Puzzle Man

Around the preschool, Roan is getting a reputation. A reputation as someone who loves puzzles. His teacher starts to tell me about his puzzle obsession, and of course I am interested in anything Roan related, and I am doing my best to pay attention, but...

I have this habit. When a conversation is full of text book phrases I go into a sort of translation mode. I mentally dumb down anything elaborate into something simple and catchy. So when Roan's teacher goes on and on about Roan's puzzle savvy in her Masters-Degree-in-Early-Childhood-Development terms I tune her out and think: Puzzle Man.

Puzzle Man's powers include undivided attention to putting together any puzzle ever devised. His single-minded focus is his greatest strength, but also his greatest weakness. Should a puzzle piece go missing, Puzzle Man will become distraught, even angry. The puzzle must be completed. He will not to be distracted from this mission. You will bribe him with other games, fruit, even ice-cream, and his will not even look at you except to insist that you produce the missing puzzle piece. You will explain the puzzle piece could be anywhere, under the stove, outside in the sandbox, downstairs under the couch, in the dark and dusty reaches under the bed and a thorough search would take hours, possibly days, and who wants to go to so much trouble when there are so many other puzzles to complete, so many slides to slide down, so many swings to swing on, and hey, shouldn't we go to the playground? And Puzzle Man will fix you with his steely gaze, undeterred and untempted, point to the spot where the missing puzzle piece belongs, and make that exasperated question mark noise that sounds like "eh?" and means, "Mom, we need to find it."

Back at the preschool, Roan's teacher smiles at me, somewhat expectantly. I have a bad feeling I've missed a conversational cue, it is probably my turn to say something with the words "executive function" or "synapse" but I've been checked out, daydreaming about Puzzle Man: The Halloween Costume. It's an awesome vision, but I let it go, and listen to her tell about the time that Roan commandeered all three teachers to scour the room for a lost puzzle piece. Eventually, they found it. Puzzle Man clapped, then dumped out the pieces and started all over again.

Apples and Bananas

Week in Review

Shabbat Abba

Making the challah

Expired rice

Daddy swing

Mushrooms

There are a lot of mushrooms in our backyard. They seem to grow most vigorously after it rains. Our neighbor says they are okay to eat, but we are not so sure...

Seize the Day - Essay #4

*What motherhood means to Pamela, mother to 4-month-old Eva*

Being a mother means thinking about writing this essay for three days before there is actually time to do it, writing half of it, and then trying to write more, piece by piece, for several weeks after the fact before it is actually finished.



Being a mother means an ache in my heart when I leave her in the morning and a bizarre sense of accomplishment and focus at work that I hadn’t expected, and feel guilty about regularly. Motherhood is conflicting emotions. When I pick her up at the end of the day, I want to smother her with hugs and kisses and smack the nursery director in the face as she coos with my daughter and recounts just how much fun they had together all day. When we are alone her simple smile fills up my heart and my eyes, with tears and I ask myself how I can leave this creature to be taken care of by someone else. After nearly four months, motherhood means being spoken to and yelled at in a language I can't yet understand- an endless guessing game of getting to know each other. It means founding her fan club and keeping it going for the next hundred years. 



Being a mother means sacrificing (in whatever form sacrifice may come), without question, for her; putting her needs before mine. My pre-motherhood fetish for shoes has turned into a nearly obsessive attraction to tiny little ones for which I have to convince myself she’ll grow out of too quickly to be worth buying. So, perhaps I have not become completely selfless, because her happiness gratifies me and gives me an indescribable satisfaction.

A sense of time and mortality have come over me, that I’ve never felt before. Absolutely nothing is forever and everyday is to be cherished and not just floated through as the current carries you. And time. There is never enough. You can't borrow it, steal it, save it, lend it, let it collect interest, get it back from a friend to whom you lent it, or earn more of it for something good you did. But, you can waste it. Being a parent brings new meaning to the cheesy maxim 'live everyday as if it were your last.'

Eva grabbed one of the toys hanging in the baby gym, held it in her hand and stared at it for the first time yesterday and it'll never happen again. I can only hope that her father or I will be present for as many of her firsts as time permits, even the small ones. The realization that I will not live forever may have scared the hell out of me only 13 months ago, but fear is not an option anymore. I have to accept and prepare for this fact. She must have everything she needs. I need to teach her love and independence and loyalty; all the important lessons in life, and of course not to smack the nursery director just because you may be jealous of her.

*Pamela* *October 9, 2010* *510 words*

Fishey Lyons

*A post from Jay*

Roan got his first pet this week. His preschool was explaining the seven days of creation (don’t get me started on this), and in order to explain the sea teaming with sea creatures, they gave him a goldfish. In abstract this seems like a great idea – something I'd expect an enthusiastic young teacher to come up with. The reality… well.

I picked Roan up from school, and he ran to me with his usual big smile, giving me a hug and a kiss – a routine that will end one day, but for now is one of the bright spots of my day. He started babbling like crazy, telling me all the things he did at school, a bunch of mumbling interspaced with “color” and “school” and “sing” and “outside” and "soup”. He then started saying “fishey” and “fishey home”. I looked up, and there was his teacher, holding his fish in a clear, large plastic jar.

His teacher had told Cameron about the fish plan in the morning, so I was prepared. The fish already looked a bit sick, not surprising considering the size of his jar and that it was littered with way too much fish food, that it was almost 80 degrees in the school, and that Roan and the other kids had probably been playing with him all day. I scooped him up along with Roan’s things and we headed home. Unfortunately, Roan wanted to hold the fish, which caused a bit of jar shaking before I was able to convince him that the fish needed to sit in his own seat with a seat belt that snaps, just like Roan does. On our drive back I asked him what name we should give his fish. Roan responded, after much pondering, “Um… Fishey!”

After a bit more shaking while I tried to parallel park, we transported Fishey to the kitchen table. Roan sat at the table and had his snack, watching Fishey intently. Unfortunately, I hadn't had the time or the energy to pick up the proper gear (a large tank with things inside that Fishey could use to hide behind), so I switched him from the plastic jar to a Tupperware bowl filled with water at the proper temperature, and then went back to work, leaving Roan with Elizabeth, his new baby sitter.

When I got home later that day I noticed the tell-tale tilt of a fish on his last legs, angling 45 degrees, with his mouth almost out of the water. I quickly moved Fishey to the corner of the table, behind a picture frame, so that Roan wouldn’t catch sight of him. Throughout the rest of the evening Roan would ask me every few minutes about Fishey, and I would respond that Fishey was resting and could play later.

After dinner, some chasing, Wonderpets, teeth brushing, hand washing, books, serenading and finally sleep, I went over to the Tupperware bowl, each step filled with worry. Unfortunately, my fear was confirmed. Fishey was dead.

I teared up a little. I love all animals, and I was crushed that Roan’s first pet didn’t even last the day. I knew the odds were against Fishey from the start, but I had desperately wanted him to pull through. Looking back, I knew I could have done more to save him, which made me even more frustrated. I did make sure that Fishey got a beautiful burial at sea though.

We’re going to get a dog soon, and I know that Roan will likely forget all about Fishey and will consider this dog to be his “first” pet. But every time he says “Fishey?” or “Fishey home?” over the next few days, and he’ll ask plenty, my heart will ache a little.

Fishey Lyons - RIP

Some Photos

Washing Blankie

Post Nap Popsicle

On Top of Hay Mountain

Hay Ride to the Orchards

Apple Picking

Hay Ride - the return trip

The New Perfect - Essay # 3

*What motherhood means to Carmela, mother of 14-month-old Raphael*

I was worried that motherhood would become something so all encompassing that I would be stripped of my former identity; my sense of humor would vanish, and I would be reduced to a haggard spit up-soaked slave to my child. My career would no longer be important, and conversations with me would be reduced to insipid pureed mush. Fortunately, motherhood has been none of these things.

Nonetheless, motherhood has made me realize that you cannot always be an overachiever. I now willingly accept “good enough.” Life has been stripped down to the essential; decision making is a constant battle between “necessary” and “nice to have.”

I realize that brunch can be served with just waffles and fruit salad, with eggs, bagels, lox, and the fragrant aroma of homemade cinnamon rolls existing only in my nostalgic memory of pre-child Sunday mornings. I forgive myself for not cleaning the bathroom before houseguests arrive, and I accept that, until Raphael is old enough to stir a pot or grab a bucket and a sponge, a heavy dose of pragmatism will be required.

Motherhood is, however, holding a small piece of perfection. For an ephemeral moment, I can look at my son and love everything about him. For a blissful moment, there are no character flaws or complexes. My entire being smiles as he shrieks with glee when the wind tosses his hair in all directions or when he sticks his hand out to feel the rain. I laugh when he teases me by popping his thumb in his grinning mouth, just to have me take it out again and again.

For the past 14 months, each day has been better than the previous one. Each day I wonder what new discovery Raphael will make. When I’m away from him, I daydream about something he might like to see or do. I imagine him smiling his gummy grin, with just the slightest hint of self-satisfaction. I picture him turning his head and looking back at me, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, as he heads at breakneck speed for some forbidden corner of the apartment.

I see his personality evolving, and I see parts of myself and my husband. As a mother, I want to protect him from the inevitable things that come with growing up: hurt feelings, disappointment, frustration, and anger. I can’t stop myself from imaging him as a little boy or young man and wishing that I could protect him forever. If only, somehow, I could make him a little less shy, maybe a bit less critical, and perhaps a touch more patient than his parents.

Most of all, though, I hope my little child stays perfect for just one more day.

*Carmela* *October 6, 2010* *450 words*

The Motherhood Equation - Essay #2

*What motherhood means to Francesca, mother to 2.5-year-old Bianca*

They say that the bond between a child and a mother is the strongest possible bond there is.

I’m a full time student and my husband is a stay-at-home dad. I’ve found that motherhood as it’s defined by society is being the center of your child’s care and the center of your child’s life. Being the one your child looks to first when they’re hurt or tired.

I don’t know anything about this kind of motherhood.

When my daughter is sick or hungry her dad is the first person she wants. When she asks me to run with her around the house, it’s for her to run away from me and for her dad to “protect” her. When I hold her in my arms, staring into her beautiful dark brown eyes and fondly ask, "are you my baby?" she answers with a coy smile, "no, daddy baby."

I laugh and pretend she’s made a funny joke, because I know that’s the right thing to do. She only speaks the truth of her experience. She is daddy’s baby.

I feel left out at times. Sometimes when we’re out shopping she won’t let me push the stroller because she wants daddy to. Sometimes she asks for milk, but doesn’t want me to give it to her because she needs daddy to.

I’m working toward a Ph.D. in cellular biology. I’m not even sure if it will earn me a decent paying job when I graduate. I’m scared to death I’m working so hard for little return on investment later.

But sometimes when she hears me come home, she runs and jumps on me and gives me a big hug. Sometimes when I hold her she puts her hand to the side of my face and says "mommy beautiful hair." Sometimes it feels like she’s really mine.

My most favorite time with my daughter is when daddy isn’t around. I urge him to go to rugby practice as much as he can. I try to convince him to spend the weekend at a friend’s house. Why? Because when it’s just me and her I am mommy. She wants my attention. She’s excited to be with me and wants me to play games with her. Sometimes we go shopping or just play outside, it doesn’t matter. It’s just fantastic that she is enjoying her time with me.

And if I have a week or two off, it gets really good. She’s so excited that I’m home everyday and by the end of the week she’s coming to me as much she goes to him.

Motherhood comes down to time spent. The more you put in the more you get out. But it also means sacrifice. Sometimes motherhood is sacrificed to give our children a home and an enriched life. Though they may not understand our absence now, they will be proud of our hard work later. That’s what I hold on to when daddy’s baby doesn’t want me around.

*Francie* *October 5, 2010* *490 words*

Love Hurts - Essay #1

*What motherhood means to Sarah, mother to 6-month-old Scarlett (aka Scout)*

Motherhood is falling in love. Some days, when I’m too tired to be very interesting, my daughter and I lie in bed together and just stare at each other. I kiss her forehead and her cheeks; she pulls my hair and tries to eat my nose. I sing her songs; she screeches in my face and punches me. Though it may sound like a one-sided romance, I know that when she rakes her teeny nails across my face, she is really expressing her total and unwavering devotion to me. (And maybe she is reminding me that it’s time to find the nail clippers.) Ah, the passion of a new relationship. Will it be like this forever? No chance.

Right now, our relationship is uncomplicated. Every morning when I lift her from her crib, she looks at me like she can’t believe her luck that it’s ME again. Sometimes she sees me and just laughs (this might be because I haven’t brushed my hair in a few days), and other times when I’m holding her to my chest, I look down to see that she is gazing up at me quietly.

It doesn’t matter that I’m tired, that my hair looks like this, that when I do make it to a yoga class I spend the whole time thinking of all the other things I should be doing. My baby needs me, and my reward for meeting her needs is the brilliance of a smile that turns her eyes into little rainbows, and the sweetness of her contagious giggle. Sometimes it’s also the sweetness of pureed peas being flung at my pants.

But someday she’ll realize that I am always there, and the excitement created by my very existence will fade. We will enter a period of familiarity, that natural progression of even the fiercest love. She will reject me, fight with me, tell me everything I’m doing to annoy her and ruin her life. She will do these things because she is secure in my love for her. But I’m certain that won’t make it any easier to take.

And I suppose that this is motherhood, too. The fact of loving someone so intensely, and then having her grow up and away from you while you can only watch. Already she is changing so much, becoming more independent, putting tiny touches on her burgeoning personality. The things she couldn’t do yesterday—she can do them today. And she’ll just keep becoming herself, a person who I don’t even entirely know yet, a person who will most definitely be taller than me.

So today, in this moment, what I feel most about being her mother is grateful. So incredibly grateful for this time we have to just stare, to sing, to squeeze the soft part of a chubby arm (I really should get to yoga more often.) Our love may grow and change, along with my daughter, but it will definitely last. I do hope there will eventually be less punching.

*Sarah* *October 3, 2010* *500 words*

Read more fabulous posts from Sarah here and here.

Breathless - my motherhood essay

Motherhood is never having enough time. You never have enough time for yourself: to do those morning sit-ups, to match your clothes or to even have bought matching clothes in the first place, to fix your hair, to read any of the articles you want to read, to read the Sunday Times on Sunday.

It is official: you will now have to give up on those far-fetched life goals like writing a novel, riding your bicycle across America, living a life of meditation on some deserted mountaintop, because you may have thought you were busy before but now, really, you truly don't have the time.

The only moments when time slows down are those endless nights when you are trying to get your son to sleep, singing Ani DiFranco's 'Tis of Thee over and over, because that song has somehow become your go-to lullaby in times of deep distress. At times like those, time just about stops.

The most heartbreaking part? You don't have enough time for your son. You keep thinking you will get to this place where you can stop and take a breath and realize that everything, for the moment, is just perfect. But then you realize that moment already came and went. For just one second after he ran into the neighbors' yard and pulled out their pinwheel and, over his shoulder, gave you such a smile of accomplishment that you forgot about what a rush you were in. It came for 15 fat seconds when he woke up from his nap calm and talkative and let you run your fingers through his hair. It came for nearly a full minute, when he leaned his heavy head against your chest as you read him One Fish Two Fish. It flashed on and off when he climbed into bed with you and your husband and you took turns tickling him.

You were too busy to see these moments for what they were and now he is asleep and the day is gone and tomorrow, tomorrow will be something brand new. He might stop doing that ridiculous thing where he insists that you tell him and every item of clothing he is wearing to "come on," before he will walk down the street with you ("come on hat, come on pants, etc."). He might stop calling the color "orange" "juice." It could be weeks before you realize he stopped doing these things, and you will sit glassy eyed and wonder what else you might have missed.

Sometimes you will be lucky enough to realize you are living a perfect moment, right now, but it won't last long. You will want to freeze time and bottle it, the way you can capture his pudgy hand print with acrylic paint and paper and save it forever. But you can't. There is never enough time to take it all in. There is barely enough time to breathe.

*Cameron* *October 1, 2010* *490 words*