embracing the season.

For starters, it turns out that on August 7, 2022, I wrote a blog post that I never published.

Before then, and since then, a hundred more written in my head while a baby or toddler naps or cries

I am now nearly eight weeks from the birth of our second baby, named August, who arrived on the first day of 2023. A new year baby! The freshest and newest of beginnings! Eight weeks of maternity leave, of adjusting, of healing, of trying so hard (ironically too hard) to slow down and embrace the season I'm in.

I say that as I also simultaneously have a note saved in Evernote that documents my current plans to run an ultramarathon before I turn 40. In some ways I am amazing at slowing down, but in many ways I am not.

And after nearly two years of finding myself again, after Leo was born, here I am starting the process all over. All week I've been trying to make a list of things that bring me joy or make me happy in the purest sense. Parenting young children, working full-time, moving over and over again - it is so easy to lose sight of those things, and I find myself here struggling to make the list. But the gut sense I feel each time I revisit my attempted list is that one of those things must be to write.

More to come soon, I hope, but in the meantime, here's what I had to say six months ago about why I did and do want to write (and write here):

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In the eight (eight!) months since we moved, it seems my head is constantly swimming with things I want to write about, mostly things I want to understand better. But I have been chanting the mantra of, “I don’t have time,” straight through. The first year of parenthood, especially working full-time, especially with a partner who’s often working nights and weekends, has been defined for me by the feelings of both being bored and also having no time. There is no denying the magic of being with a small child, watching them develop new skills at a lightning pace, watching them discover the world one small piece at a time. Feeling the intensity with which they love you and need you - and you love them and need them. A million people, I’m sure, have tried to describe it. It’s like plugging into a current in the universe that you didn’t know existed before.

But passing the time with a small child is also, often, excruciatingly boring. Sometimes frustrating. Sometimes you’re literally sitting on the toilet while the child is face down on the floor, sobbing, “shoooosh! shoooosh!” (which translates to “shoes! shoes!”) because they desperately want to put on their shoes and go outside at that exact moment and not any later.

Ah! The intensity with which I have thought and felt and struggled over the past 16 months! I wish I had found a way to better document all of the moments, each small struggle and triumph, the ways that I changed dramatically, or slowly, or not at all. Now, 22 weeks (give or take) away from giving birth to another little human, and the intensity of it sometimes overwhelms me. But more than regret over the lost months and moments I’ve forgotten, I feel urgency right now to keep a record. Several things I’ve read lately have lit that fire inside of me.

• Luisa Weiss wrote in her last Letter from Berlin substack about her childhood summers in Italy, going to the beach, and her summers their with her sons, going to the same beach.
  
• Jenny Rosenstrach’s now college-age children started writing posts on her Dinner: A Love Story blog, and I remember when they were small, and it’s clear that they absorbed a childhood full of love of food and words.
  
• Andrea, who has been keeping the blog hula seventy since 2005, wrote last month about the joy and sacredness of the record she had been keeping, and especially reading it back to her also now grown children. “something else I underestimated: the unmitigated joy of reading old posts out loud to the humans you wrote about. one post led to another and before long, we were swimming in stories and details I had long since forgotten. I cannot explain what it felt like to read these pieces out loud to the kids for the first time. the kids, who are now 18 and 22. I cannot explain what it felt like in the room that night-- story after story, their joy, my joy. I cannot overstate this.” I cried when I read that, sitting in a dark living room after Leo’s bedtime.
  

I’ve sometimes struggled with this deep urge to write, but not knowing who I’m writing for. The feeling that my voice is one of a million voices, and most are much more worthy of being heard. But suddenly I’m feeling clarity in what draws me back, over and over, to a place like this. I want to keep the record, for myself, for my family. I love (love!) the way a simple dinner journal, or a handful of photographs, can become an anchor for that personal - and familial - history. In the day to day, it feels sometimes a silly exercise. But when my child (children!) are 18 and 19, as long as modern society hasn’t collapsed and the internet still exists, I want to be able to hand this to them. A small window into who I was as a human being, and who they were as small human beings. Who we all were together. I’m writing for their future selves, and mine as well. I don’t know how to get at that, exactly, but I am desperate for some documentation, and I’m tired of saying I don’t have time.

I’m sitting in our damp living room, everything sticky after a humid day yesterday, and a night and day of rain to follow. It was 90 degrees yesterday, and barely reaching 70 today. I didn’t expect how different summer would feel in this part of the world, how temperate and glorious it could be, surrounded by water, far north into Wisconsin.

Leo is sleeping, finally having settled into a consistent routine of napping each day after lunch for a few hours. I’ve already completely forgotten the struggles of the spring, when naps felt impossible, trudging mile after mile pushing the stroller, driving up and down the county, all to get him to sleep. When he wakes up, we’ll have a snack, and then go for a rainy hike, or maybe to the library, or maybe both.

For the first half hour of his nap, I got dinner ready - a pregnancy craving that I finally caved on, tater tot hotdish (made vegetarian with faux-ground beef). It struck me as I was assembling it that it’s basically a shepherd’s pie, with tater tots in place of mashed potatoes. And I thought a lot about the humble-ness of midwestern food, which I grew up on. So many places in the US and around the world have a regional food culture that’s sought after. Clam chowder in New England, barbecue in the south, tacos in Los Angeles. But apart from the occasional Chicago hot dog, what are people seeking out from the midwest? Maybe it’s that people really don’t come to the upper midwest unless they’re from here. I’ve horrified many an east coast friend and co-worker at my love of tuna noodle hot dish. I can see the ease with which much of the staple food of the upper midwest might be dismissed. Meat and dairy heavy, often reliant on things that come out of cans. But the comfort I find in those foods, and the intense nostalgia I sometimes feel for them, brings me back.

And now I live in the upper midwest, and if I want to substitute cheese curds for french fries with my burger, just about any restaurant will do that for me. I can tell you the handful of nearby parking lots and gas stations that have brat fry’s on the weekends, and every restaurant (even the Mexican restaurant) does a Friday night fish fry.

Already I wonder what food Leo will remember from his childhood, or what he’s absorbing right now. For the first few months he was in daycare here, I used to pack his lunches - even though the daycare provided lunch. We’re mostly vegetarians, I told them (but truthfully, only Jacob is a vegetarian, and I eat meat at least once a week). I packed neat little containers of hummus and veggies, and pasta and veggies, and eggs and veggies. But they told me he wanted to eat what the other kids were eating, and finally I gave in, and he’s been happily eating canned fruit cocktail and mystery meat casserole and hot ham and cheese sandwiches all summer. He comes home to mostly home-cooked, vegetable-heavy food. But sometimes we eat a frozen pizza or a box of mac n’ cheese for dinner. I don’t know. My relationship to food and the right way to eat has been complicated my whole life, due to many things, but anyway I don’t even really want to write about food right now.

I want to write about the anguish of walking through the garage with Leo, who is currently deeply obsessed with the lawn mower (mon-mowr he says, making his little mouth extra round on the o’s) and Jacob’s bicycle, which has a bike trailer attached, and which Leo loves very much to ride around in. The second we pull into the garage, he starts chanting mon-mowr! mon-mowr! We get out and spend a minute inspecting it, him looking at me so hopeful that maybe this time I’ll pull it out, and fire it up, and let him sit and watch while I push it around the yard. Then we move to talking about the bicycle, him grunting hopefully that I’ll take him for a ride, while I remind him over and over again, dada’s at work, so we can’t go for a ride right now. Finally, I bring him inside, and up the stairs, and I take off his shoes, and he stands at the baby gate blocking the top of the stairs and weeps. I have sometimes just parked in the driveway instead of the garage to bypass this whole process, but it doesn’t really work. We still end up standing in the living room, tearfully talking about the mon-mowr.

The other night, Jacob at work, I took Leo out to play in the backyard after dinner. When Jacob is home, as the one in charge of our meager gardening efforts, he’ll usually unwind the garden hose and take Leo around from plant to plant watering it. Leo, now deeply attuned to this responsibility, would not leave me alone until I also unwound the hose and watered each of the plants. Last weekend, he decided to take over, carefully filling a cup with water from his swimming pool and carrying it across the entire yard to water a particular plant in the corner.

I think I’ve been looking for some easy or obvious or natural way to document this season in my life. I take pictures and videos of Leo, of course, but I want something more. And maybe the truth is I just have to write about it. The obvious truth! Maybe I have to forego the nap I could take while he’s napping (a herculean feat for a pregnant woman!) in order to make the space I need for this. So now it’s 1:47PM, and odds are that Leo will wake up in the next ten minutes. I could’ve finished the dishes or folded the laundry or made the bed or finished some overdue work (ugh!), but my body and brain wouldn’t let me do anything but come here and write.

on moving.

We moved. Actually, we moved three times since I last wrote here. But also we moved 11 days ago. We left Chicago for a small town in the northeastern corner of Wisconsin. For the first time in more than a decade, I’m not living in a city.

This is one thing on an immense list of things I want to write about.

I have had such an overwhelming urge to blog again, so I’ve put it on my list of 2022 goals. Write a blog! Write about food! Write about life! Write about change! Write about parenting! After a brief hiatus during Leo’s newborn days, I’ve mostly reclaimed morning pages. I’ve been diligently writing them (nearly) every morning. A few months ago, they started to look like blog posts, or my version of that - little ruminations, winding mini-essays, or something.

The last time I posted here was September 2019, before the pandemic, before the first pregnancy, before the second pregnancy, before giving birth, before becoming a mother, before leaving New York City, before leaving Chicago. I was me then, as I am still, but I see that woman and her words with such a deep stab of loss for the innocence and the freedom from grief.

Can I start writing again here, or is it time for this place to find its final rest? How can I just pick up again, how can I catch up? Does it matter?

The writing I’m longing for, the writing I want to do, is the writing I’m longing to read. Writing about food, about the seasons, about making space in life for slowness, creativity, learning to be a parent, learning to be myself. The smallest details capture me.

Sometimes I find myself trying to muscle through when things are overwhelming or when change comes or is coming. Leaving the city is a twist in our story that I could have never seen coming. It’s a wonderful twist, full of so much possibility and hope. But there’s also uncertainty around the edges, and there’s grief. So I catch myself trying to muscle through the grief, to leave it unacknowledged and ignored.

I’m grieving the loss of a life we had imagined, and a million other lives we had imagined. I’m grieving the loss of the city and its messy tangle of glorious humanity. I’m grieving change to our daily lives, a new daily commute, Leo spending his days in daycare. What about that moment when Jacob gets Leo up from his nap, and comes around the corner to my desk, and says, give mama a kiss! and his rosy sleepy cheeks puff out in a glorious little smile that brings tears to my eyes just writing about it now? What about that, and a million other moments that I’ve tried so hard to not take for granted, while at the same time counting the minutes to bedtime so that I can finally be alone and quiet in my own head?

I’m trying to let myself grieve all of this. Feel the hope, feel the goodness and love, and feel the grief. Hold them all together.

I read Ross Gay’s A Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude last fall, which is a book of poems about death and loss and the beauty of the natural world, and all the life and hope it exudes. That’s the space I’m in right now. Maybe it’s the space we’re all in, maybe the pandemic has given us this moment, or many moments, when we all need to feel everything together all at once, the hope and the grief, together and linked and together. My grief is small, I think. I see friends and people I love dearly losing the ones they love, confronting the frailty of life in brutal ways. I could be crushed by it all, if I let myself. Maybe you feel that way too.

My hope for this year is to embrace joy. I don’t mean something trite or airy or naive. I don’t mean that I hope to put my head deeply in the sand. I mean that life is everything all at once. It is grief, it is dark cold winter, it is loss, and also it is beauty and light and joy. I’m trying to practice that duality, or multiplicity, that it can be everything all at once. I hope to find joy, to seek it out, to spot it. I hope to create it for my child, for other people I love, even for people I don’t particularly like.

Hey-o, I’m back. I’ve been writing all along, but I’m coming back to blogging. I’m going to write about whatever the fuck I want to, however I want to, finally, instead of holding myself to some silly standard and idea of what good writing is or what kind of writing the world needs. Those things matter, of course. But I’m going to write about food. I’m going to write about the quotidian details of life that I love. I’m going to write about being a parent. I’m going to write about all the things that have already been written about, in a million ways, in a million places, and I don’t care.

writing the details.

It’s so easy to feel like we aren’t getting anywhere. The routine of daily life erodes awareness, and when the details are lost, it starts to feel like treading water. My antidote is to write things down. Write whatever you want, whenever and wherever and however you want. It doesn’t matter the means, only the act of capturing details. A few minutes spent looking over the things I wrote yesterday, a year ago, five years ago, and suddenly I’m swept away with it all - the vastness of life and all that has flowed through my own.

I’m here to say that I had an excellent week. I caught myself thinking it in the background often: I’m having a great week! I was filled with hope and excitement and ambition in a way I haven’t felt in quite awhile. And do you know what the secret freaking sauce is to this great week? WRITING (and other things, but especially writing). More generally, I did the things that fill me up. I went for lots of early morning runs and felt both tired and strong. I read. I actively avoided multi-tasking while at work, and created the space to work on tasks more deeply. And I made an intentional space for writing (with a new writing partner!). I hauled my butt across the city just to write, and there was definitely some magic in that.

I’ve been longing to write again, on the blog, like I used to do years ago. I’ve tried so many times to restart over the past three years, and I just haven't been able to make it stick. I was just thinking this morning about how it feels like all the times I tried to quit smoking. The shame creeps up around your shoulders and neck and ears, and you can’t tell anyone you’re quitting (again) because you can’t take the eye rolls and patronizing OKs. Except when it comes to writing, the eye rolls and patronizing comes from the monkey mind inside my own head.

this is the place for that!

It’s 4:30AM, and I don’t want to be awake, but here we are. What can I do? Nothing. I’m awake, and I know very well that sweating the lack of sleep does nothing (good) for me. So I’m up, laying on the couch, typing on the computer, beneath the glow of the Christmas lights we hung up months ago that are still encircling the window in the living room. Rat (the cat!) is sitting on the chair the next to me, trying to understand if it’s breakfast time or if he should go back to sleep.

I have had so much on my mind lately. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things, big and small. I don’t/wouldn’t even know where to begin, but I’ve got the urge to document some thoughts. And in a crystal clear insomnia-induced moment, I thought: this is the place for that!

So, hello. Hello? I don’t know. I haven’t blogged really in a few years--a few posts here or there, but not really. I used to do it all the time. I remember when I first started, that strange and fraught year I lived in Medford. Working all the time at jobs I hated, a new relationship (newly long-distance), no money no money no money worried about money all the time. I was just beginning to own my thoughts, to express opinions. It sounds strange to say it, but that was something new for me then. It was stressful, to say the least. I don't know if I was very good at it. I had a lot of sleepless nights that year, and I can remember sitting up in my poorly lit bedroom, writing and writing and writing. I also burned a lot of midnight oil that year searching for medical studies I could sign up for to make more money, but that’s a story for another day.

once a year.

Where do I begin? Poor neglected blog. My writing has wound itself in so many directions, and somehow this spot didn’t feel as necessary any more. I’ve allowed myself some single-minded focus, much needed I think, but here is the consequence. Saying yes to some things (whole-heartedly!) means saying no to others, inevitably.

Nearly a month ago now my birthday came. It was a simple day, which suits me. Jacob and I wandered around nearby Andersonville for most of the day. It was hot, so we ducked in and out of shops and drank iced coffee and shared a sandwich. We got dinner that night at Band of Bohemia where I tasted each and every beer. It was perfect as far as I can tell.