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.