Not Another Motherhood Post: Part 187

One moment I am devouring my kids, dumbfounded by their brilliance and my insatiable need to snuggle them into oblivion. 

The next, motherhood devours me whole —  then spits me out, bitter to the taste. 

When we had our third daughter, Mara, we were living in a tiny Airbnb. The railroad tracks ran just to our east and the Pacific Ocean was a stone’s throw to the west. Every night around 10pm the old bones from our 50’s cottage would tremble as the train raced by. 

I would close my eyes and imagine I was living in New York City; specifically the vibrant neighborhood of Harlem. Probably near something called the L train (don’t quote me). An entire life outside, vibrant and awake, a city humming in perfect chaos and continuity. Every cuisine from around the world is right at my doorstep. I am both never alone and perfectly anonymous. I am an artist living in a tiny loft (it’s all I can afford) in a state of uninterrupted creativity.  I mosey about like a local and come home to my cat (I don’t even like cats).

A world apart from mine, but a part of me. Or maybe in some version of this life, it was me. 

However, if I’m living in a parallel universe somewhere, I know that I’m always longing for the tethers and love of this one.

Love, Mom

Please get off your sister.
I’m so proud of you.
Come cuddle with me.
Give me a minute please.
No, one more minute. 
No one’s tougher than the sun.
What just happened here?
Markers are for paper only.
What do you see?
Can I do mermaid hair?
One show.
Did you hear what I just said?
Good question.
What do you need?
You just had a snack.
When did you get so big?
Let’s read a book.
Do you know how much I love you?
I love you more than you’ll ever know.

Baseball, Granddaughters & 2x4s

Hey Dadio,

Last week was the Padres home opener and the weather hit a soul-quenching 80 here in San Diego (there is so much pollen in the air, your allergies would be off the charts).  Did you hear that the Padres picked up Manny Machado? Remember when we sat so high in the nosebleeds at Angel stadium that I was afraid we’d fall off the edge? 

Since I know you would ask, here’s a quick granddaughter update:

Coura Joan’s two front teeth are popping through like a couple of teensy white chiclets. Her squinty four-toofed smile is the best part of my day. Her nickname of the week is Joanies, however, Maisley calls her Maya Malaya or Malanky or Makeherd (?). We have no idea where those came from. Coura climbs into every crack and crevice she can find, her favorite spot being the entertainment center. She eats each meal like I’ve never fed her before and she is most happy while booty bouncing around the coffee table, swinging, or comfortably tucked in the nook of my hip. She’s always watching and following her big sister (even if she just pushed her down) and she laughs when we laugh. She gets her helmet off in a month or so which means hard surfaces won’t go as easy on her – especially since those first steps are just around the corner.

Maisley is now dressing herself and much to my inner child’s surprise, loves anything with tulle.  The only way she lets me do “crazy hair” in the morning is by coloring it with bright hair markers. She calls popcorn, “Popcorns”, and her favorite food is a cheese stick. Her mood and energy is that of a dragon fly trapped in a glass bottle. She has challenged me in every way and I wish daily that I had a roadmap to understanding her next move and what she needs from me. Especially when she runs away from me at the aquarium and I lose her to a sea of fish and panic. She is sensitive to people and things around her, always the first to step up and help. Her preschool teachers say she is a really good listener at school. Weird…just like at home!

It’s harder as more milestones pop up and days go by because it means we are further away from how we were when you were here. But as the girls change and grow, I am excited to see your traits in them revealed.  You will always be a part of them in the form of DNA and vivid stories. So far I think Maisley has your helping hands and Coura has your go-getter determination.


I’m spearheading our mailbox renovation project on Rock Creek – although you probably already know this because I was talking out loud to you in Home Depot. “Tom the mailman” informed me that our post is about to topple over, so me and Ryan, alongside Warren and Mike are replacing it. In my first attempt at a supply run I got: 12, foot long 2x4s. I then realized I was supposed to get a 12 foot long, 2×4. I could use some light guidance for the install this weekend.

There are so many invaluable gifts you’ve given us since you left; deeper spirituality and faith, new people, greater awareness of the present moment, more knowledge about ourselves – the list goes on.  I’d rather be a girl with a dad here on Earth, but I’m going to take full advantage of these new experiences and perspectives as a form of gratitude. 

I have to remind myself all the time: our worst day was your best. From what I can imagine and what my heart knows to be true, you’ve never been happier. Life without you here is still a little like freshman year and I’m awkward and sometimes I hide in the locker room to eat lunch, but I’m slowly learning how to be in this new existence. How to honor and communicate with you in new ways.  The memories are cloudy and a little jagged, but I know one day they will come flowing out as easily as a breath.

Have you met any famous people up there like Abe Lincoln or The Great Bambino? Other than being with us all of the time, are you a guardian angel for anyone else?

Missing you every day in every way. Love you Dadio!

In a bottomless pit of gratitude and baseball game nachos (with jalapeños),

– Jen

Golden Hour

8:25 pm. “Golden hour” for those of us in the parenthood. After 45 minutes of Maisley’s In-N-Out style bedtime routine, and a tiny turd of evidence that confirmed Coura’s constipation, both kids finally gave in to their weighted eyelids.

Ryan is kicked back in his corner of the couch wearing a new robe from Christmas while laughing at a meme from TheDad on Instagram and eating a bowl of ice cream.

I’m ironically sporting my “Ryan’s gone” pulled back hair-do, wearing a striped sweatshirt I bought in 2010, and crunching on a cup of granola. After scrolling for 20 minutes through the same shows and movies we see every night – “you pick, no you pick” – we decide to watch a Vice about Doomsday.

I paused from my crunching for a minute and just started giggling.

“Who have we become!?” I asked rhetorically. “What would our 25-year-old free-bird selves say about us right now?”


Ryan and I have been married for four years as of January 10th.  Everything has changed since our wedding day, yet nothing at the same time.

Four years and two weeks ago I was crying in the bridal shop about hating my wedding dress and ended up pulling a very last minute switcheroo.

[Still indecisive, just about less important things.]

Four years and one day ago I was in the emergency room with food poisoning praying that whatever was left of my body would make it down the aisle.

[Currently still dealing with gross bodily things on a daily basis.]

Four years ago we danced to “Forever and Ever, Amen” in front of our favorite people. 

[We’re still on track singing that same tune, just a little more broken in.]

Over the last four years we gained new members of our family and lost really important ones. We’ve been broken down and built up. We’ve learned to not have arguments when our heads hit the pillow at night. We’ve discovered what makes each other crazy (why? why do the contents of your pockets find themselves at home on various counter tops around the house) and what makes each other full (road trips with chex mix and a good playlist).

Elbows deep in parenthood, sometimes we feel more like roommates and wanna-be sleep scientists than husband and wife. Other times I look at him like he’s the cute football player I’m flirting with in chemistry class and still can’t believe he’s mine.

When I look at a photo, hold Ryan’s hand or smooch my daughters cheeks, I sometimes miss them. I find myself nostalgic for the present moment, this “time of our life” – even though I am in it.

I wonder what a year from now or four more years will hold. Thank God for golden hour. Thank God it’s him.

 

A First Laugh

I laughed really hard for the first time since my dad died.

I was sitting in the kitchen doing some writing while Maisley was pretending to nap. Our part-time nanny and friend, Jordan, peered around the corner and whispered, “Oh you gotta see this.”

I got up to find Maisley standing in the hallway, butt naked, proud and smirking, anxiously awaiting my reaction. She had climbed out of bed, de-robed, de-diapered, and scaled the “safety gate”.

I couldn’t help myself; I lost it in full blown, slap-happy laughter. 

I laughed without holding back. I laughed mindlessly, deep in the present moment. I felt something new inside of me, sparked in that moment of joy.

Motherhood and grief is a wild collaboration. On one hand, it helps me to have these tiny distractions of blissful naivety. On the other, it’s hard to feel everything I want to, when I want to, with obligations that come first; like keeping both kids alive while Maisley has Coura two inches up, off the ground by the ankles.

I’m so happy my girls got to meet my dad, but my heart aches for future memories we will never make and dreams, unfulfilled.

Some days I wake up in hope and positivity. Others in sorrow and angst. After every tidal wave of grief – weak, tired and with tear stained cheeks – a gentle, but firm voice speaks very clearly in my mind: Get up. Keep going.

I have to get up everyday for those girls. I have to keep moving.

It feels good to smile and see the light through the cracks.