Brooke

The Witching Hour

It's nearly midnight and it is my first quiet moment in four days.  

Temple is passed out next to me.  She is finally asleep after walking around the house for the past hour with her cousin's 'galimoto' in one hand and a pink satin purse in the other.  In between laps around the kitchen island, she stopped to shove a few green snap peas in her mouth, take a sip of "I-ya" (water) and give me cheese-face which consists of a wrinkled nose and all her teeth bared like a rabid dog - which is a signal that she is happy.

I like to see her happy.  Especially after the long and seemingly endless days of caterwauling.  And wrapping herself against my legs so that I cannot take a step without her.  She cries "MAMA" constantly and wails when I leave the room.  Or get out of the car.  Or someone else smiles at her.  She does not sleep.  She barely naps.  She is a snotty, teething, walking menace and there has been not even one tiny break in a very, very long time.  Just yesterday morning, Satchel looks at me and yells so that he can be heard above the screeching:  It's okay mom.  I'll take care of her.  You need a break.   Oh, is it that obvious?

The girl turns 15 months on Monday.  Gone is the cherubic baby with patacake hands and dimpled knees who smiled at everyone.  In her place is the coy, headstrong, willful toddler who walks and stumbles and weaves and sashays like a drunk man.  And curses like one too only without the colorful vocabulary.  It has come back to me quite vividly how much this age challenges me.  I had conveniently forgotten the days of Satchel fighting every diaper change as he arched and spit and bit in protest.  I had forgotten how I would use my legs to hold him down so that I could change his poopy diaper without getting covered in baby crap.  Well, the past week or two has brought it all back home in technicolor.

It was sort of like those first days home with Temple as a newborn.  How the satin crook of her neck and the velvet hair on her ears and the way she scrunched up her tiny shoulders all brought me back to the bliss of babyhood.  In the five years since Satchel had been born, I had sort of forgotten the pure yumminess of a newborn.  But one tiny whiff of her primal scent brought every memory back with perfect recall.   

Well, now she is bringing back every excruciating detail of the early walker with no common sense, little language and a ton of attitude.  

I'll admit, this is the hardest part - by far - of parenting for me.  Pregnancy is a pure pleasure.  I seem to get high on the hormones and the hope and promise of the baby growing inside me.   The newborn days are exhausting but so sweet and gentle and tender.  I am protective and fully in my mama-tiger mode that feels powerful and primal and fierce.  Then babyhood comes with all the changes and the milestones and celebration of your baby growing.  They blossom into their own little people and it is a thrill to watch how individually they grow.  The first birthday is such a bittersweet moment...the one and only birthday that feels as if it belongs to both mother and child.  It is the anniversary of your entire birthing journey, nearly two years as a unified whole.  But shortly after this magical moment, when the baby is shining and glorious and so affable really, their will forces enter - as they should - and their minds become their own.  They become little locomotives with engines and no engineer.  

At this age, they require two eyes and two hands at all times.  They are ready to fall down every staircase, eat every houseplant, plunge their arms into any toilet without a closed lid, empty every drawer or purse or diaper bag within reach, they will pull any cat's tail, unroll any roll of toilet paper, ruin any and every item of clothing they come into contact with, interrupt any meal eaten in a restaurant and they will begin to nap less and stay awake more.  And, if you are still nursing like I am, you become a human trampoline - you are comfort station, taco truck, midnight diner, cozy corner, boo-boo fixer and night cap all in one.  So obviously my nipples are totally worn out.

And so I enter my own personal witching hour of parenting.  By the time they are 2, I am groovy again. In fact, I could never figure out what the terrible-2's were all about.  Two breezed right by.  But 15 to 21 months....aaaargh.  Just kill me.

The other night, while stopping overnight at a friends on our road trip to California, Temple snuck into a 4 year old's motorized John Deere tractor, stole the keys and perched herself in the driver's seat ready to roll.  She then screamed bloody murder when Satchel tried to rescue her from her precarious perch.  Then she insisted on climbing three steep cinder block stairs over and over and over again. nearly falling off the open edges on either side too many times to count.  Afterwards, she had to ride an old-fashioned rocking pony - the plastic kind on metal runners attached with thick coiled springs - about 3 feet off the cement patio.  She threw her head back and forth with lots of gusto and absolutely no fear.  And if she was thwarted in any of her endeavors, she gave an ear-splitting scream that could wake the dead.

All of this is normal.  All of this tells me she is independent and healthy and precocious and smart and that she is thriving.  So I know this 15-month phobia is my own shortcoming and not Temple's fault at all.  But I happen to be a bookish, hedonistic, cozy, mellow kind of mom.  A mom who loves to cook gourmet baby food and read baby books and play this little piggie and snuggle on the couch and take naps together.  I am not a mom who loves to stand guard all day and protect my daughter from her own instincts so that she doesn't split her head open or dislocate her shoulder or come to me with blood gushing from her face.  It wears me out.  Yes, this is part of motherhood and I do it with my whole heart.  It just helps to complain about it a little bit.

So please tell me, if you had to choose a 6 month period of parenting - from conception to age 10 (let's exclude puberty and the teen years here because I can't even get there yet!) - that you would rather not ever do again, what age would it be and why?  I really need to know.  And those of you who enjoy this independent, precocious age of 1.5-ish, tell me why you like it and what helps you navigate your way through the unruliness.  Any tips or handling methods are greatly appreciated.

Today I'm in-between

Tomorrow I leave for California.  A road trip with the kiddos and my baby sister (who is almost 21) along for the ride.  The kids will eat snacks.  Satchel will watch dvd's on the portable player.  Temple will probably fuss a bit and hopefully sleep alot.  Camille will provide conversation, relief driving, itunes playlists and celebrity gossip.  Hopefully we make it there in one piece having had fun along the way.

Yesterday I ran a half-marathon.  This is Vancouver's mostly local and very scenic half marathon that starts out at UBC and winds along the ocean, across a bridge and ends at Stanley park.  It was my goal to run a race this year to officially welcome myself to my new city.  And this was the perfect opportunity. 

I didn't run as well as I had hoped.  But I trained for 13 weeks, logged over 230 miles and kept my promise to myself nonetheless.  On Saturday night, before the race, Satchel woke me at 12:38 projectile vomitting into his bed.  He continued to spew barf everywhere for about a half hour.  We had to bathe him, wash his hair, change his bedding and mop the floor.  I don't think I got back to bed until 2.  And then insomnia hit.  All things considered, at least I got my ass out the door Sunday morning at 6:15 and ran 13.1 miles without stopping -- except for the portopotties because I too came down with the stomach virus.  Fun.

Yesterday my family left.  After 10 days of family reunions with a dj and a keg; drumming for peace on the solstice; creating mandalas out of natural materials like sea shells, flower petals, stones, feathers and snake vertebrae; painting self-portraits with oil pastels; making sun gods out of found-objects in the woods and burning them with wishes in a solstice bonfire; after food and laughter and wall to wall beds; after ferry rides and hikes in Deep Cove and Honey's doughnuts and drinks at Chambar; after shopping in Yaletown and barbeques on the roof and craziness with border crossing; after cousins playing and cousins fighting and cousins making up - everyone except Camille has left.  There are air beds to collapse and blankets to fold and pillows to stack in the closet.  As crowded as it felt two days ago, it feels really empty now. 

But today I am packing.  And tomorrow I leave for the Bay Area - to see my family, in different configurations for sure, but my family nonetheless.   And I can't wait.

In Lieu of Words

This past week has been crazy busy - mostly with auditions.  I've encountered some pretty funny stuff in these casting rooms that I hope to share soon.  But for now, here are a few photos of the family until I get it together for a real post.

 

Satch with soul-sistahs, Mia and Sula.  May 2009.

 

Just before dinner time.  May 2009.

 

Matt at the kitchen window.

 

Summertime.  June 2009.

A girl and her boa.

 

Waking up from her afternoon nap. 

 

Satchel really wanted me to introduce his new monster.  So there you have it.

 

How she says goodmorning (looking down on us from the upstairs sleeping loft.)

What Happens When I Get Lucky & A Bit About the Weekend

...Lucky enough for Matt to have an appointment right near school so that he can drop Satchel off in th emorning? 

I make myself eggs for breakfast.

I make my bed.

I turn on the stereo and listen to Lucinda Williams while I load the dishwasher, sweep the floor, bathe the baby and vaccuum the area rug.

I stay in pajamas.

I update my blog.

I take an extra rest day after a 13 mile run on Saturday.

I download photos.

I write emails.

I make doctor's appointments.

All of this before 10 in the morning.

There is something to be said for not rushing out the door in the morning.  It is a slower start, life feels more organized, the chores are done and the day feels like it is mine - not as though I am living on borrowed time.

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This weekend we went to the Farmer's Market at Trout Lake near Commercial Ave. in Vancouver.  There were fiddlehead ferns, garlic spears, and sunflower sprouts.  There was rhubarb and brilliantly colored chard.  There were pea shoots and baby spinach and sorrel leaves and mizuna greens.  There was freshly caught fish, homemade blackbean hummus with a healthy dose of cayenne pepper, local honey and freshly baked bread. 

And there was a cart, called La Boheme, that sold the most amazing buckwheat crepes, made right before your eyes.  The cart looks like a gypsy caravan painted with curtains and flowers and bright colors. It appears to be run by a family - mother, father, teenage daughter (I think) - who are all gorgeous.  Long dark hair, clear eyes, generous smiles, lovely hands - each of them.   They have three crepe griddles running at the front  window where they work their magic and the way they drop chevre by the spoonful, sprinkle raw parsley, drizzle vinaigrette, smear ratatouille, delicately place ribbons of ham, it looks like a dance.  For the good food and the good energy and the beautiful cart and the smiling hearts behind the griddles, I loved this place.

We also ended a mystery that has been making us curious since we moved here.  We had heard that Vancouver was known as "Gay and Grey" and the fact that this city was gay-friendly was one of the reasons we chose to move here.  Perhaps this sounds odd coming from a straight family, but the culture of a city and the way our children are affected by this culture really matters to us.  We wanted to live somewhere that had diversity of all kinds - sexual identity, ethinicity, class, age.  Being used to San Francisco and the Bay Area in general, we know it is a measure of a city's tolerance and open-mindedness when that city embraces gay people.  And this to us is a good sign of a place we'd like to raise our family.  But after moving here, we knew there was a strong gay male population - especially in the West End which happens to be one of our favorite neighborhoods, but where were the lesbians?  After this weekend, we know.  They are out on Commercial Drive, at the Trout Lake farmers market, playing softball, drinking beers, walking their dogs, rubbing shoulders with the dreads and the hippies and the antique bicycle collectors and the hoop dancers and the single mamas and the breeders like us.  Matt and I looked at each other and breathed a sigh of recognition....this neighborhood feels like home.

Vancouver in general begins to feel more like home.  I am actually beginning to run into people who know me.  Climbing the Grind, at the water park on Granville Island, in Deep Cove, shopping at Whole Foods, I can hear my name being called.  On Saturday, as I ran with friends who are doing the Scotia Bank Half-Marathon training clinic with me, we ran through a morning wedding taking place in Stanley Park and I heard Brooke!  And there was another new friend of mine, dressed beautifully and standing by a woman who I think was the bride, saying hello to me. 

Sunday was park and pool day.  First an hour or two at the park in Ambleside and then over to the West Vancouver rec center for water slides, baby pools, and diving boards.  Satchel jumps from the high dive, no fear, trying to make flips before he hits the water.  Sometimes I can't even watch.  Matt follows with a big canon ball and makes the kids laugh.  Temple splashes in the baby pool, trying to eat the spray of the fountain, losing her balance and going under without a moment of fear either.  No tears, no alarm, just up and out of the water with a grin.  Matt and I take turns in the adult hot tub or steam room and we all sleep better after a day at the pool.  Last night we barbequed ribs on the roof with friends, drank wine, ate potato salad.  I folded a mountain of laundry. 

So this morning, to have time, to start slowly, to put the clothes into the proper drawers and empty the dishwasher before loading it again, to eat a hot breakfast, to read more of my book about the history of Islam while I nurse the baby, all of this feels like an extension of a lovely, groovy, slow weekend.  Or maybe it just feels like the beginning of summer...

Something in the water

I swear there is something in Vancouver's water that turns gym-rats into hikers, couch-potatoes into triatheletes, sunscreen missionaries into sun worshippers.  I know she has been working her magic on me.

Last Sunday I said to Matt, Let's go hike Quarry Rock.  And he said that he was going to cry.  I invited him to go on a hike????  You must know that my parents ruined me by giving me a pair of hiking boots when I was four, strapping a pack to my back, and insisting I carry my own bed roll.  Family vacations consisted of steep trails and rushing rivers and tents and carrying everything on our own backs.  Not that I didn't have fun once we had set up camp - playing endless games of gin rummy, riding the natural water slides, eating bacon fried out in fresh mountain air.  But even at four, I was tired of being grubby and I wanted a bath.  Hiking was hot, hard work and I don't remember the climb in being much fun. I wanted a toilet instead of a shovel and a roll of toilet paper.  In time, I became a luxury vacation taker.  I wanted canopied beach cabanas and maid service and cold drinks by the pool.  I didn't want to carry a frying pan on my back or put eggs in a plastic case so they would survive rock climbing.  This was not a vacation, that was work.

Despite Matt's efforts to entice me back into the woods, I resisted.  My mom loves nature walks.  She will endlessly catalogue wildlife and waterfalls and low-growing plants with her camera.  My dad will spend days alone in wild places where snakes and bears and wild cats run free.  Never happier than making a meal on an open fire.  My husband will disappear into the mountains with a snowboard or his bike or his dog or his tent or his fishing pole with any chance he gets.  Me?  Sign me up for the spa with plush robes and massages and body scrub.  Or, if I am going into the wild, let it be in another country where I can learn new words, dance to native music, eat exotic foods, ride in dug-out canoes, drink alcohol fermented in discarded oil-bins in the middle of a jungle.  Just don't ask me to go backpacking and eat trail mix and hard salami.

But lately, I don't even recognize myself.   I yearn to hike.  I actually wake up on a Sunday morning and want to strap Temple in the baby carrier and climb a mountain.  I want to do this for the view at the end and for the calories burned, but mostly for the pleasure of the trees above my head, for the feeling of my breath coming hard as I navigate up the steepest parts of the trail, for the smell of the air in the woods.  When Matt asks me what I'd like to do for vacation this year, I tell him that I'd like to take the kids camping.  And I mean it.  All those childhood memories of a backpack strapped to my back, the steep climb up HorseTail Falls near Lake Tahoe, the nights by the campfire, the Jack Daniels baseball hat my father put on my head to keep the sun from my face, my mother's green bandana tied on her head, the canteens of water and the card games and climbing into a sleeping bag at night - all of this comes to me through a new filter.  I want my kids to now the satisifaction of carrying your own gear, of making it up the mountain even if it sucks getting there.  I want them to remember the fun we had as a family camped out in the woods with no distractions and all the time in the world for each other.  These are the things my parents gave me - whether or not I appreciated them at the time.

Likewise, my running has gone more and more out of doors.  The gym now feels like due-diligence rather than pleasure and I understand how people cannot force themselves to join a gym.  In Vancouver, there are athletes everywhere.  But it is more like adults who love to play than people who work out for the workout's sake.  Here people work out so they can have fun.  I look at kayakers and roller-bladers and cyclists and snowboarders and tennis players and beach volleyball players and it makes me want to try new sports.  I want to see what my body can do.  I want to challenge myself and see what I can accomplish.  Okay, I've done marathons and half-marathons...what next?  And Vancouver is the perfect place to find out. 

Last week I took my first trip up the Grouse Grind.  This hike truly is Mother Nature's stairclimber.  It is steep and long and difficult.  But I loved it.  I took it slow, strapped on my water belt and made it one step at a time.  On the trail I saw three women I knew from the gym.  I saw many women with silver hair far more fit than I am.  I saw teenagers and body builders and one old Billy Goat named Jack.  He is 83 and climbs the Grind several times a week.  He uses two walking sticks and he has the legs of a fit 40 year old.  As I pulled over to the side of the trail for a drink of water, Jack, in his wheezy old man voice says What'ya stoppin for?  And I tell him I stopped to admire your legs.  And he says I wish you wouldn't.  I'd much rather keep admiring yours.  Mine might be interesting but yours are much more scenic.  And then he effortlessly scrambled up a boulder that put my knees to my chest and forced me to use my arms to pull myself up.  If the Grind can keep me that fit, I'm not giving up. 

(Beware to any future visitors and guests, you have been sufficiently warned through this post that I will have no mercy on you when you come.  But I will treat to a Honey's Donut once I have finished running you ragged.)

In no particular order

*  Temple started taking tentative steps last month but hasn't gotten much further.  Just a little one-two-three shuffle and she is down.  When she decides it is time to quit, she doesn't fall over or sit down on her butt, she goes down into a real deep squat, just like a Sumo wrestler.  That girl has some strong legs.

*  Vancouver in the Spring is bewitching.  The days are uber long.  Light starts coming into our apartment by 5 am and it isn't dark until nearly 10.  People picnic and sun bathe and roller blade and swim until bedtime and you'd think that English Bay was a Southern California beach by the numbers of bikinis, volleyball players and convertible cars cruising the strip.  Matt and I look at each other and ask, Are we really in Canada?

*  Due to the infectious Spring Fever as described above, my house is an absolute disaster.  The laundry basket has mushroomed with clean clothes so that it spills onto the floor, there are no groceries in the refrigerator, the toilet really needs to be scrubbed and my bed hasn't been made all week.  There is just way too much to do outside.

*  Saturday I did an 11-mile training run.  I hobbled the last couple blocks and took plenty of water stops, but I finished my longest run since I ran the San Francisco Half Marathon when I was 10 weeks pregnant with Temple.  It feels great to run again.  This coming Saturday we are up to 13 miles.  Wish me luck.

*  Last night we had a dinner party on our rooftop garden with neighbors - pork tenderloin marinated in lime, cilantro and garlic; roasted asparagus, zucchini, portobellos and red peppers; garlic bread; tropical sorbet.   At some point during the meal, Satchel asks for the keys so he can go down and get something from our apartment.  In our building  you need a security fob to activate the elevators and he has gotten pretty good at the whole routine.  So Matt says, sure, you can go down to the apartment.  Satchel does this several times bringing up a toy or a book to entertain himself or takes himself to the bathroom.  (Once though his key got stuck in our front door and Matt had to go find him.  No panic on this kid, just calmly waited and knew we would be along any minute.)

Lately Satchel has been offering to set the dinner table, really getting into it.  He finds candles or flowers or some other decoration to put in the center of the table.  The other night it was his new toy dragon that graced our table - and he really thought this was special.  He asks everyone what they'd like to drink for dinner and then he puts it at the place he has decided each of us will sit on that particular night.  It always changes.  He folds napkins with care, asks which cutlery we will need for the meal, makes sure Temple's highchair and baby bowl is ready.  He really takes pride in playing host. 

So, last night, on one of his trips downstairs he comes back with a bottle of wine and makes the rounds asking if we would like a glass, whereupon he proceeds to quite expertly pour me a glass of chardonnay - until it spilled over the brim and flooded my dinner plate!  But it was his spirit of graciousness, his desire to entertain, the way he acted so grown up at an adult dinner party, that made me melt.  

Lucky for Satch, we have awesome neighbors who listen to his stories during dinner, play thumb war with him, wrestle or sword fight, take him seriously when he pipes in with something during the adult conversation, let him play with their dogs.  So we don't have family here, but we are making one. 

*  Tomorrow I am making my inaugural trip up the Grouse Grind.  It was late in the season for The Grind when I learned about it last Fall.  Now that the snow has melted, it is time.  Locals tell me it is called the Grind for a reason --- an hour straight up a mountain so steep there are apparently steps.  Great, an outdoor stair climber if you ask me.  But I think it is a must-do if you live here.  I'll let you know how it goes. 

*  The downtown Farmer's Market starts here this Saturday and I can't wait.  I want the tomatoes and squash and corn and chiles and nectarines, peaches, plums.  While there are a few great markets in Vancouver, there is nothing like produce fresh from the farm, vegetables with black dirt still on them or sand that needs to be washed off.  I love the fragrance and color and vitality of freshly harvested food.  I like buying vegetables from the hands who picked them, it always feels like love grew right into the food that nourishes me and my family.

*  In three weeks, we are going to Vashon Island off of Seattle for a family reunion.  A real reunion.  With the Sonoma family and the Chicago family and the Vashon cousins.  From there, my brother and his honey Heather, my sister Camille, my mom and my nephew Ike are all coming home with us to spend a week in Vancouver.  A whole week.  I can't wait.  To have all of us here, wall to wall beds, with messy suitcases and tons of laughter and snoring and farting and jokes and love.  I am excited already for the beautiful chaos.

*  I have been working on several other writing projects lately and it feels good to have deadlines, to have work that is asked for, to try my hand at different styles, different voices. 

*  Last night I met a woman who works in fundraising here at UBC and I found that I actually missed the work I used to do.  I especially miss my job at UC Berkeley and all the lovely people I worked with, the people I grew up with really.  I started my job at Cal when I was 23 and freshly graduated from UCLA.  There were so many mentors and friends along the way to whom I am grateful and I was missing this part of my life alot last night.

*  It's time to close.  But I need to close with a question - You are in a crowded parking lot on a Sunday afternoon and the following happens:  Many cars are circling the lot waiting for a space to open up.  The passenger of one car jumps out to 'hold' a space by standing in it until the driver can get the car turned around and positioned to park.  Meanwhile, another car also circling, gets lucky and pulls up to the empty space at the moment it becomes free.  Who do you think should get the space? 

House O' Plague

Our house has once again been overtaken by some bug causing restless nights, fevers, visits to the local clinic.  I have not had this much sickness in my house for as long as I can remember.  What gives?  I wonder if it is the climate change?  The unfamiliarity of bugs in a new place?  The lack of Vitamin D?  If I am feeding us properly?  Are we getting enough rest?  I can't figure it out.

This time it started with Satchel and a wild, hacking cough that keeps him awake all night.  He coughs until he drowns, almost puking with the force of his choking lungs.  He has a fever, he doesn't want to go out, he wants to sit in the shower under hot steam as often as possible.  Then, last night, Temple started to cough too - barking like a seal.  It is relentless. 

I'm starting to get a complex.

But I must say that while finding a primary care doctor in Canada can be a challenge, the local clinics are a boon.  They are that perfect balance between doctor's office (where you must plan ahead and make appointments and wait weeks to be seen) and the ER (where you go when you are slightly desperate, when you you want to be taken care of on the spot, when waiting is the very last thing you can imagine.)  Our local clinic has been a godsend this year - through Temple's pneumonia, our strep-throat, now this strange virus that causes ravaging coughs.  They have seen us, treated us promptly, ordered tests, followed up, taken us on weekends and holidays, referred us to specialists when necessary.  I am really digging these Canada clinics.  Alot.

On the flip side of all this gloomy illness, Vancouver has dawned bright and sunny, spring has arrived.  But spring here is mercurial, coquettish.  It teases and flirts and disappoints and then it capitivates you, stuns you with its beauty.  Today is gorgeous though, so I'll take that.  The way our building faces, we get sunlight and reflection and open-sky all day.  These days, I sit by the window in the evenings and soak up the rays, letting the heat sink into my bones.  I am cold that far down.  But there is hope.  I feel it in the air.

The girl, at One and some.

 

(temple with mama.  tofino, vancouver island, bc.  april 2008.)

 

(temple, big brother and papa.  birthday night with party hats and cupcakes.  april 6, 2009.)

 

(she totally went for it.  first birthday.  april 6, 2009.)

 

(nature baby takes sunshine.  white rock, bc.  mother's day 2009.)

 

(standing tall.  brother's castle.  may 2009)

 

(bath time.  kitchen sink.  vancouver, bc.  april 2009.)

 

(temple, thirteen months.  may 2009.)

A year! Already?

I just received some photos taken last year at this time.  Since I'm usually the one behind the camera, it was a sweet gift to have a photo capturing me with my daughter when she was so fresh and new. 

It is hard to believe she was ever so tiny.  What a difference a year makes.

  

June 2008

(temple, 7 weeks)

May Day Sweetness

His eager face met me at the doorway as he paraded out to the maypole with his class, spying me out of the corner of his eye.  He walked behind the teacher, first in line, beaming and proud with his one, lopesided dimple showing the measure of his joy.

A bird-shaped crown atop his head, scruffy hair and patched pants, he still looked as royal as any Duke as he earnestly concentrated on keeping rhythm with his bell as he paraded around the kindergarten yard.  At the May Pole he sang, off-key but full heartedly and with gusto.  When his teacher handed out the ribbons for the May Pole dance, he grasped his firmly in both hands and faced the 'right' direction with as much sincerity as if he were about to begin his first recital of Swan Lake.  He only broke concentration once to tell me, in a stage whisper loud enough to be heard by all, that I was supposed to follow along, skipping when he skipped, okay Mom? 

So I did.  With Temple in my arms, I skipped when he skipped and tried to sing what he sang as we circled the May Pole in the dappled sunlight of the kindergarten yard.  But mostly my heart was near to bursting with the joy I felt at the look on his face - a mixture of pride and pleasure and concentration had overtaken him.  He was immersed in the experience, totally given over to the spirit of the dance, and filled with an inner radiance - as if he were under a magical spell, living in a fairy world.

Mama, today was my first Maple dance.  He says this to me on our drive home. 

Do you want to know a little secret Satchel?  I ask, knowing that he cannot resist this beginning to any story.  This was not your first May Pole Dance.  There is a special May Pole Dance that you can't even remember and I want to tell you about it.  I was once Queen of the May and you were my little root baby! 

So I told him the story about a May Faire that happend 6 years ago, before I was married or even knew I was about to become a mother.  I was asked to be the Queen of the May, or Lady Spring, at the Waldorf school where my Mother taught.  I was to dress up like a Queen and wear flowers in my hair and sprinkle flower petals around the school and escort the children to their turn at the May Pole.  And I did. In the hot May sunshine I skipped and sprinkled flowers and played with the children and went home absolutely exhausted.  What I didn't know was that I was already pregnant with Satchel.

Looking back on that May Day 6 years ago, I truly was Persephone, the maiden in the field, totally in my innocence and unable to know just how my life was about to change.  It is funny how motherhood has brought me to darkness.  But darkness in a good way.  Darkness in the way a mother needs; darkness to make her fierce and protective and nurturing and wise to serve her children.  Darkness that carries the measure of a mother's love and wonder and hope.  Motherhood literally abducted me into the underworld as I learned the depth of love I could feel for another human being.  Yes, this love is a gift like no other, but a gift, when truly precious, comes with the shadow of loss and pain, the shadow of the desire to live up to the calling.  I feel this deeply in my bones as a mother.  I feel the razor's edge of pleasure and pain in loving another human being so totally.  In my innocence, as Lady Spring so long ago and faraway to me now, I dreamed of motherhood and craved motherhood and yearned to hold my own child in my arms someday, but I did not know the price of that love.

But now I have tasted such sweetness as to actually hold my own child in my arms, to watch them grow, to feel their love in return.  A mystery has been revealed to me through motherhood.  So today, as I watched the fruit of my own womb radiate his peace and happiness on the world, showering the ground with petals and dancing around a May Pole with ribbons in his hand, I felt myself splitting wide open with happiness that cannot be described.