My daughter seems to have taken our recent lessons to heart.

“Boys can do anything, and girls can do anything, too.”

My heart bursts with pride.

“Well, that’s not totally true,” she continues.
A pause.  I eagerly await the explanation.

“Boys can stand up to pee.”

Another pause.  And then a bright light washes over her face!

“But girls can have babies!!”

My heart bursts all over again.  Personally, I have no question who comes out on top.

Due to a slight gaffe from someone only recently a part of our group of college friends (as in, she married into the mob), I got a call from the agency handling the rental of a ten bedroom home destined to contain 16 adults and 13 children — age five and under – for a weekend of harmelss mirth and joy. The phone rang only a few minutes before I was about to leave the house and head to said mini-vacation.

“Is this a family group coming to the house this weekend?” the agent inquired.

“Yes, ” I lied, “why?”

“Well, we got an email from one of your ‘family members’ stating that she ‘and a few friends’ were renting a house here this weekend. You know, we only rent to family groups. If you’re not family, we’ll have to contact the owners.”

“Oh, we’re a family. There are two sets of brothers and we’re all interrelated through marriage.” All of this is true, except perhaps the all part. To ease her otherwise legitimate concerns, I added, “We’re all over 35 and we all have kids. There won’t be any late night partying going on at that house this weekend, I promise.”

I seemed to have allayed her concerns. Or, at least, refused to give her any additional ammunition with which to shoot myself.

But, just in case she had any remaining doubt, I made a mental note to tell her just what occured Saturday evening while we were there.

I watched, utterly dismayed, as young Will, a sprightly four-and-a-half year old, went to bed at 9:00 — after a full half of the adults in the group had already gone to bed for the evening.

Harmless, indeed. Mirthful? Hmmm.

I’ve heard it more than once in the past few days.

Girls can’t do that. That’s a boy job.

The first time I heard it, I had to ask my daughter to repeat what she’d just said. I was in disbelief. Where could my daughter have gotten such an idea? My heart-felt discussion to correct her apparently fell on deaf ears, as it was only a few days later I heard a similar sentiment. Engineers. Scientists. Boy Jobs. Teachers. Mommies. Girl Jobs.

I realize Zoe is only reflecting the admittedly small world she lives in. Daddy is an engineer. Her teachers are women, and mommies at that. But we’ve consciously tried to broaden that world of hers. I work — two jobs. I’m a technical consultant, and a doula. We talk about all the interesting but-not-at-all obvious things one can do with their lives. The print fabrics she likes so much? An artist designed them. The pretty plants surrounding her every day? Those trees and shrubs and flowers are the pallette of a landscaper. And the water that flows to and from her house each day? All sorts of plumbers and mechanics and scientists make that process seamless. And each of these things are things that she, too, can do when she gets older. But, apparently, those efforts have been less influential than the weight of a countless number of unidentifiable influences that ebb and flow throughout her daily life. Boy Jobs. Girl Jobs.

Certainly, we have a long way to go before I would be particularly concerned about such undue influences. Her world will grow each year, widening and broadening, with just the right amount of food, care, and sunlight. I trust and believe that my daughter will come to know she can be and do anything that she wants to do. And I’ll be happy to open her eyes to the infinite number of choices available to her. That she has to “un do” a little cultural influence in the meantime is upsetting, but I’ve no doubt she will prevail in the long run.

But, I am rather grateful my daughter has opted to not be a princess or a ballerina for Halloween this year. This year, Zoe has elected to be SuperGirl. It could not have come at a better time in my book. Having received the costume a few weeks early, she’s fallen instantly in love with it. She wears it most days, throughout the day, playing fantastic games of strength and power. I find myself catching a glimpse of her games and smiling, not-at-all objectively finding the scene ever so adorable. My daughter. Super Girl.

And though they’re just games to her right now, I know she’s capable of it all — with the exception, maybe, of leaping tall buildings in a single bound. Now, she’s just got to figure it out for herself.

Last year, I declared it would not happen again. No more mile-long invitation lists. No more extravagant decorations and time-consuming home-made games. No more personalized party favors, no more expensive designer cakes, and no more worry and stress and headaches. No more.

This year, I stuck to my guns. Family only. Invitations issued via telephone call. Take-out from the local BBQ joint. A single present that hasn’t even been purchased yet (the party’s tomorrow). And the cake? It appears it will be Pillsbury’s Classic Yellow, with chocolate frosting, which just happens to be sitting in my pantry already. This, because, apparently, calling the bakery today for a cake tomorrow is just a little too late.

Somehow, I think I was a bit misguided in setting my new boundaries. What kind of party is that?

I’m always struck by something when I attend a woman in labor. The mom who wanted and needed to do it by herself, the mom who worked so incredibly hard, the mom who wasn’t alone — all of these moms’ labors left me with a certain feeling, a certain impression, that is indelibly marked in my mind. Often, it’s only a small part of the labor, but, for whatever reason, it strikes hard and fast, and crystallizes into meaning immediately. Perhaps what strikes me so hard about the most recent birth I attended is that I walked away from it without a certain feeling, without a certain conviction. Instead, I was left confusion, unanswered questions, and loose ends.

“A old-fashioned, pokey labor,” her doctor said. I’d almost mistaken him for a midwife. Respectful, mindful, and ever-so-patient, I’d been struck by his confidence in mother nature. And in the process of caring for mom, he did a little work on me. Chipped away a bit of that wall of bitterness and distrust. But this story is not about me. It’s about an old-fashioned, pokey labor.

Mom did everything “right.” She moved about, she ate, she slept, she kept on top of her contractions, she stayed in the moment. But, still, that labor just plodded along at its own pace. In fits and starts, her body did what it needed to do, grudgingly — but surely — giving way to the force of life working hard within her. But momentum never built up. No crescendo of force arrived to drive her through the end. Always progress, but always slow. An old-fashioned, pokey labor.

I’m one to trust in nature. I’m one to believe that what happens is for a purpose. I’m one to believe that birth — most of the time — works. Was this old-fashioned, pokey labor one of those times it wasn’t working? I don’t think so. Mom was fine. Baby was fine. Birth was working. But mom got tired. Mom got understandably tired. And nature got usurped.

In the end, everything was fine. There was a healthy baby; there was a healthy mom. Everyone was happy. No one will want or feel the need to look back and second guess. And so it goes, everyone left believing that nature needed a little help on this old-fashioned, pokey labor.

Everyone, that is, except me. The temptation is there, for sure. I cannot say that mom could have, or even should have, left nature alone. Nature’s course that night was erratic and drunken. She appeared to be confused and indecisive. I can’t know why nature took the steps she did, but her shroud of mystery, her blanket of secrecy, tempts us all to arrogantly declare them as missteps. Asserting an aberration from normal is so much easier to do than to accept that nature has an infinite number of variations on normal. Not what we expect? Surely there must be something wrong. It’s tempting, indeed.

My inability to crystallize the events of that evening into meaning is illustrative of the conflict I feel by that temptation. It is a test of my faith. So, for me, mom wasn’t the inspiration of that night. She wasn’t the star, she wasn’t the character in conflict. For me, nature stole the show that night. Her mystery and power proved far more compelling. She tossed out the unexpected. She injected confusion. And she left me with far more questions than answers.

In time, I believe she’ll reveal her secrets. But only at her pace. An old-fashioned, pokey labor.

Happy Birthday, Evan. You are three.

It’s hard to believe that only a year ago, I was worried that you wouldn’t ever speak. Today, I sometimes worry that you won’t ever stop speaking. But that’s ok, because I love to hear your youthful voice, your quirky malapropisms and mispronunciations, and your infectious giggle. You never cease to surprise with what comes out of your mouth — insightful comments, playful retorts, or just plain facts from the world of Evan. Yours is a wonderful world, and I thank you for sharing with me.

I would be dishonest if I didn’t say that this past year you proved to us that two really can be terrible. Overnight, late last winter, I lost my dear sweet Evan. In his place? A cantankerous little devil with a great propensity for the word No. For a few long months, I wondered where my son had gone. And then, as quickly as the storm initially descended, it lifted. In its place was a warm, funny, energetic young boy, with only a little taste for the word No. I’m glad we were able to trade in for the better model.

All too often, you’ll hear boys described as “lively.” It’s almost always used as a euphemism, a thinly-veiled attempt to sweeten a sour note from an exasperated parent. But when I say you’re lively, I’m saying it with delight. You’re lively — full of life. The day breaks and you are ready to go, ready to break from the shackles of sleep and explore yet another corner of your infinitely polygonal world. You drink it up, every ounce of it, and ask for more — just as you do to your glass of milk each morning. Insatiable. Your father and I watch in amazement, and with a little bit of jealousy.

When you were little (which is laughable, really), you referred to yourself as “Self.” You’ve long since replaced the term with the correct pronoun, but, in so many ways, that fierce self-reliance has only intensified. You want to do everything yourself. Buckles and buttons, doors and latches — they’re all yours to conquer. But when they’re stubborn and unyielding, you forget the world is bigger than you are sometimes. Here’s a hint, kiddo: attaching the word help to the pronoun me doesn’t imply you’ve lost your self-reliance. To the contrary, asking for help is sometimes the most independent and brave thing you can do. Trust me on that one.

Sometimes I find you upstairs in the playroom, all by yourself, immersed in your world of Legos. Daddy gave you some this year, and it was love at first sight. With a fierce determination and a quiet intensity that both intrigues and frustrates me, you construct exacting replicas from the creations of your mind’s eye. Rocket ships and flat-bed trucks and boats and race cars — these are the products of your mind, your hands and a few plastic building blocks. I can only marvel at what you will do with more precise, mature tools at your fingertips.

You recently started taking a gymnastics class. As I watch through the plate glass window each week, I’m struck by how confident and sure you are, not once seeking a reassuring glance from me. You jump and leap and swing and hang with nothing but pure pleasure on your face. And you’ve shown me you’re far bigger than I’d thought. Standing in line, waiting your turn, listening to the Coach — these are things I wasn’t sure you were ready for. But you are. I suspect you’ll always be telling me you’re ready before I’m willing to admit it for myself. I know I fall prey to the tendency to “baby” my baby more often than I should. But I can trust that you’ll set me straight.

You also learned to ride a bike the other day. For almost a year, your bike languished in storage, “too big” for you in so many ways. But as the year came to a close, the inches you’ve stacked on and the coordination you’ve garnered brought you to the big leagues of a big bike.

As soon as you figured out how to pedal, you pedalled off, down the hill, picking up speed along the way. I couldn’t catch up with you. And I hadn’t yet taught you about brakes. One sharp, errant turn, and I watched, helpless, as you tumbled on to the street. I was so sorry — for not being there, for not preparing you well. We both cried a bit. But the next day, once the dirt and blood and tears were washed away, I watched as a very brave little boy got back on his bike. And learned about putting on the brakes a little. Yes, they’re definitely a tool you’ll need throughout your life; without them, you’ll fall unnecessarily. But don’t put them on too hard, either, Evan. A little wind in your face is a good thing.

It used to be, each night after changing you into jammies, you’d stand on your changing table and take a flying leap into my arms. Sometime this year, you outgrew changing tables. I hope you never outgrow flying leaps into my arms.

Happy Birthday, Evan.

Twice a year, I sort, wash, fold and put away clothes for days at a time. Clothes for the upcoming season are brought out. Clothes from the season coming to a conclusion are sorted — put up in storage, sent to charity, or tossed away — depending on how they measure up against standards of size, style and wear. For days on end, there seems to be nothing but clothing in my life.

When all this toil is over? It’s inevitable that none of us has anything to wear. In the early days of fall, it’s too cool for summer clothing, but not cool enough for winter’s wear. In the spring, last season’s clothing is tiresome and old, but the exciting new togs for the upcoming season don’t fit quite yet. We are, quite simply, in between days — one step beyond the past season and one step short of the next one.

These short, semi-annual days of discomfort are but reminders of other in between days in my life. That period of adolescence, where I stood scowling disapprovingly at my childish youth, yet recalled with warmth its innocence and joy, where I stood both excitedly and fearfully in awe of adulthood, is perhaps the ultimate of in between days. We all have as proof that photo of ourselves as the gangly middle-schooler — the one that can only be delicately described as coming from our awkward stage. But there are others, too: those uncertain days after college, that engagement period, those nine months of pregnancy, and countless more I’ve yet to encounter.

It can be an uncomfortable place, those in between days, where each day we struggle to figure out which direction is best. Inevitably, what worked last season and what will work the next just won’t suffice for today. So, as we mistakenly seek the comfort of the past and anticipate the excitement of the future, we miss the special charm of those days in between. There’s beauty, you see, in the irascible nature of a passionate adolescent, the potential-laden uncertainty of just starting out, and the sweet mystery of pregnancy. From that awkward photo of our adolescence, the one that causes us to cringe — just a bit — each time we see it, shines a bright smile. Focus on the frustrations, and you miss the pleasures.

So, each spring and fall as I cycle my family’s wardrobe, I try not to focus on what’s not there. And on these fall days that just won’t be served by the clothes in our wardrobes, I try not to rankle at my inability to capture them, contain them, with either short-sleeves or long-sleeves. Instead, I toss on layers of both in a quirky display of fashion and marvel at the wonder that is uniquely in between days.

Three years ago, when I was, oh, about 7-and-a-half months pregnant, we were in the process of moving out of our home, moving into temporary quarters for a month, moving out of temporary quarters, and moving into our newly purchased home. In addition to all this moving, there was the matter of working full time, caring for a 20 month old, and, oh, managing close to 13 contractors doing work on our new-to-us-but-oh-so-not-new home. Siding, painting, HVAC system, countertops, hardwoods, fencing…these were just a few of the things we had going on. This doesn’t even include all the work we did ourselves, including painting the entire interior of our home — including trim — in the afterhours of the day. And for each decision made, there were at least three estimates, contractors, and products reviewed prior to the decision. In short, it sucked.

So, when it came to the kitchen sink, which we both hated, the prospect of selecting a single sink and faucet among seemingly thousands offered from the special order catalog proved to be just. too. much. Simply, I couldn’t do it. I could not make another decision. And, so, the ugly sink stayed. For three. long. years.

I cannot begin to tell you how often over those three years I’ve said — out loud — I hate this fucking sink. Its shallow bowl and split-sink design were annoying, and the faucet was nothing short of ugly. It’s hard to believe one could hold so much disdain for a drain, but I did. And my husband did as well. Yet, we did nothing about it.

Until this week. This week, we cashed in some of our credit card rewards points and purchased a sink and three faucets. We only kept one faucet, mind you, but it took two poor choices and two trips to the fixture store to finally get it right. Third time’s the charm, I guess.

I’m happier than a pig in slop these days. My sink and me? We’re best friends. Doing dishes has never been more enjoyable. Certainly better than sliced bread, and frighteningly close to better than sex. I loooove me my sink.

Of course, I have to add that this project took one more trip to the home improvement center than already mentioned. We had to unexpectedly replace some of the plumbing, which would have, under any other circumstance, been reusable. You see, it appears that there was a sneakingly minute amount of food left on the drain, and you have to know what that means. Yes, folks, my dog has now eaten everything — including the kitchen sink.

It used to be, I was a morning person. I would wake up at about 6 in the morning, spring out of bed, shower, dress, grab something to eat, and be out the door to work. Most days, I was at work by 7 am, and I liked it that way. I was the picture of efficiency. I found the early hours in the office to be among my most productive, the calm quiet providing a medidative start to the day. And I scoffed at the folks arriving one, one-and-a-half, even two or more hours later. How hard can it be, I thought, to get oneself to work each day?

Then I had kids.

Funny thing, those kids. Even though you wake up even earlier than in your childless years, your start to the day is ever so much later. There are breakfasts to be served, bodies to be clothed and shoes to be found — all in addition to my own. My 7 am arrivals quickly slipped to 7:30 and then 8. Now that I’m home, we’re lucky to get out of the house by 9.

I caught a little taste of my old life yesterday. My husband’s office is being relocated, so he’s off for a couple of days. I’m particularly busy at work, so I thought I’d take advantage of the situation and head out to work early, free of the responsibilities of getting kids ready for the day.

The alarm rang at 6. I hopped out of bed, showered, dressed, grabbed something for breakfast and was out the door. As I was driving to work, on schedule for a 7 am arrival, I couldn’t help but remember those days from years ago. I was buoyed by the unencumbered start to the day. I was excited to get to work and hunker down for the day. I felt efficient. I felt free.

And then I pulled into my office parking lot and discovered that my badge — the only way to get in to the building at that hour — was in my car. My car, as in, the car that I’d purposely left at home because it had the child safety seats in it.

These kids, they have arms that reach farther than you think. Free? No, not free at all. Not at all.