From Battle Sites to Baby Names

My brother sent me a link from CNN.com today that had me thinking about our girls' names (I realize that I think about their names often, but this time I mean think-thinking about them--you know, really thinking, not just calling out a name when I need someone to grab a baby wipe). Apparently there are tours being developed of the hot spots and murals that came out of the three decades of fighting during "the Troubles" in Northern Ireland. That's right, folks, just like at Gettysburg, you can now trace the steps of a revolution...even if those battles didn't work out quite so well for the ones revolting. If we can learn anything at all from witnessing this particular battle site (Cemetery Hill, say) or that riot (Bombay Street,1969), then by all means let's keep that vigil. But I'm not here to talk about wars...

...because as usual, I'm talking about my kids. More specifically, my babies' names, which is why you're reading this in the first place (right? Or did you google "Civil War" and somehow land on my blog by accident? Sorry, man. But hey, thanks for reading!). I knew a girl in college with the name Saoirse. She was super proud of the name to the point of defensiveness (which I guess is to be expected when you have to spell it out every time you make a dinner reservation). She told me that it was pronounced "SEER-sha," though in my house it usually gets abbreviated to "SEERSH," and that it was the Irish word for "freedom"--and because of that, pretty political. Well, I'll be, I thought. The name stuck with me, and when David and I found out we were having a baby, Saoirse ended up being one of the names to which we kept coming back. It was just so pretty, and doggoned powerful. Freedom. What a gift, we thought, to give our child such an honorable name (are you laughing? That's not nice). Wow, we thought. We're sold.

And then our beautiful daughter was born, sweet and lovely, with a big bruise on her head from her tortured attempt to get out of her Momma and a husky cry that was, I daresay, actually pretty (even at 2 a.m. we still thought this, so that's saying something). We hugged  her, we smiled at each other, and when the doctor asked what we were naming her, we froze. Could we do this to her, we asked? Would she hate us for giving her a name that people would pronounce "Say-oh-I-arse?" So the poor kid hung around the hospital for a couple of days nameless. Our family and friends would come into the room, all giggles and sighs, pick her up and coo, "Well, hello there, um, uh...you!" We kept second-guessing ourselves, but at the end--two days later, when the blank birth certificate arrived at my bedside, waiting to be signed--we said, yes, we can do this. She can handle this. She's strong, and new and obviously massively intelligent even at the age of two days (That's new parenthood for you) and worthy of the responsibility of that name. So we named her Saoirse. And gave her Kate as a middle name just in case when she does turn 13 and hates us she can decide to go with the easier moniker so her shady, not-smart-enough-for-her boyfriend can spell it out in the lousy love songs he writes for her.

So that's the story of Daughter the Elder. With Younger, Quinlan was a name that we'd tossed around as a possibility for a boy when I was carrying soon-to-be-Saoirse (oh, maybe I shouldn't write that. Quinn's going to be sooo angry with me when she reads this one day). We'd forgotten about it until it popped up again when I was watching Glee one night, of all things. Yes, I fell in love with my future daughter's name after viewing her fictional snotty, pregnant, mean, ridiculous cheerleader namesake on tv. I didn't say I was proud. But I loved it. Dave liked it. We went back and forth about it (Quinn or Quinlan? Give her a nickname as a full name, or give her a full name and call her by a nickname? Oh, heads of state should have such decisions) until I hefted my swollen belly into a church for Confession one Wednesday before Easter. Lo and behold, my priest, with his lovely Irish accent, was named Father Quinlan. Hallelujah! I mentally shouted. It's a sign! I went racing home and burst into the house to tell my non-Catholic husband how a priest just inadvertently named our baby. He was a little skeptical, but the meaning of those names won him over: Intelligence. Strength. It looked like we had ourselves a name to compete with all the glory of Saoirse. Amen.

I bring all this up because on page 6 of that CNN link is a mural entitled "Saoirse." (As Paul said, our eldest daughter would sure be popular in half of Belfast) And while, yes, the picture depicts the faces of the 10 Irish Republicans who died on a hunger strike, and yes, emaciation and defiance aren't exactly the images that spring to mind when I think of my dear little girl, it was neat to see her name plastered up on a wall as a statement (because you know we're never going to find pencils or key chains with our kids' names engraved on them). So there you have it: just like that girl I knew 15 years ago, I'm proud. We gave our girls names to live up to, to embody, and it was worth all that back and forth to get there. Just don't ask me what we would've done if we'd had a boy.

Slow Down, Will You?

"Hey, Saoirse, could you please go to the bathroom and wash your hands?" I'm changing Quinn's diaper as I say this, getting the girls ready before I set about doing the peeling and chopping of wee bits, gathering of yogurt (I think there's a small farm somewhere in Vermont specially set up just for our family's consumption of dairy. I should probably start sending regular tips in the mail) and other assorted yes-it's-healthy-but-man-it-takes-forever-to-prepare items we call lunch around here.  Saoirse's lounging in the glider, feet propped up on my leg, talking to me about Blanket's latest adventures. This, as one would expect, is way more fun than going to the bathroom. "Noooo," she says, with a slight, defiant whine to her voice. "I don't waaaannnt to." 

"Saoirse," I sigh. "We're eating now. I need you to get ready." Off she trudges to the bathroom, eyeballing Quinn and me the whole way to ensure we're not doing something gloriously fun while she takes care of business, then emerges again entirely too quickly. I inspect her hands, sniffing to find they smell faintly of soap and are still damp. Since everything appears to have gone right in there, I shrug and we make our way to the kitchen.


A little later, over another decadent meal of peanut butter sandwiches, pears and cheese (oh, don't be jealous. It's yours to have 4 or 5 days out of the week if you'd like to pop by. Unless you happen upon hummus-and-carrots day...), Quinn was trying to feed me her piece of toast, as 10-months-old like to do (trying to share her treasures, you think, or attempting to pass off yet another crappy lunch? I haven't figured that out yet). I laughed and told Saoirse that she used to do the exact same thing to me when she was Quinn's age. At this, Saoirse squinted at Quinn, appeared to think for a moment, then asked, "Mom? Can I be a baby again?" No, I told her. You're growing up, I said. "Oh," she replied. "Why?" And I told her that growing up was a good thing. Now she gets to run around, and eat ice cream, and slide down the slides at the playground--all the fun stuff Quinn can't do yet. I didn't tell her that after that stage comes schoolwork, and curfews, and forced Family Nights because she's spending too much time out with her shady boyfriend. We'll get to that in a decade or so.  

So, after lunch, as I'm changing Quinn's diaper again (have you been around babies lately? They pee. A lot), I ask Saoirse to go to the bathroom before nap time.  As she starts to walk away, I call her back.  "Hey," I say, as I crouch down to her level. "I just want to tell you that I'm really proud of you for going to the bathroom by yourself, and wiping, and washing your hands like a grown-up. That's a big deal. I'm proud of you." She tilts her head to look at me, gives me a little smile, then heads off to the bathroom.

When I walk into that same bathroom after she's safely in bed, there's a good chance I'll find the hand towel in the toilet, or the contents of the soap dispenser emptied onto the counter top. Today we had to change her pants because the front of them somehow got soaked with (what I hope is) water. Growing up. I think about how quickly she went from wearing diapers to emptying entire rolls of toilet paper into the pot in one sitting. But this is how it's supposed to happen. Saoirse being able to handle herself means I'm doing my job. Yes, I think, as I wipe water off the mirror. I want you to be a baby again. She's growing up. And as I wash my hands with what's left of the soap, I know that's a good thing. I think I just want a little more time before that happens.

Next Time I'm Just Turning on Clifford

David and I have made a conscious effort to not book our children for every class, program and flying trapeze seminar that's offered in our area. Honest. When I taught, I saw firsthand how a jam-packed life could stress out a young person. And in the last couple years, I've seen two-year-olds who are cranky, overtired and whiny because they're being rushed from one class to another to preschool to Target, then back home just to do it all again after nap time. It stressed me out just typing that. So with our own girls, we've been walking on the more relaxed side of the calendar-keeping. They each do an activity a couple days a week, and the rest of the time is free for getting together with friends, or running errands, or--gasp!--just hanging around the house, playing. Our bank account certainly prefers it this way, and I'd always assumed the girls, especially Saoirse, were happy, too.

Until today. Actually, it's been often lately I've noticed Saoirse becoming (dare I say it?), well, bored. Yes, she'll play around the house while Quinn naps or I do all the unending little chores ("Hey, Mom?  You gonna fold laundry again?"). She'll read books to herself or draw or dance around with the dog--all the usual little kid fun stuff. But it's happened a lot lately that if I'm not with her, she's just lying around, clutching that daggone Blanket.  She begs to watch Clifford or Sesame Street: "TV is fun. I like TV. Can I watch some TV today, Mom?" 

Today was one of our "free" days, and we had to ditch a plan to run to the mall this morning because Quinn slept late and the sky suddenly started pouring rain (we have no garage. Instead, we have a pool. A pool. Isn't that fantastic, three months out of the year?). When Quinn finally--finally! Rip Van Winkle had nothing on this one--woke, I came downstairs to find Saoirse lolling about on the floor, feet propped up on a toy, just staring at a piece of lint.  Hoo, boy.


Fast forward an hour: every single square inch of kitchen counter space is covered with dishes. There are open bags of baking supplies, a stand mixer caked with flour, a jar of peanut butter (that was for lunch), some peels from an overripe pear, a disturbingly large amount of spilled cocoa powder and an empty carton of milk. Because what do you do when your 3-year old is bored? That's right: you make cookies. So now, as I sit here, exhausted, on the couch, I stare at the crumbs on the dining room table, at the splatters of batter all over the kitchen sink and realize that I'm going to clean up this mess just in time to start another for dinner. And I think, you know?  Maybe having to leave the house every morning isn't such a bad idea after all. Possibly, quite possibly, our fears that our children will be stressed out by planning their lives too much are amiss. Because at least then they won't be bored. It's something I might have to think about on days like this. 


Now, if you'll excuse me. While one daughter happily naps and the other reads quietly in her bed on this rainy afternoon, I have to go scrub chocolate frosting off the cabinets.

Extreme Makeover: Yard Edition

David and I are in the middle of gutting our landscaping.  Are you jealous?  Yeah, I didn't think so. We live in an older home (we throw around words like "character" and "charm" a lot when we talk about the house, so you can probably guess the age of it...). And I think when you buy a house with some years behind it, you have to be prepared that the yard might, well, soon be in desperate need of a face lift. But five years ago we were new homeowners. To say we weren't prepared is like suggesting that someone who can't ride a bike should probably rethink that triathalon. And besides, I sort of hesitate to use the word "landscaping" when I talk about our yard. Wanna know why? Example A: the previous owners had stuck little black wrought iron fences haphazardly around the front and side yards and then had the audacity/funny idea/sadistic nerve to surround them with daylilies.  Mound upon mound of daylilies which multiplied so quickly that by our second summer in the house we were weeping bitter tears from allergy-swollen eyes into our hoes and shovels. (Seriously, what's their secret to breeding like that? And why do they smell so, so bad?). Add the stinking (literally, figuratively) lilies to the overgrown, dying-from-the-inside-out shrubbery to the forsythia bush that has two vines growing out of it that are so strong and thick and scary-looking I'm willing to bet the Neanderthals used them as lassos, and we had ourselves a fine mess.  

So, needless to say, after a few little nips and tucks here and there, David and I are going full makeover on this yard this year.  Right now we're in the ripping-out stage, which David has had the brunt of, because one tug at some of this stuff in our yard and I swear I cry for mercy (Okay, I work out and all, but something like this calls for Xena). And my dear husband suspended his own gym membership, because he's going to have muscles like the Hulk after all these weekends of wrestling with decrepit tree stumps. It's awful (the ripping, not the getting ripped). It swallows our weekends. And the yard looks golly-awful.  We, for lack of a better word, hate it.

Everybody but Saoirse, that is. We hand that girl a trowel and she acts like we bought her a pony.  She spent two hours out there with her dad today (I was on sleeping-baby duty and got to stay inside and drink coffee. Shh. Don't tell David). Apparently digging in the dirt (yeah, the Peter Gabriel song just popped into my head, too) is like going to Disney World for the preschooler. It was cold, but she puttered on, with her four layers of clothes and ruddy cheeks. She scolded Luca, our dog, to stay out of the road, and marched behind the wheelbarrow as Dad unloaded the ripped-up roots he keeps finding. She refused water, food ("No, Mom! It's not lunchtime yet! It's not early."). And when she did finally tumble back into the house, mud on her face, hair that looked like it'd gotten into a fight with a squirrel, she was yammering away about the "snake" she'd uncovered (it wasn't a snake, don't worry. Just a salamander) and how strong she was. And David, the proud papa, said that when he went back out later to work by himself, it was a lot lonelier. She made it fun, he said. He has a point. We spend our weekend mornings digging in dirt and pushing around wheelbarrows. That's every kid's dream, I suppose. Do you agree?  Well, you're more than welcome to send over your kids if they'd like to help next weekend. We'll be inside the house drinking our coffee.

Detour

I sat down, all set to tell you about something entirely different tonight, when we heard Quinn wake up, crying. Well, yelping, is more like it, and she'd been doing it on and off since we put her down for the night. We thought we'd finally gotten her to go off to sleep, but alas, the neighbors called to tell us the baby was crying. No, I'm just kidding. But the girl really does have some lungs on her.


This was way out of the ordinary. Usually we read her a book and place her in her crib at 7, she sucks her thumb, she goes off to sleep. Easy breezy. So to hear her cry (oh, who am I kidding?  She was full-on, sirens-blaring wailing like one of those car alarms that get set off when a dog sneezes) like that sent me upstairs faster than you can say "paranoid." David is our family's go-to get-'em-to-sleep wonder-worker, but I practically leap-frogged over him (have you seen how tall my husband is? I was on a mission) to get to Quinn's room.  

By the time I got to her she was doing that air-gulping thing little ones do when they're really upset. It took me a while to calm her down, but by golly--and singing, and rocking, and holding--I thought I did it. Go us, I thought, happily sitting with my quiet daughter in her warm, dark room. We rested there sleepily for a bit, and just when I thought it was safe to put her back in her crib, it happened: I felt her hands start pat-pat-patting my arms. She started talking to the wall ("nya...nya...ha-pbbbhph!"). I put her on my shoulder, desperately hoping she'd doze off there, but it wasn't meant to be. Next thing I know, I was getting giggled at. Wet French kisses were being planted on my nose, as the dear baby is wont to do.  Then Quinn started talking to me like it was 11 in the morning, and grabbed my glasses off my head just to make sure I knew she was awake. At that point I wondered if I'd be getting to my own bed at any point this evening.


Yet after a while, I kissed her, then gently laid her back in her crib. She whimpered, then wailed, then found her thumb and fell back to sleep. And I left her room no wiser as to why she woke up in the first place. Maybe she's getting sick. Maybe she'll wake up tomorrow with some teeth. Who knows? All I know is that this is the way this child-rearing thing sometimes goes. Sometimes we can plan our evenings, and other times we spend our hours quieting sadnesses we don't understand.  And on those nights whatever it is I was going to tell you about will just have to wait till tomorrow.

A Toast and a Sippy Cup

Went to dinner last night.  David, me, Daughters Elder and Younger, that is, along with my mom and brother.  We wanted to do something to remember David's dad, who passed away two years ago at the age of way-too-young.  In my family, remembering means eating, so eating we did (quite honestly, it also involves drinking--a toast, as it were--but not nearly as much as the eating).

I kind of have to chuckle at how we're still adamant about trying to--at least occasionally--combine our old, young-people-about-the-town personae with our present family.  Like last night, for instance, we went to a Belgian restaurant because David's dad was of French descent, and Belgium was about as close as we could get.  We were surrounded by tables filled with couples, girlfriends, work buddies--all adults--and, of course, drawing attention with our two small--albeit awesomely well-behaved--girls.  David and I barely exchanged two words with each other, what with all the cutting of food, ordering of milk, wiping of spills.  But, by golly, we did it.  Just like we still went out to celebrate St. Patty's Day.  Granted, all we did was go to dinner again--at 4:30 p.m., no less--and I had to wait to drink my solitary Guinness at home after I'd nursed Quinn for the night, but dum-da-DAH!--we celebrated with the best of 'em (sort of).  Take that, settling down!  Power to the pooped parents!

We usually live and breathe by our children's sleep schedules (which is why you'll never see me gallivanting around town between the hours of 1 and 3 in the afternoon.  No, sirree.  That's nap time, silly), but still try to enjoy the world we used to know (and its really good food and well-crafted beer) as much as we can.  We want our kids to know how to behave in a restaurant, how to use manners in public, feel comfortable with new foods and activities that aren't necessarily geared toward the lil' folk.  We're trying.  And the girls are doing well.  If Pop were still with us today (oh, how I wish), I think he'd be nodding in approval.

Hypothermia as Bonding Time

It's with a small amount of motivation and a big ol' dose of sheer guilt that I drag myself and the mighty Quinn to her swim class every week.  It's painful (for me, not Quinn, of course.  What kind of mother do you think I am?).  All the swimsuit-ing and flip-flopping and toweling just to splash around for 30 minutes in water with a temperature I'd imagine is comparable to the insides of the ice cubes in our home freezer.  In each class, we do the Hokey Pokey.  We pretend to drop the babies off the ledges into the water (what does Quinn think the whole time I'm doing that, by the way?  Whee!  I get to play in the bubbles! or Holy crap, what's my mother trying to do to me?!).  We walk up and down the length of the pool a few times while our babies chew away at mildew-filled rubber duckies.  And then we turn ourselves around.

Now, I realize that there are better swim lessons out there.  But the lassie's only 10 months old, you know.  And really, the only reason I'm taking Quinn to the classes is because I took Saoirse at her age.  And even though I know she's not actually going to learn to swim (again, she can't even crawl yet...), and all she really does is the same kind of play she'd normally do, just immersed in 60-degree liquid, it's our time together.  It is the one half-hour a week (well, hour, if you count how long it takes me to wrestle both of us out of wet swimsuits and into a dry diaper--again, just Quinn.  Not me) that I get to focus totally and solely on her.  I'm comfortable because her big sis is at our house with her Gram, and I get to just concentrate on Quinn and every single "ya-dah-dah-DAHHH!" that comes out of her mouth.  It's some kind of precious time together.  Even if our lips are turning blue in the process.

The first time around--when Quinn was just a soul in God's hands, and Saoirse was the one I was dunking up and down in a pool on Monday mornings--it was my first mommy-and-me type of class.  I was just dipping my toe into the (Careful:  massively obvious metaphor coming up here) waters of full-time motherhood, and that class was a chance to meet some new moms and make some friends.  And I did.  At the end of those weeks I exchanged contact info with two women with whom I'm still close.  I was lucky, and that first swim class served its purpose, both for Saoirse and for me.  But this time around, I chat with the other moms, smile at their children, but really--and maybe selfishly--I just want to focus on Quinn.  My only goal is to soak her up, learn all these new sounds and expressions she's been trying to show me.  I don't have to worry about anything else but her during that time, and I protect those moments greedily, territorially.  Even if it means I'm not seeking out another goose bump-covered momma to ask her how old her baby was when he first started saying "dada."  

So that's the way it will be this time around.  I groan each week at home as I pack up the over-large tote bag with towels and swim diapers.  But after each class, I often find myself buckling Quinn into her car seat with a dopey smile on my face.  Sometimes the momma guilt can be a good motivator, I guess.  I doubt I'll walk out of the last class with anybody's email this time, but that's okay.  I only planned on getting to know one person during these classes.  Even if we are shivering as we do.

Something to Love

Someone new has taken up permanent--however temporary, really--residence in our home.  He follows us from room to room.  He sits silently in a chair at the dinner table while we eat.  He is fawned over, caressed, talked about incessantly, tucked into bed at night.  And quite honestly, I'm starting to get a little irritated with him.  Reader, meet Blanket:

Nope, it's not Michael Jackson's son.  I know, I'm disappointed, too, because that would make for such a better story.  Our Blanket (capitalized as a proper noun to give him his due) is the softest, sweetest rectangle of synthetic pastel fabric I've ever touched.  Our kind retired neighbors (they travel in a group, and we call them the "ladies."  Not of the night, no.  That's gross.  Just "ladies.") gave it to Saoirse when she was born, and after it spent the better part of two years in a drawer, I resurrected it when Quinn was born because it's just the best. blanket. ever (or have I mentioned that already?).  Saoirse never paid any mind to it, though:  I tucked it around Quinn in her car seat when we would zip in and out of stores.  I kept it in her stroller in case the wind picked up when we walked.  She lay on it at home, and I wrapped it around her when she was carried in the Baby Bjorn.  

Then all of a sudden, one day, Saoirse squinted hard at the thing (the blanket, not the baby), stealthily swiped it (again, just the blanket) from the empty car seat, and the next thing I know Blanket was being tucked in beside her in bed at night.  It is now so entrenched in our family lives that I request a table for five when we go to restaurants.  And it's making me look hard at our world from my little girl's perspective.

I think Blanket's arrival in our lives is no small coincidence, particularly since Quinn has now entered what I call the "Oh, look at her!" stage.  She's 10 months now, which is when the wee-baby good times really start ramping up.  She's clapping ("Oh, look at her!").  She rocks out to music, wiggling her body and banging her head to the beat ("Oh, look at her!").  She's eating solid food with the gusto of Bizarre Food's  Andrew Zimmern--she attacks beans and avocado the way he digs into a plate of pig's brains and rat heads (have you ever seen the show?  So, so gross.  Dave watched my first c-section with something close to scientific fascination, uterus-on-a-platter and all, and even he can't stomach that show).  We watch this baby in her high chair throw triumphant fists up into the air, pasta and sauce spilling all over her head, and we coo like a bunch of drunken pigeons.  This is all old hat for Saoirse, who, having dwelled on this planet for three years already, is feeling a bit tired and left out, I'm afraid.

So enter Blanket.  Today, after the girls woke from their naps, I was in Quinn's room, nursing her.  Saoirse saw us, padded off to her room, and returned clutching her fuzzy yellow buddy.  "I love Blanket," she announces, eyeing Quinn in my lap.  "He's my friend."  A few minutes later, I finished changing Quinn's diaper and hoisted her to my hip to carry her.  Saoirse held Blanket to her chest.  "Look, Mom.  I'm holding him, just like Quinn."  The rest of the afternoon carried on like that, with Blanket getting his fair share of attention.

I dunno.  It's gotta be hard to be three, when there's another sibling in the house and you miss your mom and need to clutch her leg while she's washing dishes to feel close to her, or follow her into the bathroom while she takes a shower or sit at her feet while she breastfeeds your sister.  I'd probably need Blanket, too, if I were suddenly scooted to the side a little and had to share not just my toys, and my snacks, but also my love.  So I'll try not to blame Blanket for hogging up so much of my girl's attention.  Next time, I'll just try to give her more of mine.

Remind Me of This Tomorrow Morning

My friend Susannah once bemoaned (yes, bemoaned, because sometimes you're just that tired) that staying at home with your children basically just means you're always doing some form of cleaning up.  And she's right: wiping tushies, cleaning counter tops, washing laundry--they're all the tasks we do constantly.  All day long.  Every day.  But I realized something tonight:  my day is food.  Either preparing it or eating it, food rules (well, you know that already, but bear with me here.  I'm on a bit of a rant).  I breastfeed, then get breakfast together for the girls...then nurse some more, then get a snack for Saoirse...then it's time for lunch, and another snack and dinner and...well, by the time I add in all the time I'm cooking or cleaning up, no wonder the laundry gets backed up.

When I look at my day, my week (and my weekend, because if you're at home you know there's no difference between weekends and weekdays anymore), I am very aware of how much of my life is the minutiae:  the tedious stuff that keeps our lives in motion.  I worry that too much of my time--even too many of my conversations--are concerned with laundry detergent, and cleaning the high chair tray, and emptying the diaper pail.  My personal time, or what I call sit-down tasks (like managing the checkbook, or checking my email, writing this post, even) are shoved to the hour I have in the afternoons while the girls nap (and by nap, I mean Quinn sleeps while Saoirse jumps up and down on the bed in the next room singing "Pop! Goes the Weasel" in her best soprano) or now, at 9:30 at night, when I would really love to settle down with a book, or maybe even get to bed before 11:30--or, I should admit, open up that checkbook and get to work.  It's strange, the lack of time one has when she's supposed to have all the time in the world.

But back to eating.  I love to cook.  Granted, Dave often works late, and my young clientele doesn't exactly always appreciate what I'd really like to put on the table ("Mom, I don't liiiike this taste.  It's too spi-cy."  Saoirse says this about avocado.), but I do.  Well, I did, back in the day when cooking meant turning up some Billie Holiday and pouring myself a glass of wine before I'd settle to the chopping and simmering.  Now preparing meals usually involves stepping around a toddler riding some sort of toy on wheels through the kitchen, placating a baby banging on an overturned steel bowl (why do I always give her the metal?  Shouldn't I have learned by now that plastic is quieter?) while she grunts "ggggnnnnnahhh!  GGGGNNNAAAAHHH!" in her hungriest voice, and trying not to let the boiling pot of pasta water bubble over while I pour milk and chop up Quinn's bites.  But watching those girls sit down to the food I prepare (even if it is spiii-cy) does make me feel like, okay, I'm doing my job.  Because food is safety, and warmth, and love.  Those meals are, essentially, creating a home for our girls.  I mean, I hope so, since all we do at home is eat anyway...

So I need to remember this, especially tomorrow night, when Dave's at work on a conference call, and Saoirse has asked to be excused because she doesn't like the look of basil on her noodles.  I need to think about the importance of these meals when I've been sitting next to the mighty Quinn for a solid 55 minutes as she gleefully tears into whatever grown-up food I've given her (by the way, she makes this giddy "nyum nyum nyum" sound the entire time she's eating, which would possibly drive me nuts if it were from any other child, but oh my golly, it's just the cutest thing).  Because dried up carrots all over the baseboards isn't gross.  Tofu in the dog's fur isn't nasty.  Spinach in a baby's belly button isn't awkward.  It's love, man.  And it's there all day, every day.

Straddling the Line

Okay, so we all know that I when I had Saoirse, I went on a maternity leave that sort of stretched indefinitely into full-on stay-at-homehood.  David and I had always said that if we could do it, it was important to us to have one of us stay home once we had children--it didn't matter which one of us did it, but since I was the one with the milk-producing boobs and he was the one with the bigger paycheck (did I mention that I was a teacher?), I drew the short straw (or is it long straw?  Whichever one is the awesome pick).  So a few months after our sweet oldest daughter was born, I packed up my binders upon binders of lesson ideas, walked away from my classroom with its incredible views of the Appalachian mountains and solemnly traded my high heels for cute but oh-so-practical Clarks (okay, actually they were Converse back then.  But I'm getting old).  

It was a strange, strange transition for me.  I spent that first year at home feeling like I'd left a big ol' chunk of my identity back at the high school.  I'd gone to grad school solely to switch careers to teaching, and we were still paying off the debt for an education I got for a job I didn't have anymore.  Here I was reading The Cat in the Hat to my 11-month-old, acting out the parts in silly little cartoon voices, when the year before my 10th-grade "kids" were psychoanalyzing the same story as an intro to a literature unit (no, my child's first words weren't id and ego.  That's just weird.).  I felt like I'd stepped into the traditional role I'd always sort of sneered at.  I giggled at the surreal quality my life had taken on as I sang "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" on Fridays at the library with Saoirse, or walked her up and down the length of a swimming pool, chasing the same darned yellow duck every week, at the same time when the year before I'd have been sitting in committee meetings.  I was the only stay-at-home mom I knew who used her maiden name.  I wore Flogging Molly t-shirts to my daughter's music program.  I drove a red stick-shift with a car seat in the back.  Who was I?

But then that year ended.  I weaned Saoirse and accepted a job teaching part-time at a local  college.  It was a great gig, and I walked away from it--well, drove away really quickly, in that same 5-speed, crying a little--okay, a lot--while Dave and I hatched a plan so I wouldn't have to take the job.  By that time I'd realized that I was massively lucky--blessed, if you will--to actually be able to be at home with my kiddo.  I started to understand that what I had was what a lot of other people wanted.  Teaching would always be there for me (well, I hope, anyway).  My education was still worth the stupid bills that fell into our mailbox each month.  And I got to wake up with my daughter, calmly sit at the breakfast table with her in her pajamas each day, put her down for a nap in her own crib.  I got to choose--actually choose--how we were going to spend our day.  By that time we were participating in mommy-and-me activities that I actually liked.  I'd made some really good friends who were like me--former teachers, artists, physical therapists, nonprofit workers--women who were lucky enough to take a break from their careers to be with their kiddos.  Saoirse had a good group of play buddies, and I had the enormous good fortune to be able to spend all day doing the endless laundry, to complain about the nonstop stream of dirty dishes, fret about grocery shopping and vacuuming and all the stuff that piles up around the house when you don't get to regularly leave it for a good chunk of the day.

Which leads me to last Friday.  I was at a party for a friend with whom I used to teach.  It was held at another teacher's house, attended by--you guessed it!--a bunch of female teachers.  It was so, so neat to see my old colleagues--friendly acquaintances, happy hour buddies, lunch partners--but it was really odd to be on the fringes of the workplace gossip, and curriculum talk, and worries about budget changes.  My world has gotten so small.  It's a happy little world, but as I left that party, I felt a twinge of something that felt uncomfortably like envy.  I miss that other world:  that one where I felt like I was a part of some bigger, grand purpose.  I miss using big ideas with names like scaffolding and Bloom's taxonomy.   I miss wearing high heels (I had some really good shoes.).  I didn't want to leave my old work friends, because I knew that just for a few moments, in that house, my world had gotten a little bigger again.  But I had to leave.  I had a baby that needed nursed, and a toddler waiting for dinner, a husband who'd been travelling all day.  So I walked out to my car, chocking back that awful bitter feeling that kind of caught me off guard.  I got into the driver's seat, shut the door and placed my purse next to the diaper bag sitting on the passenger seat.  As I drove off, I glanced into the rear view mirror of my new SUV and saw the two empty car seats where my daughters usually sit, giggling at each other, singing along to their silly songs.  And I realized that as much as they were waiting for me to come home, I'd missed them.  And that it would be all too soon before they grew out of those car seats, my car, our house.  So I took a deep breath, stepped a little harder on the gas pedal.  And I drove home.