This week, my daughter discovered braids. Her grandmother sent her a book, clearly published in the 1970’s and prominently featuring a girl in pig-tailed braids.

“Mommy, I want my hair in twisty-things,” Zoe proclaimed shortly after spending her quiet time perusing the new old book.

Uh Oh, I thought. This is from the girl who will barely let me comb her hair. Hair maintenance is a purely practical task around here. Enduring sitting still and a little bit of discomfort for the sake of vanity is an entirely foreign concept. “You really want braids?” I asked, assuming — hoping — I’d get an answer in the negative.

“Yes!” There was no denying her conviction.

I gathered four hair ties and went to work. Her excitement was palpable. She sat still for the procedure, and I suddenly found myself enjoying the moment as well. There was odd and unexpected pleasure to be found in the brushing, stroking and preening. This wasn’t the chore of wrangling her angry hair into submission each morning. I’d come to associate working with her hair as just that — a chore. This? It wasn’t work. It was a quiet moment of blissful touch.

The finished product was hardly a facsimile of the girl in the book, who had the advantage of the appropriate length hair for such a style, but, in the end, there were two pig-tails bound by braids sticking out the sides of my daughter’s head. The look was entirely juvenile, but stunningly “big girl” at the same time. Stripped of the frame of her hair, her face suddenly appeared older, less child-like. I was taken aback. It was only the ten-thousandth reminder — just this week — that my daughter is growing up.

For now, Zoe is content to ask me to braid her hair each morning. I’m glad to oblige, happy for the opportunity for the moment of closeness. I know it won’t be long before she’ll be able to braid her own hair. Perhaps before then, even, she’ll tire of braids and abandon them for styles requiring upkeep and products. Those plaits will become a distant memory for her. This is only inevitable. But for me, the pleasant memories of touching my daughter’s hair and watching her transform before my eyes will be forever bound up in braids.

I had the pleasure last night of re-reading a good portion of a friend’s old blog entries. This, in turn, led me to read a good portion of my old entries. I’ve been writing in this blog consistently for well over a year. All along, I’ve been unapologetic about my intentions in doing so. I write, simply, to give my children an opportunity to better understand who I am — one day. In the meantime, I’m writing for myself. As I read through many of the entries I’ve written over the past year, I enjoyed reliving the moments that brought me to write them in the first place. The act of re-reading them was certainly as indulgent as the act of writing them.

But is it really? Indulgent? I’m not so sure.

In the last couple of months, as I’ve struggled to sort and shift and reassign my priorities to insert my part-time work into my days, the thing for which I’ve felt the most remorse, the most sadness, is losing the time to sit, to think, and to write with quality. Not everything I put into this blog over the last year was quality writing. I daresay, little of it was. But, any time I had an idea that I wanted to develop — to mull over — I found the time to do so. My thoughts were deposited into this blog, safe and secure. Little, if anything, of importance to me fell to the wayside. Such is not the case over the last few months. Those precious hours in the afternoon are usually reserved for work right now. By the evening? I’m simply too tired.

Little by little, I’ve watched as thoughts, moments, memories and ideas have simply slipped through my fingertips and disappeared into the ether. I’m trying, of course. Not everything slips away. But the luxurious hours I used to spend crafting and coaxing my thoughts onto virtual paper are rare now. The thoughts I had, just today, about Zoe and Evan and their very special relationship as sister and brother — I’m not certain they’ll find a place here. The bliss spread over their face upon biting into crisp apples, and the simple joy I felt upon watching them in the rear-view mirror? Tenuously captured, if at all. Countless other thoughts and moments have already suffered the same fate.

So is this exercise really an indulgence, then? That it became, by necessity, a lesser priority might lead one to think so. In the economics of decision making, this activity has suffered. But the cost of lost memories and derailed trains of thought is far more dear.

Reasons #1,687 - 1,689 why I love me the Internet:

I’ve spent the better part of yesterday afternoon and this morning watching a web cast of the National Institute of Health’s “State of the Science” Conference on Cesarean Delivery on Maternal Request. At the same time, I was connected via instant messaging technology to several other people watching the same conference, providing a unique opportunity for enriching commentary. And, at one point in time when we wanted to get a message to an attendee at said conference, what did we do? We text-messaged her.

It doesn’t clean bathrooms, but it sure is better than sliced bread.

As he deposited a long, loose stool into the commode, he peered down to inspect his accomplishment. The exact character of the product in question was only fully revealed with his comment: “Ooooohhh! Look! It’s a ‘W’!”

As unpopular as she is in my circle of friends, Dooce would be nothing short of proud. Me? I’m not so sure.

The other evening’s “Hmmm” post was my knee-jerk reaction to observing, for my doula certification, the fourth of five sessions of a childbirth education class. I’ve been attending these classes with a raised eyebrow for weeks now, and that one simply pushed me over the edge. I needed to vent, and my blog takes my huffing and puffing quite well.

In all honesty, it’s been nothing short of depressing observing this class. The phrase lambs to the slaughter has entered my mind more than once as I watch the instructor, time after time, gloss over fundamental facts, omit entirely pertinent information, and simply smile in uncomfortable capitulation to convey words she is not “authorized” to proclaim. I’m not a conspiracy theorist; I know quite well plenty of women are well-served by this education and plenty more find their own way to the education that they need. These women aren’t all lambs. But some are. There’s no denying that.

I have a friend who has questioned why I would ever want to be a doula in a hospital birth. “I’m too jaded,” she says. “I couldn’t do it. I’d watch one nurse do one thing cavalierly, as routine, and I’d be compelled to overstep my bounds. Why are you going to do it?” To her question my answer has always been the same: “Because I believe in it.” No matter the setting — and perhaps because of the setting — I believe women should be supported in labor.

But throughout my observation of this class, my friend’s words have taken on a different meaning. They no longer mean “Why would you put yourself through it?” They mean: Why be a part of it? Why supply your tacit approval with your presence? And as I’ve sat in this class, respecting my place as an observer, I’ve found it extremely difficult — downright uncomfortable — to simply be there. Tacit approval? The urge to withdraw myself is more than a little strong. This is a question I’m going to have to consider carefully. For now, I’m going to believe my anger can be used constructively.

If forced to look a little deeper, I also realize my anger is not entirely about watching it happen — it’s about watching it happen again. Except the first time I saw it, I didn’t know it was happening. I didn’t know it was happening to me.

Another friend of mine said she looked forward to watching me grow in my journey to become a doula. In response to her comment, I thought to myself, I’ve done my growing. And, for the most part, my statement is true. Shock and Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance — I know them all quite well. Although my beliefs have changed quite a bit while making their acquaintance, the only feeling remaining in my heart is Acceptance. I’ve made my peace. And yet? When confronted with who I was back then, the poor choices I made? It still hurts. It will always hurt.

Observing this class will not be the only time I’m confronted with my past. I can think of a dozen possible moments directly related to my doula work that will cause me to look back, and I’m certain there are countless more I’m unable to predict. Thing is, for every trigger that exists within the landscape of my doula work, there’s another trigger within the landscape of life. Knowing this? That’s acceptance.

But my friend is right. My journey will require growing. Deconstructing this anger is just a part of that growth. Keeping check on my intentions, my motivations, my purpose — that’s another part of that growth. I’ll always need to ask myself questions, and answer them honestly. I suppose, then, this journey and this growth is all about stopping a moment and thinking, “Hmmm.”

Thirty Six Minutes. Thirty. Six. Minutes. Every medical intervention common in a hospital birth today — amniotomy, forceps delivery, vacuum extraction, pitocin induction and augmentation, episiotomy, electronic fetal monitoring, epidural analgesia, oh, and cesarean section — presented to a room full of first-time expectant parents. In Thirty Six Minutes.

This is our childbirth education. This is reason number 4,256 why our birth culture is entirely fucked up.

Things that make you go Hmmm? No, things that make you go AAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!

The other night, while my daughter and I were out on a date seeing a local production of James and the Giant Peach, my husband and son sat down together to a dinner of roasted pork tacos with lime and cilantro and frijoles charros. Straight from the Southwest, but ever so much more inspired. (When I had my taste the following day, I lamented the fact that I surely must have fallen from grace in my past life. To suffer the indignities of the American pallette whilst being ever so aware of the beauty that is Mexican food is surely the worst form of punishment.)

My two cowboys finished the evening upstairs, playing and enjoying each other’s company. In a moment of solitary play, Evan set up Bob the Builder and Forklift Guy (two guesses as to his lot in life) in a little play of their own.

“What are they doin’, Evan?” my husband asked.

“Eatin’ dinner, ” Evan replied, always the verbal minimalist.

“What are they eating?” my husband prodded.

And as the backdrop of the beautiful Wyoming sky descended upon the playroom and the crumpled twang of Heath Ledger’s Ennis echoed throughout the air, my son took misguided inspiration from the evening’s meal and replied:

“Pork and Beans.”

Clearly, he doesn’t share my love.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I went to see Wilco in concert. Between the “Is this going to be a ’sitting down’ show or a ’standing up’ show?” question I asked on my way, my surprise-turned-concern at the discovery of the existence of an opening act, implying that we’d be getting home really late — like 11:30, the pain I felt upon learning the answer to my previous question (decidedly “standing up”), and the strange disconnect I felt while observing fully one-third of the audience using their cell-phones throughout the performance — to take pictures, to shoot video, to text message, and, oh, to talk, I was forced to consider the possibility that I was, in fact, old.

Friday night, I went to another concert. Emmylou Harris, quite possibly the most stunning 59 year-old alive, put on a delightful performance. We audience members sat comfortably throughout the show, not a single cell phone was to be found, and I was at home at an entirely reasonable hour. I was also well below the average age of the rest of the audience, who, in general, resembled that of The Lawrence Welk Show.

In this case, being among the youngest in the crowd is simply nothing to write home about. That possibility I was considering a mere two weeks ago? I might just have to accept it as fact.

“I wanna be a boy!” my daughter proclaimed loudly last night. It was her form of protest for being required to sit on the potty to pee. Her eyes reflected the pure injustice she was called upon to bear.

Moments later, I ushered my son onto his makeshift step-stool (fashioned out of two phonebooks and some duct tape — how’s that for recycling?) in front of the commode. In the ensuing moments, I held my breath, praying that he would get it all in the potty. He didn’t. Thing is, sitting hadn’t fared any better for him. Peeing on the potty, it seems, was an act to be taken literally: on the potty, on the floor, on me. Ewwww. No matter what the position — standing, seated — the aim is decidedly not true. The apparatus is, simply, flawed in its design.

Rethink your proclamation, Miss Zoe. Because, in my eyes? You most definitely do not want to be a boy.

When I started knitting a little more than a year ago, I’d look over at the women next to me knitting sweaters and secretly stare in awe. Wow, I thought, What an accomplishment! New and uninitiated, I couldn’t imagine ever getting there.

Turns out, this knitting thing really isn’t all that difficult. Pretty simple, really. You knit. You pearl. Combine these two stitches in any number of ways, and, well, that’s about it. So, after too many small projects that ended just too quickly, I decided it was time for a sweater — something simple, but detailed enough to keep me busy for a while. With a gift checque in my hand, courtesy of my generous husband willing to share his bonus from work, I headed to the yarn store to seek out the perfect pattern and the perfect yarn. Whether it was my self-imposed timeline or just pure luck, the quest was fulfilled in one morning’s outing late last fall. By the afternoon, I was home and casting on.

I worked on it — in a very off and on fashion — throughout the late fall and winter. Slowly, but surely, the stitches piled on, creating a fabric that was destined to be my first sweater. I was delighted to watch it grow by my own hands.

I followed the instructions religiously, though, a few times, I questioned them. Should I really increase here?, I’d say to myself. Hmm, I think this should be larger here, I’d think to myself. But, I was once taught by a wise woman to always follow the instructions. Have faith in them, she’d said. And so, I followed the instructions and ignored my inner voice, believing it would all work out in the end.

Every once in a while, I’d try the garment on to check the length of the body, the length of the sleeve, or the fit of the bust. As the sweater grew, I began to have concerns about the fabric. It hung oddly and wouldn’t lay right. That same wise woman assured me that blocking the fabric would work magic on my concerns. Again, I had faith that it would all work out in the end.

Several weeks ago, I bound off the last sleeve. I was done. I’d completed, on my own, that awe-inspiring task I’d held such regard for just a year ago. I was there. I called my wise friend and arranged an evening of wine and steam. The wine to loosen my nerves; the steam to loosen my sweater.

As it turns out, blocking does work magic. Those areas that seemed to torque and squirm just melted away under the heat of the steam. And the wine was good, too. By the end of the evening, I had a sweater I was delighted with (and memories of a delightful evening of conversation, too).

But those instructions I’d questioned? It appears I was spot on in my concerns. Certainly, the sweater is fantastic and I’m proud to wear it (already have, in fact). But, I could have spared an increase here and a decrease there. I still think my friend’s advice is sound — instructions can lead you through murky waters and get you to the solid shore. But, with this sweater, I’ve discovered something else: my instincts can get me even further. A year ago, I didn’t have any knitting insticts; with months and months of projects under my belt, I’m surprised and blessed to learn I’ve got a voice I can trust in the matter.

Perhaps my tendency to extract lessons from many of my knitting projects is pure contrivance. I have no doubt the lessons I find in my knitting are eye-roll inducing to others. But, I must believe such an investment of time reaps rewards far beyond the finished product. This sweater is no exception. Faith in the process and trust in my instincts: strike the right balance, and the product is nothing short of poetry.