On turning three

Birthday loot from the grandparents

He has fully rounded the bend past babyhood. Boyhood is clear on the horizon. I am watching the transition happen, right in front of my eyes. Suddenly, the child who would throw a fit because he didn’t want to walk is refusing the Ergo, insisting that he trot beside me for most of the almost half-mile to the el. He is trick-or-treating without a stroller, climbing steep porch steps without help. He is hanging off the bars at the playground, swinging his feet.

The child who had no words at all, really, is asking for more juice, more book, a big bowl. A glass of wine is “Dad’s juice.” He is saying “no dress,” “no bed.” He is singing the last word of each verse of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” saying the last word of each page of Goodnight Moon. He is pointing out blue, green, purple, yellow, red. He is saying “ummm” when faced with a choice. He is saying Dad? Dad? Dad? Mom? Dad?

He has said “Love you” back to me when I turn off the light at night.

He will never take a step off a curb or over a bump in the sidewalk when a full-throttle jump will do.

He has a sense of humor, slyly making the sign for “more” when he finishes a treat, grinning at us because he knows he can’t have seconds.

When I read him a book, he points to the page, giggling at a silly picture or crying "uh oh." It’s still so easy to make him laugh.

He can pedal a tricycle, draw a circle, comfort a fallen toy with a rocking hug, say that he’s 3, and give the best kisses, especially when they’re unsolicited.

He demonstrates more empathy than I'd expect from a child his age.

He has opinions about what shoes he wears.

He will sometimes throw the nearest object when he’s mad. He will hit. We’re working on this.

He has never been a good sleeper, and that hasn’t changed. We’re working on this.

He has peed in the potty twice.

He sometimes waves and yells “Bye bye!” to people exiting the el.

When he wakes in the morning, he says, “Up, Mom,” and brings me my slippers or glasses.

He loves the beach, the water, the hose, his Cozy Coupe, his tricycle, firetrucks, trains, Thomas, Bob the Builder, construction vehicles, his soccer ball, balloons, sticks. Ice cream, grapes, meat, fish, beans, rice, cereal with milk, M&Ms, sweet potato fries, “juice,” yogurt, ice cubes. He loves to walk on Clark Street and visit the dog store, the frozen yogurt place, the dry cleaner, the bookstore, of course the toystore. He is afraid of spiderwebs.

He remains a big fan of music and will pretend to play a horn when he hears it. He asks for music in the car. He loves the Native American drumming songs on his music class CDs.

A few weeks ago we toured a preschool that we’re considering for next year, and my heart leaped and ached at the same time, imagining him filing down those halls with the other big kids. It’s such a strange feeling to want and not want something at the same time.

It seems so unsatisfyingly inadequate to say how much I love him. How special he is. How deep my dreams and hopes are for him. How hard it is sometimes to parent a toddler, yet how grateful I am to parent this particular person. These days are so maddening and so sweet. They’re studded with such highs and lows. I would not trade them for anything.

Happy third birthday to my one and only Will Jiho. 

On turning two

Will can use a fork and spoon. He knows how to pet the dog gently (usually). He just started giving his stuffed animals a drink from his sippy cup—the first signs of pretend play. He can put on slip-on shoes. He’s excited to mimic everything we do. He loves his push tricycle. He loves to dance to “Gangnam Style.” If he sees a flower, even a fake one, he puts his nose to it. When a plate of food is set in front of him, especially at restaurants, he says enthusiastically, “MMMMMM!” If you tell him to go to his room and get a book and bring it to Dad, he does just that.

His first Halloween

He’s started to climb; we’ve taken down the crib and he seems thrilled about having his mattress on the floor. He gets excited about cars and motorcycles, buses and bulldozers, traffic lights, pumpkins on a porch. (We say hello to our pumpkins every day when we get home.) He can kick a ball with gusto. He puts toys in containers and dumps them out. He stacks his matchbox cars on top of each other. His dance moves consist of bouncing his head, squatting up and down, and turning in a slow circle until he gets too dizzy and tumbles to the floor.

He loves eating yogurt, rice and beans, fish, chicken, sweet potato fries, Korean noodles, kefir smoothies, waffles with peanut butter, grapes and berries, the occasional special-treat Oreo, and all kinds of cereal. He can climb up stairs on his own two feet, although he still reaches out for help sometimes. I want him to master the stairs, but I also want to hold that little hand.

I find myself wanting to stop time, to imprint little moments in my brain so they never fade away: He waves his hand, a pint-sized conductor, to get us to sing. He stands outside the glass door while John’s showering, rubbing his own hair and grinning as John shampoos. He laughs out loud when I send a car zooming down the ramp of his new toy garage. He burrows into me at bedtime. He turns around and backs down into my lap when we’re reading a book. He lifts a forkful of noodles to his mouth, or balances a piece of food on his sippy cup, then claps delightedly at his own success. He maneuvers his feet into our shoes and clomps around. He shrieks “MAH?!” when he sees the neighbor’s cat. He turns back to look at me again and again while he eats, while he plays with a toy, while he dances to music.

He’s at such an innocent age. A walk in the alley behind our home is slow-moving with wonder. Any new toy is a revelation. Seeing the television turned on is the height of excitement. When I say, “Please hold Mom’s hand,” he reaches up automatically. He doesn’t care what we dress him in. We do not embarrass him. We’re everything to him. There are so many things about the future that I’m excited about, and so many things that I know I’ll miss about this age and stage. Sometimes I already feel nostalgic for what he’s like right now.

I’m trying so hard to be present every day, to focus on the beauty and meaning of being his mother and watching him grow. I’m not saying anything new when I state that parenting a toddler can be very challenging, and sometimes I think it causes me to not see the forest for the trees. I focus on his whining, or on his refusal to sleep, or on trying to plan activities to keep him occupied, or on the confounding mercurialness of his toddler wants and needs. (“Mom, how dare you offer me grapes! But in 10 seconds, I will scream and whine because I don’t have grapes!”) Those trees can loom large. I’m writing this because I want to remember to look past them, to step back, to see the utter miracle that is the forest.

Happy 2^nd birthday, Will Jiho.

Three more weeks

Today was such a good day, despite the fact that John was working late and it was too inhumanely hot to do our usual playground visit and afternoon run. Will slept until about 8:30, woke up with a smile, and we lay in bed for awhile cuddling and “talking” (I say something; he responds with “meh?” or “mah”). After breakfast, we played with his toys, including a new-to-him toy that I brought out of storage last night, a sloping track for little plastic cars. The look on his face when he entered the den and saw it was priceless.

Some favorite toys these days

When he became bored with his toys, I let him play around with some old cords, a hairdryer, and a computer mouse (which he promptly placed on the desk next to our real computer mouse) while I made the bed and got dressed. Our house has so many random objects strewn around in weird places, but this is how I’m able to put on my makeup.

We left at 11:15 to run errands in the stroller; the heat was intense, so there was no meandering. We dropped off paperwork at his daycare and spent some time at the bookstore, where they have a chest of toys and a great selection of kids’ books. Then we went to the sandwich shop for a really delightful lunch… sat across from each other at a little table in the window and ate our turkey sandwiches with lots of grins and no fussing.

Home again to walk Stella, with Will in the back carrier. He fell asleep, and I laid him on our bed, where he proceeded to take a solid one-hour nap (!), during which I wrote a little and read the New Yorker. He woke up groggy, and we cuddled on the bed for about 20 minutes. Milk, reading books (I sit on the floor in his room and he brings them to me), practicing “How big is Will? Soooo big!,” watching some Korean Pororo cartoons on YouTube, then outside to play in the kiddie pool for an hour—lots of fun stomping in the water, pouring with the funnel, and, of course, worshipping the hose, Will’s most favorite toy.

Inside for our afternoon snack of yogurt and crackers (he knows what “eat” means now, which is so helpful), then off to walk Stella, more playing with toy cars, and 20 minutes of Baby Einstein while I cooked dinner. He sat in the little rocking chair that was mine as a toddler, clutching a wooden spoon and swaying to “The Wheels on the Bus.” We ate in the dining room, more grins and excited head-bopping for the sweet potato and zucchini and cheese. He was in a mischievous mood, pretending to put food in his ears, which he knows is wrong, then putting it in his mouth and reveling in my praise.

The mischievousness continued after dinner, when I emptied his diaper pail, told him to stay away from it, then found him fiddling with its door; when I reprimanded him, he erupted in crazed giggles. Bathtime! I sang Pororo songs and he kept trying to stand up and dance in the tub. So much smiling today, so many hugs and arms lifted to be held, so much dancing and laughter.

As John settled down in the rocking chair to put him to bed, Will closed his bedroom door; I was standing in the hallway. I knocked on the door and asked for a goodnight hug. He opened it, smiled, and gave me one. Then I blew him a kiss, which he doesn’t yet know how to reciprocate, I thought. He blew me two back and closed the door. I sat at the table and cried because I’m so just so happy I get to be his mom.

*****

Unbelievably, I go back to work in three weeks. I still vividly remember my first few days home alone with Will, after John returned to work in late April. I could not fathom how we’d fill the next few months, how I’d get through the 10 hours of each day. Taking care of a mobile toddler on my own, all day, seemed like the hardest thing I’d ever attempted to do.

I’m not going to say that I now find it easy. But definitely easier, and with really, really huge rewards. We’ve had some bad days, but more of them have been like today. It’s just me and him, together, getting to know each other and becoming mother and son. We’ve gone to playgrounds and the beach, on runs and playdates, on the el, to parks and the bookstore, out for lunch and for ice cream, to a local museum. We’ve read books, kicked balls, drawn with sidewalk chalk, walked around the neighborhood, run errands, met dogs, watched Pororo cartoons, played in the kiddie pool, listened to music. We’ve cuddled. There have been tantrums and crying and confusion and worry and naughtiness and boredom and frustration. But there have also been many spontaneous hugs from Will, an inordinate amount of laughs and smiles, bonding, babbling, singing, and dancing.

Sometimes, going back to work feels like the wrong choice. The thought of leaving him—after we’ve been so joined at the hip since April 12—makes me feel incredibly sad (even though it’ll be made easier by the fact that John starts a five-week paternity leave when I go back). Then again, there have been several days when I dearly, fervently wished I was sitting in my office. When Monday morning rolls around, I don’t feel a sense of pure pleasure at the prospect of caring for Will alone for five days. I know that parts of those days will be beautiful, and I do truly love spending time with my son, but I feel a small sense of dread at the upcoming tedium and isolation combined with very limited parental down-time (Will isn’t much of a napper; some days it’s only 15 minutes).

I definitely don’t want to not work. But I realize that I’m wishing I didn’t have to work 40 hours a week. Even working just four days a week, instead of five, would help alleviate the guilt that’s already starting to creep into my mind and heart, settle heavily on my shoulders. I enjoy my job and colleagues, and it’s a family-friendly workplace, and I’ve worked hard to achieve the position I have there. But John and I don’t need my salary to survive. So the wheedling voice of guilt tells me that I’m going back to work only because I want to… because I don’t want to take care of Will full-time… and that’s a selfish choice that isn’t best for a toddler. No one has actually said this to me, and John doesn’t agree with it, but the voice is there.

I know there are other reasons to keep my job. I honestly believe I’ll be a happier, more balanced person and, therefore, a better parent if I’m working. If John lost his job and I was unemployed, we’d be in bad shape. If John wants to change jobs for one that’s less stressful with a lower salary, he’ll have much more latitude to do that if I’m working. Editorial jobs are difficult to come by, and it would likely be extremely tough for me to find another well-paying, fulfilling position if I take three or four years off… let alone at a company that’s as sane and pleasant as the one that employs me now. I could try to build a freelance editing business, but I’m not sure how to schedule weekly childcare for unpredictable work, and I don’t think I can mentally handle parenting all day and editing all night. Then there’s the fact that we’re pretty confident Will will adore daycare and thrive with the activities and other kids.

Still. The guilt, tinged with a little sadness. It’s there, and I’m not quite sure what will become of it. In the meantime, my focus right now is on enjoying these last few weeks of just the two of us. I’m trying to be as present as I can. I’m taking lots of photos. Every night, I write down all the little discoveries and accomplishments and feelings and funny things that happened that day for both of us, knowing that once I’m back in my office—managing, editing, hair done and lipstick on and no need to worry about what the toddler’s getting into or how to entertain him—I will, without a doubt, miss him and these precious, precious days.

 

How I wonder what you are

Will is home. We are three. How to write about this? How to even start, and what to say?

I have been a mother for four weeks now. The mother of Will Jiho. I’ve felt pretty much every emotion under the sun during those four weeks. But the ones that consistently come out on top are happiness and love. Happiness at being Will’s mother. Love for him that began, in full unadulterated force, the moment John scooped him up at the agency in Seoul, and we got into the impossibly tiny elevator, rode the seven floors down to the lobby, entered the waiting cab, and drove away, across the river, back to our hotel. A family of three.

I think what I’m going to do here is just write whatever comes to mind about him. Because really, what these four weeks have been about is Will, learning to care for him, and getting to know him. They’ve been about me and John, too, and our adjustment and feelings, but really, right now, this isn’t about us at all. It’s about the eighteen-month-old who’s in the midst of one of the biggest changes a person can experience—with no real way to understand it, or have it explained to him. And it’s our job to help him through it.

To be blunt, I’m in awe of how well Will is doing. I don’t credit myself and John much; I think it’s largely due to Will’s personality. He is a cheerful, outgoing, funny, friendly, and curious kid. He smiles and laughs a lot—I’m realizing that one of my number-one goals these days is getting him to laugh! He’s not afraid of meeting people and going new places. He was certainly bonded to his foster family, with whom he lived for sixteen months, but he was happy, playful, and relaxed with us during our first meeting with him in Seoul. From day one, he has let us comfort him and care for him. When he’s upset, he’ll sometimes show a preference for me over John, but overall he seems think we’re both pretty cool.

Will loves…

…Eating. His foster mom thought he ate too much, although he’s under the fiftieth percentile for weight and height. Favorites so far are strawberries, grapes, fish, chicken, sweet potato, waffle, Puffs, yogurt, bread, applesauce, Cheerios (or rather, the Trader Joe’s brand of faux Cheerios), and cheese.

…Going outside. He gets so excited about his shoes and coat! He truly loves heading out, whether it’s on the back deck, to the playground, or for a run in the stroller (thank goodness). He’s been fussy a few times during my runs, but usually he’s completely relaxed. We’re not sure if he ever rode in a stroller in Korea, so we were worried about this.

…Bathtime! We have a true little fish. No matter where he is or what he’s doing, when he hears John turn on the tub faucet, he goes running to the bathroom. He shrieks and babbles with happiness and tries to climb into the tub. In four weeks, the adorableness of this has not waned. He also just loves H2O in general—when we give him a sippy cup of water, instead of drinking it, he revels in letting it drip down his chin. One of the best ways to keep him occupied during a wait at the doctor’s office was to let him turn the water fountain on and off (and on and off…).

…Music. He loves to dance and bop his head along to his toy piano, the maraca we gave him, bits of music played during NPR newscasts, even the sound of two plastic cups being banged together. He also loves any kind of song that has accompanying hand motions, like “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” and “The Wheels on the Bus.”

…Waving. He is an expert, and he gets a lot of practice, since we live in a neighborhood bustling with pedestrians, dogs, cars, and buses. All of them get an enthusiastic wave.

…Buttons, switches, dials of any sort. Our lamps, the wall light switches, the DVD player, remote controls, cellphones, John’s guitar amplifier—you name it, he wants to push/pull/turn it. …Opening and shutting cabinets, doors, and drawers, repeatedly.

…Stella! His foster family had a dog on the premises (not sure if it was an indoor dog), and he’s never shown a shred of fear toward his hound sister. We’re still working on “gentle petting,” but he’s getting there. After a few days at home, he knew which toys were hers and would pick them up and bring them to her bed (heartmelt). For her part, Stella has been a true champ. Her tolerance amazes us. If he does something she doesn’t like, she simply walks away.

…Interesting textures. He loves to rub his fingers on the heating vent, stuffed animals, screens, the grass, etc. His favorite books right now are the kind that are “touch and feel.”

…Keys. Sadly, they (like everything else) go right into his mouth, so we don’t let him play with them for long. This can lead to screaming.

What doesn’t Will love? Well, naps have been a challenge. Apparently he was taking two daily ones in Korea, but he’s been haphazard about it here. I think this might change as time goes on and he’s more used to his surroundings. The best way to get him down is to wear him on our backs in the Ergo (he’s actually snoozing there while I type this). Better than nothing, because no nap = not a happy Will. 

Everyone asks how sleep is going, and really, it could be a lot worse. One of us slept on the floor in his room for the first two weeks or so, with him beside us on the crib mattress. (The jet lag was crazy those first few days—he’d wake up at 3 a.m. ready to play.) After about two weeks, we slowly moved him up into his crib. He now falls asleep there between 8 and 8:30, wakes up around midnight for a bottle, sometimes wakes again around 2ish but can be soothed back to sleep, then wakes about 4 or 5 and usually isn’t soothable, so we bring him into our bed to sleep until we get up for the day. Honestly, I don’t have many complaints about this right now—I feel like we’re getting a bit of co-sleeping in there, which is supposed to be good for attachment, but he’s also learning to sleep in his own room and in his crib.

I’m trying to think of what else upsets him, or what he doesn’t like. He does have cranky days, and he does tantrum. Sometimes diaper changes are a challenge. We have to say “no” to him and remove him from situations quite often, since he’s 100 percent mobile and into everything. But truly, his default personality seems to be goofy, happy, and curious. He often wakes up in our bed with a smile on his face, his hair all sticking up. It is the very best way I have ever woken up.

How I’ve been feeling: in love, in awe, in shock, confused, frustrated, incredibly lucky, worried, impatient, guilty, tired, amazed, overloaded, wistful, bored, proud, happy, purely joyful. My first few days home alone last week, when John went back to work, were pretty mentally overwhelming. The 10 hours of each day seemed unfillable. I could not fathom how to handle the following eleven weeks. This week felt much, much better—I have ideas for how to structure things, we get out and do something every day, and that makes a huge difference. A lot of the time, I really, really like hanging out with Will. At certain times, all I want is for John to get home. My son is a toddler, and I’m thinking these feelings are pretty normal, especially for someone who didn’t have the eighteen months leading up to this to get used to parenthood and this particular child.

What else?

I want to write that watching John parent—which he does generously and responsively and thoughtfully and well—has been an amazing thing to see.

That I cried at least once a day for almost two weeks after we got home: tears of jet lag, joy, exhaustion, frustration, love.

That I still don’t quite feel like a “real” parent, and that we have no idea what to do in many situations (let’s just say that Will’s diapers went on backward for awhile), but that I have learned mightily in the past month.

That hearing Will laugh and seeing him smile floods me with a kind of happiness I’ve never felt before.

That you should absolutely never turn down an offer of a homemade meal when you’re a new parent. 

That it is possible to go out to dinner with a toddler, if you choose the right place and go early enough. That putting on makeup and pretty clothes can feel hugely restorative.

That I had read about people needing months to feel attached to their adopted children, and about women dealing with post-adoption depression, and I’d secretly thought I might experience these feelings, but I haven’t.

That I suspect the Pororo music will be playing on a continuous loop in my brain for the next five years.

That taking care of a toddler for a whole day alone can be really, really hard. You might find yourself thinking purely in terms of how to fill the time until your partner comes home. Then you might feel guilty for thinking that way, but you still kind of do.

That I sometimes look forward to Will being a little older, and other times want him to stay a baby so very much.

That sitting on the couch at 9 p.m. with a New Yorker

and a glass of wine or a brownie has never, ever felt so good.

That feeling my son’s arms cling around my neck for comfort at 3 a.m. is a beautiful feeling, no matter how tired I am.

That I don’t understand how the universe worked to make us Will’s parents and him our son, but that I will be always, eternally grateful that it did.

1961

John and I just returned from a three-day trip to Havana, a place we’ve both wanted to visit for a long time. It had been planned for a few months, although it was definitely eclipsed by our news of Will in November! This trip was fascinating, thought-provoking, and utterly unforgettable for me. I’m struggling to process it all. There are so many things I want to write about what we saw and experienced, what an isolated and passionate and crumbling and confusing country it is. How deeply I love it, and how much it makes me appreciate my own freedom. But if I could write only one story about those three days, this would be the one.

The Russian Lada was at least 30 years old, with red carpeting tacked over the dashboard and not a seatbelt to be seen. Before we got in, Alberto explained that after he’d been rear-ended, his mechanic was able to remove the back half of another Lada and attach it to the front half of his. Now the exhaust pipe was acting up and would need to be fixed. This didn’t surprise us, considering all the exhaust blanketing the air in Havana.

It was December 10, our second day in the city, the second of three total, and the only afternoon we had free during a busy schedule with our tour group. (Going with a specially licensed “people-to-people” tour was the only way the U.S. government would allow us to enter the country.) Alberto, our 66-year-old tour guide, a retired scientist and devoted revolutionary, had kindly offered to drive us to my mother’s childhood house if we paid for the gas. And so, clutching the maps she’d drawn for me and the old scanned photos I’d printed, I got in the front seat and John in the back, and off we rumbled, heading for a destination just a few miles away but 51 years back in time.

***

My mother is Cuban. She was born on the island, and she left it in 1961, at age 12, as part of the Operation Pedro Pan exodus. More than 14,000 children were sent out of the country by their parents to escape the communist revolution that had occurred in 1959 and was steadily encroaching on people’s freedoms. People with wealth were particularly affected, and my mother’s family fell into that category; my great-grandfather’s sugar-cane farm was appropriated by the government. Many children were sent to the USSR or the island’s rural interior for reeducation, no matter their parents’ wishes, and people suspected of being counter-revolutionary were spied upon and denounced. Thousands of people saw no choice but to flee, and with a few suitcases and some hidden money and jewelry, they left on planes to “vacation” in the States or Central America. They were never able to return. They left behind their friends, jobs, homes, possessions, pets, their entire lives. Most of them, including my family, had to rebuild those lives from scratch, depending on the generosity of the U.S. government, churches, and other exiles to gain a foothold in a new country.

By the mid-60s, every single person in my mother’s extended family had left the island except for one cousin. My oldest aunt left alone, then my mother left alone; she was told she was going on vacation in Miami, and when she arrived, the relative with whom she was staying told her the truth. The rest of the family was able to join them a few months later. I believe that only three of my relatives have ever returned to Cuba. I was the fourth.

***

Our goal that warm, cloudy Saturday was to find two houses situated next door to each other, one that had belonged to my mother’s family and the other to her grandparents, who were like second parents to her. The neighborhood had been green and gracious, with gardener-tended flowerbeds and gleaming, elegant homes. When we parked our car in the intersection near the houses, we found that now, like so much of Havana, the neighborhood is crumbling. There are weeds and broken sidewalks, rusted chain-link fences, houses with peeling paint and falling plaster. Some houses are in better repair than others, but the overall feel is one of shabbiness.

My mother’s house had been bright white and well-kept, with massive arches and a beautiful side yard and terrace. Now it’s gray and decrepit, only a shadow of its former self… it was a haunting thing to see. With Alberto as our translator, we knocked on the door and spoke with the old woman who lives there. She allowed us in, although she didn’t permit photos (John was able to take some clandestine video with his iPhone). Inside the house was dark, sparsely furnished, and melancholic, a giant cockroach dead in the corner. Even if we’d been able to take photos, I don’t think I could’ve showed them to my mother. The old woman explained that she’s unable to care for the building, and as we left, Alberto muttered that it will fall to the ground in 10 years if it isn’t repaired.

Cuba is a country of contradictions, and in a place where everyone is supposed to be economically equal, it’s surprising to see the disparities. My great-grandparents’ house is beautiful and well-preserved. It’s painted a tropical salmon pink, with the same colorful Spanish tiles in the porch floor that were there when my mother played jacks on them. The 30-something woman who lives there now rents rooms to visitors. She was a bit reserved at first, but she allowed us in to explore and take photos. She has a computer and polished antique furniture. Her husband is a carpenter. The rooms are painted bright colors; the crown molding is still intact. The floors are spotless black and white tile. Using the floor plan my mother had drawn me, we walked from room to room, and I was able to identify them all: my great-grandparents’ bedroom, my great-grandfather’s office, the stairs to the servants’ quarters. The house felt happy and loved. When we left, the owner agreed to pose for a photo with me. She smiled and rubbed my arm when I tearily thanked her for the gift of seeing the house and told her it was one of the best days of my life.

***

The first thing I did when I returned to Chicago was email the photos of the houses and the neighborhood to my mother. They were very difficult for her to look at, although seeing her grandparents’ well-cared-for home made her happy. Amazingly, she recognized the chandelier in the foyer and two pieces of furniture, a dresser and a dining-room hutch. They have remained in the house since my great-grandparents last locked the front door behind them in 1961.

All my life I have lived with the ghost of Cuba. But it’s a pale specter compared to the ghosts that haunt actual Cuban exiles who long so much for their island home. For me, Cuba has been a mythical, legendary place, the setting for countless tales of my mother’s childhood, her memories of her close-knit family, and also stories of struggle, danger, and desperation. When I look at the photos I took and imagine the past, I’m filled with a vast, palpable sadness for my family, the decisions they had to make and the great loss they endured. I’m also filled with pride at their courage.

I can’t ever know what it would feel like to close the door on a life and start over in a strange country with nothing, or to place my child on an airplane alone, not knowing when I would see him again. But now I know what it feels like to stand where my mother stood almost 51 years ago, suitcase in hand, waving goodbye to her dog and thinking excitedly of her “grownup vacation” to Miami to visit her aunt. I know where my grandmother pruned her rosebushes and where my great-grandparents sat on the porch after dinner. I know the park where my aunts and uncles played, and the pink house across the street where the boy who’d marry my aunt lived. I know the palm trees lining the streets. I stood on the same black-and-white tiled floors. I stood on the same floors.

Balance and turns

I danced ballet for six years, until I was 14 and didn’t want to anymore. I had taken classes several times a week, danced in Nutrackers and Coppelia and Giselle, in pointe shoes and tutus, with girls both mean and sweet. Some of those girls had stiff flappy arms and “feet like milquetoast,” as my larger-than-life teacher would say. Others got better and better until they were whipping out double pirouettes and leaping through solos, their svelte bodies completely under their command. I was in the middle, not bad but not the best. I had graceful arms and good feet, but not a remarkable amount of strength or precision. I wasn’t overweight, but I wasn’t the slenderest. Middling.

When I joined the company as an apprentice and graduated to dancing pointe, everything became harder. I couldn’t seem to keep up as well as I had before. The competition among the girls was more blatant. I started dreading class. I looked at my body in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and was disappointed. I imagined doing other things after school. And I decided to stop.

It was a big decision for a 14-year-old, and I can still remember my mom standing in my bedroom doorway, motionless and stricken, as I told her the news. It was the right thing for me to do, and I didn’t regret it, but it closed the door on a big part of my life. I nudged it open once in awhile by dancing in a school play, or writing about my experiences in a college workshop, or attending Joffrey performances here in Chicago. But I never took another class until a few weeks ago.

I actually can’t remember now where I got the idea. I still love the art form, and I think I suddenly realized that I could be part of it in that physical way again—put on ballet shoes and practice tendues and developés, follow my hand with my eyes as I Iift it to first position. What did I have to lose? If I didn’t like dancing, I could just stop. So I looked for a low-key adult beginner class and found a well-regarded studio right in my neighborhood. I Googled whether you need to wear a bra with a leotard. (Seriously, I could not remember how I used to handle that. The answer for me: no.) I went to a dance shop and bought a leotard, footless tights, and canvas shoes. I had strange, angsty dreams. And then I showed up on a Saturday morning, and I danced ballet for an hour.

I’ve been meaning to write about this for the past few weeks, now that I’ve taken four classes. The surrealness is wearing off a bit. That first class was alternately amazing and conflicting and just beautifully strange. I could not believe how much my mind and body remembered. I could hear my old teacher’s voice in my head, guiding us through the steps. My feet could still point the way they always had, and my legs felt strong and sharp, my arms and hands graceful. My balance, though—good lord. You’d think my core was made of Jello. And could it be that at 35, my memory’s starting to fuzz around the edges? Or was it always this tough to memorize the combinations?

My classmates were mostly women, some younger and some older. Most of them had danced at a young age like me. One of the things I noticed right away was this beautiful open space where the judging used to be—we weren’t sizing each other up, dividing the good and the bad and the middling, bringing the politics of popularity into the mix. We were just spending our Saturday morning doing something that we enjoyed, getting some exercise, admiring and listening to our lithe, petite 50-something teacher who has obviously been a professional ballerina all her life.

So much is different. Instead of an actual piano or a scratchy record player, the music comes from an iPod. My hand that holds the barre has a wedding ring on it. My hair isn’t in a bun, studded with bobby pins and secured with a net; I need my mom for that, so a ponytail does the job. It feels unnatural to turn out my feet, to balance in a passé relevé. Have I mentioned the lack of balance?

So much is the same. I take an inordinate amount of pleasure in doing barre work, just like I always did. Thanks to running and strength training, I’m in decent shape, much as I was back when I was dancing several days a week. My grand battements look pretty darn good. I know how to hold my head, and I don’t sickle my feet. I think my body’s proportions are pretty much the same. Also, newsflash: It still takes a healthy dose of courage to watch yourself move around in a leotard and tights.

My body still doesn’t do what real dancers’ bodies should do. I still am not one of the best. And see, there’s the thing, one of the reasons I’m especially glad to be taking this class. I have always been a perfectionist, a child who abhorred coloring outside the lines, who became accustomed to getting A’s, who was a good writer, a group leader, someone who got the job, who got promoted. Who set goal times for races and then, almost always, achieved them.

The first winter that John and I were dating, he bought me a pair of ice skates so we could go skating together. I didn’t know how to skate. A few turns around the crowded rink, clutching an orange road cone for dear life while 10-year-olds soared past, turned me off completely. I didn’t feel like I could do it, and that embarrassed me greatly, and I put the ice skates away and never used them again.

Being a perfectionist is both a good and a bad thing, of course, and I’ve always felt bad about those skates. So for the past four Saturdays, as I’ve faced myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror and realized I am not the best or thinnest dancer in the room, nor will I ever be, I’ve also told myself that that’s OK. I am not there to be the best and thinnest dancer in the room. I am not there to spin double pirouettes and be cast in the right parts. I am there because I love ballet, and I want to work my body, and it feels good to get in touch with that long-ago part of myself that danced these same steps.

If I can learn that, really learn that, along with balance and turns and combinations, I think this will be one of the best decisions I’ve yet to make for myself. My teacher says that balance can be strengthened simply by standing on one foot as you wait for the train. It can become second nature. I’m going to believe that’s true.

Me with my pen and my summer ale

I feel the days slipping past, a beaded necklace sliding through my fingers, and I’m trying to feel the texture of each piece before it’s gone, make the most of each balmy green day, but many times I fail.

(Part of me wants it all to whoosh past in a blur—the part of me dreaming of that small someone across the globe—but to be honest, I’ve tamped that part down pretty well. Before we found out about the delay, I thought about our little guy a lot, several times a day. I talked about him with John, ruminated about future-y things, trolled around parenting and baby-gear websites. I’m not really doing that much these days. I don’t know when we’ll see his face, and after that, when we’ll bring him home. I don’t know how old he’ll be. I don’t know what paperwork we’ll have to update and resubmit because of this change in timing. So I’m just trying to focus on other things. It’s easier that way, even though again, I feel the time moving, more and more days in which we’re not parents. I’m sad for John. I do think about that.)

I’m always one to worry that I’m not making the most of things, living my best life, soaking everything in… although I suspect I’m not the only Chicagoan who feels this way in the summer. July is almost over! Am I opening my arms wide enough to embrace it all? I sat on the deck with John last night, he playing Bruce Springsteen on his guitar, Stella snoozing on her mat, and me with my pen and my summer ale, making a “Rest of the Summer” list.

Have more friends over for grilling and deck lounging. Bring a picnic to Millennium Park for one of the free concerts. Visit a few particular restaurants with outdoor seating. Hit the big Green City Market in Lincoln Park a few times. Explore the Cuban and Korean street festivals. Walk down the street for ice cream at least once a week. Sit outside and watch the sky and listen to the crickets. Do a photo walk in the late afternoon. Wear dresses more often.

I’m already doing many of these things, plus bringing Stella to the dog beach, and training for the half-marathon (I broke my 5K personal record with a 25:36 this weekend—pure happiness!), and going to neighborhood fests, and taking a photography class, and eating and reading outside whenever possible. I’m tending my plants, smelling the marigolds and cooking with fresh herbs. We hosted a big outdoor party for friends and neighbors. In July we spent five nights camping in northern Michigan, and we’ll be taking a few days off at the end of August and “vacationing” here at home. I’m working hard, and editing side projects for friends, and not watching much TV.

Sometimes it seems like when I’m busy and booked, I yearn for the couch and a magazine. And when I’m sitting at home with InStyle and a basket of laundry, I think about all the other interesting and edifying things I could be doing. I tend to fret that I’m not making the most of city living, that I’m not exploring, learning, volunteering enough. The truth is that I like doing those things, but I also like sitting outside and watching the sky, feeling the air, listening to the crickets. And watching and feeling and listening are enough. They really are.

There were bells on a hill

Yesterday I read an article about a new study showing that South Korean children seem to have much higher rates of autism than American children.

Yesterday I got home from work, looked in the mirror, and saw a ladybug clinging to the collar of my jacket.

That’s pretty much how life seems to be going these days, swinging on a pendulum from fear/worry/angst to excitement/joy/hopefulness. I mean, it’s not like every day is a rollercoaster of emotions, but they crop up pretty regularly. It’s strange how you can want something so badly and be so afraid of it at the same time.

We’re entering the timeframe when our referral could come. Still a bit early, yes, but it could conceivably come anytime between the end of May and August. We could travel anytime between September and December, I think, if the current agency timeframes hold steady. This stage of our adoption process—which started in November 2009, when I mailed our first agency application—feels the most “real” yet. Our child is most likely born. We are eyeing every stroller we see on the street. I’m trolling around local message boards that discuss child care. We’re going to register in June. I’m going to tell my boss this month, and after that, we won’t have a reason to keep the whole thing secret any longer.

I’ve been having lots of big thoughts—about nature versus nurture, what we can control and what we can’t, about personal courage and strength, about what makes a strong marriage. What it means to be happy and just how important that really is. (I think we Americans place a higher emphasis on personal happiness than some other cultures do.) I think about those studies that say childless adults are happier than adults with kids. I wonder about that, thinking about things like getting good sleep, lounging with the newspaper, running four or five days a week, meeting friends for dinner, lingering and laughing with John at a bar or over a meal. Those things make me happy, and I won’t do them as often once we’re parents.

The thing that is taking their place will make me happy in a whole different—and, arguably, deeper and more fulfilling—way. I know that. But it will also bring worry and frustration and fear, and that’s going to mean a new way of living, a new way of feeling. Right now, we’re fortunate enough to not have any major stressors, other than the usual mild work or family challenges. I want this new life, but I also like my current, simpler life (even though sometimes it feels like something is missing, like I’m ready to move on to the next chapter). So I guess I’m just thinking my way through all that right now.

Of course, it’s not like I spend all my waking hours immersed in deep thought! Spring is finally springing in Chicago. I’m back to running outside, and I’ve decided to attempt my second half-marathon this summer, so I’ll start training for that soon. We’ve started planting in the backyard, and we’ll get our deck flowers planted soon. After almost three years with us, Stella has suddenly noticed the existence of squirrels, making our walks much more amusing. I’ve signed up for a four-week photography class, and I’m copyediting a friend’s first novel. John just learned to play “Till There Was You” on his guitar, which I’ve decided will make a great lullaby. We recently went to Michigan to meet my perfect little nephew. And we spent a fabulous weekend in San Francisco, celebrating the end of tax season and just enjoying a few days of doing whatever we wanted to, together, in one of our favorite cities in the world.

Last weekend we had brunch with some dear friends who live in the suburbs. We were standing on the sidewalk, waiting for a table at a restaurant. I was holding my friend’s blond-haired, blue-eyed nine-month-old, and a woman walking by wished me a happy Mother’s Day. “So funny,” I told my friend, “it’s not like she looks like me at all!” Then I realized, um, yes, neither will my actual child, and we all laughed, me feeling grateful for the woman's assumption. I pressed my cheek against the baby’s soft head and pretended.

There are so many things I want to write about this whole process

My little sister is pregnant with her first child, the first grandchild in my family. I am so over the moon about this, so ready to meet my nephew and to add the role of aunt to wife, daughter, and sister. He’s due to show up at the end of April, and I can already feel the soft heavy warm weight of him in my arms. It’s a sheer miracle to think of looking into his face and seeing my sister’s face, our family face.

My mother and I threw a baby shower a few weeks ago. Eighteen women gathered in the living room, eating cupcakes and passing around the baby gifts as my sister opened them. I handled each one as it came to me, exclaiming over the little pants, the pacifiers, the blankets and bibs. My sister laughed and tugged at her maternity shirt, made a joke about her breastfeeding pump. And I felt no envy. I’ve never had a yearning to be pregnant, to experience what it’s like to carry a baby to term and give birth. I don’t look at pregnant women and wish I were one of them.

I do feel the loss of not creating a child with John. I will never forget our first meeting with our social worker, on a white-sky winter day last year, when she told us that we had to come to terms with that—the fact that our child won’t look like us, won’t inherit our family’s traits, won’t come from me and John. She pointed out that that was a loss, and I guess I’d been so focused on the excitement of starting the adoption process that I hadn’t really thought of it. It brought tears to my eyes then, and every once in awhile, I think of it and still feel that sadness.

When it comes down to it, being pregnant isn’t what I want. Having a child is. For certain health reasons, and because we’ve always had open hearts for adoption, that’s how we’re going to grow our family. At the core of me, it does feel right.

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There are so many things I want to write about this whole process.

I might not envy the state of being pregnant, but sometimes I do envy the simplicity of it. People understand pregnancy and biological children. They don’t have so many questions, whether asked or unasked. John and I still haven’t told many people about our plans. Of course, our families know, and several close friends, but we haven’t announced it at work or said anything about it on Facebook. Most of the people we’ve told have been thrilled and excited and supportive. (The ones who haven’t been that way seem mildly happy for us but also confused, and they haven’t asked us about it much afterward.) Most people have some questions, but nothing that’s odd or rude. They check in with us for updates and ask how the process is going. And maybe it’s just me being overly sensitive (and that’s a very strong possibility), but sometimes I wonder what they’re really thinking. Do they think we’re crazy? Do they think international adoption isn’t a good thing? Do they have preconceived ideas about what adopted kids are like? If our child has any problems whatsoever, will people always point to his adoption?

Obviously, dealing with these types of issues is going to be part of our “new normal.” We knew that going into it, and we know we will handle it. But still, it can feel a little jarring and isolating. Recently I went out to dinner with a few friends, one of whom didn’t know about the adoption, and I told her. She seemed happy for us, asked me a few questions, and that was it. It wasn’t brought up again for the rest of the night. The next day, we all emailed back and forth about how fun the dinner was, and she never mentioned it. I can’t help wondering if it would be the same if I were pregnant.

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It’s not hard for me to get too deeply inside my own head, if that makes sense. On some days I think about how he’s already somewhere out there, crying or sleeping or gurgling, waving his arms around. I see the three of us visiting playgrounds, taking Stella to the beach, reading bedtime stories. I see him dancing while John plays the guitar, all of us laughing. Other days I fear that he won’t attach, he won’t sleep, he’ll have separation anxiety, he’ll be afraid of the playground (I know, right?). That we won’t be good parents; that I’ll be frustrated or confused or desperate or just plain old worried all the time. Logically, I know that parenting is going to contain all of these emotions and experiences in one big messy bundle, that there will be very high highs and very low lows. I suppose I’m just afraid of the unknown sometimes, even though I’m still moving steadily toward it with my arms open wide.

In my head lately

Things I have been thinking lately, in no particular order:

I can run 13 miles. I know this because I did it twice. The first time was fairly hellish. The second time, yesterday, was much better. I’m excited to do this with thousands of my closest friends in exactly two weeks (!!).

What if, when the baby comes, the person who picks him up from child care is also the first person home and has to walk the dog? How do we do both in a fast and efficient manner, where no one cries or has an accident on the rug?

Also, what kind of child care should we use?

Apparently we’re going to Italy in less than four weeks. Apparently one should make some loose itineraries when fortunate enough to have three days in Rome, five days on the Amalfi Coast, and four days in Tuscany. One now has plans for the long Labor Day weekend…

Throwing a party for 40 people on your rooftop deck is stressful, but realizing you have 40 friends who want to spend a Saturday night on your roof is pretty darn awesome.

Sometimes, when I’m watching TV at night, I look to the entrance of the hallway off the living room, and I see a tiny little boy standing there in a sleeper, holding a blanket and sucking his thumb.

I suspect adopting a baby from Korea is going to bring some really good new friendships into our lives.

I have seen the Chicago skyline from the north many, many times, but it never gets less breathtaking, especially the first time it’s approached on foot, after running six miles south on the lakefront path. Turning the bend around the domino tables, and pow—I actually consider it a kind of reward.

Stella actually understands when it’s the weekend and that that should equal a ride to the dog beach. She follows us around the house, and she starts dancing in place and wagging her pointy hound head if I change my clothes. Apparently something is working inside that golf-ball-sized brain.

I do not approve of darkness at 8 p.m.

If I worked at an adoption agency in Seoul and my responsibility was to match infants with their parents, what kinds of photos of those parents would I want to see?

Where is the child who will become our child right this very second?

******

This past week, we went to an outdoor concert at Millennium Park downtown. David Gray and Ray Lamontagne—oh yes, we were excited. We packed our picnic basket (including a clandestine bottle of wine under the cloth napkins), hoisted up our camping chairs, and I grabbed a light scarf because it was unseasonably cool, daytime highs in the 70s. We claimed a patch of turf close to the stage and proceeded to enjoy a really fabulous show, while the sun set behind the skyline and couples held hands and swayed together and someone, somewhere, smoked some pot.

Ray played my favorite song of his, a sad, quiet one with a violin called “Jolene.” There is this plaintive line that just pulls at the proverbial heartstrings, that I always sing along to: “Still don’t know what love means.” And so I sang along to it in my camping chair, with my plastic cup of cabernet, and suddenly it had a new meaning. I thought that it was very true, that there is a type of love that I don’t know yet, the meaning and experience of which I don’t understand. I know love, but not in all its manifestations, not yet. We are so, so incredibly on the cusp, sometimes I’m in awe of it.

March malaise

So we have a whirlpool tub in our second bathroom. And for the past few days, whenever I’ve gone in there, I’ve seen a small daddy longlegs spider in the tub, quietly hanging out. Sometimes he’s at one end of the tub, then at the other; I’ve also seen him resting halfway up the tub wall. But I don’t think he can climb out, since it’s been five days now and he’s still there.

When I was a kid, my family vacationed in the Pocono Mountains every summer. One August day, we came back from a hike, and as I washed my hands and looked at myself in the cabin’s bathroom mirror, a large daddy longlegs appeared in my hair, crawling from the back of my head around toward my face. Understatement: This was a very traumatic experience, and let’s just say that now, in adulthood, when I’m very stressed out, I have nightmares in which insects play a starring role. In other words, I’m too much of a wuss to somehow capture the tub dweller and release him outdoors. I also don’t want to kill him. So I guess I’m just watching his slow demise, trapped in a big blank white tub, endlessly attempting to climb the walls with no way out.

Oh, March. The malaise wants to anchor in and I’m trying to knock it back. The days are getting longer—some evenings I’ve been walking Stella in watery, faded light, instead of a solid dark blue—and good spring things are on the horizon, but still, it’s March. Some weeks feel so much like a hamster wheel I can hardly believe it. I think about traveling, camping, about sitting out on the back deck, about going to the farmers’ market and the dog beach, 5k’s and running outside. There are so many things that I do in the warm months that disappear in the cold ones, and I’m left feeling a little bored and one-dimensional.

I’m attempting to combat this in small ways. One day after work last week, I sat in a café with my New Yorker and a chai for an hour, enjoying the bustle of people around me, good words and good tea. Next week I’m going to a fiction reading downtown. I often feel like I should take better advantage of living in the city. I mean, I do things—I see the ballet, attend readings, go to a museum a few times a year (in the past few weeks I’ve done the Art Institute and the Chicago History Museum). John and I usually see three or four concerts a year. I spend a large amount of time eating and drinking with friends. I volunteer once a month at a meal for the hungry. And in the summer we’re out in full force: street festivals, markets, races, the free outdoor concerts in Millennium Park. Then again, I don’t usually feel this way in July.

I guess what it comes down to is that right now, I want more variety in my life, something that’s stimulating and different. I feel like I’m wasting time, which kills me. I’m not doing the things I do during the warmer months, and I feel blah as a result. So a few days ago I decided that I need to take some sort of class… Cooking? A language? Art? (I used to love to draw.) A history or literature course? Ballet? Or, the one that makes the most sense: photography? I’d need to finally buy a DSLR and learn how to use it, which I find so daunting, for some reason, even though I adore taking photos and looking at photos and am often frustrated with my limited little point-and-shoot.

Then, yesterday, a surprise. A bonus—and a totally unexpected one—fell into my lap at work. It was like the universe was saying, Go. Do it. Stop the whining and the malaising and just go.

So I’m going. I’m going to buy a real camera, with a real lens (my friend Jessie provided some terrific guidance on this last fall), and then I’m going to sign up for a real, serious photography class, with computer labs and shooting assignments and everything I need to really take this interest of mine and make the most of it. Even though I’ll do this during spring and summer, when I’ll be busier and more uplifted than I am now, I know I’ll still have the time for it—and this does feel like the right time in my life for such an undertaking. And for photography, the light—the light will be better in spring anyway.

Postscript: To really tie up this entry neatly, I should also say something poetic about rescuing the spider, right? Not sure I’m ready to go that far, but I’m thinking John could fill in…

Saddishness

It’s the only word I can think of that describes how I feel during January and February. I am not sad, really, nor am I depressed. I don’t feel an unrelenting blueness for days on end. But I do feel saddish on some days… a little melancholy, a little like there’s a dark cloud overhead, a weight. It starts after the New Year, and I expect it to clear right around March 14, when daylight saving time begins. Because then, then, when I get home it will still be light out. And that feels like a key.

There’s the winter darkness, and there’s John’s absence, too. I’ve been married to a CPA for more than eight years, so I know the drill come tax season. Nothing is surprising about it. I’m a person who enjoys alone time, but still, there’s a lot of alone time this time of year, and a lot of inflexibility around John’s job. I suppose the best part is that Friday nights truly feel like “date nights”—we go out for dinner and talk and laugh and catch up, and it’s special, somehow, in a way that isn’t often the case when you’ve been married this long. So thanks for that, tax season, I guess!

I turned 34 a few weeks ago, and I took this photo of myself on my birthday. That week was a good one—weeknight drinks with friends, a fun dinner downtown with John, shopping, blond brownies homemade by Mom. I made a concerted effort to focus on the good stuff. I felt happy about myself, my new age, what that new age will bring.

Our days can’t all be presents and brownies and nights out, obviously, but sometimes life does feel very run-of-the-mill, doesn’t it? The routine can be stifling. The same bowl of cereal, closet of clothes, walk to the el. The same issues at work. The same commute home. Unlocking the door, turning off the alarm, leashing up the dog for her walk in the dark. Struggling against eating the whole box of Triscuits before heading to the gym. Home again, cooking dinner, washing all the dishes. Maybe watching TV, maybe doing some editing, then “The Daily Show,” shower-floss-toothpaste-moisturizer-bed. The same thing the next day.

I don’t want to wish away time, even dark, wintry time. This is the only February 10 of my 34th year that I’m going to get. So lately, I’ve been trying to notice the small flares of brightness and beauty in each day, because they’re there, and they deserve to be savored. Once I start thinking about it, it’s not hard to find them. I may try recording some of them here. Yesterday, a really heartening and cheerful conversation with my doc during my checkup. Homemade chipotle mac-and-cheese at lunch. Stella spying a dark cat running across the snowy sidewalk, her ears pointed straight up like antennae. The neighborhood greystones glowing in the deep silent snow. A mug of peppermint hot cocoa after dinner. There may not be a lot of light to illuminate the good things at this time of year, but the good things are still there.

In which I prattle on about weight and marriage

I think I’ve always been afraid of becoming overweight. I’ve never had an eating disorder, but it’s safe to say that not a day goes by when I don’t think about how my body looks or mentally tick off everything I’ve eaten in the past 24 hours. Kinda sad, isn’t it? And it’s so habitual now that I don’t even notice I’m doing it.

As a child I had “baby fat,” as Mom termed it. In photos from that time, I look very… round. Most of the pudge was shed by the time I hit junior high, and I skipped through high school at a delightfully average size: 7 or 9 in juniors, 6 or 8 in women’s clothes. I ate cheese fries for lunch. I hated playing sports. I had the blessed metabolism of a teenager.

In college I began to pay more attention to my size. I took full advantage of the pasta bar and frozen yogurt machine in the dining hall, but I also didn’t have a car and walked a few miles a day to and from class and work. I sometimes used the weight room and the indoor running track. My clothes size remained a 6 or an 8.

Much is said about the jolt of entering the “real world” after college, but one of the biggest changes for me was my new sedentary lifestyle, driving everywhere in my leased Saturn and sitting in a cube eight hours a day. Together with my roommate, I began exercising five days a week—walking, jogging, flailing along with a kickboxing video. I gained a few pounds during this time, but I also gained a really terrific habit: ever since 1998, I’ve felt like something’s missing if a few days go by without exercise. It’s ingrained in me now that this is something I should do.

*****

This topic’s been on my mind lately because of a fascinating post (and follow-up post) that I read at another blog, Morphing into Mama. The post generated quite a bit of commentary on the Internet, and several other online writers tackled the subject as a result. I don’t usually write about these types of things, but this time I wanted to.

I’m not sure I agree with MiM’s term of “false advertising,” although I know I’d be annoyed if John stopped exercising and caring about his appearance after we were married. But more than that, what I’ve been thinking about is this determination I have to not gain weight. As if my life would be over if that happened.

I don’t know where this determination comes from, exactly. I’m sure it’s part insecurity, part “the media tells me I need to be a stick figure.” I know that part of it is for health reasons. My job involves reading a lot of health information, and one of the things that’s really struck me is the danger of heart disease. It’s the number-one killer of American women, and having a waist size over 35 inches significantly increases your risk. I don’t want heart problems. I want to feel good, have energy, be in shape.

Of course, part of my determination is also a desire to look good. I’m 30; I know I don’t look like I did in college, and I’m not attempting to. But I want to look fit. I want to wear clothes that are somewhat hip. I don’t want to look matronly or older than I am. And yup, I want my husband to like how I look, to be proud of my appearance. Some people think that husbands should like how their wives look no matter how much weight they gain. That being able to do that is part of a mature, loving relationship. But I’m not sure I agree with that. I wouldn’t expect John to be just as happy with my appearance if I gained 50 pounds; I wouldn’t be as happy with my appearance. And I don’t know if that’s caused by vanity or insecurity or shallowness or what. Maybe I’m not the “feminist” I’ve always thought myself to be.

After I read that post on Morphing into Mama, I asked John his opinion. “Would you be upset if after we got married, I ‘let myself go’ and gained 50 pounds?”

“Well… yeah!” he replied, without much thought. “I’d wonder what was wrong, and why you were letting that happen.”

His answer didn’t offend me; it would be my response if the tables were turned. I’m not sure if this “says something” about our marriage. Obviously we wouldn’t stop loving each other if one of us gained weight, although I wonder if we’d be less attracted. But I’ll still love John when he’s bald and love-handled, and I expect him to love me when my body changes after childbirth and when I have gray hair and sagging skin. Botox is not in my future, thanks.

*****

When I’m really busy, with work and school and freelancing, exercise does fall by the wayside. But I’m active. I walk the dog every day, I try to take the stairs at work, sometimes I lift weights while watching The Daily Show. I belong to a small, cheap gym that’s within walking distance of our place. I use the treadmill in our building’s basement. I’ve started jumping rope sometimes. Are my workouts two-hour marathons? No, more like 30 or 40 minutes. Do I always feel like doing this stuff? Hell no. Sometimes I have to literally force myself to lace up my New Balances.

But I know that my metabolism is slowing down. I’m still a size 8, although my body doesn’t look the same—my waist is a bit thicker, and cellulite has rippled up in unexpected places. Some of my older pants and skirts are a bit tight. On Monday, I ate three chocolate chip cookies, a handful of chocolate Easter eggs, a Rice Krispies treat, and some mint chocolate-chip ice cream. So believe me, I am not the most disciplined girl on the block.

But I’m working at it—both for me and for my spouse. I don’t think John is shallow for being glad that I haven’t gained weight. I’m not ecstatic about how I look, but I’m satisfied. I feel pretty good. Perhaps, in the end, that’s what matters?

In my spare closet

I seem to have had quite a bit of free time this week. Work is slow; we’re between publishing cycles. I’ve organized all my paper files, cleaned out my email folders, caught up on invoices, and Googled interesting websites on ex-Mormons, men in black, real-life ghost sightings, houses for sale in Evanston and Skokie, and the latest spring shoe styles.

I haven’t had any freelancing work lately, either, so I’ve gone home and taken the dog for a long walk, then hit the gym, then cooked dinner and caught up on my New Yorkers. I’ve rewatched the season opener of The Sopranos (which is completely rewatchable). I’ve added more of my favorite Diary-X entries to this site. And I’ve delved into the bowels of our spare closet (its contents include summer clothes, Moose supplies, wrapping paper and ribbons, Christmas tree ornaments, extra pillows, two suitcases, and the vacuum cleaner) to retrieve my old formal dresses, with the intention of finally letting them go.

When I was growing up, my mother kept all her old prom dresses in a suitcase in our attic. Every once in awhile, I’d ask if I could try them on. We’d go upstairs to my grandma’s third-floor room, open her closet, gently push aside her clothes, and open the wooden hatch-like door that led to the attic. I was afraid to enter that musty, narrow space, but my mom would gladly retrieve the suitcase for me, and we’d spend an hour in front of the mirror, with her telling me the story of each dress… which dance she wore it to, who escorted her, what her corsage looked like. The dresses were late-sixties mod; they had empire waists, A-line skirts, wide satin sashes. They were pale yellow, dark-sage green, icy-blue white. They felt stiff and crinkly to the touch, and they smelled old, somehow… the same smell that clung to my dad’s old folk records and college yearbooks.

It seemed natural and right to me that my mother kept those dresses, tangible memories stored in a place where she could always access them, touch them, breathe them in. So I’ve done the same thing. We don’t have much storage space in our condo (I keep my voluminous wedding dress at my parents’ house), but all of my favorite prom and college formal dresses are bunched into our spare closet. I hardly ever look at them, and I won’t wear any of them again—but I like knowing they’re there, sleeping quietly in their plastic sheathes.

Then, a few weeks ago, I was browsing at an artsy store in Lincoln Park and came across a flyer for the Glass Slipper Project, which I’d vaguely heard of before but didn’t know much about. It’s an organization that provides gently used formalwear to disadvantaged teenage girls who otherwise couldn’t afford a dress for their high school prom. And this artsy store is a drop-off location. You just come in with your dresses and leave with a tax form and a good feeling. What could be easier?

So I thought about it, and I thought about it some more. And I decided that I should donate my dresses. They’re in good shape, they’re still somewhat stylish, and what good are they doing anyone, crammed into my spare closet? So, last night, I took them all out and laid them on the couch in our study. I took each one out of its bag. I tried some of them on (probably not the best idea, although I can still zip up almost all of them). I took pictures of them, even though I already have pictures from the dances where I wore them.

There’s the long red brocade dress, the one with the slit that my mother hated, that I wore to my senior prom. My boyfriend Josh wore tails and a red bow-tie. The dress had spaghetti straps and a heart-shaped neckline. I loved it.

There’s the short black sequined dress with the halter top and flowy chiffon skirt, the one I wore to my first sorority formal as a college freshman. I went to tanning booths in preparation and got drunk with Josh on Zimas on the night of the dance. So, so young and dumb.

There’s the long sleeveless brown dress with the empire waist that I wore to my junior and senior formals, both in Chicago. At one of them, I swallowed a live goldfish. Don’t ask.

Then there’s a short, kicky black sleeveless dress with a V-neckline and a print of red and white roses. I think at least five of my sorority sisters borrowed that dress. Everyone loved it—it was flattering; it made you feel sexy. I bought it at a Merry-Go-Round store for $40 and got three years of use from it. It is really hard to part with that dress. (And in fact, I haven't actually put it in the donation pile yet.)

But I probably will. I like the idea of my dresses creating even more magical nights for people. I like the idea of a girl looking at herself in the mirror, eyes round with wonder as she sees herself, for the first time, in something other than jeans and a sweater. Maybe she’ll donate it to yet another girl when she’s a little older. Or maybe she’ll keep it in a suitcase, in her attic, and pull it out when she’s feeling old or wistful or nostalgic. Either way, I’m glad to give her the opportunity.

Faith

Originally posted to Diary-X on September 28, 2005

Lately I’ve been struck by the thought that at age 29, the choices I make actually matter in the grand scheme of my life. The biggest choices I made when I was, say, 19 had to do with what classes to take next semester and whether to hook up with someone at a party. I mean, of course there was the potential to make life-altering decisions back then—choosing a major, choosing to not to make a dumb mistake with that “someone.” But instead of majoring in history, I could’ve chosen English or philosophy and taken the exact same career path that I’ve followed. (And luckily, none of my drunken hookups ever went too far.)

Now when I make a decision, it’s like throwing a stone in a smooth, flat lake and watching the ripples grow, curving outward, affecting a future that I can’t really see. I (and John) have chosen to let four years of marriage go by without ever seriously considering having a baby. Only now, as I live the last months of my twenties, have we had a few of these tentative conversations: “Well, maybe we should start thinking about it next summer…”

I am realizing that this choice to wait will impact my life in many ways. How old will I be when I become a mother? How will that affect how many more children I have? How old will we be when we’re “empty nesters” again? Then there’s my job. At 16 I chose to work part-time in a video store; it could’ve been a supermarket or a dress shop and it wouldn’t have made any difference. Obviously it’s not like that now; the job decisions I make will affect where and how I get my next job, how my salary grows, how far I advance up the “ladder,” etc.

I’m not saying I have any regrets, oh no. It’s just sort of surprising to realize that I’m an adult living a real life, with a husband and a career and a mortgage and birth control pills and the capability to make Big Decisions—and no one to catch me or fix it if I make the wrong ones. It reminds me of when I graduated from college and moved into an apartment with Rachael. There was no campus community anymore, no sorority or class schedule or school rules. We were just two women paying rent and working. I remember driving to the grocery store back then and realizing that I could eat mac and cheese or Frosted Flakes for dinner every night; there was no dining hall, no meal plan, no parents insisting on a well-balanced plate. (Even in college, my parents had been somewhat in charge of my life; they once threatened to cut me off financially if I went to New Orleans for spring break.) The freedom I felt upon graduating was intoxicating.

I suppose growing up and living life means losing your safety net, in a way. Maybe we’re all wearing blindfolds, feeling and listening our way forward, doing the best we can to make the right decisions so we don’t walk off the side of a cliff. None of us can really know what’s around the next corner.

Eleven years

Originally posted to Diary-X

The woman who answered the door did not look thrilled to see me. “Can I help you?” she asked in a detached, semi-suspicious tone.

“Hi, yes, my name is Amy _______, and you bought this house from my parents in 1994,” I said, with my best, brightest, not-a-stalker-or-Mormon-missionary smile.

Her face changed; she smiled, looked at me and John and opened the door a little wider. “I remember you! You’re the older daughter, right? With the pink bedroom?”

“Yup, that’s me.” I explained that this was the first time I’d returned home to Pennsylvania since my parents moved to Michigan, and would she mind if my husband and I walked around in the backyard a little?

“Of course not! And why don’t you come in? You can look around inside, too.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that I might be able to go inside, to walk around the house where I lived the first eighteen years of my life. Now, a month later, those few moments I spent looking at the living room, walking up the stairs, standing in the middle of my old bedroom—they seem like a blur. My heart was beating faster than usual, and my voice sounded husky and wrong, and tears were gathering behind my eyes during those five, maybe six minutes. The woman got her toddler son up from his nap—his room is my sister’s old room, their grade-school daughter has mine—and carried him on her hip as she walked around with us.

They’d pulled up the carpets and refinished the wood floors beneath—very nice. The wallpaper border with the marching white geese still encircled the little kitchen. My mom had loved those geese, bought a goose-shaped spoon-rest and napkins to match. The furniture in their living room looked old. There were baby toys strewn around. My room was painted a cheerful yellow. I stood in that room, looked out the window at the view of the ranch house across the street, the lawn where we’d sledded and built snow forts, the cul-de-sac where I’d watch for Josh’s car. The view that I’d looked at every day for eighteen years. Even after eleven years, it had not changed.

“You know, we didn’t have the heart to paint over the message you left in your closet,” the woman told me. John looked over at me with a Huh? expression on his face.

“Oh my gosh, I’d forgotten about that,” I said, breathless, so overloaded and overwhelmed I could barely process it all.

“Take a look, it’s still there,” she continued, sliding open her daughter’s closet, that same white wooden door that I’d plastered with ads torn out of Sixteen and Teen Beat—Corey Haim, Kate Moss, Eternity perfume. And I got down on my knees and peered under the wooden shelf where I’d kept my shoes, and there it was… my eighteen-year-old penciled handwriting, declaring my love for this house, my sorrow at leaving behind the only life I’d ever known, the pain of moving twelve hours away from my “first true love,” Josh. It was dated July 5, 1994. I remembered lying on my back on the pink-carpeted floor, halfway in the closet, writing it. I remembered how it felt to leave this house.

A few minutes later, after I thanked the woman profusely, John and I walked through the backyard. I showed him the hedges that my father had planted, now sadly overgrown. Where he’d hung the homemade swing that my sister and I would spin each other in. The huge forsythia bush that we made our “shrub club”—no boys allowed! Where our dog Bessy was buried. My favorite hiding spots, the outdoor nooks and crannies that seemed so wild and magical to an eight-year-old. Where my parents always posed us for Easter Sunday photos. Under the apple tree, where I sat on a bee when I was four. The fish pond that my dad had built, with a waterfall and real lily pads and beautiful big stones—still there. I saw the goldfish circling lazily around and around in the brackish water. It was all still there.

Home is where

Originally posted to Diary-X

Last week, walking up the stairs to the el platform on a mild spring night, I smelled something—I think it was the tar on the wood, something pitchy and salty and warm—and I was immediately assaulted by a memory, sharp and clear, of walking on the boardwalk in Wildwood, New Jersey, at night with my parents, in the early 1980s, surrounded by colored lights and carnival barkers and the tinny music of the Ferris wheel and the smells of French fries and cotton candy and saltwater, with the sky big and dark overhead and the Atlantic big and dark to the east. I was 5, 7, 10 years old, and summer vacations at the Jersey shore were the closest I’d come to pure magic. Even now, the idea of the boardwalk at night just thrills me—it’s a place of wonder, where anything can happen. My family vacationed at the shore almost every year until I was 18, when we relocated to Michigan, and it was one of many pieces of my life that I had to leave behind.

Eleven years later, I’m finally returning to the part of Pennsylvania—Bucks County—where I grew up. John and I will spend six days out East in June, lounging around the beaches on the island of Cape May (with an excursion or two to Wildwood), staying at a B&B in historic New Hope, and visiting with my grandmother. Obviously, I’ll be visiting my past, too. A lot has happened to me in 11 years, between the ages of 18 and 29, and I’m curious to see how I fit now in the places where I grew up… how it feels to see my old house, with the tree my dad planted for me outside my bedroom window. To drive by the video store where I worked for two years, by the Catholic grade school where I dreaded gym class and had my first kiss. To see the expensive additions that have changed the face of my 1920s high school (of which my mother is also an alum). To walk the colonial streets of Doylestown, to stop for a drink in one of its wood-paneled pubs, to stroll around New Hope, the site of so many dates when I was a teenager. I can’t begin to imagine what it’ll feel like to experience all this as a woman with a college degree and a husband and a career, with a completely different life.

*****

Moving to Michigan was the hardest thing I’ve experienced in my life so far. It seems silly—how traumatic is a move, for pete’s sake?—but no one in my family wanted to go, and our hearts broke in the leaving. My dad had been laid off, and the only real job offer he received was in western Michigan, so we left. I will never forget the total and complete sadness I felt when we closed the door of our empty house and drove away. That house was a member of our family, it seemed, and for months strange people had been tramping through it, asking about the furnace and the hardwood floors, and now it wasn’t ours anymore and we had to become Midwesterners. God, I get a lump in my throat just remembering it.

I still don’t really consider myself a Midwesterner, but in time the wound healed. And after four years in my Michigan college town, and three years in Grand Rapids, and now three years in Chicago, I haven’t gotten attached to any physical location the way I did to my hometown. Since 1994, I’m not sure where “home” has been for me. I suppose it’s where my parents are, in Grand Rapids, although I’ve never actually lived in their house. John grew up in Grand Rapids and his parents still live there, so to him it will always be home.

*****

Now my parents are moving. My father was laid off once again, and in another utterly cruel twist of fate, he hasn’t been able to find a comparable job in Michigan, where the unemployment rate is the worst in the country (he’s an executive, and he’s 58—you do the math). After months of sending out 140 resumes and living off part of their 401(k) and going on interviews that lead to nowhere, my parents decided to accept a job offer from an old friend in Virginia Beach, who wants my dad to run his company. He’s a stand-up guy, and the company is solid, and my parents like that part of the country. So even though they’re devastated to leave my sister and me in the Midwest, their house is on the market. My parents are preparing to move back East.

So yeah, big changes in my family. Holidays will be different. True, visiting my parents will be like a mini-vacation, what with Virginia’s colonial history and the Outer Banks and the Chesapeake Bay. This June’s trip will be the first of many back East, and I have to say that the prospect makes me happy.

But home. Where will I consider home? The only thing that made Grand Rapids home was the fact that my parents had an address there for 11 years. Virginia Beach will never be home for me. After all these years, Bucks County is more hometown than home. So, of course, it’s Chicago. It’s Chicago, and it’s wherever I am with John. But it’s strange—for the first time, I won’t be saying “I’m going home for Christmas.” I suppose I’m old enough to create my own home now.