Year in (Book) Review: Q1

The Book of Speculation, Erika Swyler

One of my favorite accidents: I’m strolling through Target; I only have 62 things in my cart, so I’m on the hunt; I somehow end up in the book aisle even though I swear I was looking for … well, I don’t know what, but it wasn’t needed and it wasn’t a book; I pick up something I’ve never heard of on a whim and I love it. It’s super convoluted and kind of weird — it's got a librarian and some circus freaks — and it’s just right.

On Being 40(ish), edited by Lindsey Mead

As someone safely on the “ish” side of 40, I listened to a dear, dear friend and regular contributor to the book list talk about this one half checked out. Then, for her birthday (because she’s that friend) she sent me a copy of fun short stories written by ladies running the gamut from pretty young to almost old to one foot in the grave. (those might all be exaggerations.) It sits on my nightstand, all pink and little and cute, and it’s the perfect thing to read when you just need something lovely and relevant and sometimes bittersweet and sometimes hysterical.  

House Rules, Jodi Picoult

My take on that old cliche, as it applies to Jodi Picoult: She could rewrite the phone book and I would read it. There’s just something so inherently readable about her to me. This one’s the story of a mother, her autistic son who’s accused of a terrible crime, her non-autistic son who has his own uphill battles to climb, and how you cope with not having all the answers. Which is motherhood in a nutshell.

Becoming, Michelle Obama

This is not a book about

• politics
• Barack Obama

This is a book about

• a freakishly smart, incredibly gracious, humble, stylish, funny mama chick
• okay, sort of politics
• hope

If you’re politically inclined and lean left, read it. If you’re not at all politically inclined, lean right, want to feel slightly in awe and inadequate, and/or just think amazing women are amazing, read it.

My Husband's Wife, Jane Corry

Needed another spontaneous plane book. Have a propensity to gobble up page turners. This one fit the bill just fine: semi-creepy easy reading. Husband wants me to include a note that if anything mysterious happens to him, someone should check my Dateline notes.

Don't You Cry, Mary Kubica

Needed a spontaneous plane book since my copy of Becoming is hardback and heavy.

I admit to getting a little judgy — there are a few spots she tries a little hard for the, I don’t know the word (see why I write book reviews and not books) — the mood? (“The grass is brown. No longer green.” Thanks. Got it.) And also I figured out the ending really super early on, which I never do. But it was a fine choice for a mindless page turner. Plus apparently she went to Miami of Ohio so she’s got to be kind of cool.

You Are a Badass, Jen Sincero

Lemme start right here, right at the beginning: I'm not a self-help kind of person, book or otherwise. It's weird; I feel like I should be. I'm pretty introspective. I like improving as much as the next lazy person. But most self-help seems a little eye-roll worthy to me. A little ... much. But when your yoga teacher/girl crush/friend hands you a book — doesn't just give you a recommendation, I mean actually physically hands you a book — you take it. You say thanks. And you read it out of obligation.

And if you're lucky you end up loving it, in spite of yourself.

It's a little much. In the best way. Think The Secret, but with F bombs.

Three.

A letter to my three year old.

Someday, sooner than I can imagine, I won’t be able to kiss away your discomfort. I won’t be able to ease your mind just by being in your sights. Someday, sooner than I can cope with, my very mommyness will be, at best an afterthought and, more likely, an embarrassment. You claim more of your independence every day. I couldn’t be prouder or more devastated.

Today, you still think that I’m your center. The start and finish of your every day. That dad and I are your only real needs. I want you to always remember that I’m your most important thing. But of course, I want you to forget. I want you to look past me. To what’s next, to what’s yours—and yours alone—to discover and learn and want and understand.

Today, your hands are so small. They grab my face and turn my head if you think I should be focused on you instead of, say, your dad or my dinner.

Your voice is so sweet.

Your belly is so round and soft and smooth.

Your fine hair still bleaches blond in the summer sun.

Your eyes—my eyes, your dedo’s eyes—still look to me for approval and permission and acceptance and validation.

Today, I still clip your fingernails and rub your forehead to make you close your eyes and curl around you for bedtime stories.

I still translate you for the world, because only I can understand what the hell you’re saying, and even that’s only about 17% of the time.

I can still pick you up and hold you to me.

Someday, there won’t be matchbox bulldozers to pull out from between the sheets before I go to bed, or discarded Paw Patrol underpants to trip over.

Or a high-pitched “mommyyyyy” called out from a crib in the next room when it’s time for the day to start.

Or a tiny naked butt running banshee down the hall away from bath time, inexplicably carrying a football nightlight in one hand and hand sanitizer in the other.

But today, there’s today’s version of you and me. The next version will have to come at the unbearable cost of losing this one. But today, there’s three-year-old little you, and little old me.

How I love you, Emmett James.

love first.

When I tuck my kid in at night, I pray over him. First I whisper to him that he is so loved (straight up some Lily Potter parenting right there, folks), and then I say a prayer. It usually goes something like this:

Please, God, let him be healthy and strong as he grows. 

Please keep him safe. From the mean world, from the unforeseen, from himself. 

There's usually something along the lines of a 'please Lord keep his mama calm and sane,' which sounds like a prayer for me but I assure you his best interests are at heart. 

Please give him an open heart and a compassionate spirit and a desire to make his world better—for himself, but also for the people he crosses paths with. And, you know, for me. Obviously. 

Please, God, teach him to love well. He already does. At not quite three, he is so love-filled. He loves his life. Like, loves. his. life. His Lamby. His family and his scooter and the lady at the grocery store and piles of rocks. And me. Oh my gosh, how he loves me. He loves to touch me and hug me and climb on me. Sometimes while he's sitting next to me he'll roll over to get a little closer and say, "Mommy, I miss you." It makes me weepy already that someday someone will replace me in that way—someone else will be his first line of defense, his first call, his safe haven. 

I have no idea who that person will be. 

I have no idea who he'll grow up to love. Given our surroundings, chances are decent he'll fall in love with a pretty little midwestern Christian girl. And we will love her because our son does, and because she loves him. Even if we secretly think she's a little flaky and wears too much eye shadow, we'll love her. 

And if she's not white, or midwestern, or if she calls her God something else while she honors her faith through good living, or she's a he, we'll love her. We will love whomever our son chooses to love. 

For almost three years of praying over him, I've prayed innumerable times that he is well-loved. 

I've never prayed about who that love will come from (although I've prayed for that person). It's never crossed my mind to ask God to make sure my son is straight. I've never prayed that all his friends believe the same things his parents do. I've prayed for him to have love. And friends. And a life that lets him stay, as often as possible, the joyful, funny, empathetic, curious, snuggly maniac he already is. 

I love him ferociously. He understands that love is the most mighty thing. 

I love him completely. He's learning that love is a big deal. 

I love him even when he's being a total shit. He knows love comes first. 

I love him. 

I can’t wait to see who he’ll love in return. 

What if.

I used to get the biggest kick out of badgering the crap out of my high school best friend/freshman college roommate with "what if" questions. I'd love to share a few of the real gems with you, but sadly, there were none. Mostly they were just absurd and unanswerable and asked only to make her laugh but instead just made her roll her eyes and groan.

The "what ifs" in my head right now aren't funny. Oh, they're still absurd - because it's absurd to have to think about these kinds of things; they still feel unanswerable, but really, they are not. 

What if fewer guns really is the answer to how do we keep our children alive until they hit the mean streets of the real world? Until the end of the school day?

What if tighter regulations and some basic common sense would make a difference in the survival rate of our children as they come under attack by their peers? 

WHAT IF YOU'RE WRONG, and you could help change this, and you're just too close-minded and heels-dug-in stubborn to try? 

If it doesn't work, okay. If people are still violently, brutally murdered in seconds, and by the dozen, okay. You win. If the bad guys just shrug their shoulders and get creative and turn to machetes or monster trucks or slow cookers and the same level of mayhem still ensues, okay. If after a reasonable amount of time of trying what seems to work exceptionally well for every other developed and shithole country alike (even those with mentally ill people, and angry people, and cop haters, and racists, and extremists, and non-Christians), if it turns out we were wrong, we can come back to where we are now. 

What if it could be different? Better?   

The audacity of refusing to try. Something. Anything. Of suggesting that a better answer is more of the same. More guns. Of deciding that somehow my husband, my sisters, my friends, should be responsible for making the kind of decision law enforcement trains endlessly for, and in a panicked, confusing, loud, chaotic, terrified moment take it upon themselves to kill a child, because it should be their job to take care of it, not ours. 

The selfishness of being unwilling to ask yourself what an alternative might look like. 

The lack of humility in saying that your rights are greater than the rights of each of the people I say "I love you, have a good day" to every morning. That your rights were written out for you hundreds of years ago, so they can't change and we should stop talking about it, thank you very much. (Did you know there have been 27 amendments proposed by Congress and ratified by enough states to become part of the Constitution? That's 27 times we've said the original version either wasn't quite right or wasn't quite enough, so we made it better.) 

Be humble. Be audacious. Be selfless. Or just be ready to gloat and tell the rest of us we were wrong. Who really cares what your motivation is to impart, or at least allow for, change. 

What if your way of doing things is just. not. working. anymore. 

What if we take better care of each other. 

Two.

A letter to my two year old.

I read somewhere once that having a child is a little like learning to live with your heart outside your body. It is so poignantly, excruciatingly true.

So’s this.

Having a child — in particular a toddler — is a little like having a stalker. But instead of getting a restraining order and some therapy and getting on with it, you have to literally keep it alive. Literally. Your stalker’s life depends on you, and every time you tell yourself, “That's it, I’m not enabling this co-dependent nonsense for another second,” your stalker does something life-threatening (launching himself face first off a scooter, for example, or trying to climb over the second-story railing at the top of the stairs) just to reel you back in.

It’s intense, being the center of someone’s relentless attention. I’m sorry for pressuring you for so long to say mama. Jay counted once recently and you hit 1,472 moms by about 8:45. AM. You actually aren’t contractually obligated to begin every sentence with “mommy,” are you aware? Especially when all that follows is “baseball.” Or “quack quack.” Or “somethingunintelligible.” Please, dear god, stop. (Never stop, though.) Or at least tell your dad something every once in a while.

Still a noodle. My prince. Our punk. You are fearless and funny. How’d you learn to be so funny already? You’re a tester and a studier and a talker. You demand pizza (“eeya!”) and have inexplicably strong opinions on things like: whether the lights should be on or off. Whether the front door should be open or closed. When you should be outside and when you should come in the house. (Never. You never want to be in the house. Ever.) You’re fascinated by goose poop and shoes, anyone’s, and you adore your cats and grandparents and big brother. You’re an incurable flirt (just ask your babysitters) and an avid sports fan.

You are every ordinary two-year-old milestone and checked-off growth chart. But to me, you are exceptional. You are extraordinary. And you are, with your scabby knees and strawberry jam-smeared hair, my heart. Out there for the world to see and appreciate. And trip.

How I love you Emmett James.

One.

[for those of you wondering where i've been and why i haven't been writing, i'm sorry. i would like to tell you that for the past year my priorities were shifted and all my creative energy has gone into raising my child, but the truth is, i've had no creative energy. i've had no energy of any kind. there's a reason people don't do this when they're forty. it's exhausting. this is the first time i've strung more than two (hopefully) coherent sentences together. we'll see if it lasts. if not - i promise there will be a "two" same time next year. it's the best i can offer.]

A letter to my one year old.

We’ve shared a lot over the past year – watching you learn, take in, ingest (literally, in the case of a few pieces of dog food and a bunch of leaves), the world around you. Your insatiable curiosity will undoubtedly be the death of me, and I will do my best not to stifle it out of my own fears.

There are a few things I’ve said to you this past year, in the heat of the proverbial (hormonal) moment, that I feel I should take some time to clarify. No more sugar-coating for you, kid. It’s time you hear it from me straight, and get a few things straightened out in that oddly perfectly round head of yours.

      “You are my everything.”

You are not my everything. God, could you imagine? What a bad mom I’d be. What a boring person. I existed for forty years and thirteen days before you breathed your first gorgeous breath. My everything is made up of a million connections and past loves and learning myself and all the people who came before you and after you. What’s true is that, when you came, my everything got better. So  no, baby boy, you are not my everything. You are the thing that makes everything more meaningful, makes everything make sense. And I’m so grateful to you for that.

      “You are the love of my life.”

This is actually a weird thing to say to a baby, and so I apologize for making it weird. I get pretty caught up in you sometimes. But, in the spirit of being PC, I should probably let you know that your dad is technically the love of my life, in the true sense of the expression. I hope that he and I are already showing you what life-level love looks like, in the way we treat one another and, by extension, you and your brother. I hope you find your own life love, after lots of at-this-time-in-my-life loves. I hope you love well. It’s the best. And I hope you’re one of those little boys who says he wants to marry his mom, but not one of those grown men who says his mom is his best friend. We’ll figure out where the line is and make sure we don’t cross it.

      “You are perfect.”

Ridiculous. You poop your pants and bump into walls and call me dada. But you’re about as close to it as anyone I’ve ever met, so you’ve got that going for you.

      “You’re my favorite person.”

Okay, this one is true some of the time. Probably a lot of the time. And the rest of the time you’re a little shit and I’m not as sad as I pretend to be when I have to leave for work in the morning.

      “I miss you.”

Yes, yes I do understand that’s an odd thing to say to someone who’s right in front of you. Climbing on you, oftentimes. Curled into you having a bottle and a story, having a moment. What I mean is, with each day that you grow, the baby I have learned to love slips a little further away. And I miss that baby, especially because he’ll be my only one. But the good news is, with each day that you grow, you become more and more a person I can’t get enough of. A person I long to spend time with and be around. So I’ll keep missing the you that was here yesterday, even as I keep falling in love with the you that you become.

      “I want to chew on you.”

This one is actually true. I read something once, I think, although it might’ve been something I wrote myself so I’m not sure if that counts, that scientifically people get aggressive around aggressively cute things. Or something like that. But I do want to chew on you sometimes because you are that aggressively cute. My friend’s sister saw a baby so cute she wanted to punch it. So it could be worse.

This could go on and on. I say a lot of nutty stuff. But I think you get the idea. Sometimes I speak in hyperbole, sometimes I exaggerate, and sometimes I outright lie. That is your mother. I say what I think in the moment that I think it, even if in the next moment I have to try and take it back because it turns out once I said it I realized I didn’t actually mean it. I say how I feel. It drives some people crazy. I don’t care. I hope you grow into a person who can say how he feels. I hope you get that from me.

One whole year we’ve made it through. We’ve done pretty well so far – it’s been a hell of a trip. Bear with me, kid. I’m learning right along with you. Sorry for saying weird stuff, and I promise to try and clean up my act before you can actually understand me. Oh Noodle. How I look forward to what’s next. How I appreciate who you are, and who you are becoming. 

How I love you Emmett James.

Mom. (Mom. Mama. Mamamamama. Why is that so hard for you to say dammit.)

Darling Baby Whatshisname.

My kid is ten weeks old today.
And he has no idea what his name is.
Now, I know a ten-week-old baby isn't really supposed to know his name yet. But the problem is, my fear is, he never will.
Because I never, never, never call him by his name.
The irony behind this is how much slaving and arguing and begging and negotiating and waffling and soul searching goes into picking a name for your baby. It is a huge responsibility. It's daunting as hell. And, apparently, it's pointless.
Hubby and I hadn't told anyone what name we'd chosen for our son, partly because we liked having a little something just for us and mostly because I was pretty sure I would change my mind. So out he came, and named he was, and there was much fanfare and announcing. And that was that - the last time we addressed him formally.
Below, a woefully incomplete list of names I've used to address/describe/label/judge the little guy since laboring over, choosing, and christening him with the perfect name:
Baby.
(Original. Funny enough, this is still what he gets called most. Hopefully it'll never occur to him to mind, and no one will ever put him in a corner?)
Norbert.
(His grandparents gave him this one early on in the pregnancy. So there's a little insight into the genes he'll have to contend with.)
Little Man. 
Nugget. 
Noodle.
(He was almost 22 inches when he was pulled - and pulled, and pulled - from my midsection. Like giving birth to a garden hose.)
Chief Tiny Flying Fists.
The Nipple Hater. 
Love Bug. 
The Sphinx.
(This one will only resonate with those of you on my level of nerdiness. Remember The NeverEnding Story? Remember the sphinxes Bastian had to pass? Remember how they killed people with their eyes? Here's a refresher: Those caught between their gaze are frozen on the spot and doomed to remain until they solve every riddle in the world, or until they die. That is how I feel when his eyes begin to open and I don't know what he wants and I am afraid of him.)
Otter.
(There are two origins here, if that's possible. One is the movie I think helped me choose his name when I was a little girl. The other is the movie that my dad thinks helped me choose his name when I was a little girl.)
Bugga. 
(Short for Buggaboo.)
Lil brudder. 
Toots McGee.
Babaloo.
Whitey Bulger.
(There was an unfortunate hairline issue. We're getting past it. Slowly.)
Guppie. 
Freddie.
(As in Krueger. Those nails are deadly.)
Little Prince.
Antoine.
Shir Shits-a-Lot.
Cooper/Jason/Max/Oliver.
TBDBITL.
(The Best Damn Baby in the Land.)
Ninja Pants. 
Muppet. 
Moppet.
Munchin.
Monchichi.
Mohammed Ali.
(Those aren't speed bags, kid. Stop punching me.)
Hippo.
(As in Hungry Hungry.)

And on that note, its eyes are opening. It's hungry. Wish me luck.