Regarding the juggling act that is being a working mom, she wrote:

The age these magical little people are — it really is emotionally challenging, in good ways and sometimes in exhausting ways, and all that love can take a toll on a mom.  Truly.  I’ve never loved so much so hard and it’s like being shot out of a cannon some days.

It’s like being shot out of a cannon some days. A M E N. I deeply resonate with that feeling and I have been thinking about it all day. I do feel like I’m hurdling into space at an unimaginable pace most days, acutely aware of all that I’m not getting accomplished as I’m zooming steadily forward. To possibly beat this analogy to death, I can’t help but smile when I realize that I’m the one that agreed to getting in the cannon in the first place. Ready? Aim. Fire!

This morning I was reminded yet again that I am not alone as I continue to push on, and more importantly, I am not the only one that is trying to make it all happen. A simple but necessary sentiment. Presumably we’re all doing the best that we can and I am just so thankful for the reminder that we’re all in this thing together. I am also thankful for all of the brilliant and inspiring women in my life, near and far, young and not-so-young. With any luck you all feel this way, but I genuinely believe that I know some of the most interesting and incredible women on the good green earth.

Thank goodness for friends. Thank goodness, thank goodness, thank goodness.

I realized a couple of weeks ago that I would like to do a better job of keeping track of the books that I read and I also want to keep a better record of books that I want to read. I have a blog to keep a record of our family to look back on, why not do that for my books too?

PLEASE feel free to comment with any recommendations that you think I should look into and please know too that I am going to be truthful here and share the good, the bad, the ugly…sometimes I’m proud to have Dickens in my hands and sometimes I’m wishing for a brown paper cover to hide what it is that I’m actually filling my brain with in that moment. A lot of what I read is in the middle of that spectrum, so be nice and if you’re going to judge, just remember what Thumper said to Bambi. I will post the books on the regular page of my blog, but you can also find them all in one place under ‘Reading List’ up there at the top of the page.

Oh, and one more thing…I try to never break the spine of a book and I certainly don’t curl the cover around the back of the book and I only kind of like reading on an e-reader,  though I do like it more and more. You know, just in case you were wondering. And, I really really don’t enjoy reading things that scare me. My brain is just too good at running with that kind of thing.

SO…the first book to be officially noted and recorded:

The Bronze Horseman, by Paulina Simmons.

To be perfectly on honest, I picked this book up at the beginning of the year on a ‘buy 2 get 1 free’ table and thought, why not? I had a hard time getting past the first 20 pages or so (so hard in fact, that I read a couple of other books after cracking the cover of this one because I just couldn’t get into it) but eventually I got past those first 20 pages and then the next 800 or so flew by.

The book starts on the first day that the Soviet Union declares war with Germany during WWII. At it’s core, it’s a love story, which I did enjoy, but it’s also a seemingly good insight into what life was like in Soviet Russia during this time which was a whole new world for me. My complaint about this book is actually one of its strengths, which is that a story that could have been told in 200 pages is spread out over 4 times that, and on the one hand I think that I had moments of thinking, “get on with it, Ms. Simmons”, but on the other hand, the people of Lenningrad were baricaded and starved by the Germans (and arguably, Stalin himself) for just about 800 days losing 2 million (out of 3 million) people and the story wouldn’t have packed nearly the punch that it did if she had simply said, “the winter was long, we were hungry”. Sitting at the table with the family as they cut the day’s ration of bread that was about the size of a deck of cards into 6ths knowing that it was all that they were going to eat that day and also knowing that it was composed largely of sawdust and cardboard because flour was no longer available in Lenningrad was a pivotal point in my understanding of what WWII was like in Eastern Europe. It also made me walk into our kitchen about 18 times a day and say thanks because…good grief.

The love story side of the house is well crafted and unexpected, and since that’s the driving force of the plot I don’t want to say too much about it except that she develops the characters well and it is nearly impossible not to want to know how things turn out. There’s a little mystery to be solved about the leading man, though I didn’t think it was all that mysterious, and the fortitude of the main character, Tatiana, is enviable if not slightly unbelievable at times.

All in all, I’m really happy that I pushed through the early pages of this book. It’s a trilogy and I’m about half way through the second book, so once I’ve read all of them I’ll report back on the trilogy as a whole. My biggest take-home point from this book was a considerably deeper understanding for the horrid reality of war and a deepened sense of gratitude for the place that we live in. Communist Russia in the 1940s was inhumane at best, but against that backdrop, the love story that is crafted glows even more brightly.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the difference between feeling proud of Asher and taking pride in him. (Which is an interesting turn of phrase, isn’t it? Taking pride?)

Pride is one of those things that we get a lot of conflicting information about. It probably gained the most notoriety when it landed on the list of 7 deadly sins, but these days pride is to be worked toward. Women’s pop culture mandates being proud of who you are or how you walk or the way that you’re aging or how you got those snow chains on your tires or some other somesuch. I have zero expertise for what I’m about to say here, so take it up with your personal anthropologist before you call Dr Phil on me, but my sense is that all of this discussion about learning how to take pride in flower arranging is backlash from centuries of not taking enough pride in our accomplishments, and we all understand why. No wants to be bragged to, and once you’re hip to that you hope not to be the braggart. It seems though that there is a difference between the kind of pride that we can feel guilty of when we’re splashing around what makes us awesome and the kind of pride that we feel when we look at our children and our knees buckle.

I’m bringing all of this up because I want to talk about being proud of Asher, but not in the context of his accomplishments, more in the context of the inexplicable and overwhelming feeling that will occasionally sneak up on me as I’m watching him just exist in such a sure and content way. The feeling is so strange because I’m certainly not proud of anything that I’ve done in that moment, I’m not proud in a measurable way, it’s more like I’m sucking in air trying to get a handle of feeling gratitude and awe and humanity and yes, pride, that I feel as it tumbles around in my brain and heart knowing that I’m standing as witness to something, or more importantly, someone.

Drew and I have been joking for a while that Asher is going to cut us off after his first kindergarten play because we will drown all of the other parents with our awful ocean of tears. It’s a really weird phenomenon, but ever since bringing this son sun into the world, we have become completely worthless in the face of anything that moves us. (For those of you that have watched me try to talk about Lady GaGa and her Born This Way commitment, you know what I’m talking about.) My instinct is to profusely apologize to everyone for being such a sap and make an immense amount of fun of us for not having a better handle on our proud weepies, but I guess the truth is that I would rather Asher see us choke up occasionally because of who he is than ever wonder for even a second if we are anything less than his biggest champions. And yes, yes, we promise to get a handle on things before you debut as the Thanksgiving Turkey in your school play, but cut us some slack if we do a little internal freak out when we see you up there.

I’m of the school of thought that children rise to the standard that is set for them and then pay that forward by setting higher standards for themselves. My sister-in-law Ashley wrote about taking delight in our children, and I got so excited reading her words and thinking about all of the times ahead of us that we are going to have the wind knocked out of us because we’re so thankful to be in some random moment with our kids. It also made me think that the optimal way that we feel pride in our lives is not when we go seeking out recognition, but when we are affirmed and recognized by the people whose opinions we regard in the highest way. For at least a little while longer, Drew and I are those people in Asher’s life, and that’s what I’ve been thinking about with this discussion of pride.

Becoming a mother and having the opportunity watch life from the ground up is a weird and wild and messy ride, but at the end of the day, it’s also a mirror. Some of what I’ve seen reflected back over the last couple of years has been empowering and some of it has been a wake-up call, and a lot of it has been humbling, but it’s also been an expression of joy in a way that would potentially have escaped me if we hadn’t been tasked with raising this little boy into a man. I think if anything, maybe that’s how I can make sense of calling it pride…we’re getting older and loosening our grip on a sense of time, but then we look at Asher and he anchors us right here. We can tell a difference between before and after, then and now, because we are watching him grow and change and it’s slowly dawning on us that he’s pulling us along for that ride too.

I am so proud of you, Asher Walton. So proud.

A note about Asher and train tracks:

Asher is the Safety Police in our family. He was very concerned, as he always is, about Drew and I walking on the train tracks. We have to stand at the side and look both ways about 10 times to determine that there is no train coming, and then he warns us repeatedly that a train might be coming. When it occurs to him, he is also this way about the street and we can generally (but not always) disuade him from doing things with the severe warning that It’s Not Safe or, You Might Bonk Your Head.

And now a note about my feelings about Asher and train tracks and other safety concerns:

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

That is all.

We went to NYC week before last for work, and I was able to extend my trip through the weekend to stay with one of my oldest besties from growing up, my friend Lisa.

Here’s a quick summary of Lisa and me: She moved ‘next door’ (you have to use your imagination with that one as we lived in the country, but having a friend that didn’t require a car to see was as next door as things could get and it was divine) from Germany when I was in 5th grade. At first we fought. A lot. In fact, I’m almost certain that we didn’t think that there was a chance in the world that we would ever be friends, but that shows you what we know. We were only in school together for 2 years–when I was in 5th grade and she was in 4th, and then again when I was in 11th and she was in 10th–but in a way I think our relationship is what it is because our time together was always ours. We moved seamlessly between each other’s houses, kept a drawer in each other’s dressers, we fought like sisters and made up like best friends. Lisa was with me the day that I picked out Grace at the SPCA, the day that Drew and I got married, and the day that we saw Asher on the ultrasound screen for the very first time. We always pick up where we left off and although I was 10 when we met, I can’t really can’t think of a time in my life when it feels like she wasn’t there. It’s a quiet and steadfast friendship, and one of the most essential in my life.

Anyone know which church this is in Midtown? It was ominous and lovely at night. Instantly made me think of Gotham City.

It was high time that I visited her as she has always been so good and kind about coming to us and I’ve not been as good about that. She’s currently getting her MFA from SUNY Purchase, so once my business in the city was done, I took the train to Greenwich, CT and we had a wonderful weekend.

We walked along Todd’s Point which gives a unique (though geographically boggling) view of the Manhattan skyline at sunset. It was without a doubt the coldest walk that I have ever taken in my life, but it was so beautiful and I loved that Lisa wanted to show it to me. Instead of taking away from the experience, the sub zero temperature gave our walk a little air of adventure and I have to say that it was pretty invigorating. The sunset over Manhattan was gorgeous and once the wind was at our backs we were almost skipping along with it’s assistance.

On Saturday we went into the city and walked around the galleries in Chelsea for most of the afternoon before making our way to Brooklyn to scope out some of the goods in Park Slope and eat at one of Lisa’s favorite sushi restaurants. We went to the movies both nights which was such a luxury for this mama, and after spending a day outside in the cold, it was kind of the perfect way to settle down for a bit and reconnect with the feeling in my toes.

Walking the Highline in Chelsea

Lisa is focusing on sculpture in the expanded field and particularly how we as humans connect and disconnect with our natural environment. To that end, I loved that my weekend with her was in an obviously very urban setting, that it was bitterly cold, and that we were outside the entire time. We walked for miles without ever breaking pace in our conversation, and as I was flying home on Sunday, I couldn’t stop thinking about how grateful I am to her for helping me let go of the notion that the ‘outside’ dies during the winter unless there’s snow on the ground. As I mentioned the other day, we’ve spent more time outside this winter than in any winter past, but I think I have been doing it on autopilot, just waiting for the Spring to come and the days to warm. I really am starting to see the demure beauty of the winter pallet, and although I’m always going to love open windows and lush trees more than just about anything, I’m really thankful that Lisa kind of gave winter back to me on our trip.

I’m really trying to make my peace with you, winter. I really really am.

Thank you Lisa for being such a divine hostess and sharing your tour guiding talents with me, and also for letting me drink all of your tea. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. xo

And my current favorite:

I’m feeling a little cabin fever despite the fact that we’ve been outside more this winter than any winter in recent history. I actually think it’s because of that–I’m so acutely aware of how cold it is all the time because we’re in it. Maybe there’s a little hint of delicious in that, but mostly it just makes me think about how badly I can’t wait to walk out the door barefoot and bare shouldered and relaxed. My zen exercise of the winter is trying not tense up when I open the door. Folks, I’m failing.

But these pictures remind me what treasures come from being cooped up and I think daily about how thankful I am for all the warmth that’s in our lives–I’m not kidding about that one. A down coat, a hot bath, thick walls, 15 kinds of tea, bourbon neat, friends to crowd in, anything at all bubbling on the stove, the fuzziest dog around to sit on my feet…who am I to complain about winter?

Please, please remind me of this. As the great state of Wisconsin so proudly declares: cold nose, warm heart.

We named him Louie because I was thinking of our sweet Grace and the fact that Drew always called her Gracie Lou which lead me to thinking that Lou wouldn’t be a bad name for a dog at all, but of course no puppy is up to the task of such a serious sounding name and so it evolved into Louie. Or, in honor of this family’s New Orleans roots, Louis. Either one works. Drew and I never have agreed on how we spell our cat’s name, might as well maintain the tradition for the dog too.

Initially I was pretty dead set on adopting an older dog. I didn’t really want to deal with the chewingpeeingpooping mess of a puppy and we already get up in the middle of the night plenty with the one petit choux in our midst. But then we started talking about Grace and how a little part of us always knew that Grace was never all that interested in being a family dog and our concern that if we adopted an older dog there was a very good chance that it would be seamless, but there was also a chance that that dog also wouldn’t care all that much for life with a two-year-old.

So we thought about it for about a month.

And then we decided to go for it and start from the ground up with a puppy that will never know anything other than a floppy jumpy kid who’s prone to spontaneously hugging animals even if he’s not much of a tail puller. They seem to be getting on with one another just fine, but of all of the family members, I think it’s fair to say that I’m the most gonzo over Louie.

Clearly Louie struggles with relaxing

Other than my dorm years, I’ve never lived a day of my life without at least one dog in the house. Within a week of graduating college I was at the SPCA cozying up to Grace, and so the months that  just passed without the presence of a dog in our lives were kind of long ones for me. For whatever the trials of living with dogs might be, there are few things as comforting as that constant companionship and they always seem to be up for all of the good things in life–walks, naps, laughs, hugs, treats, play, and a little dose of conspiracy. Living with a puppy is about what we expected it to be, but I’m happier too, and as an added bonus, I’m loving all of the earrings that I can now wear courtesy of Louie’s pointy little teeth. Well, kind of. I’m kind of loving that. I do know that we’re all pretty smitten with this (increasingly bigger) little guy.

I think Christmas 2011 just flew by.

The problem with getting out of the habit of blogging is that I have no idea where to begin when I sit down to get back to it. The upside? A whole lotta life took place in the absence of those clicking keys.

So now I’m digesting in both the literal and metaphorical sense. My mental status update this morning? Amelia Walton is ultra motivated by all of the amazing food and drink from the holidays and from the very sobering moment that she just had on the scale. Ah well, life is short, and gah the food really was worth it. We’ve had family, family, family, cocktails, abundance, richness, tears brought on by laughing to the point of no return, the look of a little boy that wakes up to toys and mystery, a lot of nibbles from razor sharp puppy teeth–more to come on that–and a general sense that life is glorious and merry.

Asher checking out the firehouse that mysteriously arrived over night

One side note? For whatever reason, I felt compelled about 8 different times to try to explain what magic is to Asher this year. Go ahead, think about it–take a moment to tell a two-year-old what the heck you mean by that, it’s tricky business. And then in the typical way that children teach just as much as all of us parents try to, I saw Asher’s face on Christmas morning and realized that like so many things, magic is a lot like Fight Club. The first rule of magic is, you don’t talk about magic. The second rule is…well, you get where I’m headed with this. Magic is not really meant to be explained, it’s meant to be experienced. He got that, and in turn, we got it. That little face on Christmas morning perfectly summed up what all the hubbub is about and why I will always go a little bonkers trying to make it all happen.

Having a Christmas Carol Sing Off--Drew is teaching Asher all of his sweet moves

Okay, okay, and in true American Christmas Consumer Fashion, I will tell you that Drew gave me a ukelele and I am beside myself with excitement. True story.

Happy Holidays!

I love the holidays. I listen unapologetically to Christmas music, I like the lights and all the sparkly stuff, I love all of the smells and the 10 bajillion calories and getting to dress up and the sounds of bells ringing and the process of thinking about gifts for people and wrapping them and the fact that checking the mail is actually exciting for one month and the pervasive sense of unity that abides. I do, I love it.

Having a child has made me think more about the magic of this time of year, of creating traditions and knowing that there’s comfort in the love that goes into this attentiveness. I am already cooking up plans for celebrating the solstice with a dark house and candles to drive the darkness away, we will read the story of Joseph and Mary’s trek, we will bake cinnamon buns from scratch and throw reindeer food on the roof, we will write letters to Santa that will begin with all that we’re thankful for and conclude with all that we wish for–not just gifts. I’m telling you, my brain has been going at hyper speed thinking of all of this.

And yet.

We did this:

And I’m thinking that maybe I need to give some of my plans a wee more thought.

I’m pretty sure that “New Parents” might be at the top of Asher’s Christmas list this year. For obvious reasons we’ve refrained from telling Asher that this man will be coming down our chimney in the dead of night to touch our things and eat our cookies. We’ll cross that bridge in a couple of weeks.

This whole Christmas thing is looking a little funny from this side of the coin.

falalalalalalalaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

los nacimientos (births)

we will never have any memory of dying.
we were so patient
about our being,
noting down
numbers, days,
years and months,
hair, and the mouths we kiss,
and that moment of dying
we let pass without a note -
we leave it to others as memory,
or we leave it simply to water,
to water, to air, to time.
nor do we even keep
the memory of being born,
although to come into being was tumultuous and new;
and now you don’t remember a single detail
and haven’t kept even a trace
of your first light.
it’s well known that we are born.
it’s well known that in the room
or in the wood
or in the shelter in the fishermen’s quarter
or in the rustling canefields
there is a quite unusual silence,
a grave and wooden moment as
a woman prepares to give birth.
it’s well known that we were all born.
but if that abrupt translation
from not being to existing, to having hands,
to seeing, to having eyes,
to eating and weeping and overflowing
and loving and loving and suffering and suffering,
of that transition, that quivering
of an electric presence, raising up
one body more, like a living cup,
and of that woman left empty,
the mother who is left there in her blood
and her lacerated fullness,
and its end and its beginning, and disorder
tumbling the pulse, the floor, the covers
till everything comes together and adds
one knot more to the thread of life,
nothing, nothing remains in your memory
of the savage sea which summoned up a wave
and plucked a shrouded apple from the tree.
the only thing you remember is your life.

-pablo neruda