[refine]

Refinement, so sweet. Like sugar. Like understanding light. Waves, patterns, the sacred trembling of the universe. The sound of my son's voice, ringing out around the house. The sound of life in the mornings, low-humming radio, oven buzzing, laughing baby, whimpering dog, the freeway in the not-too-distant distance. The lightwaves and the frequency.

How often do I stop to smell the rose? We go for walks down the street, takes an eternity, since we stop at every flower garden to count every butterfly and bee. I am so grateful for the bees, who are in danger of disappearing from our planet. I love how they take nectar from the morning glories or the lantana or the marigolds, and refine it into an even thicker substance, into honey. Like the light moving from the eyes down into the core of the pelvis. The place where he grew from one into eight. And then some. How orderly the division, how echoing the green, how narrow the hallway the birth canal the chance we take, to get to be born human, to be born at all, to count all the perfect fingers and toes and breathe, the deep relief I feel when I do not brace, the perfect symmetry of it all in hindsight, how much deeper. How much sweeter. How much denser, darker, lighter the unfolding. And the unfolded.

I want to tune him like my guitar, be consistent with my words, patient with my hands, loving with my eyes, firm with my voice, soft outside but strong inside. Every day it gets better. More refined. Even me, burnished by the strife and the fire and the constant grating of my will vs his. Burnished dross, turned to gold. The tiny speck of gravel turned into the pearl by the nacre. My words for him. My sense of my self. It's getting better all the time.

[real]

my favorite childhood book was "the velveteen rabbit." it's about the toy bunny who longs to be real, and the little boy who loved him into existence. every time i think about it i get this dull aching heart and my spirit soars upward, lifting my little girl face to the sky and praying, wondering, if i too will ever become real.

watching my baby boy grow up before my eyes has peeled back the layers of protection i had so carefully placed over all of me, or a moat, a shield, a circle of fire. the drawbridge of my life has opened for the wrong random strangers and left angels outside, waiting. with my boy, i feel as alive i did when i was six, seven, ten, twelve. i want him to know how everything works. he asks me a thousand times a day, "what's that?" even when he already knows the answer.

he wanted to wear his costume twice. he wanted to learn how to knock on a stranger's door and say "trick or treat!" he danced circles in the living room until he fell and hit his head on the doorframe. not to mention the fact of a doorframe, but there, i mentioned it.

so i look at him and i learn how it is that i came to be, after all: my daddy and mommy made me out of fire and food. they bred me. they bore me. and they loved me. just like we. just like i. just like he.

Dark darkness

When my 9 year old son goes into his funky funks, brought on by low blood sugar or an injustice served or fatigue or some such, we call it his dark darkness. Sometimes he goes there and we understand and we let him go there and it's all good and he's just feeling the feelings and he sits in it until he comes out of it. Other times though we're kind of pissed at his dark darkness and we get mad for him being mad (yes, I've talked about this in various sessions and yes I'm mostly done with it but you know we can't always do it right). So we call him on it and we say, HEY! You're going to the dark side too fast on this one. We actually say it just like that. And he stews and furrows his brow and gets more dark and we might even go back and forth we me trying to rationalize him out of it (as if that could actually happen when he's in the dark darkness). And we either get into a bit of a tiff, yelling, or just a bad, bad exchange of words all together and eventually then, after this ridiculousness on my part, I usually walk away leaving him to feel his feelings and return to us when he desires. And then I wonder why the hell couldn't I have just done this in the first place? Walked away and let him feel the feelings. Even if his feelings seemed to me to be out of sync with the events. As if I was the one in charge of feelings around here. As if I could protect people from the dark darkness. As if I had some kind of magical powers to keep my little people from feeling anything too bad. Or at least from taking it out on me.

[dark]

As in the Night. As in Joan, bright and dark. The dark one. The blackness. The bleak house, the inky hole and the absence of light. Or the calm before the storm, the moment between the end and the beginning. A rocking. A swelling. A trembling. The nerve endings and where the muscle begins to twitch. I'm a witch. Am I a good witch or a bad witch? Either way, I'm dark. Dark and lovely. The night of the gondola, gliding around corners in blackest waters, stretching our necks to see the home of Marco Polo at midnight. The ink is black. The pages white. The dark is not empty. The dark contains me. The dark caresses me. I'm afraid of it. I have always been. I can't sleep without the light on, somewhere. Some light. Stars vortex into deep space. My deep sadness and fear vortex into dark night within.

There is still a part of me that is always on. The inner sun. The part of me I have forgotten for the most part. The light heart. The feather. Big heavy mama rolls around relishing the dark parts. I need a little love, a little memory of how it was. When the sun came up, when the light danced in my son's eyes and I saw it there.

[smoke]

Where there's fire.

The lady with the flowered green bag sulked around and paced outside the restaurant door, sucking on a cigarette. My bright shiny cheeked boy anxiously tugged my hand as he pulled me past her to go for a walk down the mean sidewalk streets of Austin.

Meter. "Failure" sticker. Chicken wire covering an air cooling engine. Dirty wooden trash bin with bright red duffel bag and 2 rotting bananas in half-opened skin, lying side by side like war casualties in a ditch.

What is the world coming to?

Where are we now, and where have we been?

What hath rock and roll wrought...on the hair of Americans? Bad dye, frizzy, puffy, thin but poofy, long and greasy, sideways and inappropriate or not quite matching facial hair. My rock and roll hair signifies my allegiances. I choose to align with the Divine. Or Patti Smith.

Who may smoke.

The fire of heat, steam coming off our skin at Eastwoods park. It's Eila's birthday, it's Jenn's birthday. The day a woman's first baby is born is the day she dies, reincarnates as...a Mom.

"It's like a scud missile has gone off in the middle of your life."

In a good way.

Leaving plumes. Peacock feathers, Krishna's kiss, Radha longing to be the flute at his lips, fiery fists and furrowed brows, real tears, throwing things, scratching mama's lip off, the explosive growth of the toddler mind.

I feel blackened, crisp. Delectable, smoky incensed.

Unfiltered. Unwashed. Deliriously happy. Gnawing on nails, carrots, knuckles and baby boy knees.

I send my offerings up to God, into the wild blue yonder, along with the prayers, the nag champa, the longing throb of my voice.

Fan me, I'm a flame.

I'll never go out.

--Liz

Smoke on the water. Water on the stove. Pasta in the water on the stove as we race against hungry bellies inside each and every one. Can I help? Oh no. Not now. Time is of the essence and there is no time for cooking lessons when low blood sugar stares us in the face and comes out in the form of snarkiness. Wah. Wah. Wah. And that's just from the parents. Imagine how it sounds in the babies and the kids. Italian sausage in the broiler smokes. Ah! Get it! Oh well, a little carcinogenic but tasty nonetheless. Fresh greens picked by our 11 year old at Green gate farms where she goes every Friday instead of going to school. Yippee for intentional hooky! Better than my version of childhood hooky which involved spur of the moment decisions and no plans and drives to the Jersey shore or the big apple smoking, smoking all the way.

--Bernadette



Not supposed to smoke while I'm pregnant--that part is easy. Not supposed to drink (a lot) either; that's not so easy. Especially after a day like today, which followed a night like last night. Baby up twice, second time for a full hour, writhing and kicking her fleshy knees into my growing belly. Sleep was my insatiable craving, and I thought nasty thoughts while she stirred, I really did, crazy how you can do that and love so profoundly at the same time.

Today I drove two friends and my tired girl to a barbecue mecca in small town Texas. If I would have come alone, as my old self, it would have been all open arms gluttony, cold beer in tow and bring on the fatty meats. But now, baby on my hip, I wondered if I should feed my tot the greasy links and cheap, soft white bread and if the smoke from the wood fire would linger in our clothes and hair (I actually relished this possibility). The electric knife they used to slice the brisket make her wide-eyed with fear (such noises are terrifying since her tiny cast was sawed off), and that image took away my hunger.

Feeling a 100 years old, with baby on my lap (jabbing her brother with every bite), I was reborn, I was again surprised by the renewal of being a mom. I watched my sweet girl sucking on rib bone, plucking pintos from the sauce with her fingers, eating tiny pieces of smoky meat for the first time. And my indulgent anxieties and self pity were snuffed out. My happiness was a hot fire, and it smolders still, as I remember messy face and greasy napkins and my pants soaked with the ice tea that she had spilled.

--Paula

The end of a very. long. day. My cranky girl exhausting every resource of calm and even temper I have available to me. And I am fortunate to have many.

But I'm all run out. She's finally asleep and I can't shake the feeling of fight or flight that has risen from riding, wrangling and reeling through the histrionic roller coaster that is the emotional life of a toddler. I remember that my fellah keeps a little green bud in the top cabinet in an oregano jar. 'Medicinal' he says.

Tonight I understand. I acquiesce. I smell it. Smells like Christmas tree. I smoke. I choke. I remember then why the last time I tried this was in the 80's. You see...."Bitches can't hold their smoke. That's what it is."*

*Weird Science 1985

--J

[heat]

There is heat here, in this little belly. The red cheeks, the rosy skin. The sun shines down and reveals all. I'm afraid of the weather changing. It's not like it was when I was a kid. When I used baby oil on my skin to soak in the sun. It's all I can do to put a hat on my son's head. I want him to be able to brown, to tan, to be warmed by the rays of that big, brotherly star above. In our frenzy to own, eat, devour and become everything we will perhaps leave nothing behind. As the season changes, as the nerves in my arms and hands tingle, as the pie cools and the teeth come in, heat. Spark. Tapas. Food. Fire. Discipline. The lines between blur. The cold hard facts of the light at the end, the dance. My son's fiery bursts, his small fists, his nails on my skin. If I can't take it, I'll have to step out of the kitchen.

want

I want to need to love to want you. All of you. All 5 of you that share this house, this family life, this space that is ours to share. I want you to understand. I want you to listen when I speak. I want you to be reasonable creatures. I want you to stop wanting sometimes. Because sometimes your wants seem endless. And other times your wants seem frivolous or pointless or senseless or wasteful or ridiculous and then I catch myself and remember the saying that I wrote out on a piece of paper in big block letters and posted to the refrigerator door: WE ALL WANT DIFFERENT THINGS. Or does it say WE ALL LIKE DIFFERENT THINGS? Want, like, they're kind of the same anyway. But I have to walk the talk I talk so damn much to my kids. I want them to realize that there is no accounting for taste or like or want. Each of us having our own. I remember my own mom of nine children used to say the same thing only good Catholic girl that she was she said it in Latin. What was it? Degustibus non es putantum. Or something like that. basically it meant, there is no accounting for taste. We all want different things. And as I want them to allow it in each other, I too have to allow it in all of them. Like what you like. Want what you want. State it clearly. And it just might be satisfied. Want to try?

[want]

I want time to myself, to sit and think, to organize my files, to go shopping for frivolous things, to cook a nice meal and stay up too late. I want my daughter to sleep at punctual intervals, to think my ideas of what to do are best, to laugh at my jokes and surprise my family and friends at how amazing she is. I want my husband to anticipate my needs, to make me swoon, to stare into my eyes and tell me all the ways I'm a great partner, a great mother and he's so lucky I'm a part of his life. I want to look back and laugh at how difficult it was when everything seemed new, how much I learned, and how wise I've become. I want to hug my mama friends and tell them how much their camaraderie has comforted me and kept me going when I wanted to give up. (laura)

Under Doctors' Orders

Love it:  The silky underthing of my daughter's arm, the mossy pools that my son uses to see, the iron patience my husband forges, despite the many dings and bats to it daily, the ache inside me. 

When I see babies these days, they are not cute; they are dangerous. They raise a sharp longing in my craw.  They draw me into their force field, smiling and wobbling and falling and getting up again.  

If I have another one, my dead my explode: My veins unable to carry life for one more earthling.  So the doctors have said.  Could I have one more, were it possible, perhaps the babies would not slay me so; perhaps I would rest content in the know that I have chosen not to have another one, bring another one into this plain.  But because I absolutely cannot, the blow to my heart belies any cynicism I might have had in the past about bringing babies, children, people into this world.  

[drive]

Just drive, she said.

There is a drive in me to feed, to hold, to nurse and love. To call upon the tiger ma, the lioness ma, protector ma. To guard against. To surrender. To have. To have not. The time passes so quickly; it is inevitable that he will one day want to drive on his own. Meanwhile, I drive across town, barreling up and down the streets in a blue spacecar, baby boy strapped in and facing backwards in the seat behind me, babbling and singing. Being content. Me cursing The Others under my breath, or out loud. There is nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Not really. The drive to get there is long, the childhood is short, life is sweet and I'm already at my destination. Not in idle. Or overdrive. Just ready to roll the windows down and hang my head out, face the wind with a grin. So much time to come, so many perfect moments, beads on a chain, waves in the ocean, curls on his head, words on a screen. A hard drive. A soft spot, a tender head and a change of heart.

[grow]

From one cell to two then four then eight. Nine months later, there you have it: a perfect little person. Who can help but marvel at that? But there's more to it than just biology and its miraculous gymnastic feats--genes tumbling forward from one generation to the next. Then there's the ineffable part that can't be explained by science or logic. The heart has its own language, for which there are no words. It's the way my pulse picks up speed whenever I see you, the unbelievable ferocity of the love that I feel. For the better part of a year, we were two people under one skin, and now it's the one year anniversary of the day you left my body for the larger world. I grew with and for you, baby, and then I shrank again. Within a few months, I looked like myself again, but never again would I be the girl I was before I became a mother. Every day you change, and I can see it on your body, the way you lengthen and widen and strengthen and grow. My own growth is made of subtler stuff, not imprinted in the bone. (dalia)

[fight]

I give up. The sleep, the coffee, the confounding ever-present stink of dog pee near my head, somewhere. Everywhere? I can't seem to pull my true self out so she can be the one, the one to kiss and make everything better for every one; she instead of this multiheaded hydra hag of a mother, this snaggletoothed bloodthirsty mean kali ma, mean cloverfield momzilla ma, this dehydrated self pitying furious cursing talks to herself ma. where oh where can my true self be, oh where oh where has she gone? if i dig down deep i am still sweet, the dirty dishes are still a part of my spiritual path and not a conspiracy to unravel my soul. (liz)

[belly]

Here I am, deep in the belly of the beast. A dark heart in which there is no light, only feeling, falling, succumbing to velvet blackness, an embrace. Womblike, here in the mother. I've been swallowed. Was broken here. Dissolved. Who I once was, the belly I once had, are gone. Traces of me left in blog entries, short stories, old poems, pictures, salt on the desert floor. The uterus, that tornado of a muscle, billows and moans, emptied. My waist is thickened, lined with layers that protected me from the outside world for a time. Then I went in, and when I came back out, the world had changed. I was soft on the outside, power incarnate on the inside. I vibrate with the intensity of 10,000 suns. I roar when I talk. I shatter stone when I walk. My belly, the former igloo cocoon for my son, who burst forth in full wingspan flight, made all of us transformed.

No badha parvrtta parsvakonasana. (liz)

oh, belly, belly...so much like jelly these days! i had hoped that you'd be a six pack by now, oh my jelly belly...mmmm jelly bellies sound good right now, ha ha. my little baby came from my belly, what a beautiful little gift...she's much more precious than the package she came in, oh my jelly belly. if only i knew how to get rid of my jelly belly! i guess i'm supposed to eat right and exercise---whatever, like that's going to happen...not really. i've got to get healthy...my belly jiggles when i run and try to exercise---so does my butt to add more to it, maybe to keep my belly from being lonely---from dancing alone, yeah, that's it. so all of me jiggles and my body is a dance party! (erica)

When I was pregnant I dreamt that I was sitting, cross-legged, painting my nails blood red (something I have never done in my waking life). I paused, in the dream, with the brush inches from the outstretched palette of my hand, and brought the brush instead to my swollen belly and began painting dark red circles around and around my bare skin, my navel at the center. I wrote a poem on a train hurtling through a Vermont winter about the fire in my belly and I read the poem, still on fire, to a room full of people, alive. The desire that springs from the belly, the life. Nora and I lie in bed, belly to belly, sleeping, nursing, singing quietly, cooing. Da! she says, again and again, smiling. Good morning, I love you is Da! Look, I found our kitten! is Da! I am bursting with happiness and hunger and fatigue, please rescue me is Da! We spent hours when she was a newborn together, still, breathing, as she slept on my belly, her soft, sweet weight rising and falling against me. I ache for her being so small and so close, in my belly, upon my belly, and I pull her to me now when she is sleeping, wanting to breathe her in and hold her on my belly sleeping just one more time, but she always resists now, wanting to be close, but also wanting the freedom to move and stretch her soft round limbs and tumble this way and that and fall into sleep on her own belly. (heather)

Oh sweet belly. The home of my most precious gift. Something I used to wish was flatter, more muscular, more something....and then there was Cohen. He filled that space so full. More full than I thought possible. Then there was a softness and a kindness I felt for this place on me. No longer sexy and something to do more crunches for. It became this beautiful, full, tender place for my newest love. Now there are small folds where he used to be. Faint lines to remind me to be kind to myself and to accept where I am and what I look like now. No judgement, no pressure to be different. We've crossed the threshold of motherhood and there's no turning back. The belly is what it should be. Love. (jenny)


Oh, belly belly, how round and jolly you used to be stretched out like a rubber band, holding us all together with such conviction. You used to get all the pats and praise and kisses and hugs and stares, and now you're straight and narrow as any other. Hope you don't think I'm ignoring you. It's just that I've been busy. I do still think you're remarkable and thank you for your heroic work that no other part of me could do. Then you rearranged us back into place, like a cowboy herding or a mother calling her kids in from play at the end of the day. I'll never look at you the same way again, now that I've seen your other side. One, two, three, suck in. Don't mind if I help you out a little down there. You could use a hand after all that you've gone through. We did it. And just so you know, she's doing fine out here. You kept her safe and warm until just in the nick of time. Thank you. (laura)

[feed]

Please me. Feed me. Fill me. Empty me. Empty my cup. Sippy. Nipple nose. A hunger I cannot name. Standing over the kitchen sink shoving cake into my face just to feed. Gotta get enough calories in. What a concept. Those first dark days, after the birth, starving and yet so full. My boy (for he is now clearly becoming, being a boy instead of a total baby) rockets off the walls, throws his head back in his high chair and throws his cup on the floor. Patiently I dole out steamed spinach, smashed carrot, cutup pear, sliced mango, nutty quinoa, sticky, sweet, bitter, slimy, chewy, spicy, bland, natural, organic, baby, non-baby, whole, happy food. The miracle that is my son, the exuberant buddhist priest scientist standup comedian, chews with his 8 teeth. Makes a face at every single taste he encounters except yes, spinach. I am a little lost that one day soon I will no longer be his sole source, the only one who can truly feed him. And yet still we relish the nursing time, the night time, the time we are so close we are breathing as one, we are staring into each other's eyes again, offering up that soul food that these moments bring, this darshan, my warm body and his bare feet curled up and cracking up as he suckles, as he feeds, as I fill up while I yet empty out, all hope and wonder and caught up in the swirl of hair on his forehead again, in the tiny bit of tongue that peeks out, in the small speck of his littlest toenail, in the vein on his neck or the small blood vessels near his spine, all nourish me again and again. A flag with no wind. A dry canteen. Then. Lambskin. Potato. Fists full of mango. (liz)

Feed, feed and feed some more. Breakfast in the morning. Lunch in the
bag or I succumb to the easy though nasty cafeteria feedings because,
well, they're easy and cheap and that's three lunches I don't have to
make. It's not the making really but the choosing and the picking and
the bagging and the toting. I remember a long ago boyfriend had a poem
about lunch toters: How about them lunch toters, aint they a bunch.
GOing off to work, totin' their lunch. Totin' their vittles. Totin'
their chow. Eatin' it later but totin' it now. But I digress. See what
happens when you eat school cafeteria food? It goes to your brain.
Snacks are packed too in the backpacks because those little brains
need food, food, food and more food. Protein is what I pack. Brain
food. Cashews and almonds and peanut butter taco - the melding of two
cultures. Then after school it's feeding time again. Ravenous babies
that are now over 5 feet tall come home and need to eat, eat, eat.
Carrots and ranch are a fave. Smoothies. Yum. If I can I sneak a
little protein powder in. But they know when I do. Peanut butter or
another nutbutter works too. With bananas and fruit and White mountain
yogurt. Then, just less than 2 hours later, it's feeding time again.
Dinner this time and my husband and I take glorious turns solo in the
kitchen. Aah, that's our favorite time. When the other takes the kids
outside and we get time in the kitchen to cook, cook, cook and then
turn around and feed, feed, feed. THen it's bedtime and in the morning, ta-da, we do it all again.

Feed, feed, feed. Glorious, painful feed. (bernadette)

[fold]

At last, I am welcomed into the sacred sisterhood of motherhood. A club I was always standing on the outside of. The fold. Jane Fonda said a woman was a virgin until she had a child. I made a fertile egg and I lost my cherry. There is a place inside me that opens and closes, that longs to fold. Inward. A row of flannel cloths, diaper inserts, prayer flags in the wind, folded into a drawer, or unfurled. Consumed by flame, sweets eaten, extra folds of skin that will one day turn to ash. My baby's extra folds warm him, thicken him like batter or rain clouds, give him heft and health. A fortune is hidden inside the folds, pick one. That place inside, the anemone drifting lazily in the current, the sharp corners or the soft folds, shot through with veins and blood or adipose tissue. I take a forward fold to the floor, spiral inside, widen apart, push, melt, surrender. I am one with it. I am born inside out over and over again, folding like a party chair or a paper doll every time he takes a breath or cries out. I open. I close. I unfold. (liz)

I would fold her tiny clothes before she was born thinking they couldn’t get any smaller there couldn’t a human being that small. When she was born she was smaller she was so tiny and we bought new clothes that would fit her, special little clothes smaller than humans are suppose to be outside of the womb. Her skin would fold over her tiny legs just hanging on with what seemed like nothing between it and her small bones. I could fold her all four pounds of her she could fit into a diaper bag that was way to big for her tiny diapers. Now I fold her clothes she at 9 months some of her clothes at 12 months. Her pudgy legs with fold after fold of wonderful padding. Her eyes so big watch as I tidy her room folding her towels, folding her burp clothes, folding the hand-me-downs that fit her now. Folding her doll‘s clothes that use to fit her. (rebecca)

Fold my friend of many ways. Folding towards the earth in submission. Yoga how I need you each day. Folds in my babies skin are fading with every step he takes and leap in learning about the world. Growing stronger, leaner less baby-like. I miss the chubby folds in his arms. Laundry is my loyal companion. A distant relative you love but wish would only stay for 3 days.My back is folded. I never feel straight enough anymore. Hunched over protecting my baby, protecting my heart, weary from sleeplessness. I need some heart-opening moves. Folding to the earth and opening back up with arms stretched to the heavens. (jenny)

I normally hate folding laundry. My laundry sits spilling out of the dryer, stacked on top of the dryer, piled on my dresser. I refuse to fold my husbands laundry. However, hers I take my time with - it's a ritual of love. Matching outfits makes me giddy and folding creases brings me such satisfaction. Onsies, kittle shirts, pants, diaper cloths, bibs, blankets. Pulling them warm out of the dryer makes me indescribably happy. I remember when I never thought she'd ever wear two piece pajamas. I remember when I couldn't imagine her little feet ever hitting the floor. I watch the months go by Newborn, 3-6 months, 6-9 months, 9-12 months, 12-18 months. I am really buying 18 month sizes now? This ritual of folding her clothes is one of the few immediate reminders of the passing of time. Time gets lost in the rhythm of mothering. Time fools you into thinking it's standing still in sweet naked moments, nursing in bed after an afternoon at the pool, rubbing fuzzy blankets over each other's faces, laying in the hammock staring at the sky through oak leaves. Folding her tiny clothes reminds me that one day she will put on, choose, fold and pay for her own clothes.

Each time it makes want to swallow her whole, to have her back inside of me before she wants to wear skinny jeans and tube tops. (jenn)

Fold, a tough one- the mind wanders- where am I today? The “throw your cards in, games over” type of fold or the “warm loving embrace of being enveloped in someone’s arms” type of fold? Maybe it is the “cover me up” into the folds of this new life? Living by the moment, breathing and being a family. In love, in awe, in gratitude for being able to bear witness to all that Lily is and will become. Gushing love and determination, making her way purposefully through the room, gleefully “un-folding” the stack of clothes left too long unattended. There I am, finding time to fold again. (dawn)

That pinch of skin between knee and upper thigh, that beautiful pucker—a feature on myself I would call a defect, something to purge through diet and exercise—is so beautiful on her. There are so many passages of her flesh where I find utter perfection. Those tiny fingers and toes—but what mother can't say that about her child? That tiny belly button, which several weeks after her leaving the womb, oozed a crusty yellow liquid. The doctor said it needed to be cauterized, a word I associate with those wounded in war. The only battle my baby had experienced was the one to get out of me, and that excreting, little wound was the only damage she wore from that six-hour-long struggle. Fold. The way she folds into me when it's time to sleep, as if I am her favorite blanket, her favored form of protection. When I put her down on blankets still cool to the touch, she folds her body away from me, giving me her perfect little back. I miss her in that moment, though only moments before I had yearned to have a little time to myself. (dalia)

[hold]

Hold the mayo. Hold the mustard. Hold the phone calls. Hold the e-mails. Hold the comments; hold the advice, hold the criticism; hold the alcohol; hold the news, hold the complaints. I'm too busy holding my baby, holding her world up, while I try to hold on to some sense of time, date and order to my life. Hold the questions about what I do all day; hold the comments about how long I'm breastfeeding; hold the perplexed looks; hold the latest research on what I should be doing. It's all "la la la" to me anyway. All my attention is going to holding knowing gazes long enough with my little baby that I don't have to take a picture, holding her tiny hand while she drinks in her favorite beverage, holding her head still, still on my shoulder that we might make it all the way in from the car to the house with no disturbances to her sleep or even plot changes to her hopefully happy dreams, holding my breath when I think something other than patient words might come out of my mouth as she turns over to crawl away yet again during our diaper change, and holding on to the pieces of my rapidly morphing family as we soar down this roller coaster of parenthood so that we arrive wherever we're going all still intact. (laura)



Living on a prayer, holding fast to the center, circling in flight while holding. Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special orders don't upset us. Except sometimes they do. I hold my son as though he were a part of me that had always been missing. My life before him shimmers so distantly from the importance, the weight, the depth, the breadth of this moment. The here and now. All in a second's breath. He molds to my form with his, he hold my silver charms in his teeth, holds my hair in his hands, holds my fingers in his sleep, holds onto soft bath towel and avocado and veggie puffs and teething biscuits and drum sticks and prayer bowl and CD cover and ball and spoon and toy hammer and the dog's tail and his very own remote control, all the same, all with equal parts wonder and joy, ownership and knowledge that they may all eventually, some sooner than later, fall from his grasp. It is a lesson, how fleeting, how we hold on. And yet he knows he can hold on to me in order to stand, to reach for what's above him, to comfort and console him, to reassure him when the noises are loud and mysterious, or a stranger wants his attention. I can only hope to hold him in the deepest stillness, teach him the value of resting there while the world spins out of control around us, teach myself the great lesson in letting go, loosening the hold, closing the eyes, and trusting the wind for once, to navigate the rough terrain of the heart and time. (liz)

[pump]

Pump here it is...without thinking just writing, after carrying the pump bag with me to work 6 blocks man that thing is heavy. Is the equipment all there if not then I will be stranded without it at work and I’ll have to run to Special Edition and buy what I need. I mind as well bring the pump bag with me and just pump there because by the time I realize that I am lacking something and in need of something it will be too late and I will be in so much pain and I will just need to pump. The first time was so weird I felt sick and small and embarrassed in front of a million people at the hospital with my breasts just there for everyone to see. How long will you continue to pump? Too much milk. Too little milk. Hands cracked and blistered from washing all the plastic paraphernalia. Thrush! Keep pumping. Sick! Keep pumping. Engorged! Keep pumping. Tired! Keep pumping. I have to get up at 5 I have to pump! Wet T-shirt! pain! pump! What a gift! What a miracle what a thing! Pump (rebecca)


Pump it up, until you can't feel it. Pump. Power to the people. The mama people. The fist in the air, the cheerleader, the thrill inside. The exploding breasts. Milk, so sweet. Milk, so sour. There is nothing worth crying for unless you need. Pay at the pump. Liquid gold. Every drop of mother's milk so precious, so priceless, so valued and yet...not. Make it political, Liz. The greed run rampant, the stranding of mothers in our country, the formula. The sterilization of unwilling women, the sterilization of the bloody process of birth. The mess and the chaos of pumping. Lamb's oil on my nipples, plastic cones and tubes. A milk machine. A finely timed perfectly balanced food producer. My breasts, heavy with milk and motherhood, knowing me better than I know myself, knowing my baby better than I do. A miracle in this milk, this complete cycle. A pump is a friend. A handshake. A milkshake, a smooth fruit. Mama's mangoes. And I tango toward the camera with a baby in my arms. My pump hidden behind some diapers, gathering dust, a thing of my recent past. Soon he will be drinking sacred cow's milk and eating the fruits of the earth exclusively, instead. And I will long for those long days of pumping, listening to the machine whisper "Nipple! Nipple!" as the milk collects in the cups.

[rash]

She broke out in a rash. Random virus the pediatrician says. But why can't I Google it? Why can't it be found on WebMD or AskDrSears.com? Why can't I do anything assuage my fears that my bad has raging pneumococcal influenza because I chose not to vaccinate. Why didn't I take better care to wash her hands and face. Her rash is a physical manifestation of my crunchy granola new age hippie mama doubt and guilt because I've (at least temporarily) turned my back on modern science and foregone the standard operating procedure.

And then I remember that we had a flea outbreak a couple of weeks ago. She woke up for several days with flea bites. A sitting duck. A unwitting feast for a flock of hungry fleas. FUCK, I think. It was fleas that carried THE FUCKING PLAGUE. The red dots that flush out from underneath her sweet baby arm pits strike fear of the black death in my tentative first time mama heart. While she sleeps, I spend the night Googling the symptoms of common baby rashes trying rationally to rule out my entirely irrational Bubonic Plague diagnosis. Since when did I become this kind of person?

Since I became a mother.

In the morning the rash is gone as quickly as it appeared. I feel foolish for worrying. But I know that I will never be fully worry-free again. (jenn)

Not to do anything sudden, too quick. To make a bold decision. On the spot. The red spots, the tiny angry bites emerging out of the skin. My baby's virgin skin. Soft as petals. Open to dew. The Jewel is in the Lotus. The hidden heart of my child, the inner recesses. I want to go slow, take time, make time. I am overwhelmed with how much love I can pour into this person, all the love I ever dreamed of giving, always welcome and needed. It takes time. The fever strikes, and it is high. All my love can't keep him well. All my love can't keep him alive. I'm brought to my knees, there's rugburn, there's a scar where I once knelt. Where I once slid down. Where my baby was born, where my old self used to be. Scars on my cervix, scarred mind. The images burn. The rash is almost gone. My lower back aches. My baby smiles. My heart aches with an explosiveness I can't explain. The volcano erupts and sparks fly. Red sparks on white skin. Where the heat was turned up. Where God takes the reins, and we ride. (liz)

Rash..don't hurt my baby or me. We're just living on love and patience. I don't like doing things at the pace we're moving these days. Too fast, too rash. Heart feels like it's racing constantly. Need more time to slow down. No race for this girl right now. Slow...slow...slow. Feel my breath returning to it's natural rhythm. Grateful that my precious baby is healthy, no rashes in sight for now. God, I hope he learns to slow down. Don't want him to be rash or to have a rash. I love watching him sleep, seeing him at peace. I wish he would allow himself more moments like that during the waking hours. But what a joy and a force to reckon with during those waking hours. He's beautiful and his spirit is so bright. His perfect skin has already seen the marks of scratches from branches and rocks in his pursuit of life outdoors. He's unstoppable..like a rash. Just exploding to the surface, making himself known. Telling us he's here all the time in his boisterous, loud way. It makes my heart ache with love just to think of his way. What a gift. (jenny)

The doctor apologized for the sad news, telling me it was indeed the worst kind of rash to have. I was a bit surprised, thinking at least no one could see it -- how bad could it be? What I would soon find out was that while others couldn't see the rash itself festering inside of me, the effects of it were quite a different story.

I wondered in what part of my body had the rash spread now that it had been several weeks. It had started in my left arm, according to the doctor, and was spreading both up and down from there. I felt like I was walking around like some sort of hunchback-ogre-zombie combination, but others said they more noticed the overcorrection I was succumbing to. The irritating urge to correct people often turned me into an overzealous police force. No one was safe in my house, and I was worried that I was going to take new victims out on the street.

I imagined the rash with its puss-filled growths, a jungle of mess, and could understand why everyday words often never made it to the correct part of my brain to add to my sentences. When the rash began to spread inside my brain, I wondered whether life as I knew it would ever be the same and would all the misery be worth it. (laura)

I’m wiping the drool off my daughter’s chin so the pebbly raw red rash that covers it will go away (I had a rash like this in college, from making out with a guy that needed a shave), but it’s a false sense of security. Sort of like flying pre-9/11 or eating organic kale. What I mean is: I’m keeping her chin dry with the notion that I can vouchsafe her health. Also, so outwardly it will appear that I’m on top of my mommy duties. I’m characteristically lazy about so many of these things. My baby came early so I didn’t get to spend the last trimester sipping malts and reading up on all this stuff, as I thought I might. Now I’m continually scrambling, in my sleepy fog, reacting to a rash or her hot forehead against my cheek. “You know, there’s something you can buy for that cradle cap,” my mom says (“cradle crap?” I think), “we should clear that up before we take her to meet the relatives.” “Are you worried about giardia in the lake water?” my mother asks. “Huh?” I think. Pebbly rashes, cradle crap, a river of dr ool from her sprouting teeth. These are all things I’m supposed to monitor and rectify, and I’m eager and happy to do it. But part of me is secretly happy that these tiny bumps appear. They’re proof that she’s right on track, doing all the things that Dr. Sears says she’s supposed to be doing at 10 months. Because when I delivered my 2 pound 7½ ounce little bird, I knew that coping with these comparatively banal (but still worrisome!) aspects of mommyhood would actually be a gift. (paula)

Okay 5 minutes …RASH here is goes.

As if I didn’t have enough to think about there is it staring back at me reminding me that I am not doing enough for my child, reminding me that if I didn’t work I would be there to wipe every bit of drool off her chin and so she wouldn’t have a rash that ate away at her skin. Reminding me that her sitter isn’t wiping every bit of drool off. Her sitter is not doing it her sitter is she even looking at her, does she leave her in a room all day and lock the door and let her scream? No if she did that Chloe wouldn’t smile at her when she sees her for the first time or when she leaves her at the end of the day. But it is still there nonetheless that stupid redness like Satan is wiping his dirty hands all over my child. Use diaper cream on it. What are you crazy? Use Vaseline, Cortisone. Keep it dry, keep it clean. Oh my god I forgot that it was there again, it is still there. What is on your child’s chin? I burnt her. I smacked her. It’s a RASH I don’t know what it is so there!!! And I don’t know how to get rid of it!!!! It hurts me too but doesn’t seem to bother her that much I guess. Rash stupid rash again! (rebecca)