Cold Weather. I realize, of course, that I’m completely contradicting what I said just six short months ago. I like to think I’m simply supplementing.

In any event, while cold weather might mark the return of those pesky socks to my laundry routine, it also marks the return of hot, steamy soups to my weekly menu. Sweet Potato Minestrone. Black Bean Soup. Vegetable-Beef Soup. Corn-Poblano Soup. Mmmm. Yummy.

Cold Weather. Bring it on.

(Some things just write themselves.)

My grandfather owned an old country store. In its first iteration, it was a country store in the true sense of the word, an old clapboard structure with a tin roof and covered front breezeway, stocked inside with hard candy, farming supplies and hoop cheese, and topped, literally, with the home my mother grew up in for the first seven years of her life. In its second iteration, it was more modern and modest for the times — a low-profile cinderblock structure — and certainly not as evocative and charming as its predecessor. And yet, it’s that modest structure that evokes the sweet memories of my youth, of visits to my grandparents’ house, of afternoon selections from the candy counter, and of a life I almost lived.

Tucked into the left-hand side of that store, for many years, was the post office. My grandfather had been the Post Master, though he gave up that job long before I could have any recollection of it. But I still grew up spending countless hours in that post office, peering into the odd cubbies with painted-glass doors and intricate brass knob-locks, smelling the musty mail bags and hearing Jackie’s chatter begin again each time that small bell on the door proclaimed with its tinny jingle the arrival of someone new.

Just as I was going away to college, the Post Office moved out of the store. Needed more space, they said. Shortly afterward, I began receiving the most delicious treats in the mail from my grandmother: Little Debbie Snack Cakes. As it turns out, Little Debbie needed some storage space. The old post office fit the bill perfectly. And, in the old country way, a few snack cakes off the top for the landholder’s grandchildren would be no problem at all.

I see those Snack Cakes in the store, still. Dressed always for the current season in holiday icing, they remain the same on the inside: two layers of yellow cake with a fluffy layer of icing in the middle. But, until today, they’ve remained on the store shelves and never in my cart. I don’t know why, really. And I don’t know why, really, I picked a package up today. But I did. As I took that first bite, I was opening a care package from my grandmother all over again. And in this care package were these and a thousand other memories - from that store and from that post office. I’ve spent the better part of the morning feasting upon them — the memories, that is. A special delivery, indeed.

So, you like my new digs? I’m quite pleased with them myself, thank you very much. Something I’ve been wanting to do for a while, actually. And Julie? She took the assignment, which included the directive “something with wicker chickens, please”, with grace and spunk. Ran with it, I’d say. Credit and Kudos go to her.

Of course, I never thought I’d find myself directing a photo shoot with a wicker chicken, complete with back-drop and back-lighting. Hell, I even messed with the f-stop.

Then again, I didn’t think I’d ever have a wicker chicken in my kitchen, either.

(The last of the C-Section Diaries. It’s only taken me a year to get to this one. The rest can be read here, and here, and here, and, lastly, here.)

I can remember seeing it the first time. I cried. I hated it. I hated me. I looked at that scar — red, inflamed, angry — and the anger welled up inside me. Ruined. So much, ruined. My body, my faith, my fond memories — all ruined. That scar, that cut, was a slap on my face.

It had taken me a while, actually, to look at it. This foreign, alien thing that was so rudely intimate with me now. How dare it! But it wasn’t foreign at all. It was mine. For always. That’s what a scar is, isn’t it? Permanent. Indelible. Haunting. With forever to make its acquaintance, a few days or a few weeks of ignoring it wouldn’t matter. When the day finally, grudgingly came, looking at it stung as much as the initial cut. This pain, like this scar, will be with me, always, I thought.

Four years later, in so many ways, the pain is still there. Time heals all wounds, they say. Yes, the wound is healed, and the pain isn’t so sharp. I certainly don’t think about it every day, but there are moments, every once in a while, when it all washes over me, once again. The fond memories that are tainted, the shared stories that ring hollow, and the intimate, uncomfortable entwinement of my daughter’s birth and so much pain — are all illustrated, literally, by that scar.

And, yet, that scar? That angry, red scar has faded. It’s almost gone. Somehow, that scar has failed to live up to its name. One day, I fear, I might not even be able to see it. And for a million different reasons, I mourn the slow, but inevitable, loss of that scar.

In the years since that day when that scar first made its mark on my body and my life, I’ve come to live with that scar, not as an intruder, but as an unexpected companion. And as I watch it slowly fade, I’m struck with sadness at the prospect of losing that companion. Because, as much as that scar is a marker of pain, it also marks a journey. That journey includes my coming to understand childbirth with a more holistic, less medicalized vision than is standard for our culture today, but that is only a small, and ultimately, insignificant part of that journey. I’m certainly not looking for a badge of honor, to wear proudly and arrogantly. I’m all too aware, in fact, of how that scar affects how others perceive my beliefs. Yes, I have a passion now, buoyed by my experience — but sometimes that passion rings less true to others because of that experience. She’s blinded by that scar, they say. I don’t need or want my scar to mark that passion.

What that scar on my body ultimately marks is a journey of soul-searching, courage, humility, introspection and love — one that transcends the births of both of my children, and one that continues, even today. It marks a journey in which pain has been both my bitter enemy and then my comfortable companion. My scar marks a journey without a map, one in which I had to take leap of faith after leap of faith — after I had no faith left. It marks a journey in which I was my own hero, able to understand myself, enough, to act, not with selfish, arrogant bravado, but with true, self-actualizing love. The journey that the scar marks continues today, every day. That scar, then, is a part of me, part of who I am, part of my experience and my beliefs. I don’t want to lose that scar any more than I want to lose grasp of those beliefs.

Today, as I look upon the pale marker of the cut, it’s hard to believe that it has only been four years. What will it be in five, eight, fifteen, fifty years? Will it have faded away from my body and my consciousness forever? Time heals all wounds, they say. Uncomfortable truth. If this scar fades away, I hope the mark on my soul remains forever.

Just today, my son had opened the car door by himself; my daughter had gotten dressed with nary a complaint. And I was celebrating a mini-milestone of my own: a museum trip without a stroller. I was shedding, one by one, the encumberences of life with two small children.

And then I turned the corner and saw that door. The Nursing Room. How many times had I stolen precious moments in that room? At the time, slightly embarrassed to seek out the key, but ever-so-grateful the room was there. An encumberence shed, so long ago. And missed, so much, today.

Happy Birthday, Zoe. You’re four years old today. Four seems like such a small number to me — a number I can manage in one hand — and yet, when I look at you, you’re not so small at all. And there’s certainly no holding you in my hand.

How did you get to be this big? You laugh at your own jokes, and somehow, you convince us to laugh — earnestly — at them, too. You’re proud to help out, to bring a dish to the sink, to ask a sales person for a requested item, or to pull the line-leader duty at school. You’ll do anything to show off your independence. You’re buckling yourself in the car, tackling obstacles on the playground that only months before befuddled you, and every-day things like putting on shoes and brushing your teeth? They’re actually everyday things now, most of the time. You quietly and politely engage in conversation with adults — complete with crossed legs and tell-tale mannerisms a la mommy. I’m a big kid, Mommy, you proudly proclaim with so many things that you do. You’re my big kid, I think to myself. And I’m happy to think that.

But, not so fast, Zoe. You’ve got some growing up to do yet. When you can’t quite get something? When something just doesn’t make sense to you? Don’t give up on it; don’t say you’re “all done now,” hiding your frustration behind a veil of boredom. We can see right through it. Go on, give it another whirl. You’ll get it, eventually. And Mommy and Daddy will be right there while you’re trying. And when things don’t go your way, or when life is just a little tough, there really is a better way than the heap on the floor and puddle of tears that is so often the result that we see now. Deep breaths. Talk it out. A little less drama and a little more…maturity. That’s the stuff of big kids. Don’t let this all bother you too much, though. It’s tough, this growing up thing. It takes a lot of work, and a lot of time. Even Mommy, she’s still growing up, even now.

I can remember, when I was not much bigger than you are now, always looking up to the kids in the grade above me and thinking, When I’m in that grade, I’ll be a big kid! Next Year — I’ll have arrived! Turns out, by the time I’d made it to the next grade, I was looking yet again to the next grade for the big-kid standard. With constantly-moving bars of aspiration like that, how would I ever grow up to be a big kid? I see a little of that big-kid adoration in you, already. You look up to the the big kids at school and in the neighborhood just like I did so many years ago. You know what, Zoe? You’re already a mighty fine person to look up to, yourself. You don’t need to look elsewhere to find someone to admire. Remember that, always.

I’ve said before that I’m not any good at these birthday things. I haven’t gotten any better in the interim. I’d love for you to read this one day and get a sense of who you were when you were four. Wouldn’t that be neat? What scares me and excites me at the same time is that I’m reading this now and I suspect it gives a good sense of who I was when I was four years old. Independent. Willful. Charming. Your mother’s daughter, you are, in so many ways. This, I realize, may be your lament for years to come. But I promise you this: you can be whatever big kid you want to be, four-year-old comparisons notwithstanding. Just wait a couple more years to do so, ok?

Happy Birthday, Zoe. Happy Birthday, Big Kid.

Four horses and a stable.
Her first Barbie - Fashionista Barbie, to boot.
Disney Princess tea set.
Disney Princess roller skates.
Disney Princess dress-up dolls.
A ballerina dress-up doll.
Princess jammies.
Jewels and Tiaras.

It is so time to take this girl to the Museum of Natural Sciences for a good dose of lizards, frogs and snakes.

This is the last of the computer posts, I promise. Twenty-four hours into ownership, and it’s “a-ha!” moment after “a-ha!” moment. Sure, there’s an odd quirk or two, and web support for Safari (Mac’s browser) is woeful (for that, though, there’s always Firefox). But, overall, I cannot begin to explain how pleased I am.

I might get laughed at by every Mac user reading this, but, my best discovery so far? An RSS feed reader built-in to the browser. Maybe I’d missed something on Firefox, and God only knows if it was in IE, but, hey, I found it in Safari raht quick lahk. Now it might actually be possible for me to keep up with reading other people’s blogs. (Though I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, and I can guarantee you my husband will not think it’s a good thing at all.)

Now, enough with the micro-minutiae of my life. Back to regularly scheduled programming.

Ahhhhh. A new computer. Life just got better. I’m up to my armpits figuring out how this thing works, but, they tell me it does. Work, that is. And if it doesn’t? It sure looks pretty trying.

Who, pray tell, was thinking? An October birthday, a November birthday, and then all that holiday stuff thrown in to liven up the mix. Clearly, the master-planner didn’t have her head on straight each time those children were conceived. Zoe, the science project that she was — I’m ripe! I’m fruitful! Now! – still had her way with the timing of her entrance into the world. And Evan? Well, let’s just say Evan was a blessing.

And this year? There was a long weekend out of town requiring lots of packing, planning and pre-baking, my turn to host book club, the consolation birthday party on the playground for the playgroup, cup-cakes for pre-school, and, oh, Thanksgiving dinner for thirteen. Time flies when you’re having fun? Try time flies when you don’t know which way is up. The last quarter of the year just disappears for me. Disappears.

There is one good thing that has come from this nightmare of a schedule. My mother took pity upon me. While I was out of town, she sent someone over to clean my house from top to bottom. Baseboards. Blinds. Nooks. Crannies. This woman even picked up toys. Of course, those toys are back where they were, but least my husband refrained from telling me not to get used to it.

I could, you know, get used to it. Even if only every November. You hear that, Mom?