A good day

There are days I go to to bed knowing that I am not living my life with the fullness it deserves. Photographs have gone untaken and stories have remained unwritten. A day blooms with marvelous capacities. The potential for color and creation. Sometimes I waste that. Waste it on uncertainty, indifference and Bones re-runs. (but seriously, David Boreanaz? Sure. I'll take that.) There are days when I capture the blues and pinks and yellows. The subtleties and the stories and the loveliness. Those are good days.

A few things other people have made on what must have been good days.

                     
                                                  2012 Calendar,  Sycamore Street Press

Handmade invitations, junkaholique

Presence by Cassandra Barney

To more good days for all of us.

Birthin' that baby

When I had Margaret I was fairly uneducated about the whole birthing process. I had heard there were women that had their babies at home while a shaman chanted and the husband, children, household pets, in-laws and gardener watched. All of it followed by a hearty meal of placenta and self-righteousness. I had also heard of women that scheduled c-sections around pedicures and work meetings. Hey Doc, could you hurry it up? I think I just broke a nail. In my infinite wisdom, (hear that sarcasm?) I decided both groups of women were overthinking the whole thing.  Let's face it. Placenta tacos sound a bit exotic for me, my nails are always a mess, and I have never been able to stick to a schedule in my life. Women have been birthing babies since Eve went east of eden.  Couldn't I just show up and push the thing out?

Which is exactly what I did. I went into labor while Riley was at school...in a basement...out of cell service. So, with my contractions 5 minutes apart, I drove myself to the hospital. Please picture how pathetic I must have looked crawling alone into hospital admitting. Now multiply that by ten. Yep. You got it. A worried Riley got to the delivery room as I was being given the epidural. Just an hour later I had a nearly nine pound baby. The birth had been quick, chaotic and damaging. My family came in and cried over the little girl's loveliness and I stared at the ceiling wanting to be anywhere but there. I kept staring at ceilings for another three months. I won't argue that the labor made my postpartum worse, but it was certainly a difficult beginning.The next time things would be different.

And they were.

I chose my doctors carefully. Told them what I wanted and needed. I took the hospital tour and packed my overnight bag three weeks before the baby was due. Preparation, hello, my name is Megan. Nice to meet you. On September 10th, I went to my nephew's first birthday party. The food was good, the company was nice and my back hurt. By eleven pm my back still hurt and I had had two, count them two, contractions. Not exactly the stuff rushing to the hospital is made of. My mom was positive I was in the throes of labor. I was positive she was in the throes of crazy. For not the first time, Riley took my mom's advice over mine. So we left Margaret at Gamy and Papa's and went to the hospital. This time I got to walk into admitting with my best friend.

The next bit was quick, painful and lovely. Dilated to a six. Broken water. Contractions. Waiting for the epidural. Contractions. Waiting for the epidural. Contractions. Where the $#%& is the epidural? Oh. There it is. Much. Better. We had been in the hospital for two hours and it was time. The doctor and nurses bustled around the room setting up. Riley held my hand and we laughed. Laughed because life is consistently scary and new and bright and hopeful and inconsi stent. Laughed because we are still just kids. Laughed because there was no turning back. And because we didn't want to. Laughed because everything is just so damn much better when he is holding my hand.

 And then she was here. Didn't push once. Just laughed that little Viola Honey right out.

Perfect.

She was tiny and black haired and quiet. I held her and I knew that this is one thing women can't overthink. The women with the shaman and the women with the schedule had understood something that I had not. Perhaps they approach birth in an extreme way because it is an extreme thing. It is the future and the past. It is blood and spirit. For just a moment heaven meets earth and we get to be there. What a profound blessing.

By 6am Riley was asleep and Viola breathed steadily on my chest. I was tired and sore and just a little scared. And happy. I was happy.

Harmony

Sang this song with Riley all morning while we got ready. I do the lyrics, he rocks the vocal guitar. Nerdy. Fabulous. Lucky me.

As Ms. Krauss says, I've got all this and heaven above.

Have a happy day.

Oh Atlanta, by Alison Krauss and Union Station

It doesn't take much

So...post partum depression. What a b-word, am I right?

There I will be. Having a perfectly lovely day, nothing but reasons to be happy and then suddenly the floor falls out and I can't breathe.

Take Saturday.

The weather was a cold excuse for indoor activites. We straightened up, played with the babies and read books. There was even talk of Chick-Fil-A for dinner. A day of clouds topped with fried chicken sandwiches. Yes. Please. Thank you.

However, by four o'clock, the babies, the reading, the promise of deep fried goodness on the horizon...it just wasn't enough.  Riley could sense my anxiety. I can't imagine how. It may have had something to do with the fact that I was pacing back and forth and mumbling under my breath. He suggested that I might want to get out the house. Or maybe it was more like he needed my crazy self to leave for a little while. Either way.

I wrote a shopping list, grabbed the car keys and headed east to...Harmon's. A locally owned grocery store that carries everything from poor mans potato chips to a selection of middle class hipsters french cheese. I know there are much more exclusive markets in other parts of the country. I understand that Harmon's is no Dean & Deluca. But it is what this Provo girl has, and heaven knows I will take it.

 I spent an hour wandering the aisles. Picking out the food we needed and looking at the food we can't afford. (Have you ever really immersed yourself in the world of high end pickled goods? Oh. Delicious. The decadence of a ten dollar jar of pickles is one I hope to experience in this lifetime.) The anxiety began to ease by the time I had passed the locally made sausages. The sadness got lost somewhere near the in-house bakery. By the time I reached the produce section my cart was nearly full and I felt almost human. I dawdled around the exotic fruits, pondered the purchase of kale (we really should start eating better), and finally put iceberg lettuce and a couple of apples in my basket.

And then a treat. A nice lady with a nice smile was handing out samples of a root vegetable soup. Would I like some? Oh, yes. Yes I would. She ladled the burnt orange goodness into a cup, topped it off with a goat cheese crostini and handed it to me with a, "there you go, hon." It looked like something Martha Stewart would make on a camp out. In other words, beautiful. Seriously. That plastic crostini topped cup was the fanciest thing that I had held in months. Which is embarrassing. But not nearly as embarrassing as what happened next. Root soup in hand I looked up at the woman who had given it to me, eyes welled up with tears and said, "Oh my goodness. Thank you so much. This is really just too nice." She looked terrified. I can't really blame her.

I savored that soup one mini spoon bite at a time.

I think I need to get out more often.

The Royal Treatment

Today has been a simple day. Pot pie and Sleeping Beauty for Margaret. Bottles and rocking for Viola. Both kids asleep and Friday Night Lights for me. It is cold outside. Riley is at work. I am grateful. We have, as Margaret would say, "MORE THAN ENOUGH!"

More than enough warmth in our little house. More than enough food in our yellow cabinets. More than enough opportunity in the still hazy future.

And more than enough $%#& diapers.

They are everywhere. Spilling out of  the trash can, hiding under the couch, I found one behind my pillow last night. Surprise.

Viola's diapers are tiny, inoffensive things. If the waste of a human being could be cute, let me tell you...hers' is. Margaret, on the other hand. Oh.My.Goodness. At two and a half the little darling is still not interested in potty training. She has the system pretty well figured out. I can see it in her eyes every time I extol the fun, beauty, fantasticness! of using the toilet...

Sure, Mom. Like we are going to change anything. You read me all my favorite books, serve Chef Boyardee at least twice weekly and literally wipe my butt. What, pray tell, needs to be altered about this situation.

Yesterday, I brought out the big guns. A princess themed training potty. Pink, bedecked with Disney and sparkles, it even has a magical wand that chimes when you "flush." If this couldn't get Margaret to stop messing in her own pants, I honestly don't what could.

We presented the potty with the royal fanfare such a throne deserves. And.She.Loved.It. The girl was positively hysterical about the beauty of the thing. She shouted "PRINCESS POTTY!" over and over again as we set it up in the bathroom. Then she and I had a talk,

(Side note: I hate talking about bathroom related issues. I have avoided the p word, poop, for most of Margaret's life. Euphemisms have included mess, muddy and my favorite, absolute silence on the subject. I won't have any problem sitting down and talking to my kids about sex. But a candid discussion about waste? Absolutely horrifying for me.)

"Margaret, this princess potty is just for you! You are a big sister now. Do you know what big sisters do? They go poopy and peepee in the potty!"

"OH! OK, MOMMY! POOPY IN THE PRINCESS POTTY! OK!"

"Yes. So you just tell mommy when you need to go poopy or peepee and I will help you go in the potty. OK?"

"OK!"

She then proceeded to carry the potty around the house telling both the real and imaginary occupants of our home all about her beautiful new potty. After the grand tour she returned it to bathroom and sat by it...stroking it...for 15 solid minutes. By the end of the evening she had filled the inside of it with all of her treasures. It is bursting with doll shoes, puzzle pieces and play food. Let me tell you, cookies coming out of the top of a toilet, even one as glamorous as this one? Seriously disturbing.

The one thing I am certain Margaret will never allow inside her beautiful new potty?

Anything that comes out of her butt.

Maybe it is just time to invest in a bigger trash can.

How it's done

 My baby is three weeks old and I am two days past being absolutely bonkers. Some mothers are slowly driven crazy by their children. Mine make me mental from birth. It is not entirely the darling dears' fault. My chemical make up is particularly prone to post-partum depression. Combine that tendency with sleepless nights, diaper blow outs and HOW-MUCH-WEIGHT-DO-I- STILL-NEED-TO-LOSE? and you have one notsohotso mess. Nearly a month into this two child experiment and I am finally waking up. I can smile in the mornings and haven't fallen asleep crying on the floor for DAYS! Yes. This is big and beautiful news.

Sunday was one of my last actively psycho days. By mid morning, I had pushed past the panic and sadness. The question sounding since Viola was born, HOW ARE WE GOING TO DO THIS?, had become a bit quieter. In celebration, I made a fancy breakfast. And by "fancy" I mean that hash browns were involved. The table was set and I had only broken one egg yolk. Time to eat. Of course, Viola decided she was scream-till-I-just-can't-scream-anymore hungry at the very moment I had dressed my beloved potatoes. (three shakes of salt, two from the pepper and a generous ketchup-ing.) By the time I was done feeding the baby, my egg had congealed and Margaret had been taking bites of my bacon. The hash browns, however, still looked just perfect. Yes. My baby was fed, my family had enjoyed a meal made by my hand. Who needs eggs? Who needs bacon sans two year old slobber? I have everything. Everything with a side of fried potato strings. Content, I lifted a forkful of the hash browns to my mouth and...

they were cold. Freezing. Glacial.

I got up. Threw the plate in the sink and locked myself in the bathroom for an angry cry.

How are we going to do this? How are we going to do this. How am I going to do this?

Twenty minutes and one make up application later, I emerged. Margaret was in her room, Viola was asleep and the kitchen had been cleaned. Riley was waiting for me in the front room. The poor man looked very confused. He sat next to me, pulled me into his arms and asked what was wrong. I started crying. The ugly kind - with hiccups and a runny nose.

"Don't you see?" I said, "With two kids I am really just a mom and I will be eating cold potatoes for the rest of my life." This followed by more tears. Hiccups. Snot.

Lovely.

The good - patient! - man laughed, pulled me in closer and said the most romantic thing this crazy girl has ever heard,

"Meggi, don't forget. I am here. We will take turns eating cold potatoes."

And there it was. My answer. That is how we are going to do this. We will all laugh and love. The girls, Riley and I will color the world with sidewalk chalk and read about the places we can't reach. I will remember the man I married and follow him to the bright lights he has always seen. He will remember the girl he married and give me time to write and space to dream. We will touch and make out and ahem, you know, so that for just a little while it feels like we are the only ones in the world.

 And we will take turns eating the cold potatoes.

Sometimes It Swings Back

My two year old still drinks bottles. No, wait. Let me be honest. My nearly two AND A HALF year old still drinks bottles. She loves them. Little whole milk filled vessels best served "COLDIE!" and often. The little darling likes juice out of cups, chocolate milk out of cartons and water out of anything. But for my Margaret, nothing, not anything, comes close to a Dr. Brown full of the white stuff.

As any pediatrician, (or "helpful" mother), will tell you, a two year old is far too old to be enjoying the infantile excess of bottle sucking. It.Is.Simply.Not.Done. Up until recently, I have not cared about the opinions of the learned. And by not care, I mean I have lied.

Last doctors visit with Margaret:

Doctor: And I assume that she is completely off the bottle, right? And has been for some time?

Me: Oh! The bottle? Been off it so long she can't remember what one looks like.

Cue my eyes following his. Which are looking into my open diaper bag. At a bottle. Brimming with milk. Ummm. Maybe he thought it was mine?

Baby Viola will be here by next Tuesday. Margaret will be a big sister. It occured to me that maybe big sisters shouldn't be so, ahm, nipple dependent. Time for some growing up. Last Friday was the day. The day Margaret would become too big for the bottle. I had all her favorite drinks on hand. Kept her busy through her normal morning bottle and seemed to be moving beautifully past the nap milk fix. Really. It was amazing. Margaret was amazing. I, let's face it, was amazing.

And then she asked for the bottle. You know, five hundred times. And then the tears. I was, at this point, still amazing. So I pulled her into my arms and explained that she was such a big girl. And big girls don't need bottles. And I knew that change is hard. And I was so proud of her for being so brave. Come on, this was really classic, parenting-by-numbers goodness.

Her big blue eyes were just liquid with the betrayal of it all. And then, a light! OH MOMMY! I WILL FIND IT! YOU STAY! I'LL FIND BOTTLE! The next fifteen minutes the house rang with her little voice, BOTTLE! BOTTLE! WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU IN HERE? BOTTLE, I'LL FIND YOU!

I had a milk filled Dr. Brown in the fridge. A just in case of emergency fix. She must have seen the Vitamin D weakness in my eyes.

OH MOMMY! I KNOW. THE FRIDGE!

She triumphantly threw the fridge door thrown open, it swung wide as she squealed, I FOUND IT! GOOD GIRL! I FOUND IT!

And then. THWACK. That old door just kept right on swinging back to where it belonged, pinning my two foot addict and her fix right against the wall. The crying was pathetic.
It was a hard lesson. Sometimes what we want is out of reach. Sometimes people tell us no. So we persevere and think creatively and don't give up. And then finally, finally we get what we always wanted. Only to be squished up against the wall.

I peeled my little girl and her found treasure out from the between the beadboard and the pickles. Turned on Wonderpets and set up her up with her hard earned prize.

So my two and a half year old still drinks bottles. And my paint-by-numbers parenting is not really all that awesome. Not that the latter comes much as a surprise.

We spend our whole lives growing up. It is lovely and painful and full of doors that swing right back.

I suppose one more week of bottles can't hurt.

Present

I remember dreaming about my future when I was ten years old. I would be beautiful with hair that never got frizzy. Books would be published, literary history made. Lovely me in the lovely future would be married to a handsome man and have a family full of creative, curly headed wunderkinds. You know...typical pre pubescent princess speak. Ten year old me never imagined nine months of pregnancy, three of which would be spent waddling. Could not have envisioned a world in which my stomach was bigger than the sum of all my parts. And poor frizzy headed Meggi certainly never expected the weekly humiliation of the OB-GYN's office the last month of pregnancy.

I had my second to last appointment today and I can hear ten year old me crying all the way from 1995.

Good news first. Viola Honey seems to be doing just fine. Good heart beat. Big head. Basically everything I expect from the product of my womb.

Not as excellent. I am 37 weeks and the little munchkin is still breech, breech, breech. Trying to avoid a c section, so I am off to the hospital on Tuesday to see if we can get the Honeypi turned around. Viola's vitals will be monitored while the doctor's practice a technique called inversion and try to coax her head from under my ribs to right above my, ahem, you know. (Why a human's head has to be in either of these places only God can tell...) With all the breech talk I failed to ask my OB what exactly an inversion entails. So I made a few calls to the more educated members of my family and was given answers ranging from, "I think they use magnets" to the graphic description of how vets deal with breech horses. ( Breech horses: The words "butt" and "digging" were used more than once, as was the phrase "up to the elbow". Magnets, however, do not seem to be involved.)

Disturbing.

The wrong angle baby talk was followed by a cervical exam. I have never seen a cervical exam, but I have FELT them. Absolutely barbaric, in my opinion. We can put a man on the moon, science has unraveled DNA, somehow The View has reached 15 seasons. And still. Still! The accepted method for measuring a dilated cervix is to shove two fingers followed by an arm into a woman's, you know, and scramble around? Really?

Is *that* the best we can do?

The doctor spent, what I felt to be, an inordinately large amount of time up there. Finally, he emerged. Apparently he had to measure three times to make sure that what he was feeling was what he was feeling. (I could have told him that it was. Now, please remove your person from inside my person. Thanks.) He was so amazed that he told the nurses all about it while we were scheduling the inversion in the hall...

" A four! Dilated to a four at just 37 weeks. Just great! I mean, I wasn't sure. I had to measure a couple times." At which point, he thrust his arm into the air, two fingers extended and pantomimed the measuring of my, until then, very private cervix. "I just hope that we can get that baby turned around and take advantage of that cervix! Don't want to miss out on that opportunity!"

What could I do but agree? A fully ripened cervix is a horrible thing to waste. (Can we get that stitched on a pillow somewhere?)

I would argue that one does not know humiliation until one witnesses the dramatic re-enactment of an exam done on one's vagina.

Just one of many things in the present that ten year old me could never have imagined in the past. It's alright. Surprisingly, all the things everyone tells you are worth it are actually worth it. Sure, the future held laundry, forgotten bills and publicly pantomimed cervical exams. There have been tantrums and vomit and all nighters (and that was just from Riley). But the future also had a good man, and a sweet home and a good little girl with my frizzy hair and her daddy's eyes. Oh happiness that we get to add another little human being to our happy mess. Just two weeks.

We can't wait to make her part of our present.

Sometimes I come back.

We are in the thunder and lightening days of summer. It has been nearly three months since I wrote a thing other than a grocery list. There are many excuses. Aren't there always? Some things that were hard. Some things I made harder. A blank page was just one more thing I met with uncertainty. And avoidance. Poor, much loved, much helped, little girl. Honestly, it all seems a little bourgeois to me now.

Time to wake up, and get to work.

Briefly, before I begin again,

the summer...

There were kebabs and dance parties and fresh tomatoes. Garden planted and neglected. Lovely husband. Organized simplicity. Growing baby and belly. Depression (not mine). Visits from family. 2nd trimester sex (worth getting pregnant for). Dollar menu burgers. Margaret's unholy love for dinosaurs and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Even lovelier husband. Garden still neglected. Bigger baby, bigger belly. Riley working 60 hour weeks. Disorganized complexity. Friday Night Lights. The natural history museum (Margaret, look at the zebras! OH I LOVE IT THE ZEBRAS, MOMMY!). Third trimester sex (not.worth.it). Wonderful friends. A garden so wild it might eat the house. Depression (mine). Singing with the Zuzu. Fifth anniversary. Cornbread. Baby bigger, belly darn near obscene. That Riley, even lovelier still.

I think Fall is just the thing I need. Can't wait to see you there.

Sometimes I come back.

We are in the thunder and lightening days of summer. It has been nearly three months since I wrote a thing other than a grocery list. There are many excuses. Aren't there always? Some things that were hard. Some things I made harder. A blank page was just one more thing I met with uncertainty. And avoidance. Poor, much loved, much helped, little girl. Honestly, it all seems a little bourgeois to me now.

Time to wake up, and get to work.

Briefly, before I begin again,

the summer...

There were kebabs and dance parties and fresh tomatoes. Garden planted and neglected. Lovely husband. Organized simplicity. Growing baby and belly. Depression (not mine). Visits from family. 2nd trimester sex (worth getting pregnant for). Dollar menu burgers. Margaret's unholy love for dinosaurs and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Even lovelier husband. Garden still neglected. Bigger baby, bigger belly. Riley working 60 hour weeks. Disorganized complexity. Friday Night Lights. The natural history museum (Margaret, look at the zebras! OH I LOVE IT THE ZEBRAS, MOMMY!). Third trimester sex (not.worth.it). Wonderful friends. A garden so wild it might eat the house. Depression (mine). Singing with the Zuzu. Fifth anniversary. Cornbread. Baby bigger, belly darn near obscene. That Riley, even lovelier still.

I think Fall is just the thing I need. Can't wait to see you there.