. “Huh? Oh, um… Chinese,” I stammered, wondering what this had to do with breastfeeding.
“Oh, mixed babies are so beautiful!” She went on to tell me how her cousin married a Japanese woman and they have the most exotic-looking children. Sleep deprived, I just sat there, nipples burning, with no idea how to respond.
As I left the appointment, the woman at the front desk took a peek. “Oh, he looks just like his father,” she commented. Since she’d never meet my husband, I was a little confused. By the time I got home, my initial confusion had been replaced with sadness. Would navigating insensitive comments become as much a part of my new mothering experience as sleepless nights and painful nipples?
By Maya CreedmanNo Apologies
I didn’t want to do it. I had plenty of excuses. We’re in the midst of a kitchen remodel. The baby won’t take a bottle. I was leaving on a trip the next day. We wanted to take the kids to the Goblin Jamboree. But, most of all, I hate asking for money.
If I was going to participate in the Juvenile Diabetes Walk, I would need to ask for donations. I had to. My sister lived with Type I diabetes for over twenty years. Now she’s gone. This was an opportunity to do something productive in Nina’s honor.
So, I signed up. That took three minutes online. Then it was time to e-mail out the dreaded donation letter. I reminded myself that the money goes towards finding a cure for the disease that had forced Nina to stick her finger and give herself injections multiple times each day, almost killed her when she ran out of insulin in the Amazon and had been an unwelcome consideration that she could never escape – not even for an afternoon.
By Maya CreedmanLooks Just Like His Father
It happened the first time I ventured out alone with my first baby. “What’s your husband?” the lactation consultant asked as she scrutinized my two-week old’s face. “Huh? Oh, um. . . Chinese,” I stammered, wondering what this had to do with breastfeeding.
“Oh, mixed babies are so beautiful!” She went on to tell me how her cousin married a Japanese woman and they have the most exotic-looking children. Sleep deprived, I just sat there, nipples burning, with no idea how to respond.
As I left the appointment, the woman at the front desk took a peek. “Oh, he looks just like his father,” she commented. Since she’d never meet my husband, I was a little confused. By the time I got home, my initial confusion had been replaced with sadness. Would navigating insensitive comments become as much a part of my new mothering experience as sleepless nights and painful nipples?
By Maya CreedmanUltimate Fantasy
My ultimate fantasy features a hotel room. Let me clarify. In my fantasy, I am alone in said hotel room. I understand this isn’t the usual image conjured up when a hotel fantasy is mentioned, so let me fill out the details for you.
This is just your regular, clean hotel room. A fluffy white comforter, extra pillows and high thread count sheets is a plus, but not mandatory. Heavy drapes and a humming fan are a must to ensure uninterrupted sleep. Nearby rooms should be empty to avoid listening to someone else’s creaking mattress or late-night movie.
This hotel room, in case you haven’t figured this out by now, is for sleeping. In my fantasy, I wake up only to turn over and snuggle into the covers before drifting off again. There is no baby wanting milk, no screaming child or snoring husband. There is also no phone ringing, door knocking or distant gardener going wild with the leaf blower. If I’m feeling particularly indulgent, I might imagine taking a hot bubble bath, maybe even with candles and a good novel that I can read in one sitting between naps.
By Maya CreedmanLast September
“It smells like Mill Valley,” Nina said and I knew exactly what she meant: autumn leaves, trickling creek beds, redwood bark, and just a dash of distant fog. Like expert wine tasters, we could identify the precise scents that filled the early evening air in our hometown.
On her annual visit from New Zealand, my sister reserved three precious days to “hang” with me, my husband and my two-year old son. I had recently moved back to Mill Valley and now Nina was finally here to help me reclaim the town we grew up in.
We roamed the streets of our childhood, our voices like ping pongs bouncing back and forth. Each block brought more stories until our sides cramped from laughter, our skins tingling with memories of blackberry picking, tree houses and high school parties. Mill Valley was our town.
By Maya CreedmanStealing Chores
My husband has been hiding something from me.
While watering the garden, I watch the sun graze the top tier of my garden with its early morning rays. The fog is retreating to the bay, turning the sky blue in its wake. This is the kind of morning when almost anything seems possible.
Inside the house, several loads of baby laundry and sticky handprints are waiting. Desperately, I look around for a reason to stay here for just a few more minutes. There is nothing left to water. In fact, if I don’t stop watering the flowers will drown.
As I drag the hose back across the lawn, I notice that the grass is too long. Apparently, James, too busy chopping and hauling braches off innocent bushes to fill the “green” bin, forgot to mow the lawn.
By Maya Creedman
