Mother in Chief

Taller than I used to be

2010-03-07T10:04:00.000-08:00

I’ve been wearing taller shoes. Boots with heels. Shoes with considerable amount of material between my heel and the ground. Shoes that are less clunky than what I’m used to. Grown-up shoes. Women’s shoes. They’re sleek. Stylish. Sophisticated. Bold. They are a stark contrast to the shoes I’ve typically worn. My regular foot protectors could--and have been--described as clunky. Or bulky. Unfeminine. Comfortable. Sensible. They could be all of the above. And I’ve never cared.

Until recently.

The catalyst? I originally thought those taller shoes were attributed to the fact that I had spent many hours with an age- and height-inappropriate man (his words, not mine), and I wanted my eyes to be closer to his eyes, his face, his presumed wisdom. But I know there is a much better reason.

To be clear, I’m not getting rid of all the old shoes. They are still stacked in my closet and lined up near the door. But I’ve just noticed I’ve been picking those other shoes more often and that there are more of them to choose from.

At 5’7”, it’s not like I need the height to make me feel, um, tall. So perhaps I am just teetering with the idea of finally becoming a grownup, leaving my girlish and clumsy shoes in my old life.

There really is something seductive about hearing the click of my heels on the sidewalk. There’s something about the confidence that sound exudes. There’s something about experiencing the world from a whole new elevation. But maybe it’s just one more way I’m trying out the new me. Embracing the woman I’ve become. The women I’m turning into. A woman who is confident. Sleek. Stylish. Sophisticated. Bold. And also just a wee bit taller.

1 in 100

2010-02-10T09:32:00.000-08:00

In February, hearts are everywhere. We see them at the drug store, on greeting cards, decorating classrooms. But to me, seeing hearts means something besides love, and friendship, and Hallmark. Seeing hearts reminds me of my son Riley.

One in 100 kids is born with a heart defect. Think about that for a minute. How many kids do you know? How many kids are in your child's preschool? Your kid's class at school? In your son's art class? Your daughter's music class? At the childcare center at the gym? Chances are you know a family who has been affected by a heart defect.

My son Riley was born with a complex heart defect--a single ventricle heart with dextrocardia, heterotaxy, TAPVR, and asplenia. In plain English, that means that instead of having four chambers, his heart has only one. It is also on the wrong side of his chest, and many of his organs are in the wrong place. As part of his complex condition, he was also born without a spleen, which is very important organ for fighting infections (who knew?). There is no fix for his heart. Rather, a series of surgeries have created a way for his blood to move oxygen around his body.

Five open-heart operations, several hospitalizations, and a couple of scares later, we are not done dealing with heart-related issues. Really, for kids with heart defects as complicated as my son's there is no fix. There are ways to stabilize him. There are ways to help him life a normal life for a while. But his life, and our lives will never be normal.

What can you do? Donate to research institutions and organizations that provide support and financial assistant to families. Here are a couple I recommend:

• Lucile Packard Foundation for Children: specify pediatric cardiac research and care

• UCSF: specify pediatric cardiac research and care

• The Congenital Heart Information Network

• The International Children's Heart Foundation

(I do not recommend the American Heart Association because only 25 cents of every dollar donated actually goes to research. And no one at the AHA has been able to give me an answer of how much of that research money goes to congenital or pediatric heart research.)

Me at last! Me at last!

2010-01-18T16:56:00.000-08:00

I was thinking about Colorado today. And to be clear, “Colorado” is not the code name for someone I’ve dated. I was thinking about the actual state of Colorado, home of Red Rocks Amphitheatre and credited with having more microbreweries per capita than any other state. And more specifically, I was thinking about my state of mind when I lived there, a mere 1,983 miles west of Northeastern University where I was enrolled as an undergrad. The year was 1995.

My memories of that time remain vivid: the electrifying but silent lightening storms in the distance, the clouds that closed over the evening sky the way eyelids close over tired eyes at bedtime, and the solitude of not knowing a single person when I arrived at Denver International Airport.

I lived in Boulder for six months while I worked at the ABC affiliate in Denver my senior year. That job was all part of NU’s cooperative education program where students alternated stints at real jobs for a semester or two with classes. The idea is that at the end of five years, students graduate with about two years of actual job experience. It was one such job opportunity that led me to Colorado when I was 21 years old.

In addition to getting actual journalism experience as I assisted reporters on a variety of stories, I also worked at Nature’s Nectar, a juice and smoothie bar in Boulder just off the Pearl Street Mall. As a result, I downed countless shots of wheat grass juice and smoothies loaded with bee pollen, spirulina, and wheat germ. I sipped pints of beer and ate vats of artichoke dip at Oasis Brewery. I smoked a cigar on the roof deck of the West End Tavern. I ate a lot of deep-dish pizza at Old Chicago and learned that the best way to eat the crust was with honey drizzled on top. There was Josh & John’s Ice Cream on the Hill. The Rusted Roots concert at Red Rocks. There was the SCOOT shuttle bus that looped riders around town for a mere 25 cents. There was live music at the Catacombs Bar, nighttime hikes in the Flatirons, and numerous salads from Alfalfa’s grocery store. There were also gallons of strawberry chardonnay in the storage unit of my rental on 22nd Street at my disposal. My absentee roommate who was learning the wine business in Valarde, NM told me that I could drink as much as I like. And I did.

Those were probably some of the happiest months of my life. Even though I was alone. Yes, I was sometimes lonely. But I was, without a doubt so very, very happy. I made new friends, explored the state's vast natural landscape (which was a sharp contrast from Boston's city streets), I embraced the laid-back lifestyle (which included unshaven legs, smoking pot occasionally, and realizing that the joy is the journey). “The Best of John Denver” was often playing on the CD player and “Rocky Mountain High” became my theme song. I altered the words a bit and sang them often and freely:

I was born in the summer of my 22 year, coming home to a place I’d never been before. Left yesterday behind me, might say I was born again. Might say I found the key to every door. When I first came to the mountains, my life was far away. On the road, hanging by a song…

While I was alone and single, I was able to prove to myself that I was a strong, independent young woman. A capable woman. A good person. Those were all things I questioned about myself after exiting an emotionally abusive relationship that lasted three years. I was learning to be me again as I navigated through an unfamiliar town. I was relieved to learn that I was very able to keep myself busy, safe, content. I was me at last. Me at last! Me at last! Thank God Almighty, I was me at last!

Living in San Francisco for those nine months last year remind me of that time in Boulder. As I ease into live on the Peninsula full-time, once again—15 years later—I’m given the opportunity to begin again as I inch away from my broken marriage. To leave yesterday behind me. To be find the key to ever door in my life. To open those doors if I choose to do so. I begin this next step of singlehood with my very own place. My own space, filled with my own things, offering me a personal sanctuary as I move through the next phase of this massive life transition. Social Worker Friend has gently reminded me that the only way to get past a difficult life event is to go through it.

That is exactly what I’m forced to do. Go through it. I’ve realize that living in San Francisco for eight months served as a respite, a break from the immediacy of the split with my ex. But it really didn’t offer a chance to heal. I didn’t go through my transition. Living in San Francisco in my little rented room was a diversion. A glorious diversion from the trauma in my personal life. I relished the opportunity to be in denial. Each Saturday I drove away from my problems and went into the city for company. I gripped its energy. I gazed at its trees. I sipped its decaf soy lattes and danced down its sidewalks. I dated its single men and studied in one of its universities. And then on Tuesdays after class, I returned to the broken home I shared with my children and the bulk of my ex’s belongings.

It was like a comma in a sentence, a slight pause in the enormity of the separation. But I wouldn’t have done it any other way. So, if my time in San Francisco is the life-equivalent to a comma, then my new rental in San Carlos is the equivalent of hitting the return key. A fresh line in my life, in my story. A opportunity to discover myself once again, just as I did in Colorado. A beginning. A clean page, free of typos. At least for now.

Lucky 13

2009-12-31T11:16:00.000-08:00

The bitter wind slaps me in the face and a chain link fence obstructs my view of the city. The rusty links start at the sidewalk and launch about 10 feet up before arching over my head. It looks like a wave about to crash on me. I shutter at the thought of being crushed under a wave. I look towards San Francisco and the wind is relentless. I see the Transamerica Pyramid, the Bay Bridge, Coit Tower. My pants ripple, my fingers burn through my thin blue gloves, and I feel my legs pinched with cold. That fence covers my view with a thousand rust-covered diamonds. I lean into it so that my eyes can see through the fence, past the diamonds. Then I have to turn away because I want to feel something besides trapped. That fence is making me feel trapped.

With my back to the city, see the ocean, the Marin Headlands and the gray clouds that graze the peaks. While I’ve seen this view countless times, on this morning I want to see something different. To feel something different, a change. I want my brain to roll over the way the water does when the tide shifts from going into to heading out. I want to feel something powerful, something profound. I want a sign that signifies that 2010 is going to be different. I wait for inspiration. My eyes shift from the water and the lone boat heading into the Pacific Ocean to the cars on the bridge. Black van heading south. White convertible with the top up heading north. Blue Honda heading south. Turquoise pickup truck with the dog in the back heading north. Red Prius heading south. Black taxi truck with a Christmas bow on the front grail heading north. My gaze follows each vehicle as it crosses the span, my head swinging back and forth like a pendulum. I wait. It’s hypnotic.

I’m standing 169 steps past the threshold of where the Golden Gate Bridge begins and where the city ends. I took 13 steps 13 times. Thirteen steps for each of the years I’ve lived in the Bay Area. I’m convinced that this is the spot where I’ll realize that everything is going to be okay. That my life will be okay. That I’ll be okay. When I moved to San Francisco in 1996, I was 22 years old. I had just graduated from college. I was bright-eyed, optimistic, and eager to build a successful journalism career, a partnership with my long-time boyfriend, a life that would include the words happily ever after. But there have been many unexpected turns on this journey, so many ups and downs: a marriage, a divorce; a birth, so many near-deaths; promises, broken promises. For 20 minutes, I stay in this spot.

As I watch the cars and trucks and buses move in both directions, I notice the sound as they pass over a grate that spans all lanes: Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit. And then I notice the white bumps that serve as lane dividers. They are like lily pads resting on an asphalt lake, and for a moment I feel like I’m in a human-sized game of Frogger. Red Chrysler heading north. Red van heading south. Yellow mustang heading north. Silver Audi heading south. The San Francisco tour bus heading north. I imagine I’m holding a joystick and I wonder if I would make it across. I used to be good at Frogger.

It’s been 13 years since I first walked over the Golden Gate Bridge. And it’s possible that I haven’t walked over it since. I’ve driven over the 887,000-ton bridge countless times. I know that it’s not really golden, but more of a burnt orange. I know its official color is called orange vermillion. I don’t know why I know that. Thirteen is going to be my lucky number.

I wait some more. Pelican flying. Bridge vibrating. Clouds billowing. Cars rushing. Waves pressing against rocks. Boat passing. No people walking. It’s just me out here on this windy, 42-degree morning. One bike heading north. Another bike heading north. Nose dripping, but no tissue. I brave the wind and pirouette back towards the city. My eyes start to water as I look down at the parking lot below. It’s mostly empty this morning. I see the pattern of the parking spots, the diagonal lines waiting to offer silent guidance to any approaching cars. I see words painted on the ground directing drivers: “No parking,” “Only van tour,” “Only bus. Only bus.” So much instruction. I look around for my instructions. Where are my instructions? Where is my sign telling me what to do next? How to proceed? I look around. A metal sign bolted to the bridge says: “Any person who willfully drops or throws any object or missile from any toll bridge is guilty of a misdemeanor.” Another sign say: “Sidewalk under surveillance.” I look around for the cameras and wonder if I should wave. Then I notice a sticker that someone stuck to one of the poles. It says: “Hello my name is GROSS.” Those signs don’t mean anything to me.

Golden Gate Transit No. 70 bus heading north. White minivan heading south. Silver Toyota heading north. Gray Nissan heading south.

There are no sailboats. There are no cargo ships. There is just one fishing boat heading west, one Ferry heading towards Tiburon. One jogger heads towards the city, black shiny pants clinging to his legs. Yellow tow truck heading north. Black motorcycle heading south.

It’s time to go. As I walk the 169 steps back to the threshold, a large crow, the color of ink, glides just a few feet above my head. It caws. I see its beak open, and I think I see its pointed tongue inside. Its wingspan is impressive, majestic for a crow. It caws again. I wonder if it’s trying to tell me something. But I remind myself it’s just a bird. Nothing more, nothing less. And I’m just a human being. Nothing more, nothing less. Not a perfect human being. Just one trying to figure out how to get through the day, through the week, through this year of change. So much change. A lifetime of change in 13 years. I run my fingers along the rusty fence for a second and concentrate on the sensation of the metal bumping against my numb finger tips. Momentarily I wonder what change will come during the next 13 years. Mid-thought, I stop myself. I’m going to worry about this week, this month. I don’t need to know all the answers today.

Lonely vs. Alone

2009-12-25T21:01:00.000-08:00

Someone asked me the other day if I was lonely. I said: "I'm alone, but I'm not lonely. There's a difference." I smiled a convincing smile and turned my attention back to the Christmas tunes the jazz musicians were playing at Club Deluxe in San Francisco.

It didn't take more than a minute before I realized that I had lied. I'm alone and I'm lonely. But I gave the company line because I said what I wanted to be true. I want to believe that just because I'm single doesn't mean I'm lonely. And honestly, it's hard to believe that I have time to feel anything but busy. I'm in graduate school. I've got two young boys. I'm writing a book. I've been packing and organizing and purging clutter in preparation for my upcoming move. On January 1, I'm moving out of my San Francisco apartment AND out of the house I share with my ex and into my very own house. It will be the first time I've ever had my own place without roommates. Ever. Yes, the boys will live there half the week with me, but it will be my very own place with all my very own stuff.

But even with all that busyness, my brain still finds time to feel a bit of loneliness as well. Especially this time of year. Especially this time of year this year. Even though I'm often with people--my kids, friends, schoolmates, visiting family from out of town, with a date--they can't replace the comfort of having a significant other. I love and adore my kids, my friends, my family. But they can't provide that special feeling that makes my stomach flip, that makes me smile to myself, that equals comfort and the security of not wondering if I'll be solo on a Saturday night.

It's not that I'm not happy. I am happy. Really, honestly, and truly! I swear! I have so many things to be happy about. And I have so many wonderful people in my life to be grateful for. But like so many singles out there, I'd like a companion. A special friend. There is something to be said for waking up in proximity of someone you care about, who cares about you. There is something to be said for sitting next to someone while you hold hands under the table. There is something to be said for giggling on the sofa while your boyfriend tells you a story that you never heard before.

Sure, I can wake up alone in my bed and feel good. Yes, I can go to out by myself on Saturday nights. Yes, I can sit on my sofa and giggle while Therapist Friend tells me about her crazy adventures with her former colleagues.

I can do those things. I'm capable. But I'd prefer the first version. I guess I don't want to be lonely or alone.

A little off

2009-11-25T18:37:00.001-08:00

Everything seems to be a little off this year.

Tomorrow is the first Thanksgiving that we will not been together as a family. It's the first Thanksgiving that we will not be together as a family since Carter was born. He was born in 2006. It's the first Thanksgiving that we will not be together as a family since Riley was born. He was born in 2003. Tomorrow is the first Thanksgiving that we will not been together as a couple since we moved to California together in 1996.

Everything seems to be a little off this year. And that would probably be an understatement. My stomach just did a little flip-flop. I know that this is just another one of those milestones that I will now pass on my own. Without him. I suspect each one gets a little easier. A little more normal. A little less profound. I little less noticeable. Until I stop noticing them altogether.

A sweet, empty dream

2009-11-17T12:55:00.000-08:00

It’s so hard when you think that you are on the same page as someone else in your life. And then you aren’t. And instead of wanting to accept that realization, it’s easier to go back to sleep. To not think about it. To forget for just a little while. I wish I was still in bed not thinking about it right now.

For years and years I was on the same page as my significant other. We finished each other’s sentences. We solved each other’s Pictionary drawings when only one line had been drawn: Pilot! Aardvark! We always seemed to know what the other was thinking. What the other was feeling. Until we didn’t anymore. We stopped paying attention. We stopped caring to look, to feel, to wonder. We were no longer in tune with the other person. Then we just let go.

I climbed into my bed that rests on the floor of my San Francisco apartment at 6:30 last night and I slept for three hours. From there, I wasted a bunch of time on Facebook and got text messages from the architect who broke my heart this past summer. “Leave me alone” was all I responded to him. His messages came on the worst day in the hardest week. I was feeling so vulnerable last night and it was tempting to reconnect with him. Not really. Well, maybe just a little bit. But I just ignored him. Leave me alone. Alone.

A couple of days ago, I looked at a house. A house that I’m likely to rent. It will be my house. My stuff. Not our house. Not our stuff. It’s terrifying, even though I have known for many months that Ken and I would eventually not share a house. Moving into my own house is just so much more official than not cohabitating. Even when he’s not in the house where our kids live seven days a week, he’s there. His stuff is there. His picture is there. Our family photos cover the walls. His essence is there. Even if he isn’t physically there at the same time I’m there.

After ignoring the architect, I had a bowl of Moroccan stew and went back to sleep. It was about 11 pm. I didn’t get out of bed until 11 am this morning. That’s 16 ½ hours of being in bed, most of it asleep. And honestly, I could have kept sleeping. I really wanted to keep sleeping. Those hours of denial are so appealing. I think I might also be coming down with something. Or that’s what I’m going to tell myself because that’s easier to accept as the reason of craving hours of nothingness. A sweet, dark dream of nothingness.

But I have a 15-page paper that due tonight. So I should be working on schoolwork. But this has been one of the hardest weeks for me since Ken and I split up in April. My emotions have whipped across the spectrum, like an erratic kite in the sky. And schoolwork is the last thing I seem to be able to manage right now. Because I’m writing about Riley’s early days in the hospital. His first surgery. And that means visiting really dark places. And thinking about what that was like. And wondering about who was there to hold my head as I cried. From there, I wonder who will hold me next time I need to lean against someone in the hospital waiting room.

I wish I was writing about puppies. Or rainbows.

She just doesn’t love me

2009-10-27T11:42:00.000-07:00

I tried to love the city yesterday and she didn’t love me back the way I needed to be loved. I put on a long, flowing skirt that sat below my belly button, comfortable shoes, a little lipstick, and one of my favorite hats. And once I was spruced up, I walked down her streets. I wanted her to notice me. I wanted her to like my company and wanted her to cheer me up and remove the bit of sadness I woke up with.

I walked from my apartment on Grove Street to Divisadero, up and over Pacific Heights, through the Marina, and along Chrissy Field. Occasionally, I grabbed onto a light pole and spun around it like I was in a movie. I sung softly as I walked. The sun was bright, and the breeze licked my skin. I watched dogs jump after balls in the ocean. I saw troupes of exercisers with weights and colorful resistant bands. Then I climbed back over the hill and went to Mojo Bicycle Café to satisfy my stomach. From there, I walked to Alamo Square. I nestled down in the cold grass and stared at the sky. I tried to feel each blade on my arms, my shoulders, the back of my neck, my ankles—anywhere without clothing.

I wanted all that sky and air and grass to make me feel loved. Caressed. I wanted to feel wanted by something that I love.

And I love San Francisco.

I love the old Victorian houses. I love rollerskating in Golden Gate Park when the streets are shut down to traffic on Sundays. I love the vegetarian restaurants. I love that all cafes have soy milk. I love that if I find the energy to climb a hill, I can see the ocean and bridges and mountains in the distance. I love that on any given day you can go see bellydancers or smoke hookas. I love that you can get Ethiopian, Mexican, Indian, Italian, BBQ, Vegan, or Thai in my neighborhood and then go see live music at the Independent.

I want to be scooped up by the city’s branches like the little boy in The Giving Tree. It gives me a lot, but the city cannot love me the way I need to be loved. It can’t kiss the nape of my neck. It can’t hold my hands. Or look into my eyes. It can’t snuggle up with me or talk about NPR.

After lying in the grass for a while, instead of feeling the joy I’d hoped for, I just felt alone on the hillside. Then I started thinking about the loves of my life – it’s a very short list – and I wished that they had been able to love me the way I needed to be loved. But it didn’t work out that way. And I know I’m partially to blame. Letting a relationship die takes two people, just as keeping a relationship alive takes two people.

And then I started thinking about the men I’ve kissed. The men whose mouths have grazed my neck. Whose hands have held the nape of my neck. I thought about the few men that wanted me to love them that I didn’t love. That I couldn’t love. I thought about the few whose hands have touched the small of my back, the curve of my breast. They might have wanted to fuck me, but they didn’t love me.

This is the part of the story where I’m supposed to have some realization about the joy of solitude or the happiness of just being in the moment. Where I remind myself how much I enjoy my solitude. How I like my own company. How I am happy to have time to myself after so many years without it. Because those things are all true. But it just didn't work today. I just felt sad, even with the sky and the grass and the old houses and vegetarian restaurants.

As I walked back to my apartment, a man said, “Hey, how you doin’ suga” as I passed him on the street. That made me smile for a few minutes. But after I unlocked my apartment and went inside, I was still alone. Still feeling sad. I guess some days are just like that.

A brave, new me

2009-09-03T13:24:00.000-07:00

Just two days before what would have been my 11-year wedding anniversary, my life is barely recognizable to the life I had five months ago. I'm in graduate school. I live in San Francisco half of the week. I live with my kids on the Peninsula half of the week. I'm getting divorced.

While the decision is mutual and we are amicable, a transition of this magnitude has altered every part of my life, of his life, of our kids' lives. It has changed who I am, who I thought I was, the woman and mother I want to be. It is also shaping me and will affect the person and partner I hope to become at some point down the road.

It is now my future and his future. There still is a version of our relationship, of our future as it pertains to our kids and to the house we each live in part of the week. But the future that was pronounced with the words “as long as we both shall live,” and sealed with a kiss in that country church filled with 97 family members and friends nearly 11 years ago, has been permanently altered. For better or for worse, I cannot say. For richer or for poorer and for sickness and in health, those are things that will now be determined separately.

Wondering about the future is a luxury I have not allowed myself during many of the last six years because of our son's heart defect. I’ve lived in the moment surrounded by ambiguity and uncertainty. Thinking of what is to come is too painful. The reality is too painful. My son's single ventricle heart too primitive to allow him to reach adulthood. His condition to too rare, too serious. How much time we have before a heart transplant is unknown. The knowledge of what is to come lingers in my daily thoughts the way that the name of someone I have forgotten can linger on the tip of my tongue.

But now I am forced to think of the future. That unknown world. I need to think of where I will live. Of how I will support myself. Of how I will be a single parent. I need to think about health insurance and car insurance and homeowners insurance. I need to think of bank statements and credit cards and my Toyota’s registration. I need to remember which day of the week is garbage day. And I wonder how we will manage our son's next surgery together and separately.

I remember reading somewhere after my son was born that couples that have kids with massive health problems have a higher chance of divorce compared to the general population. I never believed that. I never believed that could be us. But here we were. Another statistic. Another couple letting their legal union disappear as chalk drawings do in the rain.

M is for Moderation

2009-05-14T21:16:00.000-07:00

My kids cried today because no babysitter was coming over and they would be stuck with just me.

I wasn't annoyed at them for wanting someone else. I felt a sense of relief that over the years, I have brought other people into their lives. To add depth. To add variety. To add another layer of security and joy for them. How could I be upset that they cried for Daddy last week when they were stuck with me? The fact that they want other people and not just me all the time is a gift. Because I can't always be with them.

There was a time when I had a hard time letting other people parent my kids. I was paranoid about the mistakes that people might make around my kids (like giving the wrong dose of medicine) or offering them a viewpoint that I disagree with (Hummers are great!), or just that it was wrong for me to be off doing things for myself or by myself (because somehow being a parent meant that I was to sacrifice everything in my life for the creatures that grew within me). So I was with my kids every day. I dragged them to the store and was frustrated with them when they demanded my attention when what really needed was some alone time. A chance to reflect on the changes that took place within me as I transitioned from a woman with dogs and a writing career to a lactating, over-tired mother with little sense of direction.

But eventually I did hire childcare, drop my kids at the daycare at the gym, and get sitters so that I could go learn salsa or drive to a concert at the beach. I slowly learned that my kids would be okay if other people took care of them, changed their diapers, made their dinners, read them books and tucked them into bed. Letting someone else do those things does not mean that I love my children any less. Although there certainly have been times when I've questioned my love for them. But I do love them, especially when I don't spend all of my time with them.

It seems silly to have taken six years to learn all of this -- and it's remarkably obvious -- but I now know that it really is quality and not quantity.

I had the best Mother's Day ever this year. I was without kids, I slept in, and had brunch with one of my best friends. It was a joy and there wasn't any guilt at all. I've realized that guilt serves no purpose in parenting or in other types of human relationships. The only thing it does is make us feel inadequate, as if we've fallen short of some expectation (set by whom exactly?), and takes up time as we wonder how we could have done things differently.

And after time away from them, I look forward to playing games with them, playing baseball in the yard, to creating bubbles with giant wands and large, soap-filled bowls.

I don't have the time, the energy, or the desire to second-guess every choice I make as a parent or as a person. But as our lives evolve and schedules change and relationships wander down different paths, I'm grateful that my kids like me in moderate doses. The feeling is mutual.

Choice vs. Luck

2009-03-16T12:59:00.000-07:00

It scares me sometimes how little control we have over our own lives. Sure we get to make grand choices for ourselves – I want to go to this school or that school (if I get accepted); I want to live in this town instead of that town; I want to have kids; I want to make this for dinner; etc. But really, so much in our lives and so many of the things that shape us have little to do with anything we get to choose.

I often get stuck in this line of thought when I think about my son R. His birth defects really didn’t have anything to do with a choice that I made. Yes, my husband and I decided to have a baby, but that was the last real choice I had in the matter.

Random luck took over from there.

And luck couldn't care less about who I am or where I grew up and whether I'm a good person or a bad person or a mediocre person. Luck doesn't care about where I went to school or what town I live in or what I'm making for dinner. Ultimately a little bit of planning combined with a heaping helping of luck got me here because there are the things that you can't plan and don't plan. Like having a child with massive health problems.

I started thinking about luck and control and choices recently after my mom told me that my almost 18-year-old nephew is smoking. I know that there are worse things in life that smoking, but there are so many better choices too. Choices that say you care about yourself and your health. That you care about your body. That you care about the environment. That you are stronger than peer pressure. That you care about your family who wants nothing but the best for you.

It’s an individual choice that kids make when they are too young to really know the long-term implications of lighting up. Or of lung cancer. Or emphysema. But it’s a choice none the less. And each person gets to make that choice for themselves, regardless of what I think.

Maybe because I managed to not smoke (even though my father smoked two packs a day of filterless cigarettes), I have always had hopes that my niece and nephew would also choose not to smoke. Maybe because I managed to get out of the small town I grew up (even though the guidance counselor at my high school tried to convince my parents that I should NOT be allowed to go to college in Boston), I have always had hopes that my niece and nephew would do the same. A small town can be stifling.

I always had hoped that if I set a good example by not smoking, by not getting pregnant as a teenager, by going away to college, by moving to another state where there were good jobs to be had, that I would somehow influence them to have big dreams for themselves. I always hoped that if I talked to them like adults about the risks of pregnancy and smoking and the benefits of getting away, they too would avoid the negatives and shoot for the positives.

To be fair, there are benefits to staying in a small town near family. Maybe I need to let go of the part that thinks I can influence them when I live so far away. When my words are few and far between. Maybe I need to let go of the idea of what I think is right or that it matters. Or that somehow I failed them. Or that it was somehow my responsibility. It isn't. It's not.

I can only make choices for myself (and my kids, at least for a few more years). And even then, I suppose luck will still rear it's ugly head from time to time.

Math is hard

2009-03-13T11:46:00.000-07:00

It seems like a simple enough equation: Applying to grad school + getting into grad school = overwhelming sense of joy and accomplishment.

But somehow in my whacked out head, this seemingly-simple math problem is quite complex.

The satisfaction that should come hand in hand with an acceptance letter (or an acceptance email, in this case) is not quite so obvious. In this situation, I’m more confused as to how it came to be that California College of the Arts wants me to be a part of their Creative Writing program. I’m sure my confusion has something to do with low self-esteem, the low self-esteem that often goes hand in hand with long-term, full-time parenting. The longer I’ve not been officially employed, coupled with a stack of rejection letters from literary agents, and another recent rejection from the magazine I covet a byline from makes me hesitate before feeling what seems as a given to others – feeling proud that I was accepted because I deserve to be accepted.

Yes, I’m certainly excited about being accepted to grad school (so far I’ve been accepted to 100 percent of the schools I’ve heard from). But mostly it gives me pause. It makes me feel that there must be something wrong with CCA if they want me. It reminds me of that famous Groucho Marx quote: “I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept people like me as a member.”

I’m sure I’ll get over this initial sense of confusion and then the hard part will begin. Am I ready to make this commitment to school? Am I ready to be a full-time student again? Am I smart enough? I’ve always tried to live by the idea that time is going to pass me by no matter what I’m doing, so I might as well be doing something worth while. Getting my MFA is worth while. And it will be hard. And there will be times when I wonder if I made the right choice. But it will give me a sense of direction. A sense of purpose. Something a wee bit selfish after years of serving the needs of the wee folk in my life. And that is probably a good thing.

So maybe it’s not the math equation that is hard. Maybe what is hard is the sense of feeling like I’m entitled to do something just for me just because I’m worth it. Because I am. It's just hard to remember that sometimes.

A new reprieve

2009-02-26T17:07:00.001-08:00

C started his new preschool last Thursday. Phew. Finally.

I'm just not cut out for this full-time-parenting thing. At least I'm not cut out for it with my second, and very active boy. I was happy to learn that this preschool has NEVER kicked a kid out for bad behavior. Sure they've had um, challenging, kids before. But the undesirable behaviors are used as a learning experience, not as reason for expulsion.

Teacher Friend helped me feel less guilty for feeling a little overwhelmed with having him all day, everyday. She said, "Some people are cut out for it (full-time parenting) and some aren't. The ones that are, are called nannies."

Or babysitters. Or childcare providers. Or teachers. Here. Here.

I can almost feel the the tension seeping out of my pores.

No awards here

2009-02-13T12:41:00.000-08:00

Here are two reasons I will never win the "Mother of the Year" award:

1) I gave my son a large bowl of Cherrios, turned on the TV, and went back to bed for nearly two hours this morning.

2) I fed my son chips and guacamole for lunch.

He didn't complain, so it can't be all bad, right? I'm sure he'd be thrilled if both of those things happened on a daily basis.

(Almost) All the right stuff

2009-02-11T15:11:00.000-08:00

I’m wondering if getting an agent to champion my book proposal is like playing Skeeball.

I always want to go for the slots in the upper corners. They are worth 100 points if you get the ball in. But if you miss and your ball falls to the bottom slot, you get zero points. As a result, I usually stick with the safer, and more reliable, 50-point slots. Or at least they are more reliable for me. I'm pretty good at Skeeball.

I attended an all day seminar for people who want to turn their idea into a published book. Outside of having the seminar leader tell me that she wants to take me on as a client so that she can champion my book project, I heard the best thing I could hope for at my one-day seminar on turning your idea into a published book. “You’re doing all the right things,” she told me more than once during the six-hour class sponsored by Media Bistro.

And who doesn’t love praise? It felt great to hear that my hard work has produced a sound strategy and a compelling two-minute pitch. It’s nice to hear that I’m doing the right things when it comes to writing query letters, organizing my book proposal, contacting agents who have represented authors in similar genres, and trying to get a sample chapter published in a magazine. But there is something about that sentiment that is truly disheartening.

If I were truly doing all the right things to get my book published, then I would already have an agent and a book deal and a publisher.

To be fair, she did offer a few suggestions on how to make what I’ve produced even better. I’m going to make those changes, tweak my proposal, and create an online presence around my book idea. So I guess I’m not really doing everything right. Maybe that was just part of a praise sandwich.

Getting praise and decent feedback is like racking up a respectable Skeeball score. But in the quest to get published, only getting half of what I need is like getting nothing at all. Maybe just doing almost everything right isn’t right enough. I need to stop shooting for those reliable 50-pointers.

Hopefully a few more tweaks, along with my boosted confidence, will help me land in that most coveted place -- in the determined hands of an amazing literary agent.

I prefer the real world

2009-02-01T16:28:00.000-08:00

Today was one of those lazy weekend days when we wondered what we should do with our precious family time. Father in Chief tossed around some ideas – Coyote Point, the Children’s Discovery Museum, the Academy of Sciences. He figured today was a good day to check out one of those usually-too-crowded museums because most people (he hoped) would be home getting ready for their Super Bowl Party.

But I hate kid museums.

Call me a curmudgeon or a bad parent. But I hate them for all the same reasons I hate taking my kid to the playground. They are crowded. And they are pretty much boring for parents. Or at least I find them incredibly boring. Whenever the weather is nice and it’s light outside, I always have the babysitter take the kids to the park. At least they get to go. I’m pretty sure there is no rule that says I have to take them, right? As for museums, I avoid them too – unless I’m going to be meeting up with one of my favorite friends. Then I’ll suffer through it.

As we pondered the list of kid-approved venues, I figured that they’re had to be a better place for us to spend an hour or two without crowds, without germ-infested buttons to push, without kids fighting over the buckets and shovels in the sandbox. I wanted to go somewhere that the kids could still learn about life without it being a place specifically designed for learning about life. We decided to take the kids to the bike path near Oracle.

R rode his bike. C finally figured out how to pedal his tricycle. We stopped at nearly all of those exercise pit-stops, which are part of one of those ancient exercise circuits made of wood. We did push-ups. They slid down the one that was supposed to be for inverted sit-ups. We saw birds. We saw cyclists. We saw rollerbladers. We saw flowers, clouds, and talked about brackish water. We saw airplanes, leaves, stones, and sticks. C and I even marveled at a spotless ladybug for several minutes.

It was great. There was fresh air, no hefty admission fee, no stressful search for a parking spot. There was no line for the bathroom or the drinking fountain. There was no one demanding anything from the snack bar. It was just our family enjoying each other’s company at our own pace out in the real world.

Sure, we didn’t learn about gravity or wind in any kid-designed experiment. But we saw gravity in action as we watched the kids hurl sticks out to the marshy water and as stones fell to the ground. We learned about the rules of the road as we corralled the kids to the right side of the path to lets others pass around us. We learned about the food chain as we talked about the birds swooping down to the water as they scooped up their lunch.

It was the best.

I can handle it

2009-01-23T17:41:00.000-08:00

Last weekend was a test. It was test of my self-confidence. It was a test of my desire to still be just like the old me. The old, pre-kids me when I felt comfortable going out to dance clubs all by myself.

I had plans to meet at Ruby Skye in San Francisco with some acquaintances from my favorite dance club/Irish pub on the Peninsula. We firmed up plans to drive separately. We firmed up plans to meet at the club at a certain time. Then once I found the perfect street parking just a block from the club, I got a call saying that they would be delayed. They were meeting up with some other friends at the W Hotel first. Since I was not giving up my free street parking (the lot was $28!), I said I would head to the club solo.

Going into the club alone was relatively easy, but heading onto the dance floor solo took a little extra courage. As I stood at the edge of the floor I watched for a few minutes and tried to pick out the most-friendly-looking group of women. Fortunately they were very nice, and I stayed with them the whole night.

Earlier this year, I started to learn the joys of going out to dinner by myself. I also learned that I like traveling by myself. It forces me to get outside my comfort zone and talk to new people. And now I know that I still have it in me to go out dancing alone. I'm proud of myself, but honestly, I prefer the company of friends. Still, I won't let a lack of a companion hold me back from doing the things I want to do or going the places I want to experience.

And as for those lame acquaintances who ditched me -- their loss.

Getting serious

2009-01-18T15:37:00.001-08:00

With just two weeks to go before the cut-off date, I decided to apply to grad school to get my MFA with an emphasis on creative writing. I've been meaning to get my masters since I graduated with my BA from Northeastern University more than 10 years ago.

Fortunately the program I'm interested in does not require the GRE, which makes applying at the last minute much easier. So now I'm schmoozing up former editors and colleagues so that they'll write me flowery and glowing letters of recommendation. And with all the work I've done on my book, I have an overwhelming amount of material to pick from when deciding what to submit for my writing sample. I suspect the applying part will be easy and the waiting part will be much more difficult.

Expelled!

2008-12-18T13:30:00.000-08:00

C is no longer welcome at his preschool. I just found out Wednesday, and I was initially feeling overwhelmed and frustrated. I was told that he continues to hurt other kids and can be disruptive during nap time.

I knew that there were having trouble with him occasionally. I knew that he had hit another child with a toy, and I knew that he did not nap one day and some of the other kids started to emulate him. But I didn't know that it had gotten to a point where they didn't want him at the school. His problems seem like typical behaviors for two year olds. After a few hours of reflection, my initial feelings faded, and I decided that they are just old (the couple that runs the school is in their mid- to late-60s) and they don't want any kids that aren't super mellow. R would have been the perfect preschooler for this hippy school with the chicken coop, bird aviary, and organic vegetable garden. I used to hear that he was "such a delight." Turns out they were talking about R -- R would join his brother at the preschool a couple of days a week after kindergarten.

C was welcome to stay though the end of the month, since we had already paid for those days, but I decided that yesterday would be his last day. If they don't want him there, then I certainly don't want him to be there. Fortunately they refunded my money for the remaining days. With Christmas just days away, I'm sure I'll find another way to spend that $240. Oh wait, I already spent it.

Michelle Obama's disservice

2008-12-02T11:50:00.000-08:00

You're dammed if you do. You're dammed if you don't. Especially if you're Michelle Obama.

If Michelle Obama had said that she was going to get a high-powered job in Washington, she'd be getting a bunch of slack from the at-home mom consortium about how she was neglecting her children through a difficult transition from Chicago to the White House. But because she said that she was going to be the "mother in chief," she is getting slack because she is sending the message "that high-level paid work and motherhood don't mix, or that women need to be the ones to step down to care for family," according to Maggie Jackson's November 30 column in the Boston Globe.

Puleese.

Can't people just do what they want to do? If she wants to be home to help her young girls through the transition, then she should be able to make that choice in peace. If she wants to eventually go back to work, then she should also be able to make decision in peace. Jackson wrote that, "Obama's controversial message deserves some dissecting, for it's one that our daughters and sons are hearing, too." Yes, I know that she's a public figure and every choice she makes as a woman or parent or wife will be dissected and analyzed until the original goal and her original intention is no longer recognizable. But, I suspect -- and maybe I'm going out on a limb here -- that she is just trying to make the right choice for herself and her marriage and her kids. Period. I doubt there is any hidden message or agenda. I doubt she is speaking for all women or all parents or all wives or all mothers. Jackson wrote: "To hear her try to distance herself now from that role (as a highly successful working mother) does a disservice to our children - and to our country."

Does it really have to mean that much to so many people? Can't it just be about a woman and her family? Does her choice really have to be the reflection of where women are in the world or the workforce or whether they are trapped under a glass ceiling or whether they are oppressed by their husbands or whether they are ambitious enough or if they are sending the right message to our sons and daughters?

And is she really doing a disservice? I'm sure her kids don't see it as a disservice. I'm sure her husband does not see it as a disservice. I'm sure he's grateful that she is willing to sacrifice her own career for a little while to be with their kids. He is going to be pretty darn busy in his new job and I'm sure he's grateful that his children will have some normalcy in their newly-chaotic and very public lives. Does her choice have to be a bad thing? Is is wrong for our sons and daughters see an educated women want to be with her kids for a period of time? If so, then many of the women I know are also sending the wrong message to their own sons and daughters and to their communities. I'm surrounded by highly educated women with all kinds of degrees who are at home with their kids. I'm also surrounded by women who work hard and have their kids in daycare.

It seems to me that this article is just trying to ignite the war (once again) between working parents and non-working parents. Her husband was just elected to be President of the God-Damned United States of America for Christ's sake. It seems to me that Jackson is just trying pick open a scab to get the bleeding to start again. Why are we trying to say that one choice is better than another choice? This old war between working parents and non-working parents is nothing but a reason to argue. One is not better than the other. I think we should focus on more important things, like the fact that our county is going to be a better place simply because Barack and Michelle Obama are in the White House, regardless of whether Michelle is in a playroom with her girls or in a conference room with her colleagues.

Sour grapes, perhaps?

2008-11-20T13:37:00.000-08:00

I think I'm going about this book-writing thing all wrong. I should have just latched onto a comment made by the First-Lady-to-be and decided to write a book. Why do soul-searching and a gut-wrenching examination of my personal experience with a critically-ill son who has spent months in the hospital when all I really needed was a catch phrase to latch onto. I needed the domain-name gods to align and be in the right place at the right time.

What am I referring to? Why Michelle Obama's self-proclamation of "Mom in Chief." I love that she used that expression. I'll chalk that coincidence up to great minds thinking alike. But if only I had been smart enough to also register www.mominchief.com in addition to www.motherinchief.com back in January 2005 when this site took life. Well, now there is another Mom in Chief, in addition to Michelle Obama and me. There is blogger with that domain name and a book deal to match. Her book is set to come out in February 2009. Her blog miraculous sprung to life the day after Michelle first used those words in August 2008. I'm sure this other MIC is a perfectly fine writer with a perfectly nice book, and fantastic connections (apparently) in the publishing industry. Do I sound bitter?

I suppose I wouldn't be filled with disdain for her if I was having a smoother transition from writer to author. I just don't understand how you go from concept to published book in six months flat. If I did, my book would have hit the market 18 months ago. In the meantime, I'm still working, still researching agents, still feeling optimistic, although ever-so-slightly annoyed. I am still confident, however, that my project will eventually reach the people who need it. At least I wasn't planning on calling my book Mother in Chief. At least my book isn't about balancing a career with parenthood. Then I'd probably be really, really annoyed.

Shock and awe

2008-11-12T15:17:00.000-08:00

Revelations come on the way earthquakes hit—there is no warning. And only afterward can we look back and be amazed at the magnitude of what has happened.

Sure Kindergartener has been sick frequently, but he isn’t in the hospital. Preschooler has adjusted to his new school and is no longer at risk for being kicked out for bad behavior. I’m deciding which graduate programs to apply to. While I haven’t landed an agent or a publishing contract, I’m confident that I will accomplish those things. It is just a matter of determination and time. I’m working on a project with a non-profit to improve California’s healthcare system. I’ve been traveling and enjoying my own company and the company of friends I don’t see frequently. I’m planning a trip to break in my new passport.

And despite all that stuff I’m doing for me, I’m still a parent. I’m still a caretaker. And it just dawned on me ... I think I found it—balance. Balance. I feel whole again. I feel like I’ve woken up from a deep and lonely sleep. I’ve put myself on the priority list again because I count. I matter. I have dug my way out of the rubble.

All I needed, apparently, was to do more things for me. And in order to do that, I needed to let go. I needed to come to the conclusion that my kids are going to be just fine, even if they aren't with me all of the time. Hired help may not have the same motivation as grandparents, but they can still love my kids, teach them things, and be a positive influence on their development. Since family isn’t down the street or around the corner, that is all I have.

This thing called balance is delicate and elusive—it’s taken me almost six years to find it—so I intend to treat it with the respect it deserves, in an attempt to not fall off kilter again.

Rejection made easy

2008-10-28T15:52:00.000-07:00

I find humor in the self-addressed stamped envelopes that I include with all of my query letters to literary agents sent via the post office. Along with my titillating one-page query outlining my book, my qualifications, and all the other goodies I spent more than a year writing, I include this pre-stamped envelope. This envelope is included with my query for the sole purpose of rejecting my query. It just all seems very negative.

I suppose I have the option of not including the SASE. From my point of view, it would elevate the positive nature of my query because it wouldn't be weighed down by that rejection envelope. But, if I did that, then those literary agencies not interested in my book proposal wouldn't even make the effort to properly reject me (but then I would have had nothing to dance on either). I realize that most of these agencies get hundreds or thousands of query letters like mine -- well not exactly like mine -- every single month. And I should feel grateful that they take the effort to dignify my query with a somewhat dignified form letter. I guess I'd rather have that form letter than the total silence I've also gotten from some agencies. Those agencies that chose NOT to reply also received a SASE. And what did they do with my SASE? Did they steam off the stamp and use if for something else? Or did they just toss it -- stamp and all -- into the recycle bin? It all seems very wasteful. That is why I love the agencies that use phrases on their submission guidelines that go something like this: "We accept queries by regular mail and through email, but prefer email (saves trees!)."

And email submission are very gratifying. I press send and it's instantly waiting to be read. Not to mention, accepting email queries lets me know that their agency is firmly rooted somewhere in the 21st Century. The post office isn't completely antiquated just yet. Although with online bill pay, and email with Auntie, and videoconferencing with Grammy, and iTunes, I don't really need the post office all that much. Oh, except for delivering my packages from eBay and Amazon.com. That I could not do without.

A whole new elevation

2008-10-14T15:14:00.000-07:00

It's all about attitude. If you feel confident, you look confident. If you look confident, you feel confident. If you're dressed for the job you want, you're more likely to get it. Or so the saying goes.

All I was doing was going out to run a couple of errands, but as I was getting ready to leave the house, I skipped over the comfortable and sensible shoes and slipped into some sassy heels. And as soon as my foot was inside the shoe, it was as if their powers equaled those contained in Spiderman's seductive black suit.

I was a new woman, not just a mom heading out to get stuff done. I felt fabulous and it showed. As I walked through the parking lot at one of the stores, a man walking near me noticed the click of my heels on the pavement and said, "You can't sneak past anyone in those. It's the sound of confidence."

I couldn't have agreed more.

The opposite of mysterious

2008-10-06T22:29:00.000-07:00

I'm not as mysterious as I think I am.

Another rewarding Thursday night out with friends was coming to an end as I started chatting with one of the regular bartenders. Only instead of mixing drinks that night, he was on the other side of the bar enjoying a drink of his own. We've exchanged pleasantries over the past couple of months and he remembered my name that night. "Hello Suzanne. Did you have a good time tonight?" I said yes. He asked if I also go out on Fridays and Saturdays. I said no. "So you are married, then?" It was more a statement than a question. Without hesitation, his follow-up question: "And how many kids do you have?" I said two. Then he asked if I had to work in the morning. I said yes, as soon as my kids get up. "So you're a housewife." I cringed at the use of that word.

I'd like to think I'm so much more. But I'm not. I like to come up with fancy ways to explain what it is that I do: chief operating office of my household; executive chef; activities and social coordinator; art director; personal shopper. Oh yes, and aspiring author.

But really, I'm a housewife. I told him that he really isn't allowed to say that. No one wants to be called a housewife. He just smiled his Irish smile and said that his mom is a housewife too. Then, just as the lights were coming on and the bar was emptying out, he invited me to an after party at his house. I declined and slinked away with my housewifery label burned across my forehead. I couldn't believe he had me all figured out in five seconds flat.

I'm not as mysterious as I think I am.