Parenthood and what I wish I'd known

1. You will eventually sleep
2. Seriously. It might be when they head to NYU on a full scholarship, but eventually-- you'll sleep.
3. Though said sleep is never ever the same as before you had children.
4. Hold them. Whenever you want to. Whenever you can. It feels like forever. It's not.
5. Feed them. If they eat, do a jig. If they don't, let it go. Except in rare circumstances they'll eat when hungry and sometimes they're just not feeling it.
6. Some kids walk earlier, some speak sooner, some compose original music at the age of three. Accept your child's pace, each has their own and its normal.
7. Unless it isn't. If your gut tells you something is amiss: listen.
8. Judge another parent for their screaming toddler in a restaurant and guarantee that yours will be yodeling like Shrek in the very near future.
9. Show compassion if only with your thoughts and very likely this too will return to you in karmic quantities.
10. When they fall-- clap, cheer, smile or react not at all; their emotion passes faster, as does yours.
11. Unless of course they fell from a treetop. Clapping or cheering would, in this circumstance, be entirely unacceptable.
12. Don't yell over things not in their realm of understanding like why it was hilarious to mom and dad when he ripped pages from the old phone book but not so hilarious when he ripped pages from Harry Potter and the Deathly Gallows. 
13. Television has many drawbacks but on those days when Sesame Street is the thing standing between you and chaos don't feel guilty, just do it. You didn't stick them in front of Jersey Shore for three consecutive hours; allow yourself to be human.
14. Its easier when they're not exclusively nursing. But harder as you figure out all the meals to prepare. 
15. Its easier when they're walking about. But harder as you chase them from steep ledges. 
16. Its easier when they start sleeping through the night. But harder as they start fighting naps.
17. Parenting never gets easier, it just gets different.
18. Buy a video camera. Use it. You will miss the clumsy dances, gurgles and toothless jabber.
19. But resist the urge to document everything- some moments can never be resurrected. Some moments are sweetest only if you let yourself fall into them living in it as fully as you can to remember later.
20. If you're sincerely doing the absolute best job at this parenting thing that you absolutely possibly ever could, you're doing a pretty damn good job. Splurge and get an ice cream cone,  a pair of shoes, or a baby koala, but most certainly give yourself the credit you deserve.  

What do you wish you'd known?

Just beneath the surface

Our agent showed us a lovely home this past Saturday. Incredibly lovely. So lovely, we walked away thinking that though it wasn't in our walkable neighborhood it was lovely enough to just possibly be the house for us. As we parked our car at our condo, music filled the air and like children drawn to the Pied Piper we wandered over to the source of the sound, a St. Patrick's festival just across the way. The local pub packed green, the famous King of Pops vending all the finest flavors, and face painting and yummy burgers and a tightness in our chest because as much as we loved that house it would never be here, this village.

We drove back to see the house again later that afternoon to find someone to get their take on the neighborhood-- on this crisp, lovely day, the neighborhood resembled a beautiful brick ghost town. Finally we spotted someone checking the mail, his back stooped, his hair gray and his face weathered.

Excuse me? I asked rolling down the window. He turned and approached us. We asked him if he enjoyed his neighborhood. He did. If there people with kids. There weren't. Mostly old folks like me, he said with a laugh. But its a good area, I lived in Peachree Battle until my wife died, he suddenly looked astonished his eyes seeming to no longer see us, she died fifteen years ago. My, has it been that long? How could that much time have passed? He shook his head and paused again before clearing his throat and looking at us, the smile back in his eyes as he told us the benefits of the community and the distance to local shops. We watched him as he walked away.

This post isn't about my housing dilemma.

At least not entirely. It's about that one flash moment which lasted a scarce few seconds when I looked into his eyes and saw a blinding flash of pain and loss and loneliness and then-- a smile.  It's about the full realization yet again of how many of us live each day with so much pain buried just beneath the surface and how despite soul crushing tragedies we get out of bed, we brush our teeth, we put on a face to greet the world. The ability to love, grieve, and to live in spite of it is the part of our humanity that leaves me most speechless.

On falling into

When things are rough, restless, and just plain difficult, I struggle with the guilt that compounds those feelings; you have a beautiful child and more blessings than you can count how dare you feel this way? The best cure I've found is to stop trying to fight it. Pause, and simply fall into the feeling. Such feelings seem to pass faster when you cast upon them no judgments and allow the sensation to simply be. It's been a beautiful seventy-something degree morning filled with wandering into coffee shops and parks, chasing squirrels [him, not me] and pausing to squat admiring in full vantage, the glory of dandelions. As I watched him, I thought to myself: these moments when you feel joyful, euphoric, proud, verklempt with love? Pause and let yourself fall into the feeling, let it fill you up so you can drink from it in days of drought. Of course on days like today I think I'll never be thirsty again.

On offers, red tractors, and community

Many months ago our agent showed us a home with a lovely front porch and awesome floor plan but new to the area we stared in abject dismay at the antique red tractor across the street and the house next door with peeling paint and faded swing set. We revisited this house this past Friday five months after living in this funky town, this time completely charmed by the red tractor and tottering swing. We put in the offer. Discussed where the rug would go. The color we'd paint the master. And then thanks to shady situations with the builder and his agent we learned this house would not be ours. 

 I long for community. I tried finding it in my faith-based community, but as much as I try it's not working. I long for authentic connections-- anything less and I struggle to find the motivation to engage. Still, I try. And each time I do for the sake of my son, I get hurt time and again, and lately thanks to a series of jaw dropping events I've felt downright pummeled. I'm utterly thankful for my dear friends and the love my son knows through them; I just wish I also had a collective community he could turn to, a place at large where he belonged. 

Today we had pizza outdoors in the village, two blocks from the house we almost had. Children walked by drinking soda from the corner shop. Parents pushed strollers. Waleed cried and two men in matching purple striped shirts and trumpets en route to the Square turned to him and played songs quieting his cries as a mother with three balloons shared one with him. I stepped into the park, greeting mothers I've met over the months as strangers paused to let my son pet their puppies and it really felt like we're all in this together, and I realized faith-based or not this little village tucked away in the heart of this impersonal sprawling city is a true community. 

It took losing the home I fell in love with, it took this ache in my heart to see my love for this charming little village, red tractor, chain-link fence and all. Our home here will be smaller, it might be older, and most certainly it won't have the classic-clicker two-car garage, but it will be in a place where strangers stop to say hello, where we can plant flowers in the community garden, and where there is genuine kindness. Faith based or not, this little village is what community really is, in all the ways that matter.
 
[Image Source  Here]

The headache post

Migraines to be specific. The throbbing, aching kind that sees your ibuprofen and laughs like a Disney villain. The kind that makes it really hard to wake up at 6:50am when the little guy begins chirping from his crib. Any tried and true remedies? This squinty-eyed mother will be forever grateful.

Random thoughts on house-hunting and condo-living

The best thing about condo living in a hip area is all the awesome food spots to eat at.

The worst thing about condo living in a hip area is the desire to eat all said food at said awesome food spots which instantly reflect themselves upon ones own hips.

The best thing about condo-living is how fast it takes to clean up this tiny place. A simple clean? 30 minutes. A sparkle floor-to-ceiling scrub down? One hour. Maybe.

The worst thing about condo-living is how fast it takes to messy up this tiny place. One teddy bear here, one stray sock there and we're quickly mimicking a hoarders episode.

The best thing about condo-living is how you never really feel alone. Like hearing about how angry our next door neighbor was at her mom because, well, she never listens to her. And Bob? His door swung wide open by a gust of wind as I walked past and he invited us in to meet his little girl Lulu who told us she's quite fabulous at hula-hooping and can scooter like the best of them. Maybe its because I'm a writer and have read way too many Alexandar McCall Smith books on the joys of joint-dwelling but there's a particular charm to living in close proximity of others and the availability of a diverse group of muses. Not something I want to do forever but helpful for writing ideas just the same and while I don't need to know why Becky doesn't appreciate how Ben didn't take out the trash, it's an interesting opportunity to play amateur-anthropologist.

As cool as that is, its slightly uncool to know as much as you can peek into the lives of others, they can peek into yours though mine is little more scintillating than a mother chasing a toddler through various rooms for the better part of a day. Except when we pretend with stuffed jungle animals. And sadly pretending to be elephants and giraffes dancing at a tea party are not typically the silent endeavors I'd like them to be.

House-hunting is going full steam and the debate over space versus location ever-present and ever-confounding [as our parents shake their head in puzzlement at cottages under consideration when palaces could be bought just over yonder to which I say, losing minutes of my life on commutes in congested traffic to said yonder is minutes too many tiny house or not]. Though its a 'buyers market' potential sellers, fully aware of this, are generally not putting their good stuff up. Sifting through a lot of mediocre inventory and trying not to get discouraged. Eventually we'll find a house. Or send Waleed off to college from this here condo. Either way, roof over head, bed to sleep on, table to eat on. That there sentence contained more blessings than I can count so I'll keep the complaints on the woes of house-hunting to a minimum. I have a home in all the ways that truly matter.

One minute

I took Waleed to the park today like I do every single clear-weather day since we moved to our condo in October. Waleed normally sticks close to me like white on rice but today he wanted to wander and because the park is fenced and flat and easily visible from wherever one stands, I let him. I turned to talk to the mom next to me and when I looked back to check on Waleed, I couldn't find him. For a full minute I could not find him. I scanned his usual haunts, the toy house, the swings-- nothing. Just then I looked up and saw him taking the steps to exit through the one unblocked exit in the park. A parent blocked him as I raced to him. I picked him up. Waleed bounced on my hip. And we went home.

But for one full minute I could not find my son.

Every car ride, every trip to the park quickly blends into the next until it doesn't. Every day is ordinary until it isn't. He's napping right now while a train whistles in the distance as I type these words on the screen. It's Friday so we'll do the usual where do you want to go out for dinner? I don't know where do you want to go out? Give Waleed his bath. Maybe rent a movie.

For a full minute, I thought I'd never have a day like this again.

The street was empty. His steps clumsy. The exit still far away enough to not pose true danger. And yet I can't stop thinking how many other mothers began a day like today, who turned their attention for a split second, and who pay for that moment the rest of their lives.

In that full minute I saw how quickly my world can shatter.

Trying not to dwell in the useless space of guilt. Trying to let this trembling sensation pass through me and the haunting whispers of what could have been. Thank you God for ordinary days. Thank you for moments that blend seamlessly into the next. They are a testament to an inordinately blessed life.