I love the little coincidences in life that draw me, for a reflective moment, out of the dizziness of the daily grind. I had one of those moments this week when I happened upon the missing piece of my son’s puzzle in the refrigerator.

At 20 months, Henry isn’t confined by the formalities of organization and logical sequence–the puzzle piece was forgotten in the instant he discovered the brawny sense of satisfaction derived from shutting the refrigerator door! But there was good humor and clarity for me, as I was shoving aside bottles of mayonnaise and jars of pickles, searching for the cream cheese and found, instead, a little green pentagon, moist with condensation–I may as well have found a smile. For a few moments, as I returned the little token of happy-go-lucky-ness to its proper place in the shape puzzle, I appreciated the disorder that Henry adds to the order I spend so much time and energy trying to preserve. Read the rest »

I talked to my friend last night, who I’ll call Danielle, (because that’s her name and I don’t think she’ll mind being revealed), and she was telling me how a bunch of our old friends got together last weekend for a girls’ night. I asked how everyone was doing and she said a few sort of expected things about each person until we got to Anne. But for Anne she said something that brought me to a mental halt. “Anne just looked hot. I think she looks better now than she ever has,” (”now” meaning at age 25, with a 9 month old baby.) It wasn’t that I had any trouble believing that Anne was at a pinnacle of hotness, it was the very forthcoming and sincere way in which Danielle delivered the compliment that caught me so off guard.

I seldom hear such unreserved praise from one woman about another and I think it’s because there is somewhat of a clandestine phenomenon that exists in the feminine community that keeps us from freely allowing and admitting that other women can be talented, smart, organized, creative, spiritual, even”hot.” I am becoming increasingly irritated about this underlying sense of competition that festers amongst us. I want to spray it with Raid and watch it shrivel, but since I know I can’t do that I’m going to expose it in all its cheeky pettiness, shouting from the roof-top of my blog, hoping that some sort of ripple effect will be set into motion that might change the way we (women) evaluate ourselves and each other. This is a realization of sorts, and a challenge to change what is. Read the rest »

Henry and I had a really great afternoon together on Monday. We did all the charming things the parenting pundits say a mom and her little boy should do together. After a trip to the ice cream shop for a “Dollar Sundae,” we stopped at the library. We played in the puppet theater, we looked at books and did puzzles, and we made several trips up and down on the elevator (Henry’s idea.) He also made sure to let all the library patrons know that we were in the elevator by ringing the fire bell. When the doors opened to let us out, right in front of the service desk, both of the bookish, middle-aged librarians were peering over the rims of their spectacles, scolding me with their disdainful glances. “What?” I asked. “It was him,” I said playfully, pointing at Henry. I wasn’t irritated; not even a little bit. When we got home that evening we ate vegetables with our dinner. We read stories. We sang songs. I even brushed Henry’s teeth before bed (which I frequently forget to do,) and he went down without a fuss.

After making motherhood look so picturesque, I decided to start the “What Works” list. That night I was cheerfully perusing the internet for images of favorite story book covers, album covers, little pictures to illustrate felicitous motherhood. I should have known better than to act so presumptuously, my glossy-magazine-mothering lasted only one day. Tuesday morning Henry woke up grumpy. He refused his breakfast, except for a few nibbles of banana, and then asked for cookies and gummy bears all morning. When I took away my favorite Burt’s Bees chap-stick, (that I found him eating in the clandestine privacy of my closet,) he expressed his disappointment in no uncertain terms, with a Texas-sized tantrum on the closet floor. It seemed as though the Family Fates were conspiring to decisively burst my positive parenting bubble. The day epitomized the old joke: “Everyone who thinks they’re a good mother, please step forward…Not so fast, Emily Williams!” The reminders were relentless. Read the rest »