Looks Like We Made It: An Easter Story

Growing up, Easter morning was almost as big of a deal for the kids in my family as Christmas morning. My parents created an elaborate treasure hunt with clues throughout the house leading us to Easter baskets and chocolate. Since moving to Berlin three years ago, 2013 was our first Easter in the city as a family—we normally travel during this time—and Lennon was finally old enough for a proper Easter hunt. 

The morning started off early—5:30am early—with a note from the Easter Bunny and a chocolate rabbit placed strategically near where we'd suspected he'd awake—in our bed. Behind the note was a clue as to where Lennon could find his next Easter surprise—from Mr. Bunny, of course. The clue came in the form of a printed photo of a location Lennon frequents in our apartment, making it simple for him to know where to look.

On the edge of the bathtub, Lennon found a papier-mâché egg with Easter stickers inside, along with another clue.

Atop his play kitchen, was a new cooking and eating play set. Though another clue was included here, he became a bit distracted at this juncture.

His final clue brought him to his bedroom where he found a new bed for his baby doll. We're hoping to make him into a little Papa before his sister arrives in June. So far he’s playing along nicely.

Later that day, we would be visiting several of Lennon's friends and I wanted to bring something special for each of them. I made five small Easter baskets with a few goodies inside. For the baskets, I purchased this pattern but modified the handles and some of the construction to make it more Easter basket-like. I used my handy printable fabric to make the name plaques on the front. The linen and dotted fabric was purchased from IKEA—of all places—and the orange and white rick-rack was a market stall find. 

Each child received two decorated sugar cookies inside their homemade basket. After much trial and disappointment over the years with sugar cookies I tried this recipe entitled 'The Best Sugar Cookies.' They lived up to their name! An organic chocolate bunny lolly made by Alnatura was also included.

The tutorial for the carrots can be found here—it's free! Along with the dotted fabric from IKEA and the market stall rick-rack, the green check fabric I used for the carrot tops was also found at the market, on an enormously wide bolt. Just one meter yielded so much that I've already made big plans for the leftovers.

The padded baskets came in handy later for egg hunting with Lennon's buddy Otis.

In the afternoon, we made our way to Kreuzberg for a family supper with more of Lennon's little buddies and their parents. Lennon had been gifted a beautiful, mint condition vintage suit, circa 1950s, by my Mother, purchased from an Etsy seller. I couldn't wait for him to don it as his Easter outfit. With the absence of an authentic 1950s boys button down shirt, Lennon wore a white long sleeve onesie from H&M underneath and I made him a coordinating neckerchief from leftover vintage yardage and mini rick-rack, which sweetened the whole look.

For supper with friends, I made an asparagus quiche and a carrot cake. Other folks had made lasagna, salad, and homemade bread. Our hosts made lamb and a pear tart—so much good food and really wonderful people.  

I pushed myself beyond my energy level this Easter making sure I created the type of day I really wanted my family to experience, but it was absolutely worth it. I’ve been taking extra naps ever since to make up for it. My stamina is just not the same in the third trimester. Fortunately, I'm currently on maternity leave from my PhD program, which I'll be writing more about in the months to come. Taking this leave has lifted a tremendous weight off my shoulders and has allowed this pregnant mother to do just what she desires at this exact moment: focus on being a mom.

Gender Reveal: A Pictorial

Next summer, 

we will be welcoming a new baby boy 

into our family! 

We feel incredibly blessed.

Guess What?

I needed a wee rest after my epically lengthy 40^th birthday and blogging marathon! I’m back now and ready to talk about the “project for next year” you might remember me mentioning: the above was taken on October 3^rd, twelve days into the “40 Days of Birthday” celebration. Fortunately for me, I was spared the knowledge of pregnancy on my actual birthday, allowing me champagne. I’m aware that some mamas choose not to indulge anywhere near even the possibility of conception, but I prefer to plead unawares.

The truth is, I was aware very early this time. Not enough to be extra cautious on my birthday, but later that week I started to experience strange symptoms, the kind I’d only experienced much later in pregnancy with Lennon. On the way home from the Lady Castle, after carrying a heavy-ish bag, my fingers tingled ala Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, which I suffered from last time only during my third trimester. I also had strange gum tenderness on the day we first tried to go to the TV Tower. I realize these could be related to any number of things besides pregnancy, but my uncanny intuition told me otherwise. Right around this time the nausea also started in, something that didn’t occur until a good six weeks into my last pregnancy. I decided to take a pregnancy test the day before my missed period (sorry, Gents, if talk of such things causes you the same queasiness I’m experiencing) because I just “felt” so pregnant.

The fancy Clear Blue Easy Digital test I took—the same I used to test with Lennon, incidentally—not only literally spells out pregnant (in German) it tells you how many weeks into your pregnancy you are. The day before my missed period, the test read “2-3" weeks. This is where the confusing math comes in: the test instructions state that 2-3 weeks will translate to 5-6 weeks at your doctor’s office: Doctors will count from the first day of your last period and the test counts from two weeks after the point, when you are likely ovulating. Of course this is all mute if you know the exact date of conception. We did not. We knew what the successful course of action was when trying to get pregnant and chose not to hedge our bets. We were sure to make everyday in the month of September a possible day of conception.

With such a strong presence of hormone the day before my missed period and such early symptoms, I was pretty certain this was some powerful pregnancy. I even suspected for one frightening moment that it might be twins, throwing a wrench in our “family of four” plan. I’ve since had it confirmed several times that it is only one, very hormonal baby.

By the way, for those keeping score at home, if at any point on or after October 3^rd you witnessed me on my blog with what appears to be an alcohol beverage, let me assure you it is the alcohol-free variety. Lucky for me, Germany makes delicious alcohol-free beer! I practically lived on the stuff when I was nursing. It was fun to enjoy them in those first few weeks during this pregnancy as well, but once my nausea peaked, I couldn’t look at anything resembling beer—or squash, or tomato sauce, or bread, or nuts of any kind, just to name a few provocative aversions. Fruit and Asian noodles have been my go-tos this time around.

Lennon’s sibling should be arriving around June-ish. I’m not going to talk about specific dates since, in my experience, they mean nothing anyway. If I haven’t made it clear already, we’re very excited. Truly, I can hardly believe how incredibly blessed I am.

Post Script—Forty blogs entries for forty weeks of pregnancy? I’m already a little behind, but I’ll try to keep you informed in case of anything juicy. Also, "Gender Reveal" coming soon!

40 Days of Birthday: Day Three

“The beauty of the best-laid plans is that they are bound to be interrupted by even more delicious prospects.”

I’ll have to spin this one in the most existential way in order to make it delicious: my baby boy has a case of Bronchitis. After a near sleepless night, Lennon and I headed to the doctor’s office for the diagnosis. Navigating the U-Bahn and broken escalators while carrying a near thirty pound sick baby on my chest, lugging at least ten pounds from the Apotheke and Drogerie, including a nebulizer and big pack of diapers, left me defeated.

Lennon cries when he hears me using the immersion blender to make soup. The sound scares him. He has the same reaction to the sound of the nebulizer. I was able to distract him by reading The Cat in The Hat—the non-baby, non-board-book version, which is always so enticing with its rip-able pages. Finally, Lennon was able to fall into a deep sleep, the first for him in about a day.

Tomorrow is my actual birthday and I’m having doubts about baking a cake. Maybe there’s a little self-pity in the mix, but mostly, it all just doesn’t seem to matter when my baby boy is sick. I’ll hold onto the hope that the world may look more delicious after a good night sleep, for both of us. Until then, I’m grateful for a husband who comes home early, a son who’s getting better, and the pizzas in our freezer.

40 Days of Birthday: Day Two

The trade off was in my favor this morning: I left to sleep in while my husband played with Lennon. I did the same for him yesterday. The decadent part came when he also brewed my coffee and cooked the most delicious egg sandwich made with toasted, leftover baguette. Before heading out for the day, I cast my vote for U.S. President, Senator of California, and U.S. Representative for California, District 14 via my absentee ballot sent to me from San Mateo County Chief Elections Officer, Mark Church, participating in my country’s democracy from 9,000 kilometers away.

Our friends and neighbors, Aaron and his son Otis—just a few weeks younger than Lennon—were able to join us for the Kartoffelfest* this afternoon. Otis’s Mama, Kelly, was busy writing music for her new ensemble wherein she plays the flute—typical Mama stuff around these parts. In any event, it was nice for the boys to venture out on their own and for Mama Kelly to have time to work. I was the odd one out today, tagging along with the Papas and their sons. I did prove myself invaluable, however, having brought along a special Mama bag filled with extra drinks and snacks for babies—a detail sometimes overlooked by Papas when heading out on adventures.

The Kartoffelfest took place at a sweet organic farm, Domäne Dahlem, that always makes me forget we’re in Berlin. I procured a birthday bounty that included a robust potted Thyme, a loaf of fresh, organic bread, and two and a half kilograms of organic potatoes grown on the farm. Otis scored a lovely red, wooden car, handmade in Latvia, purchased for him by his Papa. While the babies snacked on Mama brought crackers and coconut water, the Papas and I drank organic Federweisser—a fermented grape juice—and ate organic Rostbratwurst. After a few hours, the wee babes began melting down so we counted our blessings and looked toward the exit—but not before sneaking in a tasty organic Pilsner, sealing our bliss.

*translation: Potato Festival

Mess

This week has been trouble. We’re transitioning Lennon from our bed into his crib. The crux of his ‘sleep training’—a controversial practice, to be sure, and a term I use loosely here to describe adjusting his sleep habits—is to have Lennon learn how to soothe himself into a sleepy state without needing to be in bed with Mommy. This alone might result in a lot less sleep for me than usual since babies don’t often appreciate their routines being disrupted, but his crib sits just at the end of the bed in which he’s been evicted, making the situation all the more complicated. About every other hour throughout the night he cries, “I know you’re there. I can smell you.”

What’s more?

Lennon is teething. He has had two teeth break through in the past twelve days. The two ‘biggie’ teeth—named so by other moms I know for their trauma-drama factor—are the upper fronts and they are showing definitive signs of popping; bulging white just beneath the skin. Lennon is in pain and at night.

Also:

Lennon is about to start to crawl and spends every moment that he’s on a parallel surface flipping himself from his back to his chest and kicking his legs. Supposedly, when a baby goes through a motor milestone such as crawling, it’s not uncommon for them to wake up in the middle of the night and practice their new skill. When Lennon wakes with teething pain, generally cross for finding himself in his crib and not the family bed, I often discover him on his belly ready to crawl away.

Not to mention that:

We just returned from a trip to the U.S. last week and I truly believe we’re just now getting over our jet lag.

To say my sleepiness has made me feel defeated would be an understatement. I’m pretty sure no one is at their best when sleep deprived but my symptoms feel very acute. Compounding the chaos, Nicholas is out of town chaperoning a school trip to Prague. When Nicholas is away, it becomes glaringly clear how much I depend on him for emotional support—something I’m not ashamed to admit since our wedding vows talked about doing just that. In all fairness, it was my benevolent idea to transition Lennon to his crib this week so Nicholas wouldn’t be sleep deprived, as he needs to be up early each morning. I stand by this decision, but I’m missing his tender perspective this week.

While Lennon is getting enough sleep—in fits and starts—being bathed, eating healthily, exercising, and playing, his mother is a mess. I’ll be honest with you—I showered for the first time this week just yesterday. Gross. Food wise, I do okay with first two meals of the day, but by five o’clock, when my body screams in protest from lack of sleep, it’s all I can do to open a bottle of non-alcoholic wheat beer and a bar of Ritter Sport chocolate and call it dinner. We have been outside each day this week for lengthy walks, a testament to the fact that while I may have lost some sense of self-pride, I have my wits about me enough to rally so my son can get some daylight and fresh air. I haven’t had many face-to-face conversations with adults this week and when having lunch with a friend yesterday, I noticed that it took me a good half-hour to find any coherence in forming sentences. The academic term at Freie Universität began April 1^st and I’ve slowly started my research, but the idea of working on it this week makes me want to impale myself on my retractable highlighter.

Last night, after a supper of eight or so—maybe more—sandwich cookies, a bar of Choco-Cherry Ritter, and a nonalcoholic wheat beer, with Lennon asleep in his crib, I treated myself to the 1975 documentary, Grey Gardens. I’ve seen the film more than a dozen times and find that watching Mrs. Edith Beale in her East Hampton house makes me feel better about myself. Last night, it served as a cautionary tale—a potential destination should I remain on my present course: filth and liver pate and forgotten dreams and unbathed octogenarians and raccoons in the attic and resentful children.

I really need to learn how to self-soothe.

Luckily for my family and I, I’ve seen enough years to know not to make any rash decisions or judgments about myself when I haven’t had enough sleep. So as much as I wanted to call it quits on the whole lot of life’s ambitions and only do things that would allow me to never leave the house, I decided to sleep on it—even if for just an hour at a time. Before I did, I went to my blue bowl with the fifty curled papers of wisdom and pulled out this little token of the toughest love:

14. Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.

Photo source found here.

Motherhood Matters

Throughout my pregnancy, I imagined having time on my hands while raising my baby. I’d get stuff done while he napped. “What was the big deal about breastfeeding?” I thought, “Surely I could work on other things while he nurses. I could do sit-down things like reading, or computer stuff, or sewing.” I saw how busy my sister was with her newborn but I was sure that wouldn’t be me. I had spent years multi-tasking, running a theatre company, working a day job. The only thing on my plate now was being a full-time mother. The hardest part would be figuring out how to spend all the extra time I’d have—“but, wait,” I thought, “I’ll have my PhD work, that’ll make it so I’m not so bored during the down times.”

Oh, Hubris, why you gotta play me like that?

The other day as I went through the daily emotional roller coaster of ‘tearfully joyful’ to ‘dream-crushingly overwhelmed,’ struggling to get things done around the house while trying to be singularly present for this incredible new person, I had a horrific self-realization:

I’ve spent most of my life under-estimating and under-valuing the work of child rearing—It’s no wonder I have a less than enthusiastic attitude toward it.

I have an incredible friend with a large brood of wonderful children. She has been raising them as a stay-at-home Mother for the past thirteen years. For her, I’ve only ever had words of admiration and awe for the countless hours of self-sacrifice, love, and energy she’s given to her work. I’ve agreed with her that she is doing the most Important job on earth. But looking back, I didn’t really believe that. I used to believe the Important work was that of Art and Commerce and Medicine and World Peace. Humbled by the firsthand experience of being a Mother, I’ve finally caught on that good Mothering is the foundation upon which Art and Commerce and Medicine and World Peace stand. I reckon that anyone who’s ever had a spouse, a boss, a partner, a co-worker, a friend, or an appointment at the DMV will testify to the unparalleled Importance of a Mother’s work.

Acknowledging that I’d spent so much of my life believing anything otherwise was a first step in adjusting my perspective. I’m working on letting go now of the subtle resistance I’ve had toward this matter-ful work. I relish the beauty, the play, and the blessedness of mommy-hood, but I’ve been shamefully guilty of sighing through the burdensome bits, wishing I could be doing something more Important (as if that existed.) I’m now interested in approaching parenthood as a holistic, dynamic thing and managing the burdensome moments as I would those in any Important project that I love and want to see flourish:

By cherishing the Process.

Just today, I looked down at my five-month-old son, naked on the changing table, and wondered how soon I could start potty training him. He looked back at me with the most beautifully open smile I have ever seen and a magical voice from the purest place in my heart asked, “What’s your hurry?”

RELEVANT

For the past week, my son has been teething and has woken to nurse every other hour throughout the night. This has afforded me an envious amount of nighttime organizational thinking. The unfortunate side effect of this is that sometimes I unearth a pressing thing, tragically misfiled in a forgotten corner of my brain, keeping me awake until the matter is resolved. The other night, as my mind wandered through so many disparate memories and should-dos, it landed on an ancient fear that unexpectedly sent a bolt of panic through my bones:

How will I stay RELEVANT as an artist?

I’ve seen this one before, thought I’d made peace with it. But it looked different this time because now it found me in my new role as a mother. It had only ever known me before as a dedicated artist. Now, it approached a woman who was questioning her degree of dedication. I imagined an extreme scenario, ten years into the future: My career has left me behind because I’d spent the last ten years solely focused on family and raising children. I’m no longer creating IMPORTANT work and whatever I’d made before has become outdated. My skills have become rusty. My colleagues have forgotten me. My industry no longer cares. I am irRELEVANT.

I searched my internal trouble-shooting guide for answers. I was pretty sure this subject was covered there, but what I found were just more disturbing questions:

If I don’t stay RELEVANT, how will I face all the people who’d been my competition all those years? If I don’t stay RELEVANT, how will I face my mentors who’d written me letters of reference for serious pursuits of theatrical academia? If I don’t stay RELEVANT, how will I justify all those hours of work and study? If I don’t stay RELEVANT, will I still be an artist?

At a moment like this, my husband is the best sounding board, but he was asleep, and while his generous soul probably wished I’d have woken him, there is no way I would have. The Interwebs became Plan C:

I started reading a post by Glennon Melton. Her blog, Momastery is my secret, dirty habit. For my money, I find her trademarked catch phrase full of spoon-fed inspiration and her writing to have such a broad relatability that I sometimes feel like I’ve just wept my eyes out over a phone company commercial when moved by her posts. Regardless, I am moved by her posts and often. However she differs from me in style, she pretty much nails in heart. She is articulate, kind, and unapologetic and for this she has my respect. What I read that night was a letter to her readers where she offers an alternative to self-destruction:

“When you start to feel . . . do. For example – when you start to feel scared because you don’t have enough money….find someone to give a little money to. When you start to feel like you don’t have enough love. . . find someone to offer love. When you feel unappreciated, unacknowledged . . . appreciate and acknowledge someone in your life in a concrete way. When you feel unlucky, order yourself to consider a blessing or two. And then find a tangible way to make today somebody else’s lucky day. This strategy helps me sidestep wallowing every day.”

Wallowing—I’d found a name for what I’d been doing that night. After reading the above, I found my ego cowering in the corner, shamed by the bigger issues that had just entered the room. I shut myself up and I went to sleep.

In the days following, I tried to write about that night and faced a lot of confusion. Truth be told, I’ve struggled since the moment I became pregnant with how to be the very best mother while still being IMPORTANT to my art. IMPORTANT means that I want to work in a way that contributes to the DNA of theatre. I know there are other ways to participate without giving so much of one’s soul, but that’s not been my calling. My son and my husband make it surprisingly effortless to see where my heart wants to be, but it doesn’t erase my charge as an artist, however much I wish it did some days. Nonetheless, I think maybe I stumbled on an answer the other night (thanks, Glennon.) Bare with me now as I try to be coherent:

If I can let go of the to-impress, to-please, to-satisfy parts of being an artist, what is left is just the GIVING part. Glennon’s post reminded me that GIVING is BEING RELEVANT.

The solution still lives in the esoteric and I don’t actually know how it all will work, but I did create the below steps as a map for myself. A three-pronged approach to staying artistically RELEVANT (working title.) I reckon it could also be useful in my role as a mother, especially given that Lennon is an expert at making his wants clear:

A: I’ll know what to GIVE by listening closely for what is needed from me.

B: The only thing that is required of me is to respond.

C: If I do so with truth, love, and energy, I will stay RELEVANT.

Then there’s this excerpt from a letter that Martha Graham wrote to Agnes DeMille:

“There is a vitality, a life-force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is; nor how valuable it is; nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate YOU.”


Good night and sweet dreams.







Photo source found here.
I first read the excerpt from Martha Graham's letter here.

"Keep hoping machine running." -Number 19 on Woody Guthrie's list of New Year's resolutions for the year 1942.

Lennon was born in 2011 and I became bigger person, and I’m not talking about the 57 lbs I gained during my pregnancy. I told some friends back in 2010, when I was hoping to get pregnant, that I imagined my heart expanding so I would be able to house the love for my child, the love for my family, and love for my work all together inside me. I thought of this largeness whenever I was confronted with fear and it usually made me braver. I became bigger than the fear and the volume of love I carried protected me. I grew last year but my expansion is not complete. In 2010 I wondered how a baby would fit into my life as an artist. In 2011 I wondered the opposite. I’ll be searching for answers in 2012 on a quest to become the big girl I really want to be.