tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37789316439509539292024-03-14T00:56:41.923-04:00Totally Smitten MamaLexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.comBlogger304125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-87706024830515954462011-01-08T22:01:00.002-05:002011-01-08T22:02:35.687-05:00UndoneSometimes weeks go by and I don't check in here at all. Other times, I will spend several hours reading through old posts and comments, studying photographs, piecing together the story of the last few years of my life. I am amazed by how much the kids have grown over the course of my time writing here. <a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/R-Ah1FNySfI/AAAAAAAAAME/D0h_KoykJSE/s1600-h/lukeafter.jpg">Luke</a> and <a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/R-AiylNySmI/AAAAAAAAAM8/c49pLH392iU/s1600-h/jazbefore.jpg">Jaz</a> have changed from round-faced preschoolers into lanky second-graders. <a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/R9nIYFNySRI/AAAAAAAAAKU/MyDl_Rw-riM/s1600-h/zebbanana3.jpg">Zeb</a> has been transformed from my delicious baby into the funny little (<span style="font-style: italic;">four-year-old!</span>) guy that he is today. And <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/SkTWJcIckqI/AAAAAAAADQs/ffbOzbIxE2Q/s1600-h/Leojustborn2.jpg">Leo</a> was conceived and birthed and has now grown big enough to where he is no longer simply a baby in the chaos, but the running, tumbling, talking, <span style="font-style: italic;">cause</span> of much chaos (in a most fabulous way, most of the time)!<br /><br />I am so grateful to those of you--and there have been many--who have continued to write to me and encourage me, and send love, despite my long, unexplained absence and my lack of response. It was never my intent to abandon the blog all together, and I apologize for not being more forthcoming about my status.<br /><br />Our family has endured a very difficult autumn and is now taking on a new form. Lena and I have been living apart for a few months, and the kids began dividing their time between two homes in November. I am not currently planning on writing about the experience of separation-- nor more generally about my marriage--in this space, but I do hope to return to blogging about parenting, in one way or another.<br /><br />I assure you that all of us are physically well, that Lena and I are striving to be our most gracious and best selves as we navigate this painful, emotional transition, and that our children remain very, very loved.Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com62tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-57034437960774008002010-08-15T22:12:00.015-04:002010-08-17T19:07:37.657-04:00On Milk and Equality and Nighttime ParentingA few weeks ago, we began the process of night-weaning Leo. For those unfamiliar with the term, <span style="font-style: italic;">night-weaning</span> refers to weaning a baby or toddler from breastfeeding at night (while daytime nursing is not restricted). For us, "night" is defined as the hours between bedtime (7:00-8:00 p.m.) and about 5:00 a.m. Our other kids were older when we closed down the nurse-all-night breastmilk bar, so we weren't sure how it would work for a younger toddler with more limited communication skills. But I remembered wishing--after I night-weaned Luke and Jaz at 18 months--that I had done it months earlier (before the sleep deprivation really made me crazy), so we decided to try it, with our wee 13-month-old (I tend to take the approach of trying new parenting ideas, even if I don't feel sure of the outcome: <span style="font-style: italic;">we can't know if we don't try, </span>and<span style="font-style: italic;"> we can always change our minds</span>). And it's worked out just splendidly. Instead of nursing him when he wakes in the night (no, unfortunately, night-weaning typically does not fully eliminate night-waking), we just snuggle him back to sleep. The first couple of nights were a little rough--Leo cried some in our arms--but since then it's been remarkably smooth sailing. Leo lets out a whimper, we spoon him close to us, and he's instantly back to sleep.<br /><br />The big deal here, as far as I'm concerned, is that we're both equally able to nighttime parent Leo now. Previously, I <span style="font-style: italic;">could </span>nurse Leo back to sleep if he woke when Lena was unavailable, but it was always rather stressful (he'd fuss on and off at my breast, and clearly be looking for Lena). While my new found ability to quickly comfort Leo in the night is lovely--and relieving for Lena, who had been nearly solely responsible for putting Leo to bed and getting him back to sleep when he'd wake--in and of itself, I've been shocked by the unanticipated effect it's had on my <span style="font-style: italic;">daytime</span> relationship with him.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGifm8eef2I/AAAAAAAAFGQ/TqsIzK8Vyjo/s1600/lexleonurse2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGifm8eef2I/AAAAAAAAFGQ/TqsIzK8Vyjo/s400/lexleonurse2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505826035878231906" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Leo nurses with me more and more frequently these days<br />(laptop camera self-portrait: low-quality photo)<br /></span></span><br /></div>It is hard for me to admit this--I feel so passionately about breastfeeding and <span style="font-style: italic;">mothering through breastfeeding</span>--but Lena choosing to stop nursing Leo in the night has really been to the benefit of <span>my</span> relationship with him. He is more easily comforted by me during the day, and seems less as though he is looking for Lena around every corner when she's gone. Sometimes he even chooses me for comfort when Lena <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> home. I am simply thrilled with the new state of things. If I had <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/11/my-leo.html">come to feel like Leo truly was my son</a> before, I'm feeling it at least ten times more strongly now. Or rather, it feels much more reciprocal now than it did previously.<br /><br />Some friends of ours--a two-mom family with two kids, wherein each mom gestated one of the babies--recently weaned their two-year-old all together (no daytime or nighttime nursing). And his non-gestational mother was telling me about how even though the decision was incredibly difficult for his gestational mom--and was not without significant loss and grief--there's been an equal and opposite positive impact for her, the NGP. And I can definitely understand that now, how the breastfeeding relationship--so rewarding and special, but also rather exclusive--can keep a non-breastfeeding parent (or, in my case, a minimally breastfeeding parent) at some level of distance. That said, our current experience leads me to believe that it is the <span style="font-style: italic;">nighttime</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">parenting</span>--more than the breastfeeding specifically--that is making the most difference. Kids are often at their most vulnerable in the night, and someone who is able to comfort and soothe them during that time is then more likely to be able to comfort and soothe them during the day.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGifmjrWzEI/AAAAAAAAFGI/nmYpZKyv7ZI/s1600/lexleonurse.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGifmjrWzEI/AAAAAAAAFGI/nmYpZKyv7ZI/s400/lexleonurse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505826029221366850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">nursing hormones + sun on my face = total bliss</span></span><br /><br /></div>As pleased as I am with this new experience of parenting a night-weaned version of Leo, I don't wish that we had night-weaned him any earlier. I think it's important for babies to be able to nurse through the night at least through the first year of life. And, even if I'd known then what I do now--about how positively Leo's and my relationship would be affected by the night-weaning--I still would have supported Lena in choosing to continue to nurse Leo through the night indefinitely, for as long as she so desired (as it was, she was becoming increasingly sleep deprived, which is what prompted the decision to night-wean).<br /><br />Frequently, in my experience as Leo's non-gestational mom, this conflict arises between what I believe to be the best choice for any baby and gestational mother, and my own desire to have as <span style="font-style: italic;">equal</span> a role in mothering Leo as possible. It began when he was just born, and <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/Sljm3rrSvqI/AAAAAAAADUA/SS_c3adM3wY/s1600-h/birth3.jpg">Leo was placed on Lena's chest</a> for his first couple hours of life. Of course I wanted very much to take him in my own arms, to feel his little body pressed against mine, to breathe him in and kiss him everywhere. But <span style="font-style: italic;">even</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">more</span> than what I wanted for myself, I wanted <span style="font-style: italic;">Lena</span> to have the experience of constant contact with him, of relishing the feeling of having just pushed a baby out and loving his body on the outside for the first time. And for Leo, I wanted him to remain in earshot of Lena's heartbeat and in smelling distance of her breasts. I knew that my time with him would come eventually, <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/Slju7iCzuMI/AAAAAAAADUY/1BLViHEtQw4/s1600-h/birth5.jpg">and it did</a>.<br /><br />Likewise, when Lena started back to work a few months after Leo was born, it would have been most convenient for me to be able to feed him her expressed milk (either by bottle or with an at-the-breast <a href="http://www.lact-aid.com/">supplementer</a>). Beyond convenience, it would have allowed me the experience of being able to fully meet Leo's needs all day long, of feeling free to go about my day as I would have had I been Leo's gestational mother: spontaneously choosing to go out to lunch with friends, or making a visit to my grandparents, who live a little over an hour away. But instead, Lena and I chose <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> to have her express her milk. Her job allowed her to work mostly from home, and it was no trouble for her to take a break to nurse Leo every couple of hours. This meant that the two of them never had to be separated for longer than the time between feedings (which I myself never would have been able to handle, when I was the gestational mother), Leo never had to suck on an artificial nipple, and Lena never had to make milk for a breast pump in place of a baby. Unfortunately, this arrangement--while ideal for Lena and Leo--sometimes left <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span> feeling like more of a baby-sitter than a parent; I had to keep my eyes on the clock, and rush home with Leo so that he could nurse when he got hungry. But that felt like an acceptable consequence for being able to preserve Lena and Leo's full-time breastfeeding relationship.<br /><br />While I would have loved to be able to co-sleep with Leo in his first year, my arms circling his warm body, feeling the rhythm of his little breaths on my neck, I wanted even more for Lena to get to experience it (as I had with our other babies). I wanted her to see how her instincts would cause her to awaken just before he did, offering the breast when he'd only just begun to squirm, nursing him back to sleep without even fully waking up herself. I <span style="font-style: italic;">wanted</span> Lena and Leo to get to continue being <span style="font-style: italic;">one</span> in as many ways as possible, for as long as possible. Because that is my wish for every single gestational-mama-and-baby pair, certainly not to the exclusion of a pair--Lena and Leo--so very close to my heart.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGifnJBcu7I/AAAAAAAAFGY/B91krV9vnKc/s1600/lexleonurse3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGifnJBcu7I/AAAAAAAAFGY/B91krV9vnKc/s400/lexleonurse3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505826039246142386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;">I accidentally nursed him to sleep</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">This go-round, Lena and I have managed to mother our baby way more equally than we were ever able to in the past (largely due to the fact that we were both only working part-time through his first year, whereas previously I was the sole at-home parent and Lena worked full-time). We've even been able to fulfill my long-term dream and <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/08/two-moms-four-breasts-one-happy-baby.html">take advantage of all four of our breasts</a>. But still, I wouldn't say that our roles in Leo's life have been <span style="font-style: italic;">equal</span>. Sure, <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2008/12/pinch-me_18.html">I kept the sperm that contributed to his conception warm in my bra prior to the insemination</a>, but Lena <span style="font-style: italic;">grew him in her body from a tiny zygote to a 7-lb person!</span> I think that to expect a fully equal experience of parenting baby Leo would have been misguided and inappropriate. That said, as Leo gets bigger--and becomes increasingly independent--I certainly appreciate the growing significance of my role in mothering him. And I know that a few years from now, none of this: who nursed him when, who slept with him more, even who gestated him, will feel relevant.<br /><br />I continue to be grateful for having my eyes and heart opened to the experience of non-gestational parenthood, and have no regrets about the way we've chosen to mother Leo for the past 13.5 months. And I will continue to rejoice in each sign I get--from Leo, from my own reactions--of my strengthening bond and attachment to this most beloved little one.<br /></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGiewUgB1rI/AAAAAAAAFFw/RFwAAHZ73Us/s1600/lexleonurse.jpg"><br /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGlxn8pt3MI/AAAAAAAAFGg/UIoSP3v3reY/s1600/lenaleonursebeach.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGlxn8pt3MI/AAAAAAAAFGg/UIoSP3v3reY/s400/lenaleonursebeach.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506056950547078338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Lena and Leo, nursing on the beach</span></span><br /></div>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com59tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-70025928196555579072010-08-14T15:21:00.000-04:002012-04-26T22:05:08.927-04:00Thirty Three<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yesterday we celebrated Lena's thirty third--oh, how I love palindromes--birthday with a small gathering of loved ones, many balloons, and <span style="font-style: italic;">two</span> cakes. I baked one <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/08/for-love-of-blueberries.html">favorite blueberry cake</a>, and one cheesecake (the latter being Lena's forever preference). The form of the cheesecake turned out a little funky (depressed in the middle) due to our funky oven (though, looking at photos from her birthday last year, I noticed that <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/SoYfrYcF6FI/AAAAAAAADfs/sDlY_PRhGvY/s1600-h/weekinpix.jpg">that cake looked a little funky</a>, too, and that one was baked in our old house. So maybe I can't blame the oven), but was exceptionally delicious with a perfect texture (disappearing all together about 5 minutes after Lena blew out her candles).<br />
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I topped the cake with both a tree and a baby lion, for my forest ecologist, lion-loving wife.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGdQaKpmMyI/AAAAAAAAFFg/zNi4B3yyX1I/s1600/33cake1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505457479949366050" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGdQaKpmMyI/AAAAAAAAFFg/zNi4B3yyX1I/s400/33cake1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGdQajSBltI/AAAAAAAAFFo/o2oxBwD-hWU/s1600/33cake2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505457486561384146" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGdQajSBltI/AAAAAAAAFFo/o2oxBwD-hWU/s400/33cake2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
It took years to settle on a cheesecake recipe worth repeating, and now that I've found one (this has been the standard for at least a few birthdays now), I have stopped looking.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Lena's Birthday Cheesecake<br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">7 packages (8 oz. each) of cream cheese</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">4 eggs</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">1 tablespoon vanilla extract</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">1 cup crushed graham cracker crumbs</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">1/4 cup butter, melted</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">1 cup plus 3 tablespoons sugar</span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
1. Preheat the oven to 325°F, and butter an 8" spring-form pan.<br />
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2. Combine the graham cracker crumbs with the melted butter and 3 tablespoons of sugar. Press the mixture into the bottom of the pan.<br />
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3. In a mixing bowl, beat the cream cheese together with 1 cup of sugar. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the vanilla extract.<br />
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4. Pour the batter into the pan, and bake for 2 hours and 15 minutes, until top is golden brown and edges are firm (center will still jiggle a bit).<br />
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5. Let the cake cool to room temperature, and then refrigerate for at least 12 hours before serving.</div>
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When I met her, Lena was 21 years old. And now she is 33. How is that even possible?! She seemed so <span style="font-style: italic;">old</span> then (I was, by comparison, a wee 18-year-old; <span style="font-style: italic;">she</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">could buy</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">beer</span>), but now, when I think of her current age, I think of how <span style="font-style: italic;">young</span> she still is. Of how young <span style="font-style: italic;">we</span> still are. Of how many, many birthdays there are still to come. Of how many dreams still left to be realized, some not even yet wished for. This is only the beginning. Who knows where the next 12 years will take us?</div>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-91783945023780036252010-08-11T22:06:00.007-04:002010-08-12T08:16:37.975-04:00Life is Beautiful<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">Today was a hard day.<br />The kind of day where it takes a lot of effort to remember<br />that there is beauty everywhere.<br /></div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGNXOMFKPCI/AAAAAAAAFFI/lmzxHa3hn_4/s1600/sunflowerblog2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGNXOMFKPCI/AAAAAAAAFFI/lmzxHa3hn_4/s400/sunflowerblog2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504339070849530914" border="0" /></a><br />That I am surrounded by it.<br />That life, itself, is beautiful.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGNXOSlSb8I/AAAAAAAAFFQ/W5-aZ6Nc2To/s1600/sunflowerblog3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGNXOSlSb8I/AAAAAAAAFFQ/W5-aZ6Nc2To/s400/sunflowerblog3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504339072594898882" border="0" /></a><br />Please let me never lose this ability:<br />to pull myself out of a funk and find Hope again.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGNXNnkbGqI/AAAAAAAAFFA/GoEB2l8BFiY/s1600/sunflowerblog.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGNXNnkbGqI/AAAAAAAAFFA/GoEB2l8BFiY/s400/sunflowerblog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504339061048548002" border="0" /></a><br />Love is all over the place.<br />I'm in charge of my own beautiful;<br />I just have to keep my eyes open and believe it.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(sunflowers courtesy of my mom's garden)</span></span><br /></div></div>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-34095349482256681062010-08-10T15:57:00.002-04:002010-08-10T22:33:05.596-04:00BalanceI feel like there are so many posts I could write with this title: <span style="font-style: italic;">Balance</span>. So much of life as a mother and a partner and a professional person is about balancing commitments, priorities, desires, needs, dreams and reality. But this post is about the actual <span style="font-style: italic;">physical act</span> of balance, specifically <span style="font-style: italic;">Zeben's</span> balance.<br /><br />Zeb<a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/03/start-early.html"> first started riding his hand-me-down balance bike in March of 2009</a>, when he was 2 years and 4 months old. At the time he was barely tall enough to sit on the seat properly, and didn't do much riding at all. He'd just walk it around, legs straddling the bike, <span style="font-style: italic;">believing</span> that he was riding it. But by the end of that summer he had grown enough so that he fit the frame well, and he was able to zoom all the way to his preschool from our house (about 1.5 miles). Here is a short video of Zeben riding his balance bike in March of 2010, nearly exactly one year after he first started trying it out:<br /><br /><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/UoCZZWaMcqc&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/UoCZZWaMcqc&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="640"></embed></object><br /><br />This summer he has biked to and from town at least a couple dozen times, and I noted that as we walked, his feet were making less and less contact with the sidewalk; he was spending the majority of each ride <span style="font-style: italic;">gliding</span>. A couple of weeks ago when we took Luke and Jaz to buy some new bicycles (bigger, and <span style="font-style: italic;">with gears</span>; they can keep up with their moms on the bike path now!), Zeb fell in love with the tiny 12-inch two-wheeler bicycle in the shop, and we decided to let him get it. I figured he was ready for a real bike, and while he probably could fit on one of Luke and Jaz's newly discarded 16-inch bikes, I knew he'd be more comfortable learning to ride on a smaller one (he is a bit short for his age, still wearing mostly size 2T pants now at 3.5).<br /><br />We let Zeb ride around in our driveway with the training wheels still on the bike (it came that way) for the first day (he thought it was quite fun), but on day 2, I took the training wheels off. Zeb was not pleased. He did not believe that he'd be able to ride the bike (and he yelled about it so loudly that I'm certain the whole neighborhood heard). I promised him that if he really wanted me to, I would put the training wheels back on after he tried to ride without them. And so he agreed to try. Here he is, 10 minutes later:<br /><br /><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4h1AL3x_2fE&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4h1AL3x_2fE&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="480"></embed></object><br /><br />Clearly, the balance bike taught him to balance quite well!<br /><br />"Wow!" I exclaimed, after he'd gone several yards, "you're really riding it!"<br /><br />"What?" accused Zeb, showing no pride, "you thought I <span style="font-style: italic;">couldn't</span>?"<br /><br />Oh, my beloved curmudgeon: won't you ever be excited about anything? But the truth is that I think Zeb <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> a little proud of himself for having learned to ride his bike. Since that day, he's just gotten more and more adept at it, and can now turn circles and everything. I'm so glad for him to be becoming such a confident little bike lover. I don't generally think of him as being a gross motor kind of kid, but this summer he's learned to pump on the swing, and now to ride a pedal bike, and it's great to see him enjoying the physical abilities of his body more. It was also really cool to get to see him go through the full cycle of the balance bike experience; it just makes so much sense! What a fun and stress-free way to learn to ride a bike. I can't wait for Leo to be big enough to start the process (then again, maybe I can; daredevil baby is going to be <span style="font-style: italic;">trouble</span> on wheels!).Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-2304903994911030832010-08-09T11:06:00.015-04:002010-08-30T11:32:48.348-04:00Two Moms, Four Kids, One TentIt had been slightly more than two years since <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2008/06/home-away-from-home.html">the last time we went camping</a> (and, to be clear, I use the term <span style="font-style: italic;">camping</span> incredibly loosely here; we were sleeping in a tent, but that was the extent of the ways in which we were <span style="font-style: italic;">roughing it</span>), and I swear that our tent shrank significantly during that time. The first time we used it--when Luke and Jaz were 3, and I was pregnant with Zeben--it felt positively spacious. Lena and I were accustomed to <span style="font-style: italic;">real camping</span> at that point (the kind where you're miles from civilization, cooking on a propane stove, peeing in the woods, and sleeping in a tent just big enough to lie down in), and the fact that we could fully stand, upright, in our giant, not-suitable-for-backpacking, temporary shelter was enough to make it feel like it was more <span style="font-style: italic;">house</span> than tent. But now, post addition of Zeb and Leo, post creation of our outrageously comfy family bed extraordinaire, post ability to remember much of life pre-kids (<span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> camping included), our 9' x 9' tent felt kind of a lot like the 81 square feet it truly is.<br /><br />We brought a quilt, sheets and our king-sized duvet from our bed at home, hoping to recreate our cozy nest inside the tent. But I think the key ingredient to a cozy nest of a bed is actually not the bedding, but the <span style="font-style: italic;">mattress</span>. And our tent version of the family bed was <span style="font-style: italic;">sorely</span> lacking in that exact category. Our <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Therm-a-Rest">therm-a-rests</a> just didn't cut it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGApgJ2dZbI/AAAAAAAAFEo/1jIHtCZQrCM/s1600/tenting8.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGApgJ2dZbI/AAAAAAAAFEo/1jIHtCZQrCM/s400/tenting8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503444377023636914" border="0" /></a><br />The <span style="font-style: italic;">kids</span> actually slept really well in the tent. They woke up well-rested, and smiley . . . for the most part anyway.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGAo-99ZTdI/AAAAAAAAFDw/pHKqaQsZAi4/s1600/tenting1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGAo-99ZTdI/AAAAAAAAFDw/pHKqaQsZAi4/s400/tenting1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503443806895820242" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGAo_-ivLzI/AAAAAAAAFEA/RMJ7tAU-zMY/s1600/tenting3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGAo_-ivLzI/AAAAAAAAFEA/RMJ7tAU-zMY/s400/tenting3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503443824232312626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I feel like I'm glimpsing a teenage version of Lukas here.</span></span><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGAo_-ivLzI/AAAAAAAAFEA/RMJ7tAU-zMY/s1600/tenting3.jpg"><br /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGArIweHgGI/AAAAAAAAFE4/Xuo2GVC_-ag/s1600/tenting10.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGArIweHgGI/AAAAAAAAFE4/Xuo2GVC_-ag/s400/tenting10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503446174096916578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >"Why, yes, Love, I slept absolutely wonderfully last night."</span><br /><br /><br />Fun with flashlights . . .<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGApA3g5obI/AAAAAAAAFEQ/iWO9oY-HIdM/s1600/tenting5.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGApA3g5obI/AAAAAAAAFEQ/iWO9oY-HIdM/s400/tenting5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503443839525429682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">6:42 a.m.</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGAo_lTJ-OI/AAAAAAAAFD4/9OSJqLjsGwg/s1600/tenting2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGAo_lTJ-OI/AAAAAAAAFD4/9OSJqLjsGwg/s400/tenting2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503443817456072930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">6:44 a.m.</span></span><br /><br />. . . quickly became <span style="font-style: italic;">fighting</span> over flashlights.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGApfV0UDyI/AAAAAAAAFEY/MTumtxSDhHg/s1600/tenting6.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGApfV0UDyI/AAAAAAAAFEY/MTumtxSDhHg/s400/tenting6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503444363055992610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">6:46 a.m.</span></span><br /><br /></div>But what I love about camping at the Cape--why we'll continue to do it, despite less than ideal sleeping conditions--actually has nothing to do with the tent or sleep at all (or even, to some extent, the huge amounts of money we save, not renting a house). I love that camping forces us to be up and out by 7:00 a.m. each morning, with only one place to go: <span style="font-style: italic;">the beach</span>. We ate three meals a day while looking out at the ocean, clocking in at least 40 hours of beach time in a three-night vacation. For a brief window, the rhythm of the tides became the rhythm of our life.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGApgiUIzRI/AAAAAAAAFEw/D5MHY8FoJ8s/s1600/tenting9.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TGApgiUIzRI/AAAAAAAAFEw/D5MHY8FoJ8s/s400/tenting9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503444383590567186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">7:00 p.m.<br />Bedtime reading, 10 feet from the ocean</span></span><br /></div><br />The lack of a house or a kitchen meant there was no need for us to spend any time preparing food or cleaning up (such a change from regular life!). There was no temptation to put the kids in front of a movie, and no need for toys of any kind. There was just sand and water, stones and wind to keep the children entertained all day long. We'd return to the campground after dark, transfer the kids into the tent (at least 50% of them would have fallen asleep on the drive home from the beach/P-town), and take a luxurious 4-minute shower (bonus feature of this campground: <span style="font-style: italic;">outdoor showers</span>) before climbing into the tent ourselves.<br /><br />As we were packing up on the last morning, I did find myself eyeing some of the pop-up trailers and RVs longingly, wondering what it would feel like to both sleep comfortably <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> be "camping," but the truth is that I think we do pretty well with our 81 square feet. And if nothing else, it certainly makes us appreciate our bed when we get back home, despite the fact that, sadly, there is no ocean in our backyard.Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-63093524561778653072010-08-08T12:31:00.016-04:002010-08-09T00:00:50.027-04:00Rainbows AplentyWe timed our recent trip to the Cape to coincide with the annual event of <a href="http://www.familyequality.org/site/Calendar/1740357659?view=Detail&id=100061">Family Week</a>, but only somewhat on purpose. We'd been planning to send Luke and Jaz to camp during that week, but learned at the last minute (um, because we waited until the last minute to try and sign them up) that the camp was full. Suddenly plan-free, we decided to call up some campgrounds on the Cape and see if there were any campsites available, figuring we could vacation now and send the kids to camp later (there is room in camp during the last two weeks of August, when we'd previously hoped to vacation somewhere). Family Week always takes place during the first week in August, and I've always been curious about it, so this seemed a good opportunity to check it out.<br /><br />As luck would have it, there was one campsite available at a <a href="http://www.campingcapecod.com/">campground</a> close to the <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/marconi-beach-wellfleet">kids' favorite beach</a>, so we snagged it and started packing. I noted that we had missed the chance to register online for Family Week, but then also saw that registering for Family Week costs nearly $200, and decided that we'd skip out on officially participating and simply hope to pick up on the Queer Families vibe without attending any organized events (to be perfectly honest, organized events of this nature give us pause regardless of price tag).<br /><br />We first headed into <a href="http://www.ptown.org/Home.asp">P-town</a> on Wednesday evening, on the lookout for queer families and some kid-friendly dinner. Of course, P-town is <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> swarming with queer folk (in the most fabulous way), but we were hoping to notice an increase in the number of gay and lesbian <span style="font-style: italic;">parents</span>. And we did, but the impact was minimal; I had expected something more drastic. Don't get me wrong, I loved seeing each and every queer family who we crossed paths with, but was disappointed to realize that we were still way out-numbered by straight families. Since we live in an area that is home to an abundance of lesbian families, it was especially fun for Lena and me to come across gay <span style="font-style: italic;">men</span> with kids (sorely lacking in our hometown), and I found myself wishing that we <span style="font-style: italic;">had</span> chosen to register for Family Week officially, if only for the opportunity to get to know some queer papas better.<br /><br />We ended up at our usual P-town dinner destination: the Aquarium Marketplace, where we picked up some burritos and ate them out on the deck overlooking the bay. I took the opportunity to attempt to photograph the kids in the same spot where I've photographed them in the past. This year's result was no more successful than those from 2007 or 2008, but I suppose it's a tradition that will continue nonetheless.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7hhxUpi2I/AAAAAAAAFDg/SrwitFyt7Jc/s1600/rainbowaplenty2.jpg"><br /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7hhpeN9dI/AAAAAAAAFDY/jRHg7QCvseE/s1600/rainbowaplenty.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7hhpeN9dI/AAAAAAAAFDY/jRHg7QCvseE/s400/rainbowaplenty.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503083762877855186" border="0" /></a>2007<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7hhxUpi2I/AAAAAAAAFDg/SrwitFyt7Jc/s1600/rainbowaplenty2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 364px; height: 291px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7hhxUpi2I/AAAAAAAAFDg/SrwitFyt7Jc/s400/rainbowaplenty2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503083764985203554" border="0" /></a>2008<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7hiBYL0FI/AAAAAAAAFDo/TZFsBxlg30w/s1600/rainbowaplenty3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7hiBYL0FI/AAAAAAAAFDo/TZFsBxlg30w/s400/rainbowaplenty3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503083769294999634" border="0" /></a>2010<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Walking through P-town with two <span style="font-style: italic;">literate</span> children in tow was a bit eye-opening (mostly for them).<br /><br />"Mom? This poster says: 'come see the <a href="http://www.nakedboyssinging.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Naked Boys Singing</span></a>!' What does that mean? And <span style="font-style: italic;">can we</span>?!"<br /><br />We talked to the kids about how P-town is kind of like <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2010/05/pride.html">PRIDE</a>, and soon they were pointing out rainbow flags everywhere ("gay! gay!"), and talking about how we could know if other people were gay or not just by looking (good question!). And because we wanted others to know that <span style="font-style: italic;">we</span> were gay just by looking, we wore Leo in the rainbow ring sling (freshly altered; it used to be a long wrap--you can <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7e_qT0g0I/AAAAAAAAFDQ/nMxV4Tl908Y/s1600/rainbowslingbefore.jpg">see me wearing Zeb in it here</a>, three years ago in P-town--but I cut it and sewed in some rings since we really seem to prefer to wear Leo in ring slings). Thank goodness for a little rainbow baby gear, keeping us from blending in with the straight families (<span style="font-style: italic;">just kidding</span> . . . <span style="font-style: italic;">kinda</span>).<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7edQkhGbI/AAAAAAAAFC4/m8HKZXxxJx4/s1600/rainbowsling.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7edQkhGbI/AAAAAAAAFC4/m8HKZXxxJx4/s400/rainbowsling.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503080388939028914" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">"gay! gay!"<br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7e_qT0g0I/AAAAAAAAFDQ/nMxV4Tl908Y/s1600/rainbowslingbefore.jpg"><br /></a>We mostly spent our days at the beach with the best surf (Luke and Jaz <span style="font-style: italic;">love</span> boogie boarding, and Lena and I like it pretty well, too), about 20 minutes south of P-town, but one morning we went to our favorite P-town beach (sadly surf-less), in hopes of finding the queer families. Alas, the beach was nearly empty (it was a bit overcast: my favorite kind of beach day), and those families who did share it with us were nearly all regular old <span style="font-style: italic;">one mom, one dad</span> families (we did run into one queer family who we had seen around town at <span style="font-style: italic;">home</span>, which was fun). But I managed to rainbow up the experience despite our lack in queer company by collecting these rocks:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7eeIrFqjI/AAAAAAAAFDI/BHBnJlbHBjo/s1600/Rainbow.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7eeIrFqjI/AAAAAAAAFDI/BHBnJlbHBjo/s400/Rainbow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503080403998976562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I've been collecting rainbows of beach stones<br />since my babydyke days . . . I just can't stop. </span></span><br /></div><br />Overall I guess I'd say I was a little disappointed by the lack of any apparent queer family vibe. It's now clear that to really partake in the Family Week excitement, we'd need to actually attend some of the Family Week events. Perhaps we will next summer. I did realize, while walking around P-town in search of other <span style="font-style: italic;">families like ours</span>, that I do wish we had more of a queer community in our everyday lives. The vast majority of our parenting friends have always been straight: our parenting philosophies, age, and the ages of our children (among other things, such as our appreciation of good food and drink, and our willingness to let our kids stay up way too late in the name of grown-up fun) trumping our sexual orientations. And that's perfectly fine, but I am feeling a new urge to connect more with the queer culture and to give our kids a larger understanding of what it is to be part of a queer family. I want them to know that it's about more than rainbows.<br /><br />I recently joined a local support group for queer non-gestational parents, and I love getting the chance to talk about the issues affecting our families in a group of people who all <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> understand them. How validating! It makes me feel so much less alone, and so much more excited about being part of a queer family. While I still feel like there are other factors, beyond queerness, that are more important when connecting with potential new friends, I am going to make more of an effort to search out other two-mom or two-dad families who we might resonate with. Along these lines, we're thinking of hosting a potluck for local LGBTPQ families, so if you're part of a local, queer family and you'd like to join us, send me an email!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF7edQkhGbI/AAAAAAAAFC4/m8HKZXxxJx4/s1600/rainbowsling.jpg"><br /></a>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-74692811563766312112010-08-07T14:10:00.016-04:002010-08-07T17:15:19.237-04:00We Had a Time<div style="text-align: center;">We did; we had a time.*<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF25185_odI/AAAAAAAAFAI/usH4xYb40Ec/s1600/beachtime9.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF25185_odI/AAAAAAAAFAI/usH4xYb40Ec/s400/beachtime9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502758656250192338" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF252qrhmII/AAAAAAAAFAY/7RfYDOPQgxU/s1600/beachtime11.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF252qrhmII/AAAAAAAAFAY/7RfYDOPQgxU/s400/beachtime11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502758668537534594" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF252TBDyxI/AAAAAAAAFAQ/yWgKetLeyY0/s1600/beachtime10.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF252TBDyxI/AAAAAAAAFAQ/yWgKetLeyY0/s400/beachtime10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502758662185405202" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF2q6hvr7yI/AAAAAAAAE_4/ooOj6TYBPoA/s1600/beachtime7.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF2q6hvr7yI/AAAAAAAAE_4/ooOj6TYBPoA/s400/beachtime7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502742242184130338" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF2qkFh8a6I/AAAAAAAAE_Y/5lhVWiSnbc8/s1600/beachtime3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF2qkFh8a6I/AAAAAAAAE_Y/5lhVWiSnbc8/s400/beachtime3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502741856653175714" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF28mssVNuI/AAAAAAAAFCA/vjQPrA5_Nsw/s1600/beachtime23.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF28mssVNuI/AAAAAAAAFCA/vjQPrA5_Nsw/s400/beachtime23.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502761692734764770" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF26NtMDmcI/AAAAAAAAFA4/4RqH0zibFj0/s1600/beachtime15.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF26NtMDmcI/AAAAAAAAFA4/4RqH0zibFj0/s400/beachtime15.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502759064347843010" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF2q6M7BsUI/AAAAAAAAE_w/y2hSQrUose8/s1600/beachtime6.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF2q6M7BsUI/AAAAAAAAE_w/y2hSQrUose8/s400/beachtime6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502742236594549058" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF2qjWXgJ4I/AAAAAAAAE_Q/lHK08auzrys/s1600/beachtime2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF2qjWXgJ4I/AAAAAAAAE_Q/lHK08auzrys/s400/beachtime2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502741843992913794" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF27AyYNpKI/AAAAAAAAFBw/Bm0L3-D7sEc/s1600/beachtime21.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF27AyYNpKI/AAAAAAAAFBw/Bm0L3-D7sEc/s400/beachtime21.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502759941914338466" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF27BHTSfUI/AAAAAAAAFB4/OUuPGq7Ipec/s1600/beachtime22.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF27BHTSfUI/AAAAAAAAFB4/OUuPGq7Ipec/s400/beachtime22.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502759947530829122" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF2q6wp_upI/AAAAAAAAFAA/vvkXYInOu0g/s1600/beachtime8.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF2q6wp_upI/AAAAAAAAFAA/vvkXYInOu0g/s400/beachtime8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502742246186793618" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF27AQRjU5I/AAAAAAAAFBo/Q0FUwYp31PI/s1600/beachtime20.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF27AQRjU5I/AAAAAAAAFBo/Q0FUwYp31PI/s400/beachtime20.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502759932759593874" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF26OHB7P4I/AAAAAAAAFBA/BiYtjfUtaEE/s1600/beachtime16.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF26OHB7P4I/AAAAAAAAFBA/BiYtjfUtaEE/s400/beachtime16.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502759071284674434" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF253HdckCI/AAAAAAAAFAg/PFfzhJfk3cI/s1600/beachtime12.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF253HdckCI/AAAAAAAAFAg/PFfzhJfk3cI/s400/beachtime12.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502758676263112738" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF3BKI_zM2I/AAAAAAAAFCQ/dtu3weouHjo/s1600/beachtime19.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF3BKI_zM2I/AAAAAAAAFCQ/dtu3weouHjo/s400/beachtime19.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502766699674547042" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF2qkd71AXI/AAAAAAAAE_g/3IdkYs1fsbI/s1600/beachtime4.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF2qkd71AXI/AAAAAAAAE_g/3IdkYs1fsbI/s400/beachtime4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502741863204192626" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF3LkWNZyfI/AAAAAAAAFCo/aH3rL8oTV2o/s1600/beachtime18.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF3LkWNZyfI/AAAAAAAAFCo/aH3rL8oTV2o/s400/beachtime18.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502778145014139378" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF26OYlbQzI/AAAAAAAAFBI/CArk45IB_FI/s1600/beachtime17.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF26OYlbQzI/AAAAAAAAFBI/CArk45IB_FI/s400/beachtime17.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502759075996975922" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF3MwJqWlVI/AAAAAAAAFCw/xmIJowTp5nA/s1600/beachtime26.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF3MwJqWlVI/AAAAAAAAFCw/xmIJowTp5nA/s400/beachtime26.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502779447315961170" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF3FOrVni6I/AAAAAAAAFCY/9IXEHBGfCRE/s1600/beachtime24.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF3FOrVni6I/AAAAAAAAFCY/9IXEHBGfCRE/s400/beachtime24.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502771175658851234" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF26NOIJyoI/AAAAAAAAFAw/dRehMcvMQxY/s1600/beachtime14.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF26NOIJyoI/AAAAAAAAFAw/dRehMcvMQxY/s400/beachtime14.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502759056009972354" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF3FPfouyAI/AAAAAAAAFCg/wLEGnZsz7EU/s1600/beachtime25.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF3FPfouyAI/AAAAAAAAFCg/wLEGnZsz7EU/s400/beachtime25.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502771189697660930" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF253uKnywI/AAAAAAAAFAo/hdRyF91Rz3k/s1600/beachtime13.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TF253uKnywI/AAAAAAAAFAo/hdRyF91Rz3k/s400/beachtime13.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502758686653139714" border="0" /></a><br />Thank you, Ocean.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">* A huge smile for anyone who can place the origins of this quoted line. </span></span></span><br /></div></div>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-15727664079664445592010-08-03T10:33:00.006-04:002010-08-08T23:22:33.736-04:00Family TripIt's 10:30 on Tuesday morning and our minivan--"Ollie Rainbow"--is stuffed to the gills. All that's left to pack are our darling children, and after stopping in town to buy flashlights, we'll be getting on the interstate and driving east, destination: <span style="font-style: italic;">the ocean</span>. We, like hundreds of other queer families this week, are heading to Cape Cod for the 15th annual <a href="http://www.familyequality.org/site/Calendar?view=Detail&id=100061&AddInterest=1061">Family Week</a>, the largest gathering of LGBTPQ families in the United States.<br /><br />We've never been to Family Week before--our schedules have never allowed it--and our decision to go this summer was very last-minute (I just faxed our camping registration in on Saturday). We're generally off-season kind of Cape Cod vacationers, but we're excited to get to be there when the ocean is warm and in the company of so many families (though, notably, we're also a little anxious about just how crowded it will be). We managed to snag the very last campsite at a campground we've never stayed at before, and will be spending the next three nights sleeping very much <span style="font-style: italic;">all together</span> in what once seemed like a <span style="font-style: italic;">giant</span> tent (and now? hopefully just <span style="font-style: italic;">big enough</span>). Fingers crossed that Leo is exactly the kind of pro-camping baby we'll need him to be.<br /><br />If you see us in P-town this week, please introduce yourselves! We'll be the ones with the loud, rambunctious children. We'll be back on Friday with lots of photos and stories to share!<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">***Thanks to our fabulous new neighbors <a href="http://www.manyattaearth.blogspot.com/">Sarah and Gabe</a> for looking after our house and chickens while we're gone!</span>***</span>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-64954269742982274772010-08-01T12:54:00.010-04:002010-08-03T01:05:20.373-04:00River BabyLast week after camp one day, I took the kids to play in a little river not far from our house. The water was quite shallow--what a dry summer we've had!--but it proved quite entertaining nonetheless. Leo was especially enchanted and would have climbed among the rocks for hours if I'd let him (as it was, we couldn't stay long before needing to head home for dinner). I was struck by Leo's confidence and ability; even on the slimy, moss-covered rocks, he never slipped, lost his balance, or seemed the least bit frightened.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TFWm8aj_0dI/AAAAAAAAE-Q/IYEmX1JYZds/s1600/RiverBaby.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TFWm8aj_0dI/AAAAAAAAE-Q/IYEmX1JYZds/s400/RiverBaby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500486076755595730" border="0" /></a><br />He was all trust and zero hesitation. He never questioned whether or not he should be in the river. He simply immersed himself fully in the bliss of it all.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TFeYbf0TEZI/AAAAAAAAE-g/IdGjJZ_YnH4/s1600/RiverBaby3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TFeYbf0TEZI/AAAAAAAAE-g/IdGjJZ_YnH4/s400/RiverBaby3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501033068021092754" border="0" /></a><br />And I wished, as I watched him, and photographed him, that I could have been just as trusting of this process of becoming his mother. That I could have found myself suddenly placed in the river of non-gestational parenthood, and just instantly made myself at home, purely thrilled to be experiencing something so new and exciting. I wished that I could have been confident from the start in my ability to be this baby's mom.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TFeTidE9uTI/AAAAAAAAE-Y/xow5N7VpmDk/s1600/RiverBaby2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TFeTidE9uTI/AAAAAAAAE-Y/xow5N7VpmDk/s400/RiverBaby2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501027689986636082" border="0" /></a><br />I have doubted so much in the last year, it has become a pattern for me: to doubt. I struggle to let myself trust fully, without holding back. Still I catch myself, rejoicing in any small sign from Leo that he knows me, and likes me, and wants me. And the grown-ups who are witness to my surprise always say, "well <span style="font-style: italic;">of course</span> he does!" But the truth of this attachment--that Leo and I share--has been so hard for me to believe, that even when it's glaringly obvious I find myself tempted to question it. He looks up at me with his breathtaking blue eyes, full of trust and love, and I think to myself, "really? Me? I get to be your mom?"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TFeYb8cnLAI/AAAAAAAAE-o/9C-8eNkrCxg/s1600/RiverBaby4.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TFeYb8cnLAI/AAAAAAAAE-o/9C-8eNkrCxg/s400/RiverBaby4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501033075706375170" border="0" /></a><br />But it is real. This love, and attachment and connection is beautiful and strong and enduring. I am so grateful to my baby for taking me on this journey, and for not giving up on me, not even when I have felt ready to give up on myself.Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-72451470488251110512010-07-25T20:03:00.007-04:002010-08-01T12:38:45.334-04:00The Big Test<div style="text-align: left;">Tomorrow morning I am going to wake up early--to the sound of an alarm clock--and be out the door by 6:45 in order to drive an hour, and then, if all goes according to plan, take a five-hour test.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have been working towards this goal--taking this test--for <i>6 years</i>. I hope I don't mess up (as in, get lost on the way there, or forget to bring my photo ID, or, perhaps most significantly:<i> fail the test</i>). I would really like for this all to end with 5 new letters after my name: IBCLC. Tomorrow, I am taking a test, and if I pass it, I'll be an <i>internationally board certified lactation consultant</i>. I will be able to build a career out of supporting breastfeeding mothers and babies.</div><div><br /></div><div>For several weeks now (and really, I should have started months ago), I've been cramming: trying to flood my brain with as much breastfeeding-relevant information as I possibly can. There is just so much to learn, there's no way I could know it all. I just have to hope that I know <i>enough</i>, that the information I've actually absorbed is the critical information, that I will be able to, after studying images for many hours, recognize the appearance of a nipple damaged by a breast pump and distinguish it from a nipple damaged by a baby with ankyloglossia (half of the questions on the multiple-choice test reference photographs). </div><div><br /></div><div>I won't find out if I pass the exam or not until mid-October, which is actually kind of a relief. I am looking forward to taking the test and then <i>not thinking about it</i> at all anymore for a couple of months. It has been a huge source of anxiety as of late. There are so many things I want to do--namely finish the kitchen/dining room remodeling project that I began a couple months ago and then abandoned, abruptly and only half-started, leaving us to live in a state of shambles since then--and it will feel great to not have this looming test weighing heavy on my mind. </div><div><br /></div><div>I would very much appreciate any calm, confident and hopeful vibes you feel willing to send my way as I attempt to make this long-term goal a reality!</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TEzZRsK3vLI/AAAAAAAAE-I/qRLPaWp2Qgo/s400/nursevolleyball.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498008143050292402" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 398px; height: 265px;" border="0" /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">me, at the start of this journey:</span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span style="font-size:78%;">tandem nursing Luke and Jaz in the park</span><br /><br /></span></i><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >UPDATE: Thank you so much for your well wishes! The test wasn't nearly as difficult as I feared it might be, and the time allotted was way longer than necessary (in reality, it was more like a two-hour test than a five-hour test). There were a couple of questions that I really didn't know the answers to, but for the most part I felt like I was well-prepared to take the test simply for having been working with breastfeeding mothers and babies for the past several years. I definitely encourage anyone who qualifies to sit for the exam next year to plan to do so, and not to stress about memorizing anatomical structures or terms, but instead to focus on acquiring practical knowledge, and studying photographs related to breastfeeding and babies, such as those in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0967275857/ref=pd_lpo_k2_dp_sr_1?pf_rd_p=486539851&pf_rd_s=lpo-top-stripe-1&pf_rd_t=201&pf_rd_i=0967275814&pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_r=02E3MNNYA6BG6ZK891P4">The Breastfeeding Atlas</a>.</span><br /></div></div>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-74514195623549677982010-07-22T21:11:00.024-04:002012-04-23T10:19:45.064-04:00Sharing Sleep<div style="text-align: left;">I <i>love</i> sharing sleep with our children.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TEo9kUVHu9I/AAAAAAAAE8Q/jOPkXAv22Fk/s400/sharesleep.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497273989300992978" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I more than love it. I <i>believe</i> in it, deeply. I am grateful for our decision to make our bed a family bed <i>nearly</i> every day<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">*</span>. I am absolutely certain that our children are happier and more secure for the time they've spent sleeping with us, and that I am a happier and more confident mother for having listened to my instincts in this regard (which is <i>not</i> to imply that children who don't sleep with their parents, or parents who don't sleep with their children, are necessarily any less happy or less secure/confident; I'm only referencing <i>my own kids</i> and<i> my own experience</i>). I would make the same choice again, if I had it to do over (and, notably: <i>Lena would, too</i>).</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TEpE0kV3BJI/AAAAAAAAE9I/If4BDRDd0pc/s400/sharesleep5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497281965058360466" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TEpMLj0Y9HI/AAAAAAAAE9g/f6-lvWfJtrE/s400/sharesleep9.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497290056636363890" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px; " /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>When I implied <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2010/07/comic-relief.html">in my last post</a>, somewhat facetiously, that having our kids in our bed might not have been the wisest choice, I knew that I would later have to write <i>this post</i>: about how even though choosing to have a family bed might <i>seem</i> like a sure-fire way to send one's marriage (and sex life) directly into the doldrums, that's not what happened for us. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TEo9ldp2rJI/AAAAAAAAE8o/Fwr7dFOnMMI/s400/sharesleep4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497274008983743634" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TEo9lNyn5OI/AAAAAAAAE8g/1E2o58YF064/s400/sharesleep3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497274004725556450" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>It would be easy to assume that co-sleeping might result in reduced physical intimacy, romance, and connection in a marriage. But I think that doing so would be to "not see the forest for the trees." A truly strong physical, romantic and emotional connection would not suffer for the parents in a marriage choosing to share sleep with their kids. The reality for us is that as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lesbian_bed_death">lesbians in a long-term relationship</a>, as <a href="http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/51206/sex_life_after_children.html?cat=25">parents of small children</a>, as <a href="http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/68718/breastfeeding_and_low_sex_drive.html?cat=5">lactating mothers</a>, Lena and I <i>have</i> had to overcome a lot of obstacles, stacked against us in the bedroom. Did adding babies to our bed serve to compound those other potential issues? I suppose it could have, but I don't think it did. Co-sleeping has done so many positive things for us--as a family, as co-parents, as partners--that I think the benefits of our family bed have far outweighed any potentially negative side-effects. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TEo9wmvc_3I/AAAAAAAAE9A/pvRrtQSnvoU/s400/sharesleep7.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497274200401706866" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">First of all, we've gotten a lot more sleep as bed-sharers than we otherwise would have, and any marriage benefits from well-rested participants. Beyond that, we've gained self-esteem (for having trusted our instincts), we've suffered less anxiety (because I honestly cannot imagine how I ever would have not slept with our babies; I would have been in a state of panic), we've respected each other and each other's innate mothering skills, and we've gotten to appreciate each other as the nurturing people who we are (I still melt when I happen upon a scene of Lena snuggled around one--or more--of our kids). Waking up together as a family is intimate and cozy. It feels natural and genuine and invigorating. And it's some of the only snuggling time that we get with our bigger kids. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TEpNsWu8T_I/AAAAAAAAE94/cRrFRLYtCRo/s400/sharesleep12.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497291719571165170" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TEpNrw4SKwI/AAAAAAAAE9w/awH0znIL2mk/s400/sharesleep11.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497291709409798914" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TEpNrqtuBLI/AAAAAAAAE9o/EPLUgQWPYFY/s400/sharesleep10.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497291707754874034" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But, so, then, what <i>is</i> the solution? If we can't blame the family bed for our relationship struggles, what <i>can</i> we blame? What can we do differently as we begin the difficult work of trying to repair and rebuild our marriage? I think that the main reason why things <i>began</i> to deteriorate for us is because we failed to prioritize our marriage, forgetting that it wasn't something that would just automatically receive attention in our busy, busy lives. We were prioritizing a lot of things: the kids, our community and social life, laughter, our love of the natural world, our jobs, keeping the house in relatively good shape . . . and we somehow took for granted that our marital connection was intact and along for the ride. But, of course, this is a rather simplistic way of looking at it all, and in truth there were many different factors that all contributed to Lena and I losing each other in the way that we did. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TEpE1C1HJpI/AAAAAAAAE9Q/LgFNCxkFypE/s400/sharesleep6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497281973242504850" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic; font-size:x-small;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We are not going to stop sharing sleep with our children. We hope to let them self-wean from the family bed, and we hope that they don't choose to do that all together for a long, long time. But we are changing some bad habits that we'd gotten into in relation to the ways that Lena and I had been choosing to spend our (limited) alone time together.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> And we are absolutely going to be prioritizing our need for intimacy--of all kinds--as we move forward.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This is a really hard time, still. We are struggling, daily, sometimes hourly, to see each other and to feel connected. But as I reflect over the choices that I've made, and that we've made as a couple, I find it helpful to point out not only the places where we tripped, or messed up, but also the things that we got right. And I think that the creation of our </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">family bed extraordinaire</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> falls into the latter category. Our bed has not failed us. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">If anything, our bed has been a kind of glue, keeping us together in the face of all so many challenges, reminding us every morning of what we want this life to be: soft, warm, colorful, welcoming, cozy, and with lots of room to spare. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*yes, definitely, there are days (or, more specifically: mornings, post restless nights) when I fantasize about sleeping 10 hours without anyone small touching me, breathing next to me, or tossing and turning beside me. </span></div></span></span>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-28307018775178246412010-07-13T21:53:00.016-04:002012-04-23T10:18:12.465-04:00Journey<div style="text-align: left;">This evening, I photographed all four kids eating ice cream on the front steps.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TD0cW55IZuI/AAAAAAAAE2o/QlvSmYLblhI/s400/icecream.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493578300285019874" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Leo was quite pleased to have been entrusted with his very own (tiny) ice cream cone, and calmly sat beside his brothers, obviously feeling so <i>big</i>. </div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TD0cXbM-bhI/AAAAAAAAE2w/xuQCMi_yPzU/s400/icecream2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493578309226622482" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px; " /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Leo, 12 <s>years</s> months old</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div>It was just about 12 months ago when I wrote about eating <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/ice-cream-for-dinner.html">ice cream for dinner</a>. At the time, Leo was just a wee newborn; it was one of our first outings as a family of six. We had no concept of where this first year with our lion baby would take us, of the fact that we would be <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/fyi.html">moving again</a> so soon, saying <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/quest-for-simple-life.html">goodbye to the goats</a>, <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/inspired-by-color.html">buying</a> and <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/09/paintingparenting.html">painting</a> a house, <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/10/leaping-water.html">adding</a> and <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/11/sometimes-we-fail.html">subtracting</a> a puppy, and settling into such a very different life from the one we had been living before our fourth baby was born. One might expect that Lena and I would have known to anticipate how quickly Leo would change and grow, but he seemed to shed his infancy even faster than his brothers before him, so eager to join their pack. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TD0cX193xEI/AAAAAAAAE24/VtLSG29TMg8/s400/icecream3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493578316411028546" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">And somehow, amidst all of the <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2010/01/baby-on-board.html">excitement</a> and <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/11/scenes-from-kitchen.html">chaos</a> and <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/11/random-and-real.html">joy</a>, Lena and I lost sight of each other. We took our love for granted, and forgot to nurture it. We failed to prioritize our relationship. We neglected to even keep it on the list of "things to think about." And suddenly, something that we never imagined could ever be on the line--our marriage--was in question. We began seeing a couples' counselor in <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2010/03/i-believe.html">March</a>, and at first we seemed to be making progress towards finding each other again. But then I got overwhelmed by the ocean of distance between us, and doubted that Lena and I could ever reclaim what we had once shared. I let myself slip further and further away, until I hardly recognized my wife--or my life--at all anymore. </div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TD0cYiqtaqI/AAAAAAAAE3I/lv2pLCWMTmg/s400/icecream5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493578328410253986" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div>Everything exploded a few weeks ago, when it became clear that the state of our marriage was such that we could no longer continue living as we were. Lena and Leo went to stay with her extended family for a week, while she and I both faced the full extent of the damage and let our hearts break. We realized that choosing to reconcile would mean choosing to start over anew, that our previous relationship was over, and that it would have to become something completely changed were we to remain married. And ultimately, we concluded that we <i>will</i> move forward <i>together</i>, that we will commit ourselves to the hard work of rebuilding a foundation of trust, and making our marriage stronger, better and more true than it's ever been. While it feels so good to be sharing my days with Lena again, to be <i>seeing</i> her and connecting with her for the first time in <i>months</i>, she and I are both wary of how easy it would be to let ourselves slip back into our old life without really addressing the issues that nearly cost us our marriage and intact family. We want to do this work, and we want to do it well: to be thorough and fully attentive. I hope that people will be respectful of Lena's and my privacy and not ask for details about all that went down between us this spring, but I am planning to write here about our new journey: the quest to really find ourselves and each other again. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TD0cYLLV4QI/AAAAAAAAE3A/LbpFTncSRqo/s400/icecream4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493578322104672514" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px; " /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"You know this means I'm ALWAYS </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">going to require my very own cone, right?"</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Unabashedly optimistic as I am, I can't help but recognize the blessings that we've been gifted alongside so much pain, loss and devastation. Remembering my love for Lena, truly remembering her most amazing self, and choosing--once again--to commit myself fully to a shared life with her, to our vision of what we want our family to be, feels so inspiring and beautiful. I love Lena so much, and letting myself feel the full weight of that love--that completely crushed me when I thought it had been lost forever--takes my breath away. I am overwhelmed with gratitude to have been given this opportunity to make myself a better, more honest, person and partner. Lena and I get to be falling in love for a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">third</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> time, now with new-and-improved self-awareness and conviction about what we will demand of each other and our relationship. The knowledge I have learned--and continue to learn--as I have awakened to my own desires and needs, and accepted my faults and failures, is not anything that I will be willing to give up, and is information that will help us to ensure that we don't repeat our past mistakes. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/TD32spwI2II/AAAAAAAAE3Q/NPLx-8NbNW8/s400/icecream6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493818367444310146" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">p</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">hoto by Jaz</span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thank you, readers, friends and family members: for continuing to check in here despite my blogging negligence, and for supporting my family and me through this stormy time. It was difficult for me to write--in this place of joy and love--while everything in our home felt so fraught and uncertain. But now I find myself wanting to write more than ever, to hopefully help other families to avoid the path our marriage suddenly took, and to inspire people to hold onto what they believe in--even when it seems that all hope has been lost. </span></div></div>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-47496275950111183492010-06-23T23:46:00.007-04:002010-06-24T00:23:55.204-04:00And now, resume<div>Hello, hello. </div><div><br /></div><div>I realize that I have been gone from this space for a very long time. There was a computer trouble, and then I think I just got out of the habit of writing and documenting my life here, and I'm struggling to find my way back. </div><div><br /></div><div>But your sweet notes of encouragement have meant so much to me, and I feel as though I am not ready to give up on this blog all together. So many times in the past few weeks, I have started to write a post, catching up on all that has transpired in my absence (the baby? Totally Walking Now), but always I leave it unfinished, feeling at a loss for words. </div><div><br /></div><div>Instead, I will start back small. I will share this video from earlier today, of Leo and me: in the bed, post-nap. His birthday is just three days away, and I have been reflecting quite a bit on <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/07/leos-birth-my-perspective.html">his birth</a> and all of the ways in which my relationship with him has grown over the past year. Lately, we've been enjoying each other very well indeed.</div><div><br /></div><div>You will have to double-click on the image and watch the clip on the You Tube site to see the cutest part (that would be the baby, of course).</div><div><br /></div><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/LGbTNnAbSpk&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/LGbTNnAbSpk&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><div><br /></div><div>Thank you for your patience! </div><div><br /></div><div>I do, truly, hope to find my way back here. I miss it. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-1005819724979761272010-05-28T22:03:00.003-04:002010-05-28T22:09:29.815-04:00My hard drive died (seriously?), but I hope to have a new one soon. Trying to blog via iPad, but it will only let me post titles, no content (?!).Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-23961409608497881132010-05-18T14:27:00.003-04:002010-05-18T14:39:49.120-04:00No JokeThe other day, I looked up from this rock climbing baby on my computer screen:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_Lde5M73SI/AAAAAAAAE0c/ZvcMkfpw14c/s1600/nojoke.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_Lde5M73SI/AAAAAAAAE0c/ZvcMkfpw14c/s400/nojoke.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472680020029463842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> (window shopping the Patagonia website)</span></span><br /><br /></div>To this rock climbing baby in my dining room:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_LdfbilF7I/AAAAAAAAE0k/0A8ZQSC9DxM/s1600/nojoke2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_LdfbilF7I/AAAAAAAAE0k/0A8ZQSC9DxM/s400/nojoke2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472680029247051698" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_LdfhFlt9I/AAAAAAAAE0s/7vM5hIqBEw0/s1600/nojoke3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_LdfhFlt9I/AAAAAAAAE0s/7vM5hIqBEw0/s400/nojoke3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472680030736070610" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_Ldf8HeowI/AAAAAAAAE00/PnOX5QHm7HE/s1600/nojoke4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_Ldf8HeowI/AAAAAAAAE00/PnOX5QHm7HE/s400/nojoke4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472680037991752450" border="0" /></a><br />I couldn't help but notice that Leo looked significantly less protected than the baby in the computer. And also? My baby's got skills.Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-28370833986550893432010-05-16T13:44:00.010-04:002010-08-17T19:14:14.667-04:00Welcoming a New DecadeLast Tuesday, I celebrated my birthday and with it welcomed in a new decade: I am now 30 (thirty!) years old. I can remember turning 10, and how exciting it was to enter the "double digits." And I can remember turning 20, and feeling relieved to finally leave the "teens" behind. But I must admit that it has taken much more effort to generate any enthusiasm about entering my thirties. I think of the show, <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thirtysomething_%28TV_series%29">"thirty something,"</a> which I loved in my early teens, and try to identify with it in some way. And I fail. I just don't feel like a 30-something. I can't possibly be <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> grown-up.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_GcE4b2bCI/AAAAAAAAEzM/eKX5JLHs-eE/s1600/lex0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_GcE4b2bCI/AAAAAAAAEzM/eKX5JLHs-eE/s400/lex0.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472326629914471458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">on my original birthday </span></span><br /></div> </div> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">1980</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_GZ_TbLaqI/AAAAAAAAEy8/g8uc8z6bErw/s1600/lex10.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_GZ_TbLaqI/AAAAAAAAEy8/g8uc8z6bErw/s400/lex10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472324335056939682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">on my 10th birthday<br />1990</span></span><br /><br /></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_GZ_8pl4NI/AAAAAAAAEzE/gIm6BUD0hH8/s1600/lex20.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_GZ_8pl4NI/AAAAAAAAEzE/gIm6BUD0hH8/s400/lex20.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472324346123247826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">on my 20th birthday<br />2000<br /></span></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-yzm9-GjxI/AAAAAAAAEyc/xbCSjQSRJqA/s1600/lexis30.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-yzm9-GjxI/AAAAAAAAEyc/xbCSjQSRJqA/s400/lexis30.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470945129399750418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">on my 30th birthday<br />2010</span> </span></div><br />Anyway, I've been trying to convince myself that being 30 (or, more generally, <span style="font-style: italic;">in my thirties</span>) doesn't have to mean anything. I've already accomplished a lot of what people hope to achieve in their thirties. Here I am, a married, mother-of-four, homeowner. But I do feel some pressure to, you know, figure out <span style="font-style: italic;">what I want to be</span>, and all that.<br /><br />Do I want to be a lactation consultant? Do I want to be a teacher? Do I want to be a writer? Do I want to start a charter school? Or a home daycare? What is my vision for the <span style="font-style: italic;">next</span> 10 years? How have I <span style="font-style: italic;">still</span> not figured this all out?<br /><br />Aside from asking myself these existential questions, I have been busy <span style="font-style: italic;">celebrating</span>. I spent my birthday going from one delightfully mellow activity to the next: a bike ride to an outdoor breakfast café, a couple of hours lying in the sun, a family trip to the Farmers' Market, a picnic at a local lake (bread and cheese and chocolate covered strawberries), topped off by an early bedtime for the kids. And then this past weekend, My Love together with my mom (and help from others) threw me the most perfect birthday party ever, complete with all of my beloveds, 60 balloons, Indian food for all, a backyard fire, musical instruments making beautiful noise (the guitar was passed from lap to lap), many children falling asleep one by one (until they were all-- all!--asleep, and the mamas and papas could keep partying), a mamas' arm wrestling competition, and finally: an epic game of <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Egyptian_Ratscrew">Egyptian Ratscrew</a> </span>on the kitchen floor. At the end of the evening (or rather, when the party ended, early the next morning), I felt so very, very loved, and full of hope that maybe my thirties will continue to be so deliciously fun.<br /><br />Some photos from the party:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HrtNfb1hI/AAAAAAAAEzU/-k9eX3ATN4w/s1600/30.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HrtNfb1hI/AAAAAAAAEzU/-k9eX3ATN4w/s400/30.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472414184180012562" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HwNCsbJVI/AAAAAAAAEz8/bjBZ0cfD-bM/s1600/306.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 209px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HwNCsbJVI/AAAAAAAAEz8/bjBZ0cfD-bM/s400/306.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472419129084028242" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HrtevcBhI/AAAAAAAAEzc/SxmFetfmfNw/s1600/302.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HrtevcBhI/AAAAAAAAEzc/SxmFetfmfNw/s400/302.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472414188810536466" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_Hrtn6S-bI/AAAAAAAAEzk/MZ4Vxt6Mxk0/s1600/303.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_Hrtn6S-bI/AAAAAAAAEzk/MZ4Vxt6Mxk0/s400/303.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472414191271999922" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HrtxG_bTI/AAAAAAAAEzs/Vv3byF4xBFc/s1600/304.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HrtxG_bTI/AAAAAAAAEzs/Vv3byF4xBFc/s400/304.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472414193741163826" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HwN175WMI/AAAAAAAAE0M/JjmYR4pCNps/s1600/308.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HwN175WMI/AAAAAAAAE0M/JjmYR4pCNps/s400/308.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472419142839130306" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HwNyWHN2I/AAAAAAAAE0U/utQBOo8A6GA/s1600/305.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HwNyWHN2I/AAAAAAAAE0U/utQBOo8A6GA/s400/305.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472419141875349346" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HwNtMaIlI/AAAAAAAAE0E/kY7X3xFgiRE/s1600/307.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S_HwNtMaIlI/AAAAAAAAE0E/kY7X3xFgiRE/s400/307.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472419140492468818" border="0" /></a><br />It is hard to pick a favorite part--there were so many favorite parts--but if I had to choose one, I'd go with the music-making around the fire. And I especially loved watching my little curmudgeon leave his grumpiness behind for at least a few minutes while he got into the rhythm of the drumming:<br /><br /><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/R2PIVr2sZKM&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/R2PIVr2sZKM&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="640"></embed></object><br /><br />So, I'm 30 now. And so far, it's really not so bad. It's kinda like being 20, except for I don't get carded anymore (ever! this is new in the last year), and I have this amazing house and all these kids. I still feel like I have my whole life in front of me, regardless of whether or not this is true, and I hope I hold onto that feeling for as long as possible. I can't wait to see what comes next.Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-81307693349777816662010-05-08T13:38:00.013-04:002012-04-23T10:19:16.704-04:00Pride!Last Saturday marked the 29th annual <a href="http://www.site.nohopride.org/">Northampton Pride parade</a> (<span style="font-style: italic;">and I can't believe it took me a whole week to finish blogging about it!</span>), and we were there--all six of us--to stand in the hot sun, clap, cheer, laugh, cry and feel <span style="font-style: italic;">proud</span>. I've written about Pride<a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2008/05/belated-rainbow-happenings.html"> before</a>, and much of what I said then still stands true (I hate how consumerism has crept in and taken over), but this year I didn't feel as bothered by the fact that Pride (at least our local version) isn't especially political anymore. It felt like a celebration of love, and of life--of being true to oneself and of not being ashamed of that truth--and I interpreted the message to be much further-reaching than GLBTPQ issues alone. And it felt like a fun, crazy party for our whole community (queer and straight together), and I was so glad to be a part of it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-WnWzSMZGI/AAAAAAAAEws/wdYza3NnqPw/s1600/pride1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-WnWzSMZGI/AAAAAAAAEws/wdYza3NnqPw/s400/pride1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468961332676813922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Wonder Woman</span></span><br /><br /></div>The past couple years have been rather hard on our collection of queer parent friends (which was unfortunately minimal to begin with), and nearly all of the legal marriages that were so very celebrated 5 years ago have now ended in divorce. Seeing these fragmented families at the parade on Saturday hurt my heart. I know that heterosexual marriages are dissolving at horrific rates as well, but for some reason it feels more devastating when I see it happening to <span style="font-style: italic;">families like mine</span>. To the couples who fought alongside us for the right to marry, and who we sat beside in the fertility clinic (waiting for sperm to thaw and for babies to be conceived), and who gave their hearts to children not knowing if adoptions would go through, and who I never imagined would be fighting to keep their love alive, or worse: giving up on that fight all together.<br /><br />So this year at Pride, I found myself getting teary about all of the usual things (the gay youth, the religious groups, the elderly lesbians), and also about the fact that sometimes love--this beautiful love that we celebrate so <span style="font-style: italic;">exuberantly</span> at Pride each year--is really hard. Sometimes it's hard because you're 15 and you feel trapped between the amazing feeling of realizing that you're a girl who loves girls, and the terror of what that will mean for your future. Sometimes it's hard because loving the person you love somehow makes you a second-class citizen in the eyes of your government. And sometimes it's just <span style="font-style: italic;">hard</span>, having nothing to do with sexual orientation or legal recognition or anything beyond the fact that hearts are fragile and life is complicated.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * * * * *<br /><br /></div>The kids were at first enthusiastic Pride-goers, and then less so (as the sun melted us and the parade went on and on and on), but they stood and watched until the final contingent had marched by, and then demanded ice cream and fried dough. There was not much commentary on any of what they experienced (the throwing of the candy probably demanding the most discussion). But later, when we had our new (and fabulous!) friends (and neighbors!), Katrina and Rania, and their sons, Riley and Kale, over for some post-Pride pizza, the kids decided to put on their very own Pride parade. And surely this was my favorite part of the day: watching our sons march proudly down the sidewalk, bold and beautiful and free.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-WnXbsIOiI/AAAAAAAAEw0/gQkfTQavL7Q/s1600/pride.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 113px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-WnXbsIOiI/AAAAAAAAEw0/gQkfTQavL7Q/s400/pride.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468961343523011106" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-WnX2ONxtI/AAAAAAAAEw8/ivo_-pKaLy8/s1600/pride2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-WnX2ONxtI/AAAAAAAAEw8/ivo_-pKaLy8/s400/pride2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468961350645302994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Zeb provided the music</span></span><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-WnYUsNOII/AAAAAAAAExE/LNFlfW487g8/s1600/pride3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-WnYUsNOII/AAAAAAAAExE/LNFlfW487g8/s400/pride3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468961358824159362" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-YVhpkEfGI/AAAAAAAAEx0/UrO33Xj8R_s/s1600/pride5.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-YVhpkEfGI/AAAAAAAAEx0/UrO33Xj8R_s/s400/pride5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469082465325055074" border="0" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-YViAjZLiI/AAAAAAAAEx8/pKw9ZHW5hrI/s1600/pride6.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-YViAjZLiI/AAAAAAAAEx8/pKw9ZHW5hrI/s400/pride6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469082471496232482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Riley had the important job of throwing rice snacks to </span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">the [imaginary] on-lookers, emulating the candy-throwers from earlier in the day.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-YVimQ65nI/AAAAAAAAEyE/pC1o8kKP6Vc/s1600/pride7.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-YVimQ65nI/AAAAAAAAEyE/pC1o8kKP6Vc/s400/pride7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469082481619297906" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-YVjcZ16SI/AAAAAAAAEyM/MwbFI-NWxPE/s1600/pride8.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S-YVjcZ16SI/AAAAAAAAEyM/MwbFI-NWxPE/s400/pride8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469082496152234274" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Kale rode in the stroller, but was clearly no less proud than those on their feet.</span><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span>When our friends had gone home for bed, I sat our kids down on the front steps and attempted to interview them about Pride. The dialogue was cut short when my camera card ran out of space, but I still love this clip (especially the part when Zeben refers to the drag queens as "fancy girls"):<br /><br /><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/L1P3az92L0U&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/L1P3az92L0U&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="640"></embed></object><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">double-click to watch full-size</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Happy Pride!<br /></div>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-73421407040206580372010-04-26T15:22:00.007-04:002010-04-26T21:31:04.804-04:00Everywhere, FlowersAnd just like that, our world went from twigs and tiny buds to green leaves and colorful flowers, bursting out just about everywhere. I love this time of year--it just so happens to coincide with my birthday--when the trees are bursting with petals and beauty is forcing its way up through the earth wherever it can. This year, things are happening earlier than usual: by my grandfather's calculations, the tulips are 9 days ahead of where they were last year (my grandfather is an amazing gardener who grows many, many tulips each year and then hosts an outrageous "tulip party"), and, even though it's a bit unsettling, I am not complaining.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7f5H3EhI/AAAAAAAAEts/7_RD9FDuIyk/s1600/flowers11.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7f5H3EhI/AAAAAAAAEts/7_RD9FDuIyk/s400/flowers11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464550248212271634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">our house, front-side</span></span><br /><br /></div>We planted tulip bulbs in front of our fence last fall--which always seems like such a hopeful thing to do--and even though we knew that they would come up (or at least that they <span style="font-style: italic;">should</span> come up), it's still a surprise every time I see them, standing proud and colorful, welcoming us home.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7G7zGiAI/AAAAAAAAEtU/-YVUKUgZsQw/s1600/flowers8.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7G7zGiAI/AAAAAAAAEtU/-YVUKUgZsQw/s400/flowers8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464549819433781250" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7GE4HZvI/AAAAAAAAEtE/tcmAZpyR4Ww/s1600/flowers6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7GE4HZvI/AAAAAAAAEtE/tcmAZpyR4Ww/s400/flowers6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464549804690859762" border="0" /></a><br />Even more surprising are the flowers we didn't know to expect: those that were long gone by the time we first toured the house in late July. There are several flowering trees on our property, and they're all blooming up a storm right now.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7HR8vY4I/AAAAAAAAEtc/SS-ocNeRlB0/s1600/flowers9.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7HR8vY4I/AAAAAAAAEtc/SS-ocNeRlB0/s400/flowers9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464549825379787650" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7HoBxLPI/AAAAAAAAEtk/Tg-wnxZwmrA/s1600/flowers10.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7HoBxLPI/AAAAAAAAEtk/Tg-wnxZwmrA/s400/flowers10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464549831306456306" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X6wJmy9cI/AAAAAAAAEss/t5wKnHoKLuE/s1600/flowers3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X6wJmy9cI/AAAAAAAAEss/t5wKnHoKLuE/s400/flowers3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464549428003272130" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X6vtjK57I/AAAAAAAAEsk/O0odaxnXhPg/s1600/flowers2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X6vtjK57I/AAAAAAAAEsk/O0odaxnXhPg/s400/flowers2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464549420471871410" border="0" /></a><br />While all six of us have been enjoying and appreciating these new blossoms, Zeben is surely the most enchanted by this abundant and flower-full spring. In this way, again, he takes after my grandfather (they also share a love of birds and frogs), and it's hard not to find his flower obsession endearing, even when it brings out his stubborn temper. The other day we were walking to town (or rather, Lena and I were walking, and Luke, Jaz and Zeb were rolling), and I happened to snap this picture of Zeben, about to pick a flower from someone's garden:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7gM3mfvI/AAAAAAAAEt0/X7CLpdZ2h3s/s1600/flowers12.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7gM3mfvI/AAAAAAAAEt0/X7CLpdZ2h3s/s400/flowers12.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464550253512785650" border="0" /></a>Followed by this photo, taken after I explained that we can't just pick flowers from other people's gardens without asking permission first:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7goc53uI/AAAAAAAAEt8/JO8H1fYT6P4/s1600/flowers13.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7goc53uI/AAAAAAAAEt8/JO8H1fYT6P4/s400/flowers13.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464550260917001954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">classic mad pose</span></span><br /><br /></div>There were tears followed by a refusal to continue onward until, finally, a compromise was found: we decided that picking flowers from trees and bushes on private property was allowed, just not from gardens. Happiness and purpose and forward motivation returned.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7g7KgDCI/AAAAAAAAEuE/o0ia-2bRGs4/s1600/flowers14.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7g7KgDCI/AAAAAAAAEuE/o0ia-2bRGs4/s400/flowers14.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464550265940085794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Lena, lifting Zeben up to the blossoms</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7hG857_I/AAAAAAAAEuM/pyBFoHgBtyM/s1600/flowers15.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X7hG857_I/AAAAAAAAEuM/pyBFoHgBtyM/s400/flowers15.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464550269104287730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Happiness is a tiny flower</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X6vfBMCMI/AAAAAAAAEsc/Oqf-5XO630A/s1600/flowers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X6vfBMCMI/AAAAAAAAEsc/Oqf-5XO630A/s400/flowers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464549416571242690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Breathing in their sweet smell</span></span><br /></div><br />I'm not really a flower person, per se. But I love color--oh so very much--and I love how the flowers are adding so many splashes of vibrant color to our neighborhood at this moment. And I love how this is when the flowers choose to show up, after the long, bleak winter, just when we need them the most. My favorites are the volunteers: those who grow all on their own, up out of the middle of the lawn, or in a crack between slabs of cement on the sidewalk; in places where we sometimes fail to see the potential for such random beauty. And while I know that <span style="font-style: italic;">their</span> purpose on this Earth is simply to reproduce themselves, I can't help but think that there is an intended message here: a reminder that beauty is all around us, even where we least expect it, a plea for us all to take the time to notice, and appreciate, and smell the flowers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X6wh8YfyI/AAAAAAAAEs0/hSqj7XLS_eE/s1600/flowers4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9X6wh8YfyI/AAAAAAAAEs0/hSqj7XLS_eE/s400/flowers4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464549434536263458" border="0" /></a>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-10232461714956215352010-04-25T20:09:00.010-04:002010-04-26T07:12:46.716-04:00Hammer and a NailI was so obsessed with the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indigo_Girls">Indigo Girls</a> during my early teenage years that I couldn't fathom ever not being obsessed with them. I remember my high school guitar teacher--always trying to get me more interested and invested in music theory--asking me how I would know it was the Indigo Girls if I heard a new song of theirs on the radio one day. He wanted me to describe the sound of their music, the style that made their songs theirs. But I was so hung-up on the impossibility of the suggestion: <span style="font-style: italic;">an Indigo Girls song that I didn't already know?!</span> that I couldn't answer the question. In truth, this exact scenario has played out many times for me. I haven't even listened to the last several Indigo Girls' albums, and I haven't seen them live since 1997. So I often hear a song on the radio (or my new favorite: <a href="http://www.pandora.com/">Pandora</a>) and think, "is that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amy_Ray">Amy Ray</a> singing? Is <span style="font-style: italic;">this </span>an Indigo Girls song?" and reflect back on that conversation with my teacher and feel a bit wistful for my 16-year-old self and all of her convictions and devotion. But it is funny, now that I am playing my guitar so much these days, given the current role of the Indigo Girls in my life (non-existent), that all I know how to play are Indigo Girls songs. Of course, I can play just about anything with lyrics and chords in front of me, but the songs that I remember--that my fingers mysteriously seem to recall all on their own--are all Indigo Girls songs. And so that is mostly what I play. And I especially love to play their song, <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yTI2GGNFR_U">"Hammer and a Nail,"</a> because it contains the one bit of guitar tab that I ever memorized (and that likely my children will have permanently stuck in their heads due to how frequently I pluck it out), and so it's especially fun.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >Clearing webs from the hovel</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" ><br />a blistered hand on the handle of a shovel</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" ><br />I've been digging too deep, I always do.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" ><br />I see my face on the surface</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" > I look a lot like narcissus</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" ><br />A dark abyss of an emptiness</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" ><br />Standing on the edge of a drowning blue . . . </span><br /><br /></div>This weekend I spent quite a bit of time getting out of my head and using my hands (and humming this song), and it felt so very good. My Love and I together worked to put in some raised beds in our backyard for our vegetable garden. This was a task that required the invocation of the <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/fbtsoyp-fencing-co.html">FBTSOYP Fence Company</a>, and an eventual acceptance that perfection was not our goal.<br /><br />We had never built raised beds before, and would have been at a loss as to where to even begin if it weren't for the fact that our yard is mostly shaded (by four surprisingly grand, coniferous trees). So we knew where the garden had to go (in the one mostly sunny spot), and with limited space, there were limited design possibilities. I say this--that the possibilities were limited--but, in truth, I didn't feel especially limited at first. I had a vision of a circular garden of raised beds (a half-dozen trapezoids) with a stone patio in the center, and I felt relatively certain that we could <span style="font-style: italic;">make it happen</span>. My mother was my sole supporter (this is no surprise to me, for she is the source of all my grandiose planning genes, plus she designed a really amazing raised-bed garden at her old house), and everyone else thought I was insane. Ultimately, I conceded: maybe I <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> just a little insane. We decided to keep things simple and make two regular rectangles instead.<br /><br />Even still, two rectangles would require what amount of lumber? And we would put them together how? We marked out the beds (one 3' x 16', the other 4' x 16') with stakes and rope and did some math to figure out how much wood we would need. We decided to make our raised beds extra tall in hopes of keeping out predators (namely, one small plant destroyer named Leo), and we decided that we didn't need to splurge on fancy wood: if our beds only last 5 years, that's OK. (Honestly, I don't let myself think ahead more than 5 years into the future anyway since that would involve incorporating <span style="font-style: italic;">teenagers</span> into any plan or vision.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UBfhEehrI/AAAAAAAAErE/AZEiFiRGsK8/s1600/garden.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 125px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UBfhEehrI/AAAAAAAAErE/AZEiFiRGsK8/s400/garden.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464275363848685234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Stake and String Beds</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">-to-be</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UBf5QHNrI/AAAAAAAAErM/_6L-gFJaIs4/s1600/garden2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 104px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UBf5QHNrI/AAAAAAAAErM/_6L-gFJaIs4/s400/garden2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464275370339940018" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UCPEYphAI/AAAAAAAAErs/L9I8S07niTY/s1600/garden7.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UCPEYphAI/AAAAAAAAErs/L9I8S07niTY/s400/garden7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464276180782384130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">wood at the ready</span></span><br /><br /></div>But even after we had selected the wood at the local lumber shop, and had it cut to size (how cool is it that they will do that for you? Free of charge?), and had our friend Gaby drive it home to us in her pickup truck, and unloaded it all onto the lawn, I sat around for the better part of an hour lamenting over how to begin. This is when getting back to the FBTSOYP mindset came in handy. Once we remembered that we didn't need for things to turn out <span style="font-style: italic;">perfectly</span>, the whole project felt much more doable.<br /><br />And thankfully, the kids were rather agreeable to our benign neglect all day, allowing us many hours of hard labor with minimal interruptions.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UC8tmzGdI/AAAAAAAAEsU/j1r4ebUl5UU/s1600/gardene.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UC8tmzGdI/AAAAAAAAEsU/j1r4ebUl5UU/s400/gardene.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464276964941699538" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Leo, sleeping in the stroller beside us</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UBfxnjotI/AAAAAAAAErU/-f3osgK-bKQ/s1600/garden4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UBfxnjotI/AAAAAAAAErU/-f3osgK-bKQ/s400/garden4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464275368290788050" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Zeb at the water table</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UBge6mH5I/AAAAAAAAErc/74yKxQNMbnI/s1600/garden5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UBge6mH5I/AAAAAAAAErc/74yKxQNMbnI/s400/garden5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464275380450238354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Jaz in the hammock</span><br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UBgi59YKI/AAAAAAAAErk/ZUd4_uQdTXA/s1600/garden6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UBgi59YKI/AAAAAAAAErk/ZUd4_uQdTXA/s400/garden6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464275381521309858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Luke in the sandbox</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UCPbyBLpI/AAAAAAAAEr0/ri1tzGi3YB0/s1600/garden8.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UCPbyBLpI/AAAAAAAAEr0/ri1tzGi3YB0/s400/garden8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464276187062808210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Me, with a hammer and a nail</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UCP588_pI/AAAAAAAAEr8/bJVuitAdXC0/s1600/garden9.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UCP588_pI/AAAAAAAAEr8/bJVuitAdXC0/s400/garden9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464276195161734802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">My Love, digging a trench </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(and Leo, sucking on nails</span></span>)<br /><br /></div>The finished beds are definitely a bit wonky, but we are pretty pleased with them regardless, and I don't doubt their ability to hold dirt (oh my, we are going to need <span style="font-style: italic;">a lot</span> of good dirt), which is really all that will be required of them.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UCQE4qV7I/AAAAAAAAEsM/eiYp_fVP77I/s1600/garden11.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UCQE4qV7I/AAAAAAAAEsM/eiYp_fVP77I/s400/garden11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464276198096525234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">the view from our 2nd story bedroom window</span></span><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UCP8CCc6I/AAAAAAAAEsE/WENthAKkdJ8/s1600/garden10.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9UCP8CCc6I/AAAAAAAAEsE/WENthAKkdJ8/s400/garden10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464276195719934882" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Oh the vegetables we will Grow!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">My hands are blistered and my arms are sunburned and it feels fabulous. Almost as fabulous as it feels to be making this little backyard dream slowly turn into a reality.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I've been thinking about all of the questions I've received thus far on my <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2010/04/ask-me-anything.html">Ask Me Anything</a> post, and I'm excited to start answering them; some of them are really great! There is still time to ask more, I will leave the comments section open until Tuesday night. Thanks!</span></span><br /></div></div>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-75991250692161354712010-04-22T22:17:00.004-04:002010-04-22T22:35:55.065-04:00Ask Me Anything<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9EDQGLOp5I/AAAAAAAAEq0/XPrdiRPjMIk/s1600/cutestbabyever.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9EDQGLOp5I/AAAAAAAAEq0/XPrdiRPjMIk/s400/cutestbabyever.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463151398047623058" border="0" /></a><br />This baby, this cutest baby ever, this nearly 10-month-old baby (what?!), is the flirtiest baby I've yet to know. He makes a point to connect with nearly every single person we come across, winning people over with his outrageous eyes and irresistible smile. And people can't help but get sucked in, to stare at him unabashedly, to smile back and sigh. He is not shy at all. He is so open and willing to share himself--his beauty, his love, his excitement--with everyone. It's intoxicating. He breaks down barriers, starts conversations, welcomes questions from strangers. Some people feel uncomfortable around babies. But not this one.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9EEGdJQ9PI/AAAAAAAAEq8/6ywSFLMoy6Y/s1600/cutestbabyever2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S9EEGdJQ9PI/AAAAAAAAEq8/6ywSFLMoy6Y/s400/cutestbabyever2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463152331926336754" border="0" /></a><br />In attempt to be a little more like my son, I'm once <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/05/so-many-answers-part-1.html">again</a> choosing to open myself up to your curiosities. Lately I've been getting several emails a day from blog readers--and I really do appreciate each one, so much--and I understand the way that getting to peek into someone's life (like my blog allows you to do) can make you yearn to know just a little bit more than what you're being shown. And so, channeling Leo, I say, <span style="font-style: italic;">ask me anything</span>.<br /><br />I will do my best to answer.Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-26815800115008437182010-04-20T19:54:00.008-04:002010-04-20T22:31:20.059-04:00The Dark Side of ThreeMy <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2010/01/joy-of-three.html">once-sweet</a> 3-year-old son is fast approaching the not-so-sweet age of 3-and-a-half. The half-birthdays have always proven most difficult in regards to our kids' behavior, and it seems that for Zeben, 3.5 is no exception.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8jybGZ-FzI/AAAAAAAAEp0/ktnQGCe0F6c/s1600/zeb410.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8jybGZ-FzI/AAAAAAAAEp0/ktnQGCe0F6c/s400/zeb410.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460881095576655666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Zeben</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">April 2010</span></span><br /><br /></div>"I hate you!"<br /><br />"You're stupid!"<br /><br />"I don't love you anymore!"<br /><br />It is so hard at this moment to remember <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2008/04/naked-baby.html">the baby he once was</a>, to appreciate Zeben for all of his <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2010/01/curmudgeon.html">curmudgeony</a> <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2009/11/and-then-he-was-free.html">quirkiness</a>. To not feel hurt and dismayed by his angry words. To know that he is still so very small, still in so much need of me: of my comforting body, my calm reassurance, my unending patience.<br /><br />But sometimes, these days, Zeb just isn't very likable. He cries easily (and loudly!), crumples into a ball over the injustice of the fact that someone else has already pushed the button for the elevator ("I don't like anyone in this elevator!" he yells from the floor), and is quick to physically attack his big brothers when he doesn't immediately get his way. It can take every bit of my willpower to scoop his body up in my arms and pour my love into him when such a big part of me wants to just escape him somehow. <span style="font-style: italic;">He's just so unreasonable!</span> And, yet, as soon as I hear myself think those words, I have to laugh at myself; I should definitely know better than to expect reason from a 3-year-old.<br /><br />Laughter, I believe, is the key to surviving the dark side of Three (and, I suppose, of parenting in general). I try not to let myself forget how very funny Zeben can be in the midst of his mean grouchiness. His mind is constantly working to make sense of the world these days, his vocabulary continues to expand rapidly, and when he gets something wrong--or even better, not <span style="font-style: italic;">quite</span> right--life with Zeben can be pretty hilarious.<br /><br />The other day he was struggling to balance on one foot while he put on his pants. His tolerance for frustration is at an all-time low, so there was lots of groaning involved as he teetered and tottered from one foot to the other.<br /><br />"Ugh! I just can't do it!"<br /><br />"You can do it," Lena and I chimed together.<br /><br />"No I can't! I can't <span style="font-style: italic;">bounce</span>!"<br /><br />"You can't balance?" I asked.<br /><br />"Right, I can't bounce! Ugh!"<br /><br />"Ba-lance," I corrected.<br /><br />"Bounce!" insisted Zeben. "Like when you try to <span style="font-style: italic;">bounce</span> on one foot!"<br /><br />"But, 'bounce' means to hop up and down, and 'ba-lance' means to be steady and not fall over."<br /><br />"Ugh, <span style="font-style: italic;">whatever</span>, Mom! Help me put my pants on!"<br /><br />Little exchanges like this need to be milked for all that they're worth these days, as Lena and I work to appreciate every little bit of humor that Zeben brings to this impossibly contrary time. When I made the kids' beds this past weekend (we were expecting company; bed-making is nowhere near a daily occurrence in our house at the moment), I set up all of the stuffed animals along the edge of Zeben's mattress. He's very much into stuffed animals these days (especially the four he insists on bringing with us wherever we go: <span style="font-style: italic;">Little Hop</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Leo-The-Monkey</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Little-Cute-Little-Elephant</span>, and <span style="font-style: italic;">Funny Bunny</span>), and likes to tell just about anyone that he is "collecting a stuffed animal <span style="font-style: italic;">collection</span>." So I knew that he'd get a kick out of seeing all of the animals on his bed, and I was not disappointed. What I didn't expect, however, was that he'd come across all of the animals and ask,<br /><br />"Hey, what are these guys all <span style="font-style: italic;">doing</span> up here?"<br /><br />"Oh, I just made your bed and thought you might like to see them all sitting on it, waiting for you," I explained.<br /><br />"Um, but, didn't you think they all might like a <span style="font-style: italic;">book</span> to read?!"<br /><br />Um, no, can't say that I did.<br /><br />Zeben quickly righted my wrong and spent a (rather frustrated) half-hour setting up books for the animals to "read."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S85dQ_jOYdI/AAAAAAAAEqc/ejTue08zAWA/s1600/zebbed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S85dQ_jOYdI/AAAAAAAAEqc/ejTue08zAWA/s400/zebbed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462405944565457362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Nearly pleased with himself</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S85d_0Om4QI/AAAAAAAAEqk/M5YgmdilTHA/s1600/mouseboook.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S85d_0Om4QI/AAAAAAAAEqk/M5YgmdilTHA/s400/mouseboook.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462406748980044034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">my favorite was the mouse</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Thankfully there continues to be much sweetness between Zeb and his baby brother Leo, without which we might <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> struggle to enjoy our third son these days. By savoring the moments--however fleeting they may be--of camaraderie and spontaneous affection, we gain the ability to tolerate--however intolerable it may be--Zeben's less lovely behavior. We know not to despair, that this phase will morph into something new, that as long as we can remember to <span style="font-style: italic;">laugh </span>at the end of each day, we are doing just fine.<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S85elPtp3qI/AAAAAAAAEqs/vbayp3Xh9aE/s1600/zebleo410.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S85elPtp3qI/AAAAAAAAEqs/vbayp3Xh9aE/s400/zebleo410.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462407392013180578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Zeb and Leo<br />April 2010<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:100%;">But, I would be lying if I said we weren't seriously, <span style="font-style: italic;">seriously</span> excited for this phase to end. I'm kinda hoping for May 15th, the day after Zeb turns three-and-a-half. But I'll settle for anytime this year if I have to. Four never looked so good.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></div></div>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-24625232231996700012010-04-19T20:32:00.004-04:002010-04-19T23:37:14.721-04:00"I don't have a Papa."A couple of weeks ago, we were sitting around in the kitchen with some of our mama and papa friends while our collection of children ate their supper at the table in the next room. And I overheard, as the little ones reached for slices of pizza and settled themselves into their seats, a most fascinating conversation. One of our small friends, nearly five years old, asked something along the lines of "where <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> your papa?" to Jaz. This particular small friend is quite familiar with our family structure (and the structure of many other families in our town, seriously, this kid could very well work for the census), so the question was asked in a joking tone. But Jaz answered rather seriously,<br /><br />"I don't have a Papa."<br /><br />He paused, and so did I, momentarily distracted from meal preparation.<br /><br />"And I'm OK with it."<br /><br />He spoke calmly and confidently, as if he had rehearsed his response--and perhaps he has, perhaps this is a response he's had to give many times with friends at school--and he didn't seem the least bit annoyed or bothered by the question. He went on:<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">And</span>, I do have 5 uncles, two grandfathers and one great-grandfather."<br /><br />By this point, curious small friend had lost interest and wasn't listening, and I got the sense that the last bit was added on for Jasper's own benefit, as he reassured himself of the presence of the important and beloved men in his life. And it was that last sentence that really struck <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span> because it isn't part of the story we've told the kids over the years about our family. Though we have always chosen to focus on what our family <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> rather than what it <span style="font-style: italic;">isn't</span> (e.g. "our family has a mom and a mama" vs. "our family doesn't have a papa"), we haven't purposefully expanded our definition of family beyond the "two moms, four kids" description. In fact, I have always been careful not to introduce the concept of a "substitute father" by pointing out the significant men in the kids' lives, and I certainly would never have suggested that having "<span style="font-style: italic;">5 uncles, two grandfathers and one great-grandfather</span>" would somehow make up for not having a Papa. Not that I think that's what Jaz was necessarily saying when he added those details to his "I don't have a Papa, and I'm OK with it," explanation.<br /><br />I guess what surprised me was the way that he seemed to be justifying his two-mom family as an acceptable alternative (to a "typical" one-mom, one-dad family) because:<br /><br />a) he's OK with it, and<br />b) he has a lot of men in his extended family.<br /><br />It made me think that somehow he's picked up on the fact that society at large finds fault in lesbian families. Because the truth is that these ARE the issues that people seem to have with the lesbian family structure. People worry that children of lesbians will yearn for a "normal," heterosexual family unit and that they will suffer for being deprived of relationships with men (this worry seems especially prevalent in regards to lesbians raising sons). Even really well-meaning, otherwise supportive, loving people in our life have commented in such a way as to imply that our kids <span style="font-style: italic;">need </span>or would benefit from a "father figure."<br /><br />I don't deny that the kids might sometimes <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> a Papa. This is something we talk about, at least with Luke and Jaz. A few years ago, Lena and I participated in a survey of lesbian families, and when we completed it, the woman doing the study sent us a copy of the book, "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Daddy-Machine-Johnny-Valentine/dp/1555838464/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1271732189&sr=8-3">The Daddy Machine</a>" as a thank-you gift. And despite the b-grade illustrations and the ridiculously rhyming text, Luke and Jaz love it. The general plot line is about a brother and sister--with lesbian moms--who decide that even though they love their two moms, life might be even better if they could have two moms AND one dad. The kids build a machine that makes daddies, and are soon overwhelmed with way too many dads--who do <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> of the things that dads do--before ultimately deciding to send all the dads back into the machine (aside from 2 who decide to stay and move in next door as lovers?). Frequently after we read this book, we will have a small discussion about what it would be like to have a dad, how our life would be different, what Luke and Jaz would want to do with their dad. Usually the conversation digresses into a discussion of what other kinds of machines the kids would like to make, but I'm glad that we're at least attempting to talk about this stuff now. I'm certain that it will be a much more complicated topic when the kids are older, and I'm glad that we're building some sort of a foundation to perhaps make those future discussions easier.<br /><br />I have never worried about a lack of men in the kids' lives. Truthfully, there are more men actively involved in loving them than there were in my life when I was little, but even if there weren't, this is not something that would worry me. It is important to me that they be exposed to people of all genders (including transgender and gender queer), but we have never gone out of our way to make sure that they are spending "enough" time with men. We find that it happens quite naturally. Even when Luke and Jaz were babies, I remember that they would often crawl into the lap of the one daddy--among dozens of mothers--who brought his daughter to the local parents' center. It always made me laugh. They know how to get their needs--whatever those needs may be--met. And I really, truly, honestly believe that they would be absolutely fine even if there weren't any men in their lives at all, that a lack of male role models would not necessarily have a negative impact on what kind of men our sons grow up to be (assuming, that is, that they grow up to be men . . . as we say in our family, <span style="font-style: italic;">"most</span> boys grow up to be men, but not all").<br /><br />All of this is not to imply that we are not incredibly grateful for the men in our extended family who love our sons so well. The more people who love our kids, the better. And it is so very reassuring to me to know that these are the men that Jaz (at least) thinks of when contemplating his lack of a Papa. I couldn't really ask for a better group of "male role models."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S80U6yPA8qI/AAAAAAAAEqE/EJl9qEoz6wg/s1600/uncles.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S80U6yPA8qI/AAAAAAAAEqE/EJl9qEoz6wg/s400/uncles.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462044923219997346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Leo (9.5 months) and Uncle Ethan</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S80U7SXBuXI/AAAAAAAAEqM/FLDKp_pp5RA/s1600/uncles2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S80U7SXBuXI/AAAAAAAAEqM/FLDKp_pp5RA/s400/uncles2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462044931843537266" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Leo loving Ethan<br /><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S80U75eY_iI/AAAAAAAAEqU/cJnWDDMGaj0/s1600/uncles3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S80U75eY_iI/AAAAAAAAEqU/cJnWDDMGaj0/s400/uncles3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462044942343405090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Luke and 3 uncles, together on the kitchen couch</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Uncles, L to R: Will, Ethan and Max</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I would love to hear how other Papa-less families have approached this topic with their children (or plan to, if your kids are still babies). Please share below!<br /></div></div>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-34190932251157873922010-04-18T22:25:00.003-04:002010-04-18T22:34:12.305-04:00Taking a Stand<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8u_YwqXIUI/AAAAAAAAEp8/_NmRn21KEDk/s1600/leostands.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8u_YwqXIUI/AAAAAAAAEp8/_NmRn21KEDk/s400/leostands.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461669405217202498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Leo, 9 months</span></span><br /></div><br />Once again I seem to have fallen off the wagon in regards to this blogging thing, but I have decided to take a stand and recommit myself to documenting--and reflecting upon--our life in this space. Tomorrow kicks off another long stretch of daily writing, and I am feeling excited to get back to it.<br /><br />Thank you for not giving up on me as I have faltered over the past month.Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3778931643950953929.post-66137336124864291192010-04-13T16:25:00.007-04:002010-04-13T17:19:37.431-04:00Tuck Turns TwoThis past weekend we drove to Boston to partake in a birthday celebration for our sweet nephew, Tucker, who was turning 2. How is it possible that in two short years such a tiny baby has grown into such a big kid?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TbjwgTOuI/AAAAAAAAEpk/efbtBSfYM1g/s1600/tucker2days.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TbjwgTOuI/AAAAAAAAEpk/efbtBSfYM1g/s400/tucker2days.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459730055642168034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Tucker, 2 days old</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TWpE_LXqI/AAAAAAAAEpE/FAfXuKhC6to/s1600/tuck24.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TWpE_LXqI/AAAAAAAAEpE/FAfXuKhC6to/s400/tuck24.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459724649481592482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Tucker, 2 years old</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">No one appreciates Tucker's switch from "baby" to "kid" as much as Zeben, who, despite much adoration from Tucker over the past year, has not been the friendliest big cousin lately. At the birthday party, Zeb seemed to finally get it that Tucker isn't a baby anymore, and he now likes to boast that he is Tucker's "<span style="font-style: italic;">favorite</span> cousin."<br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TWoWgqJjI/AAAAAAAAEo8/HG9dfAJ5DOo/s1600/tuck23.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TWoWgqJjI/AAAAAAAAEo8/HG9dfAJ5DOo/s400/tuck23.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459724637005555250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Tuck and Zeb</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">My favorite part of the celebration was watching Tucker's glee<br />at the sight of his birthday cake.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TWpde-P2I/AAAAAAAAEpM/kHsOgQnVGAA/s1600/tuck25.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TWpde-P2I/AAAAAAAAEpM/kHsOgQnVGAA/s400/tuck25.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459724656057401186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">hands clasped in anticipation<br /><br /></span></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TWne-PiUI/AAAAAAAAEo0/zFv8PkJoEdk/s1600/tuck22.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TWne-PiUI/AAAAAAAAEo0/zFv8PkJoEdk/s400/tuck22.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459724622097254722" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TdXLL8rLI/AAAAAAAAEps/7PF1n_Nw7sk/s1600/tuckcake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TdXLL8rLI/AAAAAAAAEps/7PF1n_Nw7sk/s400/tuckcake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459732038489517234" border="0" /></a><br />And, since Tucker was the inspiration for the <a href="http://totallysmittenmama.blogspot.com/2008/04/t-shirts-for-tucker.html">very first t-shirts I ever decorated</a>, I felt especially glad to make him a new one in honor of his special day.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TWnFJrwFI/AAAAAAAAEos/cO7ijk742-Q/s1600/tuck2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lLBGcgm1eks/S8TWnFJrwFI/AAAAAAAAEos/cO7ijk742-Q/s400/tuck2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459724615165919314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">a "2" tee for Tuck</span></span><br /></div><br />We stayed until bedtime and all four of our kids fell asleep in the car on the 100-mile drive home. My love and I held hands and listened to music and--as much as I normally despise driving--felt a wonderful sense of peace. It was lovely, and I felt like we should be making the trip more often to visit the adorable Tucker (and his parents!) so that the cousins can become even better playmates.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Thank you to Addie and Max for a great party!<br />Happy birthday, Tucker!<br /></div>Lexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07336953962925729151noreply@blogger.com1