Rosie Posie Cottontail

Dear Rosie,

Christmas won't be quite whole without you. Though gone are the days of you drinking all the "spice water" out of the tree and enthusiastically chasing a laser pointer around the living room, you remain very much at the center of our Christmas celebrations. Whether perched in front of the tree or meowing pitifully until we get your pillow set out in front of the fireplace, you have always been our Christmas cat.

Of course, you didn't start out that way--as a Christmas cat, I mean. You started out as a tiny fluffball of a runt, the littlest one in the litter by far, the one who insisted on kneading me firmly in the armpit before attempting repeatedly to suckle on my arm. Perhaps taken from your mama a bit before you were ready, you seemed to imprint on me from the first night in our home with Guillie, and that has never changed. Not a night in the last 17.5 years has gone by in our home that hasn't found you tucked cozily in the crook of my arm, body under the covers and head sharing my pillow.

You've had to adjust quite a bit in the year and a half since your sister went up to heaven, and I'm so sorry for that. It's clear how much you miss her (not to mention how much you wish she was still here to deflect Lily's energetic adoration of you). You've learned to make do, to snuggle with Ozzy when necessary and to endure Lily's affection, but it hasn't been easy.

We joke that you are our cranky old lady, the one who tells us when she should be fed, who yowls until we form a lap, who constantly demands our attention and affection. But, Rosie Posie Cottontail, the truth is that your fur has soaked in more of my tears, your ears have endured more of my rants, and your comforting warmth has soothed more of my heartache than anyone could possibly imagine. If animals can be children--and I believe they can--then you are the child who first prepared me to be a parent. And for that I owe you the world.

Lily asked if she could take this picture of you and me tonight. I'm covered in a blanket because Lily thought it might bring me extra comfort, and there's a crackling fire warming you just outside the camera's frame. Tonight has been a teary one, sweet kitten, and I expect the next 48 hours won't be much better. Because now is the moment when I have to not be selfish, when I have to confront the pain I know you're in and allow you to leave, allow you to go greet Guillie (who will be waiting right next to God, Lily reminds me) and to be joy-filled again. I just wish it didn't hurt so much to take away your pain.

We will all miss you, sweet kitten-cat. Know that our hearts will never change.

With love,

Your person mama

Life (revised version)

For over 15 years, I've been reading, reflecting on, and returning the writing of high school students. There are assignments I enjoy more than others, but there are none so challenging to grade as the revision: the moment when I'm faced with the revised version of the student's work and am left with the task of discerning what has been changed and what still remains the same.

As I read a set of revisions from my freshmen a couple of weeks ago, I found myself unintentionally separating the papers into two categories: the cover-up job versus the total overhaul. Allow me to explain.

The cover-up job is the one that seeks to fix all the cosmetic issues. The commas have been adjusted; the run-ons have been remedied; the typos have been banished; the citations are now in proper MLA format. On the surface, the cover-up job is glossier and more polished than the original, but the foundation hasn't undergone any real change.

The total overhaul, on the other hand, is often virtually unrecognizable from the original draft. The thesis has shifted focus; the evidence has changed; the previous analysis has been scrubbed and replaced with new ideas. However, all the substantive changes have also resulted in some new problems: new fragments have arisen; the title of the text still isn't in italics; the apostrophes are haphazardly placed. On the surface, the total overhaul is still a bit scratched and bruised, but the foundation is sured up and ready to take on critical eyes.

I understand why my students sometimes prefer the cover-up job: it's quicker and easier to complete, and it might even gain them the extra point or two that nudges the assignment grade from a B to a B+. But my notes on those essays are always the same: "I appreciate the small changes you made, but a real revision takes courage and time. It requires your willingness to erase all the hard work you put in originally in order to create something better. It asks you to challenge yourself to think new ideas and find new ways to put them on the page. Next time, I encourage you to consider completing a total overhaul. I'll be happy to support you as you do so."

As I read those revisions two weeks ago and wrote a variation of that note on many drafts, I found myself contemplating how I've responded to the revisions life has thrown at me. Have I been willing to do the work of a total overhaul, or have I been content with a quick cover-up job? Have I complained about the time spent on a revision only to find there are now new errors to deal with, or have I been willing to take a deep breath, put my head down, and continue the process for as long as it takes?

I'm not sure what the answers are to those questions--though I am sure I've met each of life's revisions with a slightly different attitude. What I do know is that, if this is the first post you ever read on this blog, and if you saw the picture of the top of my wonderful family, you might be tempted to think that you were looking at my original draft, no changes recommended, no revisions or edits required.

But then I hope you'd go back and read the years written here. The years of heartache and pain, of joy and hope, of love and sorrow. Then you might see what I see in that picture: an incredible revision of the life story I thought I was writing. The one that ends up still a bit cracked and bruised on the outside, but the one that is constantly striving towards a firmer foundation. The one that bears the weight of too many revisions to count but that somehow is the gift I get to live every day.

And, most importantly, the one that reminds me of this: when you get to the end of one revision, it's just the start of the next.

Go, Mommy, Go!

The Chesapeake Bay Bridge is 4.35 miles long and rises to 186 feet above the bay. For many people, simply driving across its span causes heart palpitations, panic attacks, and worse. For others, its narrow width is intolerable only in light of the traffic congestion it causes on summer weekends. For me, it became the challenge to beat as I ran my first 10K. But before we step onto the bridge, let's review this journey.

You may remember this post from December 2015 when I'd picked up running again for the first time just four months earlier. My time for that first Run with Santa 5K was nothing stellar (33:56), but I was proud of what I'd accomplished. When I ran the same course again in March 2016 after several more months of training, I was pleased with my new personal record (28:19) but immediately set my sights on the next goal: break 28 minutes.

March 2016: Lucky Leprechaun 5K

This new goal required considerable more preparation as I knew I'd likely need to do more to train than just run three miles three days a week. After chatting with a good friend, Steph, who is a phenomenal runner herself, and after reading several articles on my own, I put myself into a regimen of interval training in the months leading up to my second Run with Santa 5K in December 2016. I even asked that (incredibly patient and gracious and encouraging) friend to join me in trying to break my personal record, and she happily agreed to pace me as I attempted to finish with the 9-minute miles required to reach my goal.

 December 2016: Run with Santa 5K

This time, not only did Jeff and Lily make it to the finish line to see us cross, but they got to witness the massive grin on my face as Steph checked her watch to report my time: 27:34. I'd trained hard, I'd proven to myself and my daughter that I could do whatever I set my mind to, and then I set my mind on my new goal of breaking 27:30 in the Run with Santa 5K, 2017 edition.

And that's when Steph stepped in with a new challenge: what about a 10K?

I've never been a distance runner--in fact, at that point, I'd never even attempted running more than 3.5 miles. I mulled over the challenge for several months: could I complete more than 6 miles? Even if I could, would I need to walk most of it? And how in the world was I supposed to do my job and be a mom and fit in a long run each week?

Not knowing the answer to any of those questions, I began to tentatively read about the Cross the Bay 10K--the one Steph recommended for my first race of a longer distance. Though the 1.7 miles uphill at the start was intimidating and the idea of participating in a race that has 20,000 entrants was overwhelming, I couldn't stand the idea that I'd back down from a challenge. And so, on March 21, 2017, I registered for the race.

Training started over the spring and summer as I tested my legs at distances up to 4.5 miles, but it wasn't until school began in September that I started to train in earnest. Five days a week, my alarm went off at 5am, and I pulled on my running gear and hoisted my workout, school, and lunch bags on my shoulder and made the pre-dawn drive to campus. Mondays were for 3-mile runs on the hilly road that leads into school, Tuesdays and Thursdays were 1-mile sprints on the treadmill followed by time on the elliptical, Wednesdays were grueling interval workouts on the track, and either Friday, Saturday, or Sunday was a distance run on the rolling hills surrounding our home. With each week that progressed, I found myself amazed that my body could take me 5, then 5.5, then finally 6 miles. Perhaps more shocking, though, was that I found I looked forward to the runs--not to the exhaustion or the early morning darkness or the seemingly endless uphills--but to the sense of accomplishment that waited at my own personal finish line each week.

"Early mornings, hard runs, long distances, discipline, race day"

In spite of all the preparation, standing in the bleachers of Navy Stadium last Saturday, holding my bib number for the next morning, I still found myself wondering quite what I'd gotten into. I'd set a ambitious goal for my first 10K: break an hour--and I just didn't know if I could do it, or if I would finish the race at all.

Nerves were at a fever pitch by the time I arrived at the start line Sunday morning at 7:45am. Unlike so many of the runners around me, I had no fancy gadgets or gear to measure my pace or chirp in my ear about distance completed. With just a simple stopwatch on my iPhone and a playlist ready to start, I stepped across the line and began my journey to "Beat the Bridge."

And beat it I did. Not exactly in the time I'd hoped (1 hour, 10 seconds was my official time), but without walking a single step and by running my hardest as I crossed the finish line.

November 2017: Across the Bay 10K

Jeff loves the photo above--he notes my feet aren't even touching the ground because I'm pushing so hard to fly across that finish. I love the photo above for a different reason: I know what I heard in this moment, and it makes me smile every time I see it.

"Go, Mommy, Go!"

Lily must have yelled it as loud as her little lungs could muster because I could somehow hear her over the other spectators, over the clanging cowbells, over the pounding chorus of "Eye of the Tiger" playing in my ear. If I'm flying in the picture, it's because that little voice was sending me some wings.

So, I did it. I didn't do it perfectly or exactly as I'd imagined, but I beat that bridge and ran my first 10K. Steph (who also ran the race but finished a ways ahead of me) is already sending me links to upcoming 10Ks, 8-milers, and half-marathons. For now, though, my sights are again set on my third Run with Santa 5K in 3 short weeks, so it's back to challenging interval training and keeping up my distance with weekly longer runs. 

I'll let you know how it goes.

Heart Never Changes

It started as a short phrase of affection, one of many we used in saying goodbye or goodnight to each other. Though it might sound trite to some, it never felt it to us as we called out, "I love you with all my heart!" As Lily grew older and became more accustomed to the familiar words, she shortened them for simplicity's sake, and "All my heart!" became the new phrase in favor.

(Of course, "all my heart" also spawned one of Jeff and Lily's most memorable toddler debates, catalyzed by Lily's assertion that she "owns" Daddy's heart, and, therefore, she can love him with "all my two hearts." But I digress.)

"All my heart" was a familiar phrase by late last spring, one that was perhaps in danger of becoming trite--even to us. But then the toddler tantrums began in earnest, the frustration set in, and the exhaustion often led me to wrestle mightily with feelings of anger. When I'd put Lily in a timeout, only to have her endlessly whine at the door; when I'd ask her to choose her clothes and get dressed, only to have her throw tops and pants around the room; when I'd try to cook dinner while feeding the cats and asking Lily to clean up, only to have her start wailing that I wasn't reading a story--well, sometimes, we would both dissolve in heaps of tears on the floor.

And those were the good days--when the exhaustion ended in tears. On others, it ended with me raising my voice, telling Lily that I needed to walk away or that she needed to sit by herself while I held her door shut and she pounded on the other side. Somewhere in the middle of one of those episodes, sunk on the floor outside her room, tears streaming down my face, I suddenly put something together: I still loved Lily with all my heart.

Of course I did--this isn't new news to Jeff or my parents or my best friends or any of you reading this blog. But it felt remarkably "new" to me--to discover that, even in a fit of intense frustration or extreme exhaustion, my heart was still full of nothing but love. And in that moment, I needed to tell Lily that. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Lily? (pounding on door stops)
Lily: (tearfully snuffling) Yes?
Me: I'm going to come in.

So I gave her time to back away from the door, picked her up in my arms, and carried her to the rocker in the corner of her room--the rocker that's been there since day one, that's absorbed so many emotions from all three of us. I sat her on my lap, her damp face facing me, and wrapped my arms around her waist.

Me: Lily, you know I love you with all my heart?
Lily: Yes.
Me: And you know my heart never changes? Even when you're having trouble being a good listener or when you're fighting with me or Daddy. Even when you get a timeout or can't have an extra story before bed. I always love you with all my heart. My heart never ever changes.
Lily: Heart never ever changes?
Me: Never ever.
Lily: Heart never changes?
Me: Heart never changes.

And with that, my daughter broke out in a wide smile, threw her arms around my neck and her head against my chest, and whispered quietly, "Me too, Mama. My heart never changes."

All these months later, it's still the last thing we say to each other. I wonder what her teachers think as she races down the hill to school, then stops at the bottom to call back, "Daddy! Heart never changes!" I relish hearing her voice follow me down the stairs after a give her a quick hug before going for my run: "Heart never changes!" I often need the reminder as we come out the other side of a storm of tear-filled tantrums: "Heart never changes!"

Because it doesn't, my sweet girl. And it won't. Never ever.

Heart never ever changes.

Summer Retrospective

I've been a student or a teacher pretty much my whole life. With the exception of my first summer out of college (when I was traveling with a children's theatre company for a year), I've always existed on this schedule of 9 months on, 3 months off (though now it's more like 9.75 months on, 2.25 months off). Now that I'm an administrator in a school, I still feel the shift in rhythm when the students leave and the campus quiets, but gone are the days of freedom, of not having to set my alarm, of feeling that I can truly stretch into a few months of summer.

That said, we made the most of this summer, both of the three weeks I had away from school and of the many weeks of other new adventures and exciting firsts. And so, since the photo journal is always more exciting that the written one, here's our summer.

It was a summer of firsts...

First fourth of July picnics and after-bedtime fireworks...

First milkshake (topped with the appropriate amount of whipped cream to celebrate successful nighttime potty training!):

First serious hike--Lily made it a full mile on some steep slopes!

It was a summer of favorite things...

Popsicle walks before bed:

Hours at the local playgrounds:

Visits to Sweet Frog on nights Daddy had to work:

Days at the pool and nights of neighborhood gatherings:

It was a summer to celebrate Lily's love of all creatures great and small...

Her much-beloved Ozzy and Rosie (who may not be with us much longer, but who Lily takes care of with great gentleness and care):

Her equally beloved Mallie, who she spent hours with every day we were in Connecticut (and still had plenty of love left over for Beamer and Dude!).

 Her adoration of her MelMel's new puppy, Oliver:

And her constant imaginary play with any stuffed creature in arm's reach:

A summer of a beach week with best friends...

And, somehow, even a summer of rejuvenation for Mom and Dad!

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't always ideal. There were tears and tantrums, anger and frustration, exhaustion and disagreements. But it was summer--the summer our daughter was three, the summer she first went to camp, the summer she first spent an overnight with her Ganny and Gannydaddy, the summer we found joy in spite of disappointment. The summer that made us smile.

The summer whose memories will keep us smiling long into the fall and winter ahead.

The summer whose sequel we're already planning for.

Dear Lily: You're Too Long

I don't mean that literally, of course. (You know that, right? I don't need you developing a height/weight complex at just shy of three-and-a-half.)

But, in so many ways, I do mean it. You're longer than I could've ever imagined those endless nights of cluster feedings, those early days when you rarely napped, those exhausting hours of carrying you interminably in my arms. When I wrote about you being nearly a year and your toes tapping at my knees, when I mourned the shorter nursing sessions and wondered if I were still needed, I had no idea what this would feel like--this moment when you would still declare your need for me but when I would be the one who knows that need is fleeting.

Everything about you is more independent, from your desire to totter solo across tonight's balance beam (handcrafted by your dad) to your self-sure knowledge of what you'd like to consume for dinner (Hawaiian pizza, hold the meat). With your independence comes frustrations for your dad and me but also--if we could admit it--pride. We want you to be fiercely autonomous, to know who you are and to fight for what you believe is right. (Remember, though, that sometimes a steady diet of macaroni and cheese isn't "right"--and that's where we come in.)

Ultimately, though, I write tonight's letter not for you (or for anyone else who might stumble across this blog in the years to come). I write it for me, as a reminder that there is always a bond between a Mommy and a Lily, that "rocking" is a consistent comfort, that a tired chin resting on a silky head can be the greatest comfort a mother and a child can know. 

I write it because--when I am exhausted on a Friday night, when all I want is rest in spite of friends on my doorstep, when all I need is a pillow and not another cry for attention--there is peace and joy in remembering that, together, we will find sweet rest. 

You are nearly too long, but you will never outgrow my arms, my sweet girl.

Love,

Your Mommy

Supposed To Be

Lily took this photo of me yesterday, just after we decided to cancel Jamaica.

In it, I believe you can see the deep sadness in my eyes

contrasted against the smile in my mouth that seeks to tell my daughter that "we're A-okay."

Sometimes, I feel deeply sad at how much of my life I've wasted in "supposed to be." The years I wasted wishing I was teaching in a "better" school. not enjoying the students I taught in the moment; the months I wasted wishing my Hoboken roommate was around more often, not enjoying the freedom a quiet apartment can bring; the hours I wasted wishing I had a family, not appreciating that family doesn't always look like a ring on a finger and a babe in arms.

And yet--in spite of my recognition of all that--tonight I find myself again wishing for what was supposed to be. Tonight, Friday, June 16, 2017, Jeff and I were to be on the first true vacation we'd ever taken--the first one that wasn't with family and friends or to visit family and friends, the first one that wasn't a quick stay at a nearby bed and breakfast or a visit to an amusement park with Lily. Tonight we were supposed to be at an all-inclusive resort in Jamaica, belatedly celebrating my 40th birthday, drinking some tropical cocktail in our balcony tub that overlooked the water.

But instead I'm typing this from my plain, boring bed. I can hear Lily's Baby Einstein aquarium playing its endless circuit of maddening music, and nothing more exciting awaits me this evening than responding to her demands for rocking that will interrupt my attempt to continue watching season 2 of The Last Ship on Hulu. I could make different choices: I could choose to have a glass of wine on our front lawn with neighbors who are outside or to book some kind of short stay next week with Jeff and Lily to use up the two vacation days I have remaining before July 1... the ones that were supposed to be spent on a warm beach in Jamaica under an umbrella, reading the two new novels freshly downloaded to my Kindle. But I have no desire to be cheered up.

I don't think I'm angry tonight; I think I'm just disappointed. Disappointed in all the effort that went into planning a trip that was suddenly upset 48 hours in advance by a toddler's viral infection. Disappointed in having to cancel airline tickets and resort reservations because there was no viable option to reschedule. Disappointed in trying to find a makeshift second-best that will never live up to a trip we'd been looking forward to for months.

This year has been hard: the demands of my new job have impacted our family, Lily's tyrannical reign as a three-year-old has exhausted our patience, Jeff's desire to pursue personal passions has been squelched again and again. This trip was meant to be The Thing That Rejuvenated Us, and it's gone, disappearing in a hazy mist of Children's Motrin dosages and expensive pediatrician bills.

So, perhaps tonight is just a night to mourn that which was Supposed To Be. Surely tomorrow will be better.

From Saturday night, June 17,

(when, thank God, one of Lily's favorite babysitters was free).

The night that Wasn't What It Was Supposed To Be...

But We'll Make It Through Anyway.

I feel like a failure.

Tonight was abysmal. (Last night was, too, if you're keeping score at home.)

Despite the fact that Jeff swears Lily misses me all day and asks about me constantly when I'm at work (for increasingly longer and longer hours), we seem completely unable to have any quality time once I'm home in the evenings. Everything is a constant stream of "no!" over which I have zero control.

"No, I won't go potty!"
"No, I don't want any dinner!"
"No, I don't want to read any stories!"
"No, I can't tell you what's wrong!"

Those are actually the good ones, because at least "no" has some kind of explanation. Nights like tonight when it's just a steady fifteen minutes of "No, Mommy! No! I said 'No, Mommy!' No!" tire me out beyond anything I'm capable of describing in words.

I used to try to find out what was wrong, to make suggestions to make it better, to attempt to cuddle and soothe the tears. When that didn't ever seem to work, Jeff began to recommend that I walk away, so I've been trying to do that more often of late. All it seems to result in, though, are pee puddles on the floor and ensuing hysterics when I matter-of-factly tell Lily it's time for bed if she doesn't want to do anything else.

And so we arrive at the inevitable bedtime meltdown: Lily gulping back the kinds of sobs that make it hard to catch her breath, me so angry and frustrated that I am, quite honestly, incapable of offering emotional or physical consolation. (Which is ridiculous, by the way, because she's a toddler and I'm an adult and she needs comfort from her mom and I should be able to give it.)

Did I mention I feel like a failure?

And if--if for just one moment--I think that it's just my perception, just my feelings making me feel this way, it's about to get worse. Because now I'm in tears, too, disappointed in the way I've handled the evening, newly resolved to read a thousand articles tonight and find the answer to make tomorrow better. And as I sit there, voice cracking and tears rolling down my face as I try to eek out the last two pages of Angelina Ballerina, do you know what that hysterical, emotional, frustrated daughter of mine's response is?

She pulls me into her arms, buries her face in my neck, and tells me that she's going to pray for me tonight, because I'm sad.

Tonight feels lonely. It feels almost as isolating as those nights when I used to struggle through a nursing session at 3am or those days when I couldn't handle one more minute of witching hour crying. It feels like I don't know how to be a mom--how to be Lily's mom--in any way that's successful or nurturing or positive for her. It feels like she'll only ever remember her mom crying during storytime and lacking patience and nothing else.

It feels like failure.

(Sometimes) I'm really tired of being a mom (to a three year old)

Of course, you only capture the sweet moments to preserve for posterity, right?

Just over three years ago, I wrote this post about a particularly difficult day with a just-4-week-old Lily. Today, it's easy to read that post over and laugh--it seems now that everything was so much easier then, so much easier when my sole job was to nurse and change a diaper and rock an infant. In that post, I wrote these words: "Today, I've figured out that sometimes I hate being a mom of a newborn who can't tell me what she needs." Funny, I thought that sentiment was just a passing phase, and, in many ways, it was. But, in so many other ways, it's exactly where I'm still living today.

Three year olds are tough. I thought we'd been spared the "terrible twos," but it turned out they'd just been delayed as a surprise to arrive in the form of the "tyrannical threes." It wasn't until Lily turned three in February that we introduced time-outs, that we experienced the angry slaps of a tantrumming toddler, that we began to worry breakable objects in the living room might be thrown in a fit of rage. It wasn't until three that going to the potty became an exhausting battle of wills and that getting dressed was an athletic event requiring much the same stamina as a decathlon. It wasn't until three that that phrase from three years ago began echoing in my head again: "sometimes I'm really tired of being a mom to a three year old." 

Perhaps the hardest part for me--for someone who thrives on logic and likes knowing answers and can find a solution to most problems after a quick Google search--is that there's nothing even remotely logical about a toddler.

Does she know when she has to pee? Yes.
Will she respond appropriately when I ask her to go? No.

Did she eat meatloaf last night for dinner? Yes.
Will she eat it today for lunch? No.

Did she refuse to wear anything that wasn't green yesterday? Yes.
Will she deign to look at her green leggings today? No.

Did she play by herself for 30 minutes with her Little People yesterday? Yes.
Will she unwrap herself from my leg long enough for me to pee today? No.

And on and on it goes. Of course, there are things that make this phase easier that cannot be denied. When we're with my parents, they happily take her for hours on end--much to everyone's delight. We live in a neighborhood where there are always other kids to play with (and moms to commiserate with) no more than 50 feet away. And I'm married to the most phenomenal man--the one who has currently taken her to a lighthouse and instructed me to do "whatever will let you recharge right now."

But none of that changes how hard this moment can feel--how isolating and exhausting it is, how inadequate and impatient I feel, how hard it is on our marriage and our family when we wake up every morning, armed for a battle that will arrive when it's least expected. And so, once again, not much has changed since that day in March 2014 when I first wrote a post much like this one, so I'll end it the same way.

I'm doing my best, little Lily. We'll get the hang of this yet.

I love being a working mom

I could add a hundred caveats to that title, right? "I love being a working mom if..." or "I love being a working mom when...". Or I could talk about circumstances, like having the luxury of choosing to be a working mom. But I'm going to try to write this post without justifying it. That being said, I will offer one explanatory note before I continue: this post is not against anything or anyone. If anything, coming to this realization--the realization that I love being a working mom--has only been arrived at after wrestling with my guilt that I don't want to be a stay-at-home mom, guilt that my new job fulfills that hole I thought was waiting for a second child. As much as this post is an ode to the working mom, it's also an appreciation of the stay-at-home mom.

And, with that, no more apologies or caveats. Here I am: today--and let me tell you, my days are exhausting. Here's the average weekday schedule:

• 5:00am: Alarm
• 5:35am: Leave home (in workout clothes)
• 6:00am: Arrive at school
• 6:20am: Begin morning workout
• 7:20am: End morning workout, begin getting ready for the day
• 8:00am: Arrive in my office
• 4:45pm: Leave my office
• 5:00pm: Arrive Jeff's work (to pick up Lily)
• 5:30pm: Arrive home for playing, dinner, bath, and bedtime (solo-parent style)
• 8:10pm: Finish putting Lily to bed; return to work-related tasks (email, class preps, etc.)
• 9:30pm: Go to bed myself
• 11:00pm: Jeff arrives home
• 5:00am: Alarm

So, is it easy to be a working mom? Not even close. Do I get frustrated when Lily pees her pants despite repeated reminders, when Jeff and I cross signals and don't get the basic house chores done, when I'm cooking another meal we won't eat together but will only divide in Pyrex containers for assorted lunches and dinners eaten at our desks? Well, wouldn't you?

But here's the pay-off: I spend my days doing something I love, something I believe in, something I genuinely believe will affect the lives of future generations. I interact with phenomenally smart, funny colleagues and students throughout my day, and I come home to a phenomenally smart, funny daughter. I have the incredible luxury of knowing my daughter is happy and thriving when I'm away from her, whether that's from hours spent reading and playing with her dad or from an amazing preschool or from her incredibly invested swimming and dance teachers. 

I love how Lily believes she can be anything. If I were a stay-at-home mom, I think she'd be learning the same lessons, but there's something simply phenomenal about her belief that she will be a vet or a doctor one day. I think that has such a great impact on me because one of the reasons I am where I am today is because my dad believed I'd always be at the administrative level in a school, a fact I mentioned in my interview with the Head of School during my recent job shift. 

As a mom, I believe it's nearly impossible not to be awestruck when your child expresses a desire to be "just like you!" When Lily puts on my tall, yellow rain boots (her feet don't even reach the sole!) or insists on wearing an apron that matches mine to make zucchini muffins, I'm reminded that my time away from her at work has in no way changed her relationship to me. She still wants to run like me, to dress like me, to care for others in the way that I care for her. 

Maybe Lily will go to my school one day. Maybe she'll study to be a vet. Maybe she'll have a daughter of her own and want nothing more than to stay at home with her. Whatever she chooses, all that matters to me is that it brings her great joy--that her mind sparks and her heart swells when she thinks of heading to work each morning.

So, yes, I love being a working mom. I'm good at it--good at balancing the challenges, good at knowing when to shift my attention from one task to another, good at letting the students and families I work with know that they're important--and even better at letting my daughter and my husband know that they are far more important.

In short, being a working mom brings me great joy.