Two Year Olds

What if, instead of snacking to stuff my feelings (of the ongoing fear I won’t be able to control things), I did what my 2 yr old does with the same fear and sleep with my toothbrush or Double A batteries which she does to show she has power and control over her world?

I thought about explaining why I haven’t blogged in a while. But that would mean letting you in on what it’s like to have a newly turned two year old (some already know). I don’t wish this on anybody - not even a vicarious reading experience.  

But then I thought, ah well... You’ve been warned ;) 

BAD AT EVERYTHING: AN OVERVIEW FOLLOWED BY A LIST

Two year olds are really bad at everything. It’s strange because as a baby, my daughter was really GOOD at everything (except sleep - see past blogs). She ate dinner without having to wash her napkin in the sink every time it got “dirty,” pooped without hiding or handing her diaper to me like a delicate stink bird was inside, blobbed around the carpet without traveling, looked at paper towels but let them stay in the roll, didn’t hold her finger one inch from her brother’s favorite car while he screamed, paid close attention to distant family who wanted non confrontational facetime with our kids and so on. Now, it’s as if the “2’s” leprechaun has possessed this once sweet blob. Re leprechaun - I wanted some comparison that wasn’t as dark as a demon but maybe on its way to becoming one, so. Also she has some Irish in her from my dad’s side. I don’t remember the leprechaun possessing my son in this way, probably because it was staved off with undivided parental attention and zero competition for toys. The leprechaun has reprogrammed my 2 year old’s brain to literally think that the world will END if she gets any help climbing into her car seat or putting on socks - things that make her scream and cry in frustration because she can’t do them yet. 

Example:

2yrold: “Oh, oh, oh! MY GRANOLA BAR - BROKEN!!” 

Said with startling devastation like Tom Hanks in “Saving Private Ryan.” Except it’s 100% easier to get a soldier out of a war zone than it is to stop the tantrum that builds over a broken piece of food. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if the sorrow of these toddler memories stayed into adulthood:

–Joe: I’m so sorry about your mom.

–Liz: Yeah. Thanks. This is so hard.

–Joe: I get it. This level of pain reminds me of the time my granola bar broke.

Me: “Want me to fix it for you, kiddo?”

2yrold: “No HELP Mama, no HELP!”

Tries to fix it and can’t. Lots of screaming.

Me: “Okay, are you sure you don’t want help?”

2yrold: “Can’t really do it Mama! Can’t really!”

Me: “Let me normalize this for you. Most granola bars break. It’s super common. Now you have TWO granola bars!”

She looks at me like I’m full of shit.

I guiltily avoid eye contact

Mistake!

2yrold: “Don’t want two little granola bars, want one big one!”

Me: “Well I can help -”

2yrold: “NO HELP!!!!!!”

Screaming throughout the next lines and years.

Me: “Hey! Look at the clouds!”

Failed redirect #1

Me: “Hey look! I have my finger in my nose!”

Failed redirect #2

Me: “Sweetness, tell the leprechaun to leave your brain!”

At this point it’s worth driving to a store or back home to get a second granola bar. Even if over an hour away.

1) BAD AT (or maybe really good at?) REVERSE PSYCHOLOGY

So sometimes saying things like “Oh, you’re not able to do that, are you? Probably not!” with a twinkle in your eye gets kids to say, “yes I can!” This can be used to help children eat their veggies or go down a slide they’re nervous of at the playground. Try this with the 2yrold and she says, “I can’t. You right!” and shrugs the most hilarious shrug I’ve ever seen.

2) BAD AT SELF REGULATION (returns ages 13-19)

As actors and teachers of acting, Rob and value language in general. And as a woman, I know the impact “good girl” language has had on me. Therefore I don’t want to label any type of speaking as “bad” for the goal of sounding “sweet” or “nice” (RBG didn’t rise because she was “sweet and nice”). So I made sheep the scapegoat. As already stated, my daughter’s toddlerhood is different from her brother's. She has to fight to be heard more and she does it with a bleating whine that is the WORST. So when she gets this way (which is at least 20 times a day), we say, “Use your clear doggy voice instead of your sheep voice!” We picked doggies because she loves them and they have strong clear barks. She may always see sheep as the “whiney bad guys” but I’d rather raise a sheep hater than a girl who feels she must sound “nice.” 

BREAK 

We interrupt this blog to take a break from two year olds. 

…

Why do lawn ornaments exist? Was some nostalgic lady putting away Christmas tree ornaments or Menorahs and thought, “Wait! I know how to make this socially acceptable all year round! I’ll make giant versions of shiny balls, deers, elves (nomes), Menorah’s, and just, lay them in the grass!”

3) BAD AT BOUNDARIES

In middle school I had a lot of “cast” fantasies. If I lightly suffer a bone break in my arm or even better, my leg (cuz crutches), everyone would give me a lot of attention and sign my cast. I feel like time played a trick on me and gave me this attention many years later at terrible times and in the wrong context. Like, 5:30am while I’m trying to pee and someone (2 yr old) is banging on the door yelling, “Mama, Mama!” Like, 6:05pm when I’ve just sat down to eat my food and someone (2 yr old) wants to sit on my lap so she can poke holes in my food. Like, 8:37pm when I’m trying to sneak out of someone’s room (2 yr old) so I can have a moment to myself and I’m requested to “pull blanket up, take this other boogie, pants fell down!, water!...” My question is. Can I go back to middle school and unwish the fantasy to have lots of attention? Please?

4) BAD AT HEALING FAKE WOUNDS

We’re in a code red bandaid stage. We are putting bandaids on imaginary scratches and the 2yrold is keeping the “wound” elevated out of the bathtub for fear the bandaid will get wet, so the body surrounding that wound (which is most of her) goes unwashed. She will keep the thing on for so long, the edges hold at least a pound of lint and sometimes a whole cracker.

5) BAD AT BEING COMPARED (who is good at this though)

It’s like the leprechaun has fun changing hosts when I even think for a second “The other child never did this.” At which point, suddenly the older child does some outrageous shit. DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT get caught comparing one child’s two year old experience to another’s - especially in the same household. Also just don’t compare in general a) not healthy for the self esteem b) believe in abundance not scarcity c) leprechaun might haunt you

**I realize this blog may seem as if I’m comparing - but it’s more a stages/ages compare than the actual children :)

6) BAD AT BEING DRY

As with everything these days, the two year old MUST do things herself. That means trying to towel off after a bath. Getting long sleeve PJs on the semi wet skin of a two year old is the worst task in the world - up there and yet still a little worse than having to run to the restroom to peel off a female identifying bathing suit mid swim and then start the hour long journey to get it back on.

I know there’s hope because 4yrolds are not as bad at things!! And I believe my 2yrold will reach this milestone some day!

NOT AS BAD AT EVERYTHING: A LIST

BETTER AT DRYING OFF

Dries self 90% after bath and puts on own PJs on!

BETTER AT LANGUAGE:

Instead of whining, he can say, “You look like you haven’t slept, Mama. Is that why you’re not getting my food really fast?”

BETTER AT SELF PLAY

He is rarely whining or bored. When without toys, he’ll labeled his feet, #1 and #2 and they fight each other.

EQUALLY GOOD AT SIGHING

They both sigh like a 45 year old teacher in March.

BETTER AT TURNING A MOMENT HE COULD GET IN TROUBLE, INTO ‘HELPING’

“Sister! I fixed your chicky toy! It broke because I threw it. But I fixed it for you! Here you go!”

BETTER AT IMAGINATIVE PLAY 

There is a lot of mind numbing play with tiny kids. But when my son wants to play Walgreens, I rise to the occasion like a Tony Award is at stake. I personify the place of “Walgreens” as a slothlike, nasally pharmacist who mistakenly fills prescriptions with “dino roar meds” and “dancing feet syrup”

Impromptu songs for his sister as she falls asleep: “I love you and we had a good day.  …. Sometimes I love you and sometimes I’m grateful and we love each other and sometimes we hate each oooother …”

BETTER AT CREATIVELY NOT EATING THINGS

If my 4yrold doesn’t want to eat his nuggets, he starts talking to them and then turns to us and says, “I can’t eat little Jack!” 

He also says, “This meatball just can’t go in my mouth right now because it’s really hurting my back and making my eye weird.” This is hard to follow but hilarious to watch. 

To conclude, I hope that the leprechaun will eventually get bored as my daughter gets a little older and it will go find another host. For now, we’ll endure and do a lot of deep breathing and laughing for patience sake.

NOTE: I love my daughter so much it hurts. She is the absolute best. She does a lot of fun cute things too even though this blog is focussed on the hard parts.

Sometimes things that seem easy, are hard. Like saving a bench for someone elderly in a community with a lot of other elderly people. No matter how many times you tell the lady in red white and blue everything, that you were asked by the embroidered dog sweatshirt lady to save her bench for the band concert, you will not win. Adolescent eye rolls and dagger looks have come to be a part of my job - much like the pizza chef who gets the cheese with the little straight lines stuck to her all day (shredded cheese when not talking to Solly). But to get eye rolls from red white and blue everything lady because you’re trying to defend dog sweatshirt lady’s seat, is hard.

Sometimes things that seem hard are easy. Like doing home visits to 9th grade students. You just get the family’s addresses from a google excel spreadsheet, have them sign up for a time slot, drive there, and let them know that their child will be loved and cared for. Easy.

Sometimes things that seem hard, are hard. Like being on the adolescent post pandemic clean up crew (teacher) for “The Missing Year.” For some students, it’s a missing year and change if they went from March 2020 till August 2021 without ever reentering physical school. There were many lively moments in virtual school. But often, cameras were off. And I had no idea what learning was taking place.

I teach 9th and 10th grades but oversee our whole theatre department (9th-12th) where we teach three hours of arts daily. Here are the realities:

9th graders whose last physical and social school experience was the middle of 7th grade. Last full year of school was 6th.

10th graders who have never set foot in the building and seem like 9th graders because they’re lost, anxious, and doing the nervous “who is my good friend gonna be” search because they didn’t find one last year. Last full year was 7th grade.

11th graders who have only spent a total of 6 months in their physical high school. They walk around taller, but with none of the confidence or gravitas of newly crowned upper class people. Last full year was 8th grade.

12th graders who are the only current grade who have spent an entire year going to high school in person. And who still haven’t fully accepted that they are now the oldest. Last full year was 9th grade.

Teachers who lost loved ones, had very difficult times with depression or loneliness or had home spaces too crowded and those who worked while overseeing their young children’s learning.

I worry most about the 11th graders. 10th grade is a big deal. It is the epitome of high school. Turning 16. Raging hormones, little logic, and lots of passionate energy. And my current 11th graders sat at home and watched Netflix and Youtube for the year this was supposed to be happening for them. 

I wonder what The Missing Year will do to all grades, but particularly this one. Will the 11th graders find themselves living out their missed 10th grade year at 24, 35, or 62? And what will that look like? And until then, will they have this drive to do insane and irrational things their whole lives?

I wonder what The Missing Year will do to parents. I’m getting angry emails about various things and we’ve only had a couple weeks of school. Why? My guess is general frustration left over from this last year and a half and schools are a safe place to vent because we never vent back. Is letting children out of the house again causing a resurgence of over-advocating that is usually more common in elementary school? Whatever the case may be, this too, is hard.

There are physical challenges to teaching right now that I’ve never encountered. Going for 3 hour stints at a time in a mask with car horns, sirens, the AC unit, and a noisy air purifier takes a level of superpower that I’m not sure the Amazon women even had. Unfortunately I can’t see through solid materials, which would be really handy for giving acting feedback to masked students. We tried buying students clear masks and coming around with anti fog drops at the top of each class… But they still fog up… And they lose these just like they did their executive functioning skills last year. I can tell some students don’t understand everything I say through the muffled mask. And they’re resigned to that fact instead of raising their hands to tell me they need something repeated, and that’s hard to realize.

There are internal things happening with the new ninth graders that point to the effects of 18 months without the consistency of caring, safe adults around. Three weeks into school this group shared some vulnerable stories with each other. This usually happens much later in the year. There are tears almost daily from a few who are pouring out grief from trauma that they had nobody to process with as they sat alone in their rooms for a year and a half. So I walk up and down the halls with them as they cry, because they don’t want to sit. Maybe sitting reminds them of the solitude of the last year. There have been two fights in the last week. There is a great deal of pent up aggression and sadness. It’s heartbreaking to watch a kid’s tears pour down under their mask.

And the little ones. What are the effects of their missing year? Maya might be the one beneficiary here. Even though she didn’t get to see extended family like we wanted, she got more of me - and I never had to pump in the 10 months I nursed her! Solly seems to be integrating into preschool, though I will always wonder if the Cars movie characters he’s held onto tightly for the last 18 months, will leave a lasting mark as they were his only friends for over a year.

I wish I had an easy answer for The Missing Year. Like buying extra boxes of maxi pads so Maya can unwrap each one while I get ready in the morning. It’s not cheap or good for the environment, but it’s an easy answer. I wish someone could sum up what to do in the embroidered oval picture on a grandma sweatshirt. My Grandma Sharp used to wear these on the regular and I miss her. And her comforting sweatshirts with dogs and forest animals who always seemed very cuddly and tame. Maybe we’ll all just spontaneously figure out what to do about The Missing Year at the same time - like that communal agreement we all share to look up at a plane that’s loud, say “I think it’s raining” when it’s already raining, and frown at a dog peeing on a baby? I hope so. In the meantime, I will keep buying mask de-fog drops and smiling as big and as clear as I can. Even if I can’t see any smiles back.

PS: To Solly for Son’s day and Maya for Daughter’s days this week:

Solly, you are my sun. And part of your name means that. And thanks for letting me sing “tomorrow” from Annie every night before bed because my son will always come running out tomorrow. Possibly half dressed and dragging every cars character with him, but out he runs.

Maya! My baby born in the sunshine and lover of water! Here’s to a one year old who does her share of the heavy lifting in the humor, joy and “no mama, why mama” categories. You are so intelligent…

Because of you both, I’m a Mama. Magical stuff. Forever changed and forever finding stickers on my shirt edges while teaching. We party so hard my clothes end up inside out at work. Twice this month.

Please eat your eggs tomorrow. They legit make you stronger. So does crying. I love you both so much I could burst.


The Doctor Visit

The Holidays come with a lot of lists. Last year’s list included:

0) hang up Hanukkah decorations

1) run to Target for gifts and also because Target is (expensive) tylenol for the soul

1.5) finish grading school stuff

2) pack to see family

3) remember the white noise machine!

4) clean fridge before leaving to see family

5) throw trash out before leaving to see family

6) white noise machine!

7) remember bathing suites clothes

8) remember a line of August Wilson to impress people on the plane when they see me carry on a whining child

This year, my list was much smaller but the items were fatter:

1) How do I get my 2 year old to stop growling at the baby who now mostly growls because she thinks that’s our language

1.5) Maybe fly that kite I bought back in September? 

2) How do I get the “sea of M&M’s” as our teachers have been calling what they see on their remote learning screens, to turn their cameras on in 2021?

3) How do I find some “en-tall-phins”? 

**“endwarfins” worked decently in “the before” as my friend Tom calls the pre covid era, but they are too small to do the job during this insanely difficult pandemic. I’ve tried the things that bring on endwarfins like a bit of exercise, an even bittier amount of self care and hefty amounts of salty snacks. And with all due respect, the endwarfins are not up to the task of sending enough positivity through my system in this time of no child care, full time work while hearing said children cry in the background of my cool zoom lesson on Luis Alfaro’s play Mojada, and dark cold winter with little outdoor time. 

In my search for entallphins I have made a discovery which I’d like to share in the hopes that it brings you some tools to make it through this time. 

Entallphins, just like small children, don’t show up when you utter or even think the word, “agenda.” I didn’t know this in early December and gave in to my Anne of Green Gables complex which usually includes making a grand plan, completing it, and maybe having a tree whisper poetry throughout.

I thought it would be a good idea to hype up Maya’s 9 month doc appointment by making it a group outing. This is something Anne and I are famous for. Seeing something rather ordinary or even bleak, and imagining it as something else. So, I called and asked if Solly could join us with the same energy one has when dialing up a restaurant to add another seat to the reservation. Since I have very little interaction with other adults besides wonderful Rob, I have fewer people to bounce horrible ideas off of, so this one slipped through the cracks and I went ahead and loaded my 9 month old and two and half year old into the car thrilled to be going somewhere. ANYWHERE. We’ve been pretty covid conservative and haven’t gone in buildings (aside from some newborn doc visits) since March 10th when I left the hospital with two day old Maya.

Solly and I practiced how today’s doctor visit would go with some Daniel Tiger episodes and pretend doctor kit play. I was crushing the preparation stuff or what British audio book narrator Noel Janis-Norton calls “think throughs” from the book “Easier Happier Calmer Parenting” which by the way, has no pandemic chapter... My mom heart soared when Solly exclaimed, “Wow! This is amazing!” as he got out of his carseat and stepped into the gray parking garage. He carried out all of his “think through” items like a champ. He walked next to the stroller, and held my hand getting on the elevator. We entered the office building and he raced up the entry ramp with all the vim and vigor of a kid about to enter a playground he has been banned from for the last year. I was so proud and smiled extra big behind my mask at the tired nurses as they walked by because Brene Brown says that people can see you smile with your eyes. “Look at the joy we’re giving the good heroes at the hospital!” I thought to myself, a little too smugly.

 We got off the elevator on the ninth floor and turned left to suite 900. We had to wait outside the snowflake decorated door while someone came to take our temperatures. Solly said “While we wait we can play, sing or imagine anything.” “Yes!” I said, my parenting pride levitating me a few inches off the white linoleum. “How about a game where you have to hop from square to square!” “Okay!” said Solly, who then hopped with the joy of a two year old whose idea has been elevated by a grown up. 

The door opened. Solly peaked in. “That’s like the waiting room in Daniel Tiger and then Doctor Anna will come get us!” said Solly. “Well, yes! Almost!” I said with a laugh to the receptionist who didn’t think the three of us were as brilliant as I did.

She brought out her temperature gun. She pointed it at my forehead and it beeped. “Seems good,” she said like a teenage six flags worker who doesn't even look at the switch they flip to start the next group of cars down the roller coaster. Anyone who is carrying around some specific kinds of traumas would be dealing with so much more than I was right now because it’s a strange feeling of violation to have someone temperature check in this way. 

“Noooooooo!!!” screamed Solly who dropped his red hat down around his dinosaur face mask to make himself invisible. The receptionist showed him how good Maya was at having her temp taken this way, which is something I would tell folks not to do because demonstrating that the younger child can do something while the older is not willing just makes the older angrier. “Remember the cookie at the end of our visit?” I said. “NOOOO!!!!” he screamed louder. The receptionist looked flustered. “If we don’t take your temperature now, they’ll have to take it another way in the office,” she said. Which I kind of resented because she works in a pediatricians office and she should have more tricks or candy up her sleeves rather than threats of rectal thermometers. She looked at me briefly and finally let us in with this nod like she was making an enormous allowance. “Thanks” I muttered under my mask, sending her a non smile behind my mask.

 Well, just like season six of every show, it got much worse. The story line became one note and extra two dimensional characters came in with weak through-lines.

Solly refused to let the doctor (a sub for our regularly warm, fun Dr. Narayan) touch him with a scowl and a toddler superiority that would’ve made me laugh had I not been sweating while bouncing a mostly naked Maya who was eating puffs and smearing them on me by grabbing hold of my skin in chunks like my arms were those train ceilings with handholds everywhere.  


“Hey kiddo!” the doctor said - executing his two dimensional role very well.

 Solly sat up tall, folded his hands on his puppy pajamaed knees I couldn’t get him to take off that morning and said, “Only my DAD calls me kiddo.” 

“Would you like a book?” asked the doctor, trying another tactic.

“No,” said my book-loving yet obstinate child who would not let the sub doctor win.

“Well, we’ll do your sister first then!” said the doctor while Solly nodded like a satisfied villain.

As the doctor checked my normally cheery 9 month old, she began to wail because he didn’t warm up the stethoscope before plopping it on her chubby tummy and then she writhed on the exam table like babies who are related to the Hulk do.  

“Wow! She’s strong!” he said as she flip flopped and wiggled out of his grip, “Your cheeks are droplets of.. What big cheeks!... so heavy!” he said because his season six writer had become dispassionate about this job while searching for new gigs to start once the show wrapped. I hate when people aren’t tasteful about babies that have “beautiful rolls” as our regular doctor would say. That’s when Solly decided to scream “I want to go HOME!” on repeat for the next 10 questions I tried to answer about Maya’s growth and health. I shoved a cookie at him during question five, but he was finished before question six. 

Finally, my two year old just couldn’t be left out of the action anymore and switched his attention seeking tactics. 

“I read lots of books and my Dada has two eyes because Lightning McQueen is a famous race-car” he said. “Because” is like this new toy he hasn’t figured out has batteries and actually moves stuff forward.

Though not the best, the doctor was aware enough to utilize Solly’s offering of connection, to check his eyes, ears and sort of mouth. The job of a two year old is to do slightly not the thing being asked like when I said, “Solly, open your mouth for the doctor” and he made a tiny circle with his lips big enough for only a whistle to fit through.

Just as I was feeling relieved to have gotten that part over with, I remembered what was still to come. Flu shots. The doctor left and said the nurse would be back with the flu vaccines.

“Maya should go first” Solly kept saying with a generous ‘I’d like to sacrifice my sister to this experience first to see how it goes …” kind of smile. I was desperately thinking of ways to convince him to go first because once he saw her cry, there was no way he’d go through with the shot.

The nurse came in and said something about Thomas the Train Engine stickers and “Do you like to climb Solly?” as she pulled out the step to the exam table and all the sudden he was on the table and I was holding his arms but making it a kind of silly hand game and she goes “Done!” and I was like, “Bless you for the rest of time infinity plus one,” which was a third grade phrase I picked back up in that moment. Solly didn’t even KNOW he’d gotten a shot. I’m worried he might not have thighs with feelings but oh well... Then it was Maya’s turn and she wailed from her shots while Solly picked up bits of cookie off the floor and I kept swiping to knock them before they made it to his mouth. I then tried to stuff her back into her onesie which is hard because she has “foot-kles” which is when your cankles are so intense they fold over your foot.

I could feel the whole office breath a sigh of relief when we walked out and I was still sweating and frazzled with a baby still crying and a two year old who whined that he wanted to lick the smooth shiny hallway floors. We walked into the cold gray parking garage, Solly in a bent position resisting my arm as he tried to get his tongue down lower. Then he whined the whole way home that he wanted to go home which I told him we were doing, but he had turned off the part of his brain that had logical input. I pulled up in front of our apartment two minutes before I had to lead a meeting online, so Rob ran down to park the car and unload kids. 

I had hat hair and an uneven grin as I gave my theatre staff Friday announcements and took note of any questions or concerns they had. I signed off and tried to get stuff together for my remote lessons. I usually become very international when looking for items around my desk, “Hmm I cahn’t seem to find my rulah…” I’ll say to myself. But today, there was no Brit there to make finding lost things fun. I paused. I grabbed a soda. I usually make sure to snip the plastic thing that makes little collars around the 12 cans but I was just too tired and sad to care if I was killing three sea turtles and I pitched it intact. 

I know. That visit could’ve been so much worse. But I was sad that my kids were the “hard” kids at the doctor’s office. Life is a struggle and I want random people to be brightened by myself and my family, not thankful when we leave! I shed some tears later for getting my Anne of Green Gables hopes up that the doctor’s visit would fill the connection/experiences hole that had been dug by the pandemic. If I’d have only seen it for what it was - a good ‘ole dysfunctional doctor’s visit, I probably would’ve been able to shrug it off. If I’d have been like, You took two little kids to the doctor in a pandemic by yourself and survived, good job! I would’ve made space for the entallphins to enter. They’re tall. So you have to make space and rid yourself of expectations.

I still can’t knock out my current Holiday list like other years. I don’t know how to get Maya to stop growling, I don’t know how to get sad students to turn on their screens to learn and I am not great at lowering the expectations I have for wanting things to feel better than they do right now. I do know that next time we go to the doctor, I’ll have Rob wait in the car and I’ll take one kid in at a time (both adults can’t go in right now due to covid). Tip credit, Jantre Christian - amazing artist/mother of three. I do know that I’ll keep trying to fly that kite in winter and not worry if it doesn’t get off the ground. And if it does, that’s cool too.

You're Picking Up the Wrong Kid

Parents’ professions rub off on their kids. The piano playing dad has a kid with a great ear. The carpenter mom has a kid who likes to build. Our two year old narrates his actions. He is amazingly creative, connected, and playful. Today he opened his National Geographic for Kids magazine and, seeing a deep water fish that looked like a piece of flattened tire whispered, “Wow! This is beautiful! So, I’m getting soft and quiet.” Obviously, this is the child of two theatre people. Not only is he linking this villainous fish to our shared humanity, he’s making him accessible to other audience members (me) by varying volume. Joy and wonder make my son an extraordinarily articulate little being. So much so, that the other day while he was telling a detailed story, I reached for my phone to dial Ellen Degeneres, who finds kids who do cool stuff and make us feel happy, but then sad again because we were not a child prodigy who knew the world’s country’s capitals and National Park square footages.

Before I could dial, I looked up and saw that Solly had purposefully nudged the baby and she was toppling. Toppling! Baby toppling! There is something primal that happens when you see a baby topple. 

I’m pretty sure this is why it was young parents who probably designed portrait mode for iPhones. The rest of the world gets fuzzy and the toppling baby becomes the focus so that, like the golden snitch, you can literally fly through the air and catch her. A baby’s body, luckily, is meant to go from seated to toppled - flexible and soft with lots of padding.

I immediately forgot that my two year old is barely out of babyhood himself and saw him as some mean, irresponsible 34 year old who let his emotions get the best of him so he went ahead and toppled a baby. How could he?! He knows 20 numbers! He can sort of put on shoes! He can spell Mickey Mouse (due to debilitating song repetition)! I pick up my toppled baby, who at this point is eating a fuzz off the carpet and is actually kind of happy to have been toppled because now she’s also closer to a lint covered apple slice. I pick up the baby because it’s instinct to go for smaller toppled beings than bigger topplers. Also, in the vein of kids picking up parents’ professions, hasn’t Solly noticed that we’re not just storytellers, we’re teachers too? And teachers don’t topple their students, they listen and guide! Listen and guide, Solly!

“Solly, you pushed Maya,” I say in my best teacher firm but not out of control voice.

“I know.”

“Why’d you push her, buddy?”

“She was on my racetrack.”

“Remember you can call for Mama’s help if she’s - 

“You’re on my racetrack too.”

FYI: Everything is a racetrack so always assume you’re on one and be ready to get off at a moment’s notice.

“Solly, Maya is a little and she -”

“I’m sorry, how can I help?” he says (phrase credit, Daniel Tiger show) in the most insincere but laughably accurate apology voice.

I realize the baby I’m holding throughout this conversation has pooped and we do need to move on. 

“Say I’m sorry to Maya and I think she’d like a hug”

“Sorry Maya…” he says with the kind of no touch hug you’d give a porcupine. Though I have to give him credit for his space object work.

I put Maya down in her playpen and Solly went on playing.

In my therapy call later, I asked how you get your older kid to not topple your baby? She’s raised about 10 children. She said a friend once told her “you’re picking up the wrong child” when this happened to two of her young children. It’s the older child who really needs the arms and the love because he’s the one feeling all the feelings - one of which is being displaced by this bow wearing smily baby that, as of now, has only transferred attention away from him when he used to have it all. Huh. 

The next time a Solly initiated topple happened, I did a quick glance to make sure Maya was fine, then scooped up my older child and sat him on my lap facing me for a heart to heart. We are very emotion conscious parents due to our personalities and professions. Solly liked the scooping, but then saw my face prepare for a talk about feelings and said, “I’m okay Mama - sorry Maya I will help by giving a hug, I want down now.” I hid my laughter. I mean, I guess it kind of worked?

I turned to look out the window, closing my eyes for a second and imagining something different than what I knew I’d see when they opened. Leafless trees, gray sky, and a crumpled pool in the neighbor's yard. What do you do with a pool in winter? Solly has this little pool of feelings - all of the kinds - and when nobody is warm and shines on him in the cold ones - it leaks out and gets covered with leaves just like my neighbor’s small quarantine pool that now stands like a hollow “good times” shell of summer 2020. Side note, Solly is still all the lovely things too even though he occasionally topples the baby. He’s two. And he’s trying so hard in a time where he doesn’t get to see any other kids or go do any experiences outside of our apartment. 

Also, what do I do with the beautiful little pool of creative longings and social connections I crave during this winter of a pandemic that’s turning into a year? What do you do with that pool in winter? Just let that bright blue siding peek out from under the brown grass and tell it to hang in there till June? Drag it into the house and spot clean it in the sink and stuff it in a crawl space? Throw it away? Figure out a way to get it to California?

The more I wish the pool to be standing, shining in a warm sun, the more I’m disappointed. Since I’m not two, and there’s nobody to scoop me when I topple it’s up to me to figure it out (with support from Rob and friends). What do you do with a pool in winter? … Maybe there’s a different way to deal with water. Like baths. Or drinking a lot of tea. Or ice skating. I don’t know. I think it also has something to do with changing my expectations. But this is hard when that sparkling water in the sunshine is the constant comparison to the cold, sadder feelings. I haven’t figured it out yet. Yesterday Solly let Maya hold his car. This was groundbreaking. A small drink of water. I am very thankful for my smiley resilient 8 month old, and my tender trying two year old. 


Good Data

Brene Brown put it best in her recent “Unlocking Us” podcast when she labeled this time period within the pandemic as Day Two. She likened the reference to three day conferences where everything is exciting the first day, then you really go deep and the confusion swirls in Day Two, and the light and the solutions come in Day Three.

Right now, there is no visible disaster when we look outside - no flood or tornado ravaged trees, and therefore it makes us question the sanity of the sadness we all have for a list of reasons that could feel a book. Trees are the only thing keeping me grounded right now. If you didn’t catch that pun, not to worry, we’ll branch out into more later with a story about another pun lover.

Trees have been my major source of joy for the last month. I’ve gotten Solly to rally behind the following phrases when we step outside for our daily 5:30-6:30pm sunset walk after I’m done working.

“The tree is changing costumes!”

“The tree is putting on a show for us!”

“Leaves! Don’t fall! Please, for the love of god, six month of cold, dark, brown and gray weather is going to make me press each leaf in my teacher laminate stuff and glue them back on one by one.”

Solly struggles with that last phrase, but he makes a solid two and a half year old effort. 

Day Two is really hard because since it’s not exciting Day One or closure bringing Day Three. There are moments each day I forget I’m in the middle day, only to be smacked with the reality that I still can’t visit a special family member or friend, or sing in a choir, or teach a class in person, or make a playdate when my son hangs his head as he stares out the window saying, “I want to play with other kids again someday.” Day Two is that mosquito that you thought you got out of your car but bites keep showing up three hours into your road trip and you can’t stop itching on and off.

I’ve been itching to climb through the damn screen and hug all my 38 freshpeople and tell them it’s going to be okay. They’ve never known high school in person! 

Since this time is unprecedented, there is no evidence or data that a group of theatre students will be able to learn theatre online or even more difficult, create connections with one another. These connections and setting a culture of empathy and gratitude are my wheelhouse. They are the ground on which our unique theatre program stands. The students at ChiArts spend 3 hours a day in the same cohort doing their art form for four years. If that cohort isn’t given the tools to work through interpersonal issues, social media challenges, and what to do when someone withdrawals and retreats, none of them can grow. Theatre is 100% interdependent. Even when working on monologues, the growth happens when they practice them in front of their peers. The antithesis of theatre is not football. The antithesis of theatre is fear. 

Here’s a short story to provide the world with some new data in this at times, debilitating Day Two of the pandemic. Names have been changed. 

Arav told me he wants to be a stand up comedian on his first “get to know me” assignment. He comes across more like a 40 year old real estate agent who is a little annoyed at you for not managing your grocery budget better because you’re 2,000 short on a downpayment for a house that sometimes has a view of a park if the neighbors remember to move their RV from time to time.

Sol really is the sun. I can see it in her eyes through her foggy square tile on my google hangout lessons. She’s been thrown a lot of clouds by way of life circumstances and the pandemic heightens these. 

I would not have pegged Sol and Arav as the companions that gifted me with the first belly laugh I’ve had in months. We’ve had five weeks of school and it’s progress report time. A wake up call for those who haven’t turned much in. Sol has had a tough time of it. The combo of working parents and younger siblings are the situations that present the biggest struggle for high schoolers learning online. Sol is in this situation and seems to struggle with motivation and overcoming self doubt. I received an email from Arav expressing his concern about Sol and for never meeting in person, with a five week old friendship, he went into amazing detail about her life. He said she didn’t feel comfortable asking teachers for help and getting clarity on confusing concepts. She’d rather talk to peers.

Jump forward to a google meet with myself, Sol and Arav where we decided to hold a twice a week mini study hall where I would do my own work while Arav tutored Sol. Here was some dialogue from the first mini study hall. I muted myself and turned off my camera to let them work. Arav speaks very fast. 

“Oh my gosh Sol, Sol, Sol, here’s what we’ll do okay? You are like, failing most of your classes, but there is one B, which should totally be an A because I helped you with that class. Oh goodness. Are you with me? I need to know you’re with me?”

“I’m with you, yeah.”

“We’re just gonna email all your teachers because they like that, you know? They all really respond to you taking the initiative or whatever. So pull up your email right now.”

“Okay. It’s slow.”

“All good, all good. Now, I would say something in the emails like - oh wait give them a greeting like “how’s the weather?” - teachers really like that. It makes them think you care about more than your grade and they’ve got so much to do and have so many students?  Greet them and then they hear you better, you know? You following?”

“Yeah”

“Okay, so type something like, ‘I’m so sorry to inconvenience you’ - wait but make sure you said something about the orange leaves first.”

“What orange leaves.”

“The fall ones - autumn you know? You following? Don’t fall down on the job here Sol, you know fall leaves? Falling? Okay whatever I thought that was funny - “

“It is funny,” she giggles and rolls her eyes.

“It’s cool it’s cool I know I have jokes that are like - you know - not - whatever. Okay how’s that email going? Finished?”

“I wrote ‘Dear Ms. Thompson’”

That’s where I popped my camera on and interjected, “Hi Arav! Have you heard of the teacherly phrase, ‘I do, you do, we do’?”

“No, I haven’t”

“When you teach someone something new, you model it first, then you do one version together, then you have them do it on their own,” I say.

“Ah! Got it, got it. Very helpful. Thanks Ms. Calhoun.”

“You bet!” I said and turned off my camera.

“Right. Now Sol, have you added the fall leaves thing yet? Okay, you know what? I’ll just write the email for you - is that cool? I think we both agree on the things to say? And then you can copy paste it, you following?”

I double checked that I was muted and laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed. I laughed for the way this lovely student was earnestly helping and also not helping. I laughed because the kids are going to be alright, they just need us to get out of the way. I laughed because my lesson on how to email a teacher was being so hilariously distorted and also wonderfully so. I laughed because I’m tired of crying.

“You following Sol?”

“Sure”

“So here’s what I’m typing for you. ‘Dear Ms. Thompson, Trees really get dressed up in the fall.’ Is that too funny or just the right amount?” 

“Just right!”

“Okay about to hit send. It says: ‘Dear Ms. Thompson, Trees really get dressed up in the fall. I’m sorry to inconvenience you and I know you have many students. I was wondering if I could turn in my math worksheet 7 in next Monday. I know you work hard, and I will be doing so as well. Sincerely, Sol’”

It was at this moment that Sol disappeared from the tile on my screen and you could see the concern in Arav. He sighed and his head dropped. We were left staring at Sol’s white blank bedroom wall while we heard her tell her mother she was in class multiple times before she muted her sound and left.

It felt similar to that pregnant pause when an actor forgets an entrance and everyone in the building is holding their breath. Eventually she returned and I exhaled. Arav didn’t skip a beat.

“Okay, so once we get these emails sent out, we’ll move on to your monologue, can you share the google doc with me?”

“I just wrote it on a piece of paper.”

“Sol! No! I thought we talked about this, I don’t think you were listening. Okay, cool, cool, I can work with that.”

“I really am trying.”

“I know … I “k”-now. Why the silent ‘k’ people - come on!”

Did the pandemic catalyze this friendship and the tutoring session, I wonder? Like when lava run-off forms a beautiful burnt sculpture whose existence is due to a tragedy of nature. I don’t think these two would be doing this if we were in person. Maybe they would. I don’t know. I think Arav feels safe to be himself behind his screen for some reason and I wonder if he’d be as animated and full of antics in an arts high school swarming with high energy, confidence diminishing talented upper class-people and long lunch lines... I think Sol feels safe to get the help she so desperately needs if she can control her camera.

Whatever the case, the connections that are forming through remote theatre classes every afternoon for three hours are real. And they are strong. Something is sticking when we Jackson Pollock assignments and weird google meet games into our computer screens filled with teenage faces. I know this one interaction with Sol and Arav is not enough to legitimize data on remote theatre learning. But it only takes one piece of evidence to populate a table. 

White Noise Machine

I hear voices in the white noise machine. I have to play it at full volume due to the baby who sleeps a few feet away from me and likes to repeatedly scratch the side of her pack ‘n play in the middle of the night. This is the self soothing method she chose. I keep telling her it’s creepy. Something from Volume 8. Harry Potter and the Quarantined Baby of Ah!-Wake. ... There WILL be a volume 8. 

Sometimes the white noise machine makes jokes. They come from this “ghost comic lady” voice who I discovered does my bit about making up new words that don’t exist for things that need definitions. I was a little offended until I realized I could steal her stuff since “ghost comic lady” probably doesn’t have a blog, or is real. 

Anyway, she says stuff like, “Annie, there should be a word for guilt free cake.” 

I’m like, “There is. Muffin.”

“Dang it,” she whispers.

“What about a word for boxes that are huge and contain small things,” I whisper even quieter as the baby stirs.

“Oh! Toosmallinthere!” she says.

“Smooshing a phrase together is not a new word.” 

“Amazany? Roomyship? Penthousemail?” she whispers.

“One of those will land,” I say.

Then she asks the exact same questions I’ve been wondering about!

“Why do old people always have ‘a bag for that’? And is there a word for seeing my toes too much in the summer? How long would it take to gather enough hair from the handfuls I pull from Maya’s fists every hour to make a sweater? Why do we have linen closets but never say ‘can you throw that linen over me, I’m a little cold?” Do people realize that eating oatmeal raisin cookies means that someone has put not one, but multiple grapes in there? Is there a word for the specific type of guilt felt when you use your host’s toothpaste - and I mean - really dig around in the cabinet for it?”

“You read my mind!” I exclaim.

We’ve kind of become each other’s muses, “ghost comic lady” and me.

 

There are other voices in there too. Voices that defy the title of this machine. 

 I’ve been thinking a lot as I read Ibram X. Kendi’s books Stamped and How to Be An Anti Racist.

 Why do we call it a white noise machine? Maybe because white (people) noise in an echo chamber of only white (people) noise, pacifies and causes us to hear less of what’s true?

White noise has been “shhing” people to sleep - away from the fight to end systemic and institutional racism. So what does it take to turn it off? How did people like John Brown, Lucretia Mott, and the Grimke sisters rise out of the pacifying white noise of pro slavery to fight against it? Maybe the question is not, what does it take to turn it off, but what does it take to turn up the volume on Black voices. They’ve been turned up. But what does it take for white people to hear. There are easy ways, like tapping a podcast by Austin Channing Brown or Tarana Burke or downloading Kendi’s books on audible. There are harder ways like acknowledging the unnoticed systemic white noise I have lived in that keeps racist systems alive. And then actively resisting these systems to change the white noise into an active music that pierces through the “shhhing” of complacent systems that oppress Black and Latinx people.

When you’re still up four times a night with a baby, the white noise machine really takes center stage in your imagination.

Whew.

 

I wouldn’t be able to end this blog without sharing how tired I am - like soul tired. Depleted. Drained. Covid fed up. I have not had a break away from two very young children (and all the guilt and shame that comes with being a mom in our society), my job is tumultuous in and of itself without having to lead 20 theatre teachers through a pandemic when we still have more questions than answers and the clock ticks ever closer to the start of school. I can’t stop thinking about the 140 teenagers I’m responsible for and the 38 new ones who I will have to “meet” for the first time online. How will I find the time and energy and creativity to do all this with no childcare?

Besides seeing my students every day, what I miss most is singing. (cue tears as I write this listening to my old LA community choir Selah on youtube). I miss the unity and power and energy that is emitted when singing as a group. This is why I like directing musicals with lots of ensemble numbers. I’m sending wonderful energy towards the sound and software people trying to figure out how multiple voices can be heard at once online. 

I get by with my amazingly playful and compassionate husband...I have mantras and deep belly breathing and funny television.

I just miss people so much. I miss our power when we are physically together. 

For this extrovert, I hope there is a little light soon. Until then, I continue with some stand up routine ideas in my delirious night sessions with “ghost comic lady” while Maya wakes 4 times a night.

Two Sisters, Four Females

Never use confetti or glitter in the theatre. Much like mouse poop in the back of your high school memory box, it keeps showing up after you thought you got it all. Mouse poop is the worst of the poops. And with two kids still in diapers that’s saying something. Mouse poop explodes on you like, “Hmm I’m going to look for my old journal in the back of my closet (not because I want to understand my 11 year old self again, but because I want to understand my 11 year old self again) and as I turn a page, MOUSE POOP!

While I picked the tiny poop out of my hair and journal, I was reminded that my sister Laura and I had always wanted kids. In fact, what fell out was a form for new members I once completed at my childhood church. Not a new member but always bored at church, I filled it out with my fake family of six children and all of their names (I had two Josh’s because I couldn’t think of a second boy name I liked as much). I wanted kids like cabbage patch dolls. Perpetually smiling and very still.

Way back when my sister and I were young enough to believe in the food group of hotdogs, we sat on the floor of our kitchen rearranging cabbage patch dolls on our stomach’s in makeshift bed sheet baby carriers (I’m currently writing this with a baby in a carrier on my stomach...she’s much heavier and sweaty than my doll). I wrote down the number of children and their genders that I thought my sister would have. She did the same for me. Then we hid our papers somewhere in our house on Atlantic Avenue. The second part of the game was begging the other to tell where she hid it. 

I can confidently say that on that day as kids, neither of us thought we would have the mirror of the other’s family. I think I put four sets of twin boys for my sister. My dad is a twin. So. You know. And at the time I thought little boys were easier because you didn’t have to cram their screaming bodies into tights.

On September 27th 2017 I became an Aunt to my sister’s son Calan. And six months later on March 21st 2018, she to my son Solly. The two boys who would be the same year in school! We are both subtly/overtly competitive so somehow we recently topped the age distance with baby girls due only three months apart. My due date was March 3rd and hers was May 31st. 

My labor lasted forever and I had to have a C Section because I couldn’t get past five centimeters. I had gotten past five centimeters in a lot of other ways like bringing chocolate from my hand to my face, so why not my cervix? Neither of our childhood visions of pregnancy, birth, and postpartem (a word I still don’t know how to spell and that is devastatingly not taught to girls and women) were accurate. This shit is HARD. REALLY HARD. What if writers’ rooms equated this pregnancy stuff with superhero plots?

“Okay so Spiderwoman works and doesn’t sleep and is 9 months pregnant. Now let’s say she has the baby but it doesn’t go great...she labored for two days and he got stuck so we’ll just cut open her stomach to get him out. THEN, let’s put her in charge of the new baby who needs care 24/7 when she hasn’t slept and has a load of physical injuries and a crazy hormone hell tornado. THEN we’ll heap on the self doubt society sprinkles on like a nice evil ice cream topping.”

The 2020 sequel to this movie with protagonist sisters:

“A second baby (aka all of the above plot plus a screaming irrational toddler)”

Tons of guilt comes with pregnancy and birth. I felt it for having a c section and an epidural. The false female narrative to present a happy face perpetuates staged glorified pics on social media of the fourth trimester while well meaning but overworked hospitals and doctors send you into post partom unarmed for one of the most difficult times in your personal human herstory. So you have no tools to combat the self doubt, while trying to stay awake for late night feeds staring at the false feeds glowing from a phone full of crap. 

Our culture doesn’t do a good job elevating the fact that differences are good, fine, even beautiful. As is the way with things that are broken and infested with fear and shame, we see pregnancy/birth/motherhood as a one size fits all because that’s less work for us. But the truth is that the differences are meaningful and lovely - including adoptive parents, foster parents, and parental units that fall anywhere on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum. And more men and women and doctors should recognize and promote this.

Just as shiny balls on pedestals in outdoor midwest gardens elude me, so do superstitions around pregnancy and birth. I had some hesitancy to look forward to my second childbirth experience after the first. So when my husband Rob first told me that a student of his had a recipe to kick start labor and it was eggplant parmesan from a restaurant that boasts 300 plus baby pics on the walls from labors begun after the dish was eaten, all I pictured were baby faces coming out of eggplants like the iconic 80s cabbage patch brand image. And I laughed, “Okay! But I doubt that’ll work.” But laughing felt good. And so did this goofy idea. 

On March 5th, two days past due and getting anxious that I might have another c section if I didn’t go into labor naturally by 41 weeks, Rob made me eggplant parmesan from this special recipe. He’s an incredible cook and husband and father. The eggplant parm was funny. And yummy. And took the edge off my worry because the thought of this working was insane and kind of a great diversion.

Imagine my shock when the next morning I felt tiny contractions. I was thrilled because I’d never experienced my body naturally starting this process. I had always had this secret dream to labor at my job (early stages not a lot of pain) and it was happening!!! We went to the hospital that night. Nothing sped up. We came back home Saturday, defeated, and I ate more eggplant. This time it was more in desperation. Eggplants are great but people are much better and I had a vulnerable moment in my bedroom with my sister standing near me where I was confronted with the extreme fear of having another C Section. I hadn’t realized there was some trauma there till faced with the possibility again. My sister lovingly stood by as Rob and I reluctantly went back to the hospital without any change in contractions but did so because my doc wanted me close by since there was some risk trying to do a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). As we drove, the contractions sped up! Laura waited outside the triage room and by the next morning I had actually dilated 8/9 centimeters!!! I’d practiced eating chocolate - stretching those important ten centimeters from bowl to mouth for the two years since the last birth and I think my cervix had been taking notes! No induction, no c section, YES epidural, and I started pushing around 1:30pm on March 8th 2020. By 2:35pm I had that moment I had longed for and didn’t get to have last time. This baby came out and was placed on my chest and I was aware and able to be present and kiss my husband and sing “Tomorrow” from Annie because I love musicals with my name. Laura was there moments later to see Maya Bee for the first time and love on us. 

Then corona virus reality struck mere days later. All the stuff that was hard got harder. No support from family (except my mom who had to stay away and quarantine for a while) or friends. No hugs. No trips to target where strangers coo at your new baby who you are thankful to be reminded isn’t a monster due to lack of sleep. No break from an almost two year old and newborn. Rob thought he had the virus so we lived with my mom when Maya was three weeks old for a couple weeks to be safe. 

I spent post-partumme overwhelmed. My sister and I couldn’t see each other or hold each other. We were stuck in little boxes on our facetime screens. 

When my sister hit week 39, she had had enough of being pregnant. That girl needed to come out! Rob sent Laura the eggplant recipe and it again provided a bit of levity to the difficulty of all things birth and post birth during a pandemic. There was no way it would help Laura too, we all thought! But for the fun and yum of it, she ate it … and Lainie is here and perfect and arrived on May 28th. 

We are both still struggling with postpartum and toddlers who have meltdowns during a global pandemic and no childcare while working from home. It’s really hard. But we ate our eggplants (shout out to Rob!) and we have each other. And both are quite magical I think. And we have four cousins who are now very close in age and who I hope will love each other as much as I love my sister and my sister loves me. Differences and similarities and all.

Pause

Recently during “The Shit Storm” (otherwise known as Remote Learning), I received an email. And I quote, “i have received nothing but emails on a school year that is completely bogus.  He also says he has a passing grade. What's the plan hold him back....Do you all really want to see him again?  All this last minute non effort is too much.”

I sort of agree. In the need to feel like we’re doing something to help in this pandemic, sometimes it’s non effort - which I think if this mom could define would mean “effort that is too late, that is not organized, and that expends energy towards something that is meaningless.” Like those two fuzzy side panels when you film something vertically and then it’s shown on youtube. What we should really do is take a deep breath and pause. And sometimes a pause seems like a stop. But it’s not a stop. It is a break between a go and a go. And in the pause I’m usually convicted of the phrase, “be here right now” which is what me and my 20 theatre teachers I oversee spout to our arts high school students every day. Yet when faced with this pandemic, I constantly slip into “be in the want to know!” And when you don’t know what’s next, you can either get anxious about it, or keep making new sounds for the kinetic sand car you’re asked to animate. Pausing is so scary because the first part of a pause is fear. “Oh my god I’m pausing! Will I ever go again?” But after the fear, if you hang in there and keep pausing, it’s like a little breath of green space in a city parking lot. And the breath allows all these thoughts to emerge. Thoughts like…”In the next play I write, kinetic sand is the villain. And he has no dimensions and he’s not sympathetic and you’ll never be torn during the story about whether his sad childhood influenced his poor adult decisions.”

I just felt this hazy hatred for something, but when I paused, I could finally define it as above and I could breathe! Kinetic sand is evil! Yay! This is my case for pause instead of the news cycle rabbit hole that is a grasping non effort and leaves me sad and drained.

So I’ve been trying to breath. To pause. And to be present instead of want answers 24/7 (How will I teach theatre online? What will CPS decide? When will it be safe to visit my sister’s two day old baby? When I can I see my friends again? Will Maya ever stop spitting up? When can I see my dad?). And if I pause, some thoughts bubble up to the surface reminding me of Anne Lamott’s idea that “laughter is carbonated holiness.” And if laughter is air and lightness, it would make sense that you can only find it in breath and pause and not the jamming of the mind that comes with the anxious want to KNOW.

I’m not good at this. Really. I have to try very hard because I’ve “gone back to work” while caring for two small kids and having a partner who is working from home as well. And my work is extremely stressful right now. I want to spin out on school problems all the time because my anxiety tricks me into thinking that if I keep my high functioning heavy non effort beaming down on the problem (especially at 2am and 4am when Maya wakes to eat), I’ll solve it. I am not good at the pause. And yet, I try. When I try, I notice the following bubbles. And I feel light. 

Pause Thought: 

There are still things that happen in life that  Merriam Webster has no words for. So I’d like her to consider these.

“Onceastar”: when an older famous person hosts a quirky game show and and it’s just not working.

“Ka-pushed”: when books get uneven on a shelf and you can’t see them all so you’re pushing some in and the others scoot back further.

“Bru-hip”: when my hand ends up in my pocket while I’m brushing my teeth and I catch myself looking kind of cool.

“Mom-gual”: understanding mom thoughts like when she turns to you on a walk and says “and, one of my calves is bigger than the other” when there had never been any previous discussion about said calves. Or, “what type of batteries does it wear?” when fixing a train for my toddler.

Pause Thought:

Babies are so different! Are Maya’s abundant smiles and delightful squeals the universe’s way of balancing the fact that she is a time intensive gastrointestinal baby who struggles with gas and spitting up all the time? Are Solly’s abundant hilarious phrases the universe’s way of balancing the fact that I must play “car crash” on the floor for hours - Solly: “Oh no it crashed!” Me: “Welp let’s turn over the car, brrrrrrmmm.” (repeat x 943)

Pause Thought:

Every downside usually has a rise side/up side. Like when something pushes down, it pushes something else up - even if it’s just the sparkly dust lifting from the giant hole your struggle just thumped in. For example, there’s a huge hole in my social heart when walking past people in the park and we’re all masked. BUT, now I can talk to myself and nobody knows. 

Pause Thought:

I’d like to write a book about “the sock test.” It’s a simple test you can use when choosing doctors. My children exist because of the sock test. It’s easy. You wear fun socks (fun earrings too if you have the holes there), when going to a doctor who you are considering working with for more than just a check up. If they comment on your fun socks, they are excellent. If they are ALSO WEARING THE SAME FUN SOCKS, they are golden. I have had both happen in three cases of doctors I needed for intense things (like getting pregnant and then having a baby and then another doctor that’s helping me repair all the things said babies did to my body). I have not been let down by this test. And I’ve chosen not to return to doctors who don’t comment on my socks. 

Pause Thought:

Why the double consonants, English? Isn’t it enough to have one “t” at the end of your name Ben Platt? What is gained by the second? Then I looked up other words that have an extra consonant because I’m going to have to teach my son more stuff besides cars and sand soon and this is the list. 

  • –ill: bill, dill, fill, hill, kill, mill, pill, sill, still, till, will

  • –oll: doll

  • –ull: dull, gull, hull, mull, skull

  • –ass: ass, bass, class, glass, grass, pass

  • –ess: bless, dress, less, mess

  • –iss: bliss, criss, hiss, kiss, miss

  • –oss: boss, cross, floss, loss, moss, toss

  • –uss: fuss, muss

  • –aff: staff

  • –eff: Jeff

  • –iff: cliff, miff, sniff, stiff, tiff,

  • –off: off, scoff

  • –uff: bluff, buff, cuff, fluff, gruff, huff, muff, puff, scruff, scuff, snuff, stuff

  • –azz: jazz, razz

  • –iz: fizz, frizz

  • –uz: buzz, fuzz

It is important to point out to the child that even though most of the time l, s, f and z are doubled at the end of short words, sometimes these letters are not doubled. So as not to confuse the child, list just a few exceptions to this doubling rule (pal, gas, bus, yes, us, and plus).

“So as not to confuse the child”?! How do I tell Solly that some words he likes (hill and jazz) are greedy little mother f-ers who add superfluous letters, and to please stick to pal, gas, bus, yes, us and plus because they are humble.

My heart goes out to all the people trying hard to pause and being about 15% successful as I have been. I know this pandemic sucks for everyone - those carrying the load to protesting George Floyd’s wrongful death for those who can’t compromise their health but want to join, those living alone, those in large families, those in medium families, those who’ve lost jobs, those with new babies, those with babies gone from the nest, those with elderly family at home, those children who are lacking social contact and desperately need it to feel themselves, those with immune compromised family and friends...the list goes on and on. Just know I am thinking about all of you and trying to breathe and pause. 15% is better than 0%. Right? And I’m especially thinking of those marching today for George Floyd. I want to be there, but must care for a newborn round the clock. So instead I’ll send some money and notes and continue to revise my curriculum even more around Black Lives Matter till I can get my shoes on again.

Updates

Update on Maya vs. Spring Awakening. 

Maya: she is awakening, breaking the soil and leaving that newborn blob stage behind! At five/six weeks old she is holding lovely eye contact, often with a goofy grin and fart attached and emitted. Her hair has not awakened, and in fact has left us on top except for a weak middle stripe - the ‘thinning badge of honor atop an aging rockstar’ look. 

Spring: at five weeks old, you showed up only two days so far. Where are you? In the three years since we moved back to Chicago, you have lost this awakening game to both of my spring babies. Solly was born on March 21st (your arrival day, Spring!) giving you a fair start. Did a winter-lover mock your delicate flowers and call tulips “blue lips”? If so, let’s work on resiliency. I hate to see you loose so often. 

Maya: 6

Spring: 0.2

Update on left handed play dough creations while nursing. 1 out of 5 stars. Tough toddler critic.

Update on travel. We have gone many places in the last few weeks thanks to our multi colored rug. It’s been great to get out. When you stand on the blue splotch you are at the pool. The red includes all warm weather destinations, and the tan is a beautiful beach in the Bahamas with pina coladas, palm trees, and dolphins who swim up and befriend you from the wild at will because they like you and not because you paid to swim with them. Our travel agent is Solly and the plane is a small whale tub. Rob and I are engines. Maya provides the in flight crying that causes you to up the volume in your earbuds and glare out the window. 

Update on weather. Last week our apartment averaged about 72. This week it’s also averaging 72.

Update on going back to work. Still conflicted. Go back after 8 weeks or take more unpaid time off? What does “going back to work” even mean in a pandemic? It sounds easy to work from home since it doesn’t require pumping milk, setting Maya up with a sitter, or the emotional readiness of leaving her for a bit, but I’ve barely been able to attend a few remote budget meetings because our home has two working parents with a 25 month old and a 1 month old and we can’t hire help right now due to the virus…

Update on sleep. 2-3 hour stints due to the sweetest gassiest baby in the world.

Update on sibling connections. Solly’s love language is poking Maya’s eyes. She seems to love any form of attention he gives even if it means she’ll need to learn braille. He also hugs the air near her more often now and says “awww.”

Update on missing my students. Sooooooo much. Teaching takes so much energy but brings you out of yourself and into the present and the whirling dramatic joy of others in the best best way. I’m thinking about a wild plan to do drive-by visits to the seniors...it’s a little crazy but it might work… I know how important closure is and was to me. I ritualized leaving teachers and school so much that I have memories of writing my second grade teachers love letters and touching certain joy items in the rooms and building before moving to the upper elementary campus for 3rd grade. It got more intense in middle school where I literally took a hosta plant from the courtyard and a piece of the stage home. I can’t imagine how the celebration of four years at a demanding public arts high school with 8am-5pm hours plus rehearsals afterwards falls flat when you can’t hold hands and dance out tears with your friends.

Update on vocab envy. Still have it. I turn green when someone I know uses a word in casual conversation that’s big and wonderful. 

Update on Solly phrases. “fuck (truck) on table” and “mama put pants on” have been some recent stand outs.

Update on hope attempts (in the genre of a journaled run-on sentence): “I’m driving in a rainstorm devastated that Rob is not feeling great and the fact that there’s been no spring sunshine, and Solly Maya and I have been staying at my Mom’s for over a week so Rob can get rest back at our place and my boobs are out in the car because they hurt from non stop nursing and then the notification on my phone pops up telling me to join the family Seder and I think, is this what Buddhists and Marilla Cuthbert from Anne of Green Gables mean when they say you should lower expectations for more contentment? March and April continue to betray me when I approach them with so much hope every year - would I be happier and not hurting on the inside so much if I wished less for weather above 45 in the spring and having my family together through the newborn stage? Isn’t lowering your expectations just cheating your brain? Should I instead think of this drive through the rain with a newborn in the backseat to pick up more diapers and breast pads from our apartment as an adventure - only to wave at Rob (wishing I could hug him) and then drive back to my mom’s house for virtual matzo balls and charoset?

Update on hope. If you scream in its face, it still walks in the next day with quiet gentle steps like the Penguin in “A Sick Day For Amos McGee.” Carrying its red balloon. 

Grumbly Gratitude

(disclaimer: Toddler watched a lot of TV to make this blog happen)

My current dilemma. Do I shower or do I record a parody video with my french horn? This might seem silly to the many at home who now have more time on their hands due to Covid-19. Welp (I just learned this word is the most used Zoom meeting ending), I just had a baby. And I have an older child who turned two last week. And I have no time that is my own. Through some gift of conception timing, I delivered Maya Bee on March 8th just moments before the world turned upside down. I’m forever grateful that my sister, mom and dad got to come to the hospital, that my doula and Rob could be at my side during my VBAC (who-hoo!) and the slightly quirky lady who comes to take pictures of newborns in the hospital and charge exorbitant amounts, was still making her rounds and in a spontaneous gift of joy, my dad sprung for the photos. Little did we know that days later we wouldn’t be able to have anyone enter our home anymore so these are now our special newborn pre-covid pictures.

I wouldn’t normally feel the need to be productive during maternity leave, but all you people staying at home are turning out online content that heightens the pitch of the muse in me to a level rivaling my gassy newborn. Also, I feel like a trend setter who didn’t want to set one. And to be honest you all are cramping my maternity leave style. This was supposed to be my time to “sort of” work remotely and complain and reach out to colleagues and students and be like “I can’t wait to see you again!” Now everyone is saying, “We can’t wait till we all get to see each other again” All of you staying at home have stolen my thunderous return anticipation applause. When I come back, now it will be the whole city’s first day back and I will not be special. And the one thing that keeps this mom of two little ones going after being up all night and nursing around the clock, is looking forward to feeling special. 

Jokes aside, feeling cared for and special are really necessary during the “fourth trimester” which is an oxymoronic term yes, and refers to the first month after giving birth which is still part of the pregnancy journey because the baby is so dependent on mom still and mom is still recovering physically from pushing a baby out. And it’s a sad and lonely time because there have been no visitors or family around to admire the baby. That admiration is vital, because you have this blob of a newborn and she is not giving you anything back in the first month - only taking - taking energy, your time, your boobs, your personal hygiene, the ease with which you produce positive feelings, your time from your older child who then whines more, wants you to ‘hold him!” and has a whole pretend to be a baby routine that includes fake spitting up. In the admiring from others, you are tricked into forgetting all this and remembering how special the new life is and you can see above the waves for a moment and believe that this phase will pass and it will get better. Oh and it also brings social sunshine in a month that is notorious for a false hope of spring when in reality it is gray, cold and rainy: oh March, you are a month that makes me feel Shakespearean sized feelings. Also, FaceTime and Zoom just can’t do what live people visiting can. FaceTime can’t wrap arms around your aching shoulders or grab you the phone cord because you’re stuck breastfeeding in a chair forever on 1% battery. It’s also really hard to hold a phone on a FaceTime call while nursing and keeping it out of reach of a toddler who wants to take over your conversation making it about discipline and parenting when he doesn’t listen and runs off with it.

All seriousness aside, it does seem like you all are followers. This makes me kind of upset, overwhelmed and grumpy. But, because there is a small sane part of my brain left surviving on coffee and ice cream in this time when the rest is mush, I know gratitude and empathy are the best antidote to combat self pity. I know because I read a lot of Brene Brown books and then made some units about what I learned for my Theatre Studio class and I have written “empathy and gratitude” course goals on the class wall. I hate when I have the self reflection to realize that the thing I teach, I have a really hard time doing when I need to do it most. Ugh. Embarrassing. I had a friend in college who had a brilliant mom. She had him sing “grumble grumble grumble, I’m not gonna do it!” and singing how much he hated it allowed him to get the vacuuming done when he was eight. So I will grumbly say “gratitude, gratitude, gratitude, I’m not gonna do it!” and still offer you this short story.

Play-Doh. I’m thankful for Play-Doh. It is the only thing on my two year old’s schedule. And yes, I did make a schedule that is now on the floor in our office/closet which initially included art, music, numbers, outdoor time ect. Then I realized that you can’t suggest activities to toddlers, they just walk around the house and choose ones you never would have thought of. Like finding all sorts of places there is water and spilling it slowly, pretending the doll Nina also spits up as much as Maya, unrolling paper towels, taking all the lemons out of the bowl and saying “ooo! Juicy” and lining them up under the table, ect. Anyway, Play-Doh is one thing we agree on. Here’s how it works. I have been rationing dough colors like people are doing with TP and paper towels. We do one color a day. Here is our Play-Doh dialogue while my right arm is holding Maya to my boob. 

Solly: Make car mama!

Me: You can do it!

Solly: Make car mama.

Me: I’m feeding Maya right now

Solly: From your nipple? She eat that?

Me: Yes.

Solly: I see boob Mama?

Me: Yes you can see.

Solly: I no like that.

Me: Well it’s how she eats. 

Solly: Make car Mama.

Me: I can’t do much with my left hand.

Solly: Make fire truck mama.

Me: Oh. Now that’s similar to a car except more complicated and I -

Solly: Make limousine Mama.

Me: Okay fine.

(I take the Play-Doh and squish it into a vague triangle)

Solly: Make wheels mama!

Me: You can do that!

Solly: Mama make wheels.

(I rip four hunks of Play-Doh off the bottom of the car and toss to Solly)

Solly: Ooo! Wheels!

(Solly puts on the wheels...then squishes Play-Doh)

Solly: Make race car mama!

This conversation is repeated so many times a day I can’t count. It is boring to me and I wish he was creating on his own and not so dependent. Then I thought about repetition - it requires little brain power, it is comforting, it is known, it is fun, it is easy, you know the outcome, and it has a clear beginning, middle and end. I felt a little guilty realizing I’m leaning on repetition just as much right now: West Wing (second time through the series), my nightly snack fest, FB, instagram, and youtube... I have this thing where I find videos I want to watch and watch only half of them so I can go back and watch more later or “repeat” them if you will. For all the same reasons Solly wants to do the same thing every day with Play-Doh. Does good come from repetition? More than just comfort? Maybe. I mean, I’m learning how to use my left hand in a way I never have due to Doh time.

I am grateful for Play-Doh and repetition. ...Grumble grumble grumble...I’m still really sad about no friends and family help during the newborn phase and the weather and … I’ll stop, BECAUSE, I’m really grateful. I’m grateful for Play-Doh and repetition. And enormously grateful for my two beautiful healthy kids, and my loving, funny, compassionate husband.

Epilogue Part I

Since it’s very “of the times” right now to share your covid-19 schedule, here are my kids’.

Solly: Two years and one week old

Wakes: 7/7:30am

Watches TV with Dad who was up all night with newborn: 7:30-9:30am

Breakfast: when he feels like it - usually around 9:30am

Play-Doh: 10am-12:30pm (alternating between asking mama to make a car, limousine, fire truck and race car)

Lunch: around 12:30pm

Play-Doh:1-1:30pm (“)

Nap: 1:30-4/4:30pm

Play-Doh: 4:30-7 (“)

Dinner: 7pm

Play-Doh

Bath/Books/Bed: 8-8:30pm

Maya: 20 days old

Sleep

Eat

Poop

Fuss

(repeat)

Epilogue Part II

Some Haikus (my creative content right now - wish I could do more)

3.24.20

The sun is shining

Went for a walk with both kids

Oldest touched all cars 

3.25.20

Maya Bee in sun

Up and down in mama roo

Peaceful day, long are the nights 

3.26.20

Play dough and breast feeds

Fill my 24/7

I’m okay with it 

3.27.20

A Gray seagull. Sky.

It would be nice to be one

Out and above it 

3.28.20

Sparkly bouncy ball

Joy if 2, workout if you’re 

At 37
3.29.20

Evenings are so hard

Parents are spent, fuss starts

Maya rules the night 

3.30.20

I paid for the birth

Seems weird to pay for new life

The world should pay me ;)

Last Days As One

Ode to Nesting

I get up and there is so much to do

Make Solly eggs and clean his last night’s poo

Got a new couch one spot does not align

It’s making me go crazy - tears benign cuz I’m fine.

Really.

The drive to get things baby ready’s wild

Instinctual and in one way so reviled

Cuz what my body really needs its sleep

But clean I must cuz mother nature speaks

Oh no my other out th’ womb babe wakes!

Will I ever finish these blogs w’out breaks?

He’s sitting up, the monitor don’t lie

How long can I keep on, let toddler cry?

I will finish one more stanza, and rhyme, it won’t

Should I wash the clothes or give my feet a soak  ...

…Wait, I rhymed that (how awesome!) - despite toddler fussing

I’m growing one inside and out, see I’m crushing! (it)

That’s the end of the poem because I had to go get Solly out of his crib. Then I had to wash the bottom of the coffee table. Why? I have no idea. The nesting thing is crazy. It’s like the imperius curse in Harry Potter - like someone who likes to clean things and set up spaces has possessed my mind and body. I would usually prefer to write or work on a creative project in my “spare” time. But right now, I must order the butterfly decals I thought of at 3am in-between thoughts of how I’m going to mend the first giant riff in my two freshman ensembles (delivered to me via an email that had 19 screenshots of group chat messages on Valentine’s night), and if I should place the decals flying out of the crib like the image in the amazon picture, or do something more original.

What’s even weirder is, once all the things I can physically do are pretty much done, I slowly walk around during Solly’s naps like one of the Gray Garden’s women and turn objects over in my hands with a far off look while making pictures crooked so I can straighten them again.

I’m going to have a girl! What!? I want her to know that I’m totally excited to meet her and totally terrified all at the same time. I’m excited and terrified that she might and might not be like me. How cool would it be if she played soccer too! And how cool would it be if she hated sports and was totally into jewelry making? A girl brings up all these feelings being pregnant with a boy did not - like “will she encounter all the tough stuff I did in adolescence and puberty and though I’m sure she’ll be fine, will I be fine reliving that?!” Ha! Sounds selfish. It’s interesting that I teach the age I hated being most (9th grade) with much success because of how my intuition/guts knows their brains and hearts. But there is a healthy distance between us due to the controlled roles of student/teacher which make it safe. I spend 9am-5pm addressing teenage issues but then I am done when I drive away and nobody is sulking at dinner or crying at 2am because there was a group chat gossiping about them. Somebody told me that you’re a good parent at the age you were parented well and the age you weren’t can be harder territory. I had some good parenting the whole way through, but I don’t think adolescence is any parent’s strong suit. As I spin out into anxious thinking, I’m reminded by Rob that “smart people who love you have your back” - Abby Bartlett, West Wing, Season 4, Episode 8. I’m also reminded by Rob that “you don’t have to figure everything out.” Which hit me in a new way yesterday. I usually add the evil epilogue “right now” to that phrase. But what if I simply don’t have to figure it out ever? How freeing is that? And how confusing to internalize this idea in a brain structure like mine who confidently stands on the fact that she can think/create her way out of the nebulous “it” that keeps us full of fear and in a box. 

Anyway. I do want to write down some things my future daughter can read later in life as her mom sits down for a few minutes, only week(s) before her birth. 

To girl baby:

I am 37 weeks and five days pregnant. And I’m strangely choking up as I “address” you for the first time in writing. You are me. I am you. We’re all one right now. And that’s so much fun. I love walking around everywhere with you. Oh damn it, now I’m crying. I’m sitting upstairs at 1665 N Richmond Street #3 looking out the back window at a muddy winter sky and snowy roofs and two skyline buildings that are tall enough to see from Humboldt Park. Anyway, I so much have enjoyed our time together as one person. I love my big belly and I love that people see us together - even if you get more attention and that’s where their eyes go. I have not had a hard pregnancy. All the songs you’ve heard for 9 months? Real talk. They were all sung to your big brother, and because we’re one, to you too, so I didn’t feel the need to sit in a chair and sing to my belly button :)

What else. So, I’m super nervous and excited to meet you. It’s not a bad nervous, it’s just that human scared of the unknown that I’ll get to know in time. You’re moving around a lot while I write. Super cool. You move like how I remember sleeping with my littler sister to be - slow soft rolls of another groggy, lovely little being very close to you. You don’t kick or punch much. I do feel you playing with your hands and wiggling your feet. Also, thanks for being head down no matter if we do this VBAC style or ‘slice and scoop”’style. You like to stretch out when I’m sleeping and your feet are high up into my chest. I get up multiple times a night now and it’s like someone told you you could have a little party before settling back down which I find kind of funny. We’ve done a lot together over these 9 months. We moved from Wabash in the South Loop to Humboldt Park. We started year three as Theatre Dept. Head at ChiArts, where they’ve all known me pregnant more than not pregnant. We went to Disney about a month ago and last week the other arts heads threw you a little party and when I gave the extra cake out to the freshman the sophomores were hard core hating on me even though I give them snacks out of my little box on my desk everyday. They need to get over themselves. Your bump on my front has been a joy to many students as they guessed your gender in October, give/gave name suggestions, and say hi to you and I when we walk in the room (“Hi Baby Calhoun, hi Mama Calhoun!”). I want you to know … well … a ton of stuff. But I don’t want to overwhelm you, seeing as you’re about to make this rough move from a 24/7 warm bath to bright lights, clothes, a loud toddler, and cold winter air. That’s gotta be tough. But I got your back. 

I want you to know I’m not super girly, but I’m creative and super sensitive to people and life and the human condition… I guess I’ve felt those female self care things (like jewelry and nails and hair) were a waste of time because I valued running and being outside and mud and writing and theatre more. And there’s only so much time in the day, you know? Now. If you like those hair/nail things, we’ll totally do them, okay? You can like whatever you want. I don’t want to let you down.

The nine year old in me (because Anne Lamott says we’re all the ages we’ve ever been) - (oh gosh I’m crying again darn it) - would really like you to know how great the basics are: sky, grass and water and how lovely wide open space and clouds are too. Running too. I was really good at it, but you totally don’t have to be - it’s just a great way to feel your body on the ground and in the dirt and in space. When you get overwhelmed remember sky, grass, water and running/walking. The nine year old in me would also like to tell you to soak up being a kid and not rush it. And if you get scared it’s about to end when you hit 11 or 12, don’t worry, you’ll find that you can retain a lot of it even when you become a grown up - it’s just hard to convince people of this because it will feel like a best friend is leaving. They’re not. They’re just going down the street for a candy ring and a slushy at the 7-11 to give puberty its space (puberty needs a lot of space). The childhood playfulness will return though and stay if you make a home for it.

Okay - your bro just woke up - I gotta go get him ; ) Sometimes he wakes up crying and I think he’s had a bad dream. When you ask him about it, he’s pretty vague and just says things like “sleep sack off” and “cars on pajamas” because he’s 22 months old and that’s the way he tells me he’s sad or scared.

Anyway, we only have a little more time together in this way. I love you here and I’ve loved taking you on our two-in-one ride for almost 38 weeks. Maybe during long car trips in the future, you can look back and take a tip from your womb self about how little you asked “are we there yet” and how much you enjoyed the journey. Granted car rides have restricting seatbelts and the womb ride had a jacuzzi, but just saying. 

You’ll probably have a lot of questions. I’ll do my best to provide a list of advice to address some life things preemptively. But we’ll have more time to discuss when they come up in a few years.

“Mama’s list of important life advice things”

--have humor

--lean into compassion / empathy / equity (for self and others)

--play lots

--hard work is good

--making friends with smart loving people who have your back, and keeping them close

--people who make things plural or not plural at their own discretion (“Starbuck” or “Jewel’s Osco’) are not trying to bug you - they’re just doing their best

--The West Wing will seem very outdated to you, but not the relationships and connections you see in the cast on the show

--snow in shadows melts slower than in the sun so if you want to build a snowman because you just watched Frozen or because you just want to, use the sunny snow to pack him, and then place him in the shade for his longest life

--black cars and white cars in northern cities both show winter slush and dirt equally 

--in middle school, you might disappear as the person you once were during 7th grade. If this seems to put you in danger of not reappearing, we might take a year long trip as a family (finances depending) and homeschool you this year. If you are not in danger, I will stand beside you as you become slightly monstrous for a year and then find yourself again in 8th grade.

--Your brother had two extra alone years with us so he may have a harder time sharing attention, but he will work at it

--I put pink, blue, yellow and green butterflies flying out of the peaked roof ceiling above your crib in our cool upstairs attic type space that is your room/hallway. I copied the amazon image. I apologize for not being more original. Sometimes exhaustion makes you normal and that’s okay.

--if you are put off by having two grounded, yet out of the box theatre parents who are also teachers and might be spontaneously weird as well as slightly critical of every teacher you will have - you’ll have your brother to confide in.

--You can totally be an artist. You can also totally be a doctor. As long as you contribute something of yourself to the world.

--People deserve a lot of grace and second chances - especially those under 18 

--this is a funky election year and you might be born the year a Jew, a woman or gay man is elected president. That’s super cool. 

--shadows are fun and so are bubbles. Neither will last forever and that’s okay.

--There will be parts of old fairy tales and Disney movies that are super racist, sexist ect. Moana is cool though.

--cell phones will be a part of your life like they never were mine. So will social media. Please listen to my advice about all that stuff. I work with high schoolers and let’s let stories of their mistakes be enough to keep you from making some of them too.

--if someone tells you that your hand is bigger than your face - don’t put your hand to your face, just nod and agree.

--If a friend lets you down or betrays you, it’s worth opening and trusting to make more of them instead of assuming everybody will be like this and closing off your openness to love 

--if you have fellow students who derail your classroom and the teacher is at a loss, find ways to read lots of books under your desk and just go on with your learning. A Wrinkle In Time and Harry Potter are good ones. 

--hurt people hurt people - allow your anger to fizzle into empathy and either heal the relationship or maintain a polite respectful distance

--If some books are missing girl main characters, just change the lead boy’s name to a girl’s name.

--if you don’t want to look too stiff when you dance, take some theatre movement classes - you’ll always know where your hips are after that.

--if a little child says “play with me” - you god damn better play with them.

--stick with the five second rule for food that drops on the floor except if it’s a banana or ice cream - they are no second rule category foods

That’s it for now. 

I can’t wait to meet you! 

It’s gonna be one lovely, great adventure.

Your Mama.

PS: Here we are together at the Garfield Park Observatory (pic by a ChiArts alum) on February 1st 2020 when I was about 36 weeks : )

Crunchy Snacks and Thinking Time

Lately, I’ve been thinking. When do I have time to do this “thinking” between being 7 months pregnant, caring for a toddler, and working full time with teenagers who don’t seem to notice my growing stomach (except one girl who tracks my weeks and tells me the size of the baby in relation to fruit/vegetables which is great because I don’t have time for this app like I did with Solly)?

Here is when I have time to think: eating crunchy snacks while watching political dramas on TV. Every night is a battle. I love the writing on The West Wing, but I love Lentil Curls more. Mr. Aaron Sorkin, your wit is fantastic. But no amount of literary, moving, smart, intelligent dialogue can compare to salty crunchy stuff. 

When I’m crunching and can’t hear the words, I have time to think that I haven’t had in a while. Lately the topic has been “things I tell myself I don’t need,” because I have this image of myself as being unique/minimalistic and falling outside the sentimental pitfalls of the general population. It’s the same reason I never wore pink as a child. I refused to be sold the idea that all girls were frilly. The positive side of this part of myself allows me to think outside the box as an artist. The negative side is the pitfall of superiority that I have to keep in check - the notion that I’m “above” what other people need and feel. 

In my newfound crunchy think time, I’ve decided to allow some consideration for the ideas that I have formerly repelled in the name of being unique/minimalistic. Here is the list.

1. I resisted buying lots of baby clothes for Solly. I accepted lots of hand me downs because I was like, “all new moms go overboard on the infant clothes and it’s a waste of money and I’ll just take what I get because babies outgrow things super fast.” But...if I’m being completely honest with myself I sort of wish I had gone wild with the cute clothes. I’m beginning to entertain the idea of making it rain for baby #2...

2. I think newborn photo shoots are dumb and way too expensive and it’s weird to pose a tiny naked baby in a wool hat in a wheel barrow. At the same time, I kind of wish I had some of these of Solly. So...maybe the second time around…? Maybe not though. It’s super weird. 

3. I didn’t sleep train Solly till he was 8 months old and I woke up twice a night during all that time to breastfeed him. I was into being self sacrificing and thought breast milk contained some magical properties like the ability to fight diseases, or become a wizard even with myself being a muggle mom like Hermoine’s was. But now I have proof that Solly is very beautifully normally not a wizard so I will not wake up as long with baby #2. Formula will be just fine a little sooner.

4. I work hard to not seem anxious or fearful which in fact I am if I give myself a break from the busyness that holds it at bay. Hmm. Not sure what to do with this one. Working on it.

5. I’m sooo good at guilt tripping myself. I have this internal “must spend every free second with Solly because I work all day” force that’s stronger than Luke’s or Rey’s. So it’s hard to fulfill myself artistically. BUT, I did a two week round of That’s Weird Grandma (my old company Barrel of Monkeys/ now Playmakers Lab) and I had a blast! And Solly got to see my onstage. And this all makes me a better mom, actually.

Once I work my way over the things I resist doing so I can seem chill/unique/minimalistic, here are some randos:

1. I think it’s a little creepy that behind Rob and I, are these strangers walking past from vacation pictures that hang on our walls. I wonder what it’s like to watch my life. And how many other homes do I hang in and what do I think about their parenting, their relationships and their snack choices? 

2. If I write a children’s book I think it will be called, “Giraffes, Rabbits and Turtles: The Untold Story” because of how little air time they get in toddler conversations due to their not having a signature sound. Just because certain animals are mute, doesn’t mean they don’t have a lot to say. The sequel might be called “Giraffes and Elephants: The Non Gender Conforming Animals” and how much diplomacy and liberal change they represent on blankets and pillow cases of those unborn whose gender is not known yet.

3. I never understood why you have to DO something with leaves. Why do people rake them and put them in bags or rake them and pile them on the curb for pick up. Are leaves not garbage when on trees and then suddenly they are garbage when on the ground? And the fact that grass won’t grow if you let leaves sit in your yard all winter...isn’t that underestimating grass? Doesn’t grass grow in the wild even when leaves fall on it? 

In this last day of the decade, I’d like to put this advice down for posterity:

--nobody is “above” the feelings of being human and the actions that go with them

--vulnerability and play are the most buoyant and brave and life giving qualities 

--feelings aren’t facts

--get good help 

--go outside

--carry granola bars in the middle counsel of your car for homeless people

--Elmo is crack so delay your child watching as much as possible

--families are all messy and keep trying anyway

Happy 2020!!!