Ear Taco

I caught Zoe’s vomit in my hands today.

It is rainy and gross and I can’t stomach the thought of a day at home with two high energy children. The only alternative is to get out and go. Both kids are thrilled with the idea and happily comply with my requests to get dressed and brush teeth.

Zoe’s behavior is a little funky; she doesn’t eat any breakfast and is crabbier than usual. I blame it on potty training though. She still sometimes gets scared to go #2.

Anypoop, I load the kids in the car with snacks and switch on Pandora and start the drive to the seacoast.

Zachary chats with me the entire way. When the prospect of answering one more of his questions make me want to throw an ice pop at his head, I switch it up and give him an interview about me.

Me: What’s mommy’s favorite thing to do?

Zachary: Play with me and Zoe

Me: If I were an animal, what would I be and why?

Zachary: Eddie the frog* because then you would be my pet forever and I would just be lovin’ you.

* Every summer a frog shows up on our property. We have a stream that runs under the driveway and across our front lawn---it’s not unusual to see a frog. However, Zachary is convinced that we only have one frog and that that frog’s name is Eddie. Every time Eddie shows up, I put him in a bucket and Zach brings him back to the mud.

Me: What’s my favorite food?

Zachary: Ears. No, no. That’s not right. Ummmm…tacos?

Me: What makes me laugh the hardest?

Zachary: Me. Dancin’.

During all of this Zoe is kind of fading in her seat. Her face is droopy and she is quiet. Not good signs.

When we get to town, we head to this fabulous little boutiquey toy store. Zoe refuses to walk. Again, I blame toilet issues and carry her. Plus, Zachary is so psyched for our day that I don’t have the heart to get back in the car and drive home on only suspicion of illness.

Zachary dances around and checks out the books and lego watches. Zoe starts sweating into my neck.

When we are done, we walk to lunch. Zach runs ahead of me on the sidewalks and then wiggles his way back, jumping over muddy puddles along the way.

I still have Zoe in my arms and, now, she is whining.

We are given a great booth right by the window. I slouch down in the plastic seat and lay Zoe across my chest with her head in my neck. She is whimpering. She has no fever but is turning the tell-tale whitish color. She is clammy and cold.

The waiter-a young 20ish year old boy-comes over and takes our order. A huge chocolate milkshake, pancakes and bacon for Zachary. Grilled cheese and a Strawberry smoothie for Zoe (I am still hoping we can turn the day around with some food).

While the waiter delivers our lunch requests to the kitchen, Zachary builds the Eiffel Tower out of creamers, marmalades and a pink crayon.

I reevaluate my daughter.

There is no doubt in my mind that she is going to throw up. And, because I am a second time mom, I do not immediately request the check and flee.

What I do do is inform Zachary that he will need to prepare to be my assistant. When the waiter brings the drinks, I ask him for a plastic bag. Because he is a young dude, he has no idea why I could be making the request and gives me the eye.

I spell it out for him.

I tell him to take a look at my daughter laying in a pool of sweat on my chest. I tell him that unless he wants vomit on his floor he should bring me a bag. And, he should bring it to me much faster than he delivered my son’s chocolate milkshake.

About a half a second later, barf bag in hand, Zachary and I resume normal conversation.

We make it almost all the way through lunch. Zach even butters and syrups and cuts his own pancakes (something I know that he is capable of doing but I normally do for him).

Then Zoe makes the noise.

It’s a cross between a cry and a strangle and I know what is coming. I put her little face in the bag and she lets out an enormous burp and spits up just a tiny bit. Zachary takes a bite of bacon and offers me a napkin.

I wipe Zoe’s face and give her a sip of water and tuck her back into my lap.

At the end of lunch, as I am paying the check, I lay Zoe down in the booth so that I can pull myself together a bit. I’m terribly hot and tired from carrying her and more than a little wiped from trying to keep the day light for Zachary.

She starts to cry and clench and I know I’ve got moments to get her sitting up before she sprays toddler vomit on the head of the woman sitting at the table next to us.

I get her upright.

I get the plastic bag lined up.

And I miss it by just a fraction of a second.

Zoe throws up and I do the only thing I can think to do in that instant; I catch it.

I cup my hands like you would to splash water on your face and I let her throw up right into them.

When she’s done, I wipe us down. I rinse her with water from a glass and I scoop her up. She’s a rag doll.

We head to get ice cream. Zachary chats and smiles. I stop in Starbucks and wash my hands. Zoe weighs about 100 pounds.

We get raspberry sherbet with rainbow sprinkles. Z-man bites the bottom of the cone and attempts to suck the ice cream out the wrong way. He laughs. I get him a cup to hold his drippy treat and we head out to look at boats.

We see a black lab in a pick-up truck.

People eating lunch on a patio.

Tug boats bordered with old tires.

After about ten minutes looking at the water, I break the news to Zach that we finally need to get his sister home to bed. I’m proud of how he’s quick to answer with an “O.K., Mommy”.

It’s clear that she needs to sleep in her cool, quiet room.

And, though I know you may not believe me, I am grateful for the morning.

It was unplanned and really special.

The rest of the day is uneventful.

Zoe continues to recover from whatever bug she picked up at summer camp.

Zachary bounces between playing outside and inside.

I open the windows.

I make dinner.

I write.

The Waiting Place

You might laugh if you took a look at my organizer. It’s not electronic; just an old fashioned planner. I like the feel of pen to paper (That’s why I write all of my blogs and poetry in a journal before I type them on a computer). I enjoy actively crossing something off of a list-not deleting it on an iPhone. My brain just won’t get in line with electronic planning. I need to see it in front of me. I am a highly visual learner and get overwhelmed if all of my commitments and To-do’s aren’t logged and categorized.

That’s right. Categorized.

By colored post-it; then in labeled lists: To email. To Call. To Pay. To write.

You may interpret it as neurotic. And I can certainly get behind giving that theory some creed. But the fact is, when it’s written down, I do it. It happens. I’m efficient.

I plan for everything.

Consequently, I’m always prepared even when I’m not supposed to be. Someone else is responsible for bringing the snacks to the playground? I guarantee I have a secret stash in my emergency bag in my car.

Yep; an emergency bag for my children. It’s filled with water, food, a complete first aid kit (including flares and one of those crinkly silver warmth blankets you get after a big race), puzzles, changes of clothes, blankets, towels and bathing suits. In the winter you can sub “towels and bathing suits” with “extra sweaters and hats”.

I don’t keep a huge amount of these things in the car. I simply have just a few basic what-if’s because, you know, what if?

This preparedness and, yes, mom, control, create one problem for me:

I run early.

Always.

I have given wherever I need to be complete thought a few days before I have to be there. I have everything I need ready before it becomes time to get ready. And, because getting ready hovers over me like a red-penned-and-highlighted entry on my to-do list, I get the getting ready done so that I can be calm and enjoy life.

I am forever arriving wherever I need to be completely early. Therefore, I find myself in the waiting place.

I should be familiar with the waiting place by now. We all should. We are taught to wait from the time we are children. We need to wait to be read to until after mommy finishes paying a bill. We need to delay gratification of a gift until a special holiday.

As we get older, we wait to hear from a College Admission Board.

About an audition. A job interview. A loan.

We wait for a call back; results from the doctor.

As parents, that waiting blooms with spikes. Any mother or father who is late for an appointment (or, in my case, 10 minutes early [which is late for me]) can shout hallelujah and testify to the grace it takes to wait for a toddler to put on their shoes or walk down the stairs “all by myself!”.

To wait for the 6 year old to put together one last Lego piece when dinner is on the table.

To patiently stick it through a week of screaming and potty training.

Yes, the waiting place is a tough place to be.

But, sometimes, it’s a good place to be, too.

My brother gave me a book once called Getting in the Gap. It’s a paperback how to guide to meditation. The purpose is to try to find quiet space between one’s thoughts.

My mind bubbles with activity and energy. It is never hushed. You can understand then, that I was skeptical.

But, guess what? I didn’t make it through the book because the very first chapter spoke to me.

Now, remember, I am highly visual. I should also tell you that though I love Yoga and meditative based exercise, meditation itself has never worked for me. I can not get my brain to turn off.

However, Dr. Dyer, the author, explains the technique so clearly that I am able to do it in moments of extreme stress.

He suggests that you visualize the first 10 words of The Lord’s Prayer: (granted, this is not a prayer that I frequent, but of course I can recite it) Our Father Who Art In Heaven, Hallowed Be Thy Name”.

Close your eyes.

Separate out the first word in your head: Our

Now, what I do is make the word really big. All capital letters.

Take a moment and, still in your mind with your eyes closed, piece apart only the “O” and the “U” in OUR.

Keep those eyes closed and trace the “O” a few times with the inside of your eyes. Then trace the “U”. Go very slowly. Methodically.

Now, go back to the “O” again. This time though, after you’ve traced the “O” and you are about to make the move to the “U”, stop.

Stop right in between the two letters.

Pause there for just a second.

See how your mind is focused on the space between the two? Notice how it’s quiet there?

That’s The "Gap".

That’s where you want to be.

It’s kind of dark and calm and cool. It’s completely yours.

The more you meditate on the words (and they can be any words really, they don’t necessarily have to be The Lord’s Prayer) the better you get at making your time in the gap longer and quieter.

It gives me a moment or two to look around and take note.

To retrieve some clarity.

To claim the time for reflection.

Open to Interpretation

She’s a tricky little bumble bee,

that Miss. Muffet

with no Tuffet,

walking over the rainbow.

She places one foot in front of the other;

on the violet only.

Step. Step. Step.

Thin candy lacquer:

The razor edge of a just about finished jolly rancher.

Transparent

Sugary

Shining

The dismount is flawless.

A 10 on the Richter Scale.

She claps the chalk off her hands,

wipes it down onto her thigh,

and sprints for the concession.

There is poetry in living. You just have to look for it.

One of my favorite movies is American Beauty-and not just because of the brilliant Kevin Spacey. I love the cinematography and the meaning.

But I haven’t always.

The floating plastic bag used to bother me. It seemed trite; below the message, maybe. It felt obvious in its symbolism. A symbol trying to be a symbol. With time, I’ve given it some thought and I have grown to understand:

It does not matter what it is actually about. What is relevant is what I (or you, the viewer) believe it to be.

Most recently, in my position as a 12^th grade English teacher, I would debate with my advanced writing class about author intent. As we interpret Shakespeare or Plath or Vonnegut, there is always the student who will refute, “Maybe the object [we are discussing] is simply an object. Maybe it symbolizes nothing. Sometimes a crown is just a crown.”

I expect that question. I get it as least once per semester. When it’s asked, I generally stop class and sit cross legged on my desk and explain that it’s about metacognition; knowing about knowing. It dates back to Aristotle. To Piaget’s theories of cognitive development. Metacognition is when the individual forms thoughts and creates new freeways based on something that has already been built.

It’s a means of survival.

Any former writing, poetry or English 101 student of mine will tell you that I am likely to throw a book at the head of any learner who dares to use cliché in writing.

It’s lazy.

Instead, take that truism---digest it, rethink it---and make that baby yours.

You’ll always be right if it’s yours.

I reason with my class that perhaps the author did not mean more. And perhaps he did. In my classroom I am the boss and, before students move on to metacognition, they need to first pay respect in their exploration of the author’s original intent.

I can tell you this unequivocally, authors always have a reason for what they write.

When you digest that reason, that meaning, then it’s time for the graduate course; and that syllabus is yours to teach.

Because, guess what?: It’s not about the bag.

It’s about wind.

It’s about journey.

It’s about the destination.

Girl Power

I start 30-40% of my mornings by getting up before the kids, having a cup of coffee, and reading CNN online.

[During the other 70%, I am jumped on by children and dogs or drink the aforementioned coffee like a sleep deprived sloth while sitting on the porch.]

One of the sections on CNN that I frequent is called Girl Rising. This area of CNN.com boasts that it documents extraordinary girls and the power of education to change the world.

I love that this area of CNN exists. I am happy that attention is being given to the pursuit of equality for women of all ages in all locations and all socioeconomic climates. I am thrilled that the message of Gloria Steinham is being continuously explored and reinterpreted by everyone from Christiane Amanpour to Michelle Obama to Sheryl Sandberg.

But, with education and progress come a set of fresh rules; a new arena is created in which everyone needs to learn how to do battle. With every step forward we take, we need to look backwards and make sure that we are adjusting our expectations. We need to be honest with ourselves about the demands that those expectations place on the shoulders of our daughters.

In my most-clicked blog to date, I speak to a frustration I have with my husband. But, on a deeper lever, what I allude to is the fact that I as a woman and mother and (at that time) player in the work force, feel personally burdened by the need to project an image that I can do it all. I can achieve the highest accomplishments at work. I can be the very best mother at home. I can be the most doting wife. The most creative chef. The comic. The therapist. The musician. The writer. The athlete.

If the world I live in affords me the ability to do all of these things, then isn’t it incumbent on me to do them? To do them perfectly?

This is the pressure I fear for my daughter.

It is consequently the pressure I want to protect her from.

I don’t want Zoe to feel that if she needs help-if she wants help-she is weak.

I want to protect her from the misconception that I had, that to be a great woman--a strong one, a liberated one-- you have to do it all.

For some reason, it took me 34 years to realize that I can’t do it all.

No one can.

No man.

No woman.

Can do everything.

Because we are human.

And in that humanity is the secret to gender equality.

What our feminist leaders are trying to relate to us is that equality is a tough problem to solve. It’s a tough problem to solve because you need to start with an understanding of the fact that everyone is different. You need to understand that different does not mean not equal. It does, however, mean unlike in characteristics.

What we as women should be fighting for--for ourselves, our daughters, and, yes, our sons too-- is to be given equal chances. Fair shots; quality of opportunity.

And those daughters and sons alike should feel that they have breathing room to seize those opportunities. Or not.

I’m not painting a Candy Land world with rainbows and blue birds; what I am suggesting is that we should think about not thinking about it so much.

What I want is for Zoe to grow up confident that she can do anything that she wants. Say anything she wants.

To speak her heart.

To know that she doesn’t have to meet a standard simply because the standard exists.

Sure, I want her to pursue excellence. But, I want her to pursue excellence in the place where she wants and not necessarily in the place that the feminist movement dictates.

All gifts carry with them burdens.

I want my tenacious little girl to know that pressure is everywhere; to know how to navigate situations that are going to throw challenges her way. 

I want my baby to know that she can achieve not because she is a woman; she can achieve because she is Zoe.

Fissure

She smiled and a crack formed in that place 

where two lips 

come together.

The right side. Not the left.

The spot where kids stick an index finger and

pull apart

 to make a funny face,

“cheeeeese”,

for the camera.

Right there: A fissure fractured 

and ran right up to her temple--

flirting dangerously with her hairline.

I wish I were made of clay,

(she thought)

I could pinch myself back together.

Zoe means business.

She is not messing around.

She came into this world with complete lack of regard for me, her mother.

My first contraction was at 2:30 in the morning. 

I was holding her, all cleaned up and snuggled in, at 5:25 AM.

Bye-bye epidural.

Sorry you couldn’t make it, Doctor. 

Nurse, too bad you didn’t have the opportunity to call for back up.

Zoe has her own agenda.

She proved this again, a few nights ago, when she threw a tantrum of such proportions I’m surprised the Earth didn’t split at its core.

It’s a lovely night. It’s Zachary’s last T-ball game. I have an appointment to attend before the game begins and am consequently about 20 minutes late. This means that Tim has both children (one of whom is fielding grounders) for just under a half hour.

I receive several ominous texts of warning to get over to the field because my adorable cherubic toddler is involved in some serious screaming action.

When I arrive she is puffy with tears. Red faced. Sweaty. Nothing consoles her.

I kiss her; she slaps me.

I speak softly; she yells in my face.

I offer her a sippy cup of water; she chucks it at the windshield.

As I wrestle her twisting body into the car--the only option is to take her home and put her to bed-- I yell encouragement over my shoulder to Zachary.

Meanwhile, Zoe shrieks and assures me that she is not tired.

Not at all.

That she’s actually not crying.

We get home (thankfully only a 45 second drive from the park) and she flails all the way to her changing table.

She wants milk.

She wants to sleep in a tu-tu.

She wants me to know that my dress is “yucky”.

I change her diaper.

She attempts to rip the mirror off of the wall.

This child is so exhausted that she is speaking and mumbling like a drunk pink princess.

I’m not tempted to lose my temper with her because she is beyond hysteria.

It’s clear that she needs my help.

I know, too, that as soon as I get her settled there is a list of girlfriends whom I can call.

I know that my ladies will share with me their own stories of tantrum terror.

When you are feeling as if you are in a situation that is anxiety provoking or impossible, there is no better solution than to share the emotions about the situation with someone else who has been there.

Who is there,

Who can understand.

You walk away from the conversation with nothing changed, but everything better.

There is no feeling quite like being heard.

I heard Zoe the other night. She needed my help.

Sometimes all we have to do is listen.

Impossible

I have my Masters degree; Magna Cum Laude.

I received my BS in Psychology and English from Boston College.

I scored pretty darn high on my SAT's.

I tell you these things to prove to you that I am not an unintelligent woman.

What I am is lopsided in the distribution of what I know.

There are some items quite common to our everyday existence, some of which are even antiquated, that no matter how many times someone explains it to me; no matter how slowly they go; no matter how many diagrams they draw…

I just don’t get it.

To compensate for my lack of understanding, I create a mini-movie in my head of how these items work. The movies are fantastical and absolutely fictional. Maybe even science fictional. But, they work for me.

I’ll explain.

Impossible invention #1: The Fax Machine

This sucker has baffled me for years. Yes, I know there is an electronic transmission of information. There’s a scan of a piece of paper and that scan is converted to data and that data is zoomed along a mystery wire to the receiving machine.

Still I say, whaaaaat?

In my mind, what happens is quite similar to the scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (the original, with Gene Wilder) when the little cowboy boy is shrunk into a miniature obnoxious dude. He gets pixilated first, then flies through the air in a million little boy pieces. That’s how I explain the fax.

The document being sent shrinks down and folds into a kind of a baby paper airplane. That paper airplane is, of course, indiscernible and flies to where it needs to go. It flies invisibly through a wire. Then, when it arrives at its target, it swells and smoothes-a plant growing in fast forward on the Discovery Channel- and boom!:

It arrives at its final destination.

Impossible invention #2: The airplane

As recently as yesterday, while I was actually on an airplane, someone tried to explain to me how flight is possible. An engineer, actually. A bright, patient sweet guy who started with air flow over wing tips and proceeded to lift, gravitational pull, and distribution of mass, weight and speed.

Please.

The way an airplane takes off is simple: It’s a miracle.

That sucker weighs seven bazillion pounds. It goes really really fast. Then, it hits a black hole of non-existent gravity. It becomes weightless and floats along. The pilot steers it, (but I can’t really explain the radars and GPS instruments either). It flies in the sky on a cushion of swirly-swirly-up-air. Then, when it’s time to land, it finds the zero gravity black hole on the other side and peeks its nose in and swan dives towards the runway.

Totally simple.

Impossible Invention #3: The cell phone

Are you kidding me?

This is some futuristic craziness.

My cell phone can work at 30,000 feet. I can buy the internet in the sky for $10.00 and surf the web for 3 hours. I can make a phone call to India from my kitchen.

With no wires (not that I can explain those anyway).

The way a cell phone works involves atom sized polka-dots of tornado sound waves that zoom out of the speakers. They turn into swarms of shimmering minnows. They cut through space and time and land in my ear. On my screen.

It’s ridiculous. That’s the best I have. Cell phones are the final destination for me. My head explodes.

That’s it, folks.

Three explanations for three of the most impossible inventions.

I didn’t even attempt to explain digital cameras.

I’ll leave that to one of you.

Integrity

On my way to Oregon, I am seated in an exit row.

I feel lucky. I can scooch to the edge of the seat and stretch my legs out straight; the flats of my feet prop on the wall in front of me. A perfect fit. The flight attendant gives me a blanket and I'm in a little bed.

There is no window in the exit row, just a small circle of thick magnifying glass in the plane door. As we taxi and take off (my favorite part) the world falls away and I have only my sense of hearing.

Of feeling.

There's a rumble. A lift in my stomach like falling in love. The plane gathers that impossible speed and I am in the sky.

I sleep the first few hours. Sometimes stretched out. Sometimes curled in a ball.

When I wake up and have coffee in a teeny tiny airline cup, my seat mate and I begin to chat.

I have misjudged her. I thought she was younger than me. Maybe traveling on her own.

She's beautiful. Unlined skin. A Preceptor of Statistics at Harvard. Her husband is seated seperately, but visits her periodically with snacks and kisses. He's a native New Yorker-that I pegged instantly-and a researcher and developer of an electronic technology called super conductivity.

His goal? To make a train that moves so quickly it floats over the rails.

My seat mate has misjudged me, too. She thinks I'm a college student. She doesn't believe I have two children until I show her pictures. She oohs and ahhhs over Zoe's cheeks. Zach's lego towers. We talk about Boston. About our love for cities and good food and culture.

She is flying to Japan to visit her parents. She sips water in small bursts. Jokes that it takes her an hour to eat an ice cream.

When we are on the ground, my new friend and I say goodbye.

My visit to Oregon is productive. I have honest conversations.

I stay in my grandparents' retirement community. I play Bingo. I sit on a bus tour of the Portland countryside with 25 octagenarians. Pearl, a sweet woman who can't speak or hold her head up, sits next to me. She seems cold. I cover her with my fleece.

The old people move so slowly that I am challenged to keep up.
They touch my hands.
My hair.

I buy a delicate necklace with a silver and gold sparrow.

I sleep in my own room within the community. I can hear wheelchairs and click-clicking walkers outside my door.

I run or walk frequently to keep my head quiet; to help me digest the fact that one day I might be Pearl.

I text with my best friend.

My Aunt brings us to Multnomah Falls. I take a picture while feeling frozen in the spray of the water.

The goodbye as I wait for my cab is hard. Final, feeling.

I speak to my children on the ride back to the airport. Zoe asks me to come swimming. Zachary tells me he has fallen in love with "sour and sweet sauce" since I've been gone.

I get a tea for the plane ride. Sit in a window seat and snap photos of Mt. Rainier. Mt Adams. Mt. St. Helen.

The mountains rise above the clouds.
The sky is blue.
I feel clear.

My seat mate is young--this time I am sure. Probably mid-20's. A red hooded sweatshirt. He sleeps most of the way. I touch his shoulder and climb over him when I have to go to the bathroom.

I finish my tea and listen to some music. A song called Broken Things. One lyric sticks with me: tell me what it is you think you're missing/ I will see what I can find.

I am almost home.