Nana's Coming Home! (Or, "Why I'm the World's Biggest Wimp.")

Tax day has come and gone, which means....

Nana’s coming home!

My mom (AKA Nana) splits her time between California and Arkansas, which is where my sister lives and owns an accounting firm with her husband. During the tax season, my sister and BIL almost never make it home. Instead they camp out at one of those extended stay hotels and live on coffee and Starbucks oatmeal. So my mom takes care of their kids and dog while my sister and BIL are off earning enough money to have an awesome house with a pool (complete with waterfall) and to buy me expensive Christmas gifts like KitchenAid stand mixers and gift certificates to Chez Panisse.

But now that April 15th has come and gone, it’s our turn to have Nana. She heads back first thing tomorrow morning, which, in Nana-time, means she’ll hit the road around 2pm.

At the same time my mom will be driving her pickup truck full of hand-me-down top-of-the-line baby gear halfway across the country, Andy and Collin will be flying to Boston for Collin’s last college tour. I, on the other hand, will be at home with two precious munchkins, one of whom was just re-diagnosed with some kind of lingering RSV horribleness and doesn’t sleep. And the other is Rachel. I imagine I will have 2 to 3 days of solo parenting, and I am overcome with parental cowardice at the thought.

Which brings me to my next point: I am the world’s biggest wimp.

Let’s compare:

1996 to 2009: Attended college as a single parent, graduated magna cum laude, double major. Attended law school as a single parent (did NOT graduate magna cum laude, but hey, it’s Boalt. We don’t put stock in such things). Worked days, nights, weekends, exercised all the time, ate well, had a spotless house, and never slept. Had lots of energy leftover for fun.

2009 to present: Co-parenting three children along with one part-time live-in Grandma who will get night shifts if necessary, babysits at the drop of a hat, and (almost) never says “no” to any halfway reasonable request. Other Grandma lives about 3 blocks away, has Rachel at least one day a week, often more. I work sometimes, seldom get exercise, have chocolate cake for breakfast, and I won’t even tell you who cleans my house. Have no energy leftover for fun.

Even if not technically a “wimp,” I have, at the very least, gotten soft. And this really bugs me. Okay, sure, I was in my teens and twenties between 1996 and 2007. And I had fewer children. And I had the built-in fun of college and law school classmates. But really? I’ve been reduced to a mom who, after finding out she would be solo parenting for a handful of days, begins blowing up her mom’s cell phone to confirm just exactly when she would arrive into town, and inquiring whether the other grandma could possibly fit in a sleepover with Rachel?

Part of the problem is my new inability to drink coffee after about 1pm. That drastically decreases my quality of life and mothering abilities. Another part of my problem is having a husband who will let me be wimpy. If he’s in Boston, who will split night wakings with me? Who will make the bottles? Who will take out the trash Sunday night? (Oh, wait. My mom will be here by Sunday.) The list could go on and on. So really, it’s all Andy’s fault. In fact, it’s gotten so bad that the baby will go to Andy as happily and readily as he will to me. I think that’s a problem we need to fix.

My new experiment will be to see if letting Andy sit on the couch, watching baseball and drinking chocolate milk, will bring back my old energy. The experiment will last until approximately mid-summer, which is when Nana will head back to Arkansas.

Cool mom who can do it all!

And... not so much.

So (faulty logic aside), let's have less of this....

....and more of this.

Collin Bought a Jaguar

We've been sick. Really, really sick. All of February, all of March, and by the looks of it, all of April. I'm a bit at my wits end, by which I mean please just leave me alone to die in peace.

So forgive me if I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention when Collin put his iPhone in front of me the other night and said, "Look at this car! It's only $xxxx! I could buy that!"

Andy, I think, was paying a bit more attention, but he'd had a bad day so his reaction wasn't really the best, either. He hit disbelieving dad lecture mode in about two seconds.

In my mind, I was thinking. "Let's not get upset over this fictional-to-us car. That would be like arguing over what to name our eighth child!"

In the connection between my mind and Andy's, I was saying, "It's okay.... Let him think about it. Let him even go and look at it.... he got his current car less than a year ago. He won't sell it!" Andy apparently agreed and began making "cool car!" comments, and I felt we had completed yet another successful Hanauer evening.

"If you start really thinking about it, sweetie, let us know and we can discuss it. Now I'm off to bed!"

Or something like that.

The very next day, Collin came home with a Jaguar.

A 2003, shiny black and chrome, Grey Poupon Jaguar. It looks like Collin borrowed it from his grandfather or is being paid by the old guy next door to run it through the car wash. It is beautiful.

For years I've wanted a Jaguar. Collin and Andy laugh at me for this. They say Jaguars are for old people. I disagree. I think they are just.... pretty. So I've told them both that when we finally toss the minivan, we're bringing home a Jaguar. Well, we have a Jaguar now, but it's Collin's.

"Are you mad at me because I have a Jaguar and you don't?"

"Er, no.... But can I drive it?"

Picture of the Jag forthcoming.

UPDATE! Pictures now added here.

Sleep Training

Being the parents of a 5-month-old, my husband and I argue a lot about sleep. Some of these arguments are exactly what you would expect:

"I am sooo tired. I've been up since 5am!"

"No, it was 5:15. I know because I was awake, too, and I looked at the clock and then couldn't fall back asleep for at least 10 minutes."

or

"I am sooo tired. I only got 4 hours of sleep last night!"

"You got 4.5 hours! How could you possibly think you only got 4 hours? You went to bed in the 7th inning!"

But other arguments probably aren't at all what you'd expect:

"No, seriously Andy, I really, really, REALLY want to be the one to get up with Aaron. If my eyes start bleeding or if I drop the baby, I'll get you. But otherwise it needs to be me. Besides, if you get up you'll be cranky."

"No, no, no. It needs to be me. You are home with the kids all day so you need your rest. I'll be fine if I'm tired; after all, I only work 10 hours a day. Besides, if you get up you'll be cranky."

But then after Aaron wakes for the second (or third) time in one night, our arguments sound more like this:

"I have to get up at 6am with Rachel. It's 4am now. If I get up I'll have to stay up and that's not cool. Plus, you can go back to sleep and I can't."

"Well, I picked Collin up from a party at 1am and it's 4am now, so I've only had 3 hours of sleep and you've had four!"

This goes on for so long that even though we don't follow the cry it out method, Aaron has practically cried himself to sleep by the time we figure out who's getting up.

Truth be told, we're mostly still arguing over who should or should not have gotten up with Rachel. We're still angry at the 2 years of sleep we lost, not because of Rachel, but because we stayed up late so many nights "discussing" who should be doing what at 3am.

We're really pretty lucky. Aaron does a decent  job at staying asleep most nights. Because I mostly stay home, and because Andy works nights plus has a superhuman ability to fall back asleep at any time during the day, we manage to piece together enough rest to keep us from say, backing the minivan into trees, which is what I did a lot of when I was pregnant.

But still.

Rachel has a 5:30pm bedtime. Aaron has a 7pm bedtime. Collin has an I-forgot-to-go-to-sleep-last-night bedtime.

Rachel gets up at 6am. Aaron gets up at 5am. Collin gets up at whatever time will make him only 15 minutes late to class instead of missing it altogether.

So we are tired. And a lot less smart than we'd otherwise be. The other night I asked Andy to "turn off the rain" when the oven timer was beeping. And Andy, poor Andy watches more 3am reruns of Sports Center on mute than anyone I know.

So our mantra, my mantra, really, has become "It's a season. It will pass. It's a season. It will pass."

I think Andy is more focused on hoping for better On-Demand free movie options, preferably with sub-titles.

Do I look tired to you?

I've Never Even Used Instagram

Why is it so difficult to both count your blessings and be “real” about life? While I wholeheartedly believe it’s important to be grateful for what one has, I also believe there are times when it may be equally as important to acknowledge the stages and seasons we all go through, even the unhappy and trying ones.

My husband and I grumble about this pretty frequently when discussing one particular set of “couple friends.” For this family, everything is always perfect. Now, this is a very Christ-centered family, so I understand they are simply trying to express their gratitude for all they have (for what it’s worth, my NY’s resolution was to put a little Phil. 4:11 in my life). But I often wonder what kind of help they could be to other families if they would simply acknowledge life’s little (or big) imperfections? For instance, when my husband and I ask them questions about life experiences they’ve had and we haven’t, it could probably do us a lot of good to hear an in-depth “real” answer instead of “it’s all good!” Or maybe for this family things really are all good?

I’m thinking of this today both because of the blog post going around—Stop Instagramming Your Perfect Life—and because today is a root canal day.

I woke up to a beautifully clear sky. As I poured my coffee, I took in the view of the Bay and the San Francisco skyline that I am blessed enough to have in not only my living room, but in my playroom and breakfast nook as well. I also woke to Rachel screaming bloody murder at the top of her lungs.

This was not a real scream, but instead the scream she uses when she wants “Mama, not Daddy,” to get her out of bed in the morning. The second I walk through her door, she immediately smiles and says “good morning!” But nonetheless, it is very difficult to wake up to, especially when the baby is still soundly sleeping across the hall from her, and her screams could wake him at any second.

Then I check my husband’s schedule: he’s gone today from 9:15am to 9:15pm, which means another night of putting two little ones to bed solo.

And I’m sick. After a full month+ of the baby having RSV and being stuck in the house because of that, I get hit by the cold of all colds and can’t even go out and enjoy the sunshine. At least we were all healthy for Easter... If I didn’t know better, I would swear it was the egg hunt in the rain that did me in.

So I’m grumpy. And snappy. And ticked off that my world is less than perfect and especially that I couldn’t enjoy my coffee in peace, but instead had to cut yarn into a million pieces so that Rachel could decorate for Unicorn’s birthday (again).

Yesterday morning I didn’t feel this way. In fact, my oldest son had a life victory over something we’ve been worried about for 6 months. It was a glorious time of thankfulness and rejoicing. I was on a high I thought would last for days—it lasted until roughly 2pm, at which point my living room was “decorated” with toilet paper, my daughter was yelling at the dog from her undies-only position atop the dining room table, and my husband was still feeling frustrated by his job situation.  

How can I put all that on FB? And should I? Probably not. Although it isn’t the 140-characters-or-less world of Twitter, it’s definitely not the place to bemoan all my first-world problems for close friends and old co-workers alike to take in. But there is (or should be) a place for it. Why? I guess it’s because I feel a mom duty to express mom truths to counter the Instagram/Facebook perfection myth. Also, it feels really good to take a break and write down the thoughts in my head, although I’m still terrible at journaling (too much pressure). And although I would much rather count my blessings, sometimes it’s a blessing to others to hear the nitty-gritty, Unicorn-party truth, so that they can think how lucky they are that their living room isn’t covered in toilet paper.

The Child I've Grown Up With

As I attempt to write about Collin, I am struck by how important it is to me that I get it right. When a mother and child spend 12 years alone together, there is a bond so deep, baggage in such excess, love so mature, that each sentence must be weighed for its truth and implication: with Collin there can be no poetic license, no embellishment, no attribution of emotions unfelt. My love is so deep and so strong, so overwhelming, changing emotions to words is a near impossible task.

My thoughts are bittersweet—the uniqueness of a relationship that can never be replicated with any of my other children; the fact that, from this point forward, Collin will be experiencing things by himself that I can only see through the lens of having done them with him in my own life's journey; that eventually “coming home” will instead be “visiting home.”

Collin will spend the next 4 weeks trying to figure out which college he will attend. As we prepare for our road trips and flights across the county, I am also preparing my heart for the emptiness it will feel when he no longer lives solely under my roof. He is only 16—just a baby when you think about it.

I have often felt a bit guilty that Collin's place in the structuring of my world as "mom" is not easily defined. Collin was neither my first child nor my last child, and there is a 13-year and 16-year gap between him and his little sister and brother, respectively. Since he is not first, middle, or last, there is no study that can determine what his personality will be or how he will relate to others based on his birth order. Similarly, there is no study that can define how I have raised him. There is no first-child over-protectedness, no last child leniency, no middle child "neglect." As I have thought about this I have realized—as I said to him tearfully several months ago when it fully hit me that he would soon be gone—he is the child, the only child, I have grown up with.

I gave birth to Collin on July 17, 1996, when I was 17 years old. The "adulthood" I received from his birth was far greater than that I received one week later, on July 25th, when I turned 18 and became a legal adult.

While a child makes a parent an adult far faster than any legal definition ever could, childbirth does not negate the selfish inward-focus of an 18-year-old, nor the growth that must still occur within the parent who, no matter how grown-up she may think she is, is really still just a child as well.

Our status as child and child-mother is not unique; teenagers become parents every day. And when they do, an odd thing occurs: the child sees its parent grow, change, seek, even as the child is doing the same. And though neither realizes it at the time—the child because it's a child, the parent because she already *thinks* she's an adult—this is an amazing thing, for good or for bad, that cannot be replicated.

While we prepare to make a decision about where Collin will go to college, my mind turns, with child-mom selfishness, to the past, and what can never be again in the future.

Collin was with me when I went through my goth phase, my hardcore punk phase, even my short-lived ska phase, and was with me still when I settled comfortably into Billy Bragg, old country, rockabilly, and K-Love.

Collin and I have gotten lost innumerable times together: on Arkansas dirt roads and Texas highways; in Virginia suburbs, Maryland slums, DC proper, and, finally, Berkeley hills, in each instance singing at the top of our lungs, playing "Guess That Band," as I regaled him with stories or forced him to listen to Prairie Home Companion until he finally thought it was funny.

Collin was with me when I worked as a maid, cleaning houses and hotel rooms for $3.15 an hour. When I worked graveyard as a fry cook and when I ironed clothes in 120-degree heat at a dry cleaners. He even helped me roll silverware at the Thai place where I waitressed under the table and got free fried rice in return for his efforts. He was with me when I interned at the White House, when I wrote law articles and Lexis Nexis how-to manuals, when I published my first poem, when I won my first trial, and when I put all that aside to stay home with him and his siblings.

He celebrated his big brother's birthdays with me, went through 8.5 years of school with me, suffered through break-ups and wedding planning with me.

Collin learned to separate whites from colors from delicates, how to bake bread, how to wash dishes the right way, and how to properly IRAC and study for the Bar, all by the age of 10.

Collin went to classes with me, work with me, parties with me, on dates with me. House hunted, apartment searched, church-hopped, and suit-shopped with me. Stood in front of 100+ people and gave me his blessing to marry his baseball coach and, a short while later, welcomed with me his new sister and brother into our home.

And now he is leaving.

I am not old, I know that. But I am grown. I have a few gray hairs, and the only sticker on my car is for church parking. In July, a few short months from now, Collin will turn the age I was when I gave birth to him. And a month after that, he will go to college and begin his deepest search yet for identity and place in this world.

Although neither of us may talk about it now, for years we were each other’s (relative) calm in the eye of a storm. And when the storm ended, we became adventurers, chasing storms instead of hiding from them, grabbing what we could where we could and enjoying every moment of it.

Collin has not yet chosen his school; we will use the next 4 weekends to visit campuses so he can make his decision. Two choices are very far away, two are very close. I know that no matter which he chooses, he will live his new life to the fullest. I know he will relish every moment of his new freedom, the academic challenge, the new things in a new town with new people and new things to see. I know he will do this because that's what we spent the last 16 years doing together.

So he will go, with my blessing, but the teenaged selfishness I was full of when he was born still exists somewhere within me, and I must admit that my blessing will be tempered by my own sadness at seeing him go on this new adventure without me.

I wrote the following poem over a decade ago for Collin, and I am amazed at how true the emotions behind the words still are today:

Shape Changer

My sleeping son’s legs dangle,
precarious, from a spaceship/cowboy bed.
He exhales boy-breath from
spaghetti o’ lips—
steady, strong, and sweet. 

Upon waking, my son—poet-mathematician, burgeoning gymnast—
does handstands, quotes Poe, adds large sums
inside a calculator mind. 

A John Wayne swagger now, holster strapped to sturdy hips,
Spiderman Underoos crawl from tough-guy
faded-black Wranglers, belie Vesuvius image as my son becomes

a mourner of fish, questioner of death,
one-half vegetarian and preacher
of karma breathing breakfast prayers.

Walking Wednesdays for ritual ice cream,
he laughs too loud, asks about my day, claims
to have forgotten his. We discuss
important things: Root, leaf, stem, limb,
the flavor we will buy. 

After bath, teeth, ears, prayers,
I perch, precarious, on a spaceship/cowboy bed, and watch
my sleeping son’s legs dangle. 

(as published in The Allegheny Review)

 

Baby Collin, 1996

16th birthday, 2012

What We Should Have Said

Last night at dinner, Andy and I tried to explain to our friends (who, being pregnant with their first child, do not as of yet have a time-shaped hole in their universe) why we wouldn't want to bring Rachel over to their house for game night.

Them: "You guys should come over and we'll teach you how to play this great Dominoes game. And bring Rachel!"

Me: "That would be great; let's do it! But we don't want to bring Rachel."

Them: quizzical looks, and perhaps a bit of hurt that we turned down their family-friendly offer.

Andy jumped right in to defend our position: "If Rachel were there, she would spend all her time shushing us so she could tell a story about Unicorn. The story would last about an hour and then she would ask us to finish the story for her, but then she would tell us we're doing it wrong."

Me: "Yes, and she would try to build a tower with the Dominoes, and if we tried to help she'd tell us we were doing it wrong. You have to understand.... if I am trying to set the table and want the napkins in one place, Rachel will insist they go another way. We are already saving up for therapy bills." (this last part is a joke, of course, but one I make so often that I am beginning to wonder if it's a true fear I have inside, that Rachel and I will have a lot of mother/daughter battles over how the furniture should be arranged, what color curtains we need, and whether or not the jeans I've had since 2002 are still acceptable to wear in 2020.)

Them: "What?!?" The invitation is quickly rescinded, and Andy and I feel relief that we've reached a crucial point of understanding.

In retrospect, I feel kind of bad about the whole thing.

There is something in all my kids that strikes me so deeply words cannot explain it:

Collin, the child who I've grown up with, fiercely and deeply intelligent, with a not-so-well-hidden sense of tradition that makes me beam with gratitude every time I think of it.

Aaron, who as a 5-month-old has yet to show who he will be, but whose already apparent easy-going yet energetic nature I have fallen in love with.

And Rachel. Rachel is heart-breaking in her sincerity. Whenever I think of how deeply she feels things, how seriously she takes her mama and her daddy and her Hatty and her Junior and her Grandma Nana and her Grandma Harriet and Papa, I feel a hot well of love and something deeper and somewhat painful that I can't describe bubble up in the pit of my stomach. It's a feeling that makes me want to keep Rachel safe forever. Never let her see hurt and badness and that some people aren't as full of love as she is. When I say "I have to shower now," and her little lip trembles as she says, "but then who will play with me?" I am, of course, frustrated, but I am also broken at her hurt.

When, no matter where we are, she communicates with non-family by making random factual statements, or thrusts Unicorn in the personal space of strangers and says "This is Unicorn," and assumes the stranger will love her and her Unicorn as much as we do, I feel something indescribable. A mix of good things and gratitude and a desire for martial arts training if the stranger doesn't respond positively.

When she tells everyone, one by one, in the line at Safeway that she and Mama are at the store because Daddy bought the wrong noodles, I pray "please, please, please don't let them shrug her off. SMILE AT HER, DARN IT!"

And, thankfully, they almost always do.

But this is not the Rachel we told our friends about. We left all this out and probably made them hope and pray that their child will not rearrange napkins and tell non-stop Unicorn stories (which, by the way, often consist of plots such as, "Unicorn wanted to play with her Mama, but her Mama was putting the baby to sleep so Unicorn had to be very quiet," or, "Unicorn's Daddy took Unicorn to the dentist instead of her Mama taking her, even though her Mama wasn't putting the baby to sleep.").

What we should have done is tell them they better hope and pray that they are lucky enough to have a child who feels family and joy and hurt so deeply, that their little bundle can bring a sincerity and genuineness into their home that is so lacking in this world, and that their child exhibits a love so pure that words fail them when they try to describe it.

Maybe next time.

PS - Collin will be making his final decision on where to go to college within the next week or two (!!!), so I imagine that's what the next post will be about!

OMG, I Have a Daughter Now

Warning: the following contains many gender stereotypes that, in the case of my kids, happen to be true.

I never thought I wanted to have a girl.

When I thought about having more kids, I automatically thought "boy." I knew what that was like: fun, energetic, lots of baseball and nerdy young adult fantasy novels with dragons and magic... what more could I want?

When the thought of having a girl entered my mind, I didn't think those things wouldn't exist in our relationship, it's just that the good things were clouded by the "bad" things: hormones, dating, mother/daughter relationships and the accompanying therapy bills, and, perhaps the worse: JUNIOR HIGH.

I still have those fears for and about my daughter. But the fact that she is the loveliest, toughest, most spectacular, Unicorn-loving, princess-dress-wearing, tool-box-toting little girl I have ever known manages to push those thoughts all the way to the back of my brain, where they will stay until approximately 2023.

I know from having already raised one child to the ripe old age of 16 (and counting!) that many adventures lie ahead for Rachel and me. Until about age 10/11ish, kids adore spending time with their parents. Even a trip to the grocery store is a treat. Yesterday I got a thrill of excitement at the foreshadowing of things come....

Andy had a few free hours to be at home with Aaron, so Rachel and I decided we would have a Beanie-Mama day.

First stop: Rubio's. Lovely time, decent food. Rachel got complimented for her general cuteness and pink and sparkly cowgirl boots.

Second stop: Joanne. [don't you hate that the name isn't possessive?]

 

It was here, at the crafting superstore, that the "I Have a Daughter Now" thrill hit me.

We walked through the doors and Rachel just went to pieces. She could not contain her excitement as she stared at the rows and rows of fabric, 70% off St. Patrick's Day decorations, and pastel Easter things lining the front aisle. I could barely corral her little trembling-with-joy self into the cart.

We went up and down, looking at the abundance of shiny, sparkling, flowery, downright crafty things, and she touched everything I would let her put her hands on. We made two trips down the fake-flower aisle so she could be absolutely certain she had touched each and every satiny petal. When we got to the sticker/marker/glitter/Play-Doh/stationary section, I remembered that Andy had to make it to work some time in the next decade so I sternly told myself "no," and pushed the cart over to the dowel rods, which I actually needed to buy.

I texted Andy: "When do we need to be home?" But I knew that no matter how much time we had, it could never be enough.

Oh, oh, oh the fun we will have.

                           December 2011

The Stress of Stress (By Andy)

I need to not listen to NPR.

It all started when I made the mistake of listening to City Arts and Lectures, which I always get sucked into because Linda Hunt's introduction is always hilariously pompous.  Imagine the most British-sounding non-British person you can think of saying things like, "Today, we speak with Darius Witherspoon.  Mr. Witherspoon is the author of the books "Art: A Legacy," and "Why you are too much of an imbecile to understand Art" and has written extensively for the New Yorker.  Please join him now for a conversation with art critic Lionel Bensen."

One time City Arts and Lectures interviewed somebody who had written a book about sex, and that made Linda Hunt's intro the most incredible thing I had ever heard in my entire life.

But then one day she had a stress expert on, a very impressive professor from MIT who talked about how to relax.  They asked him for a demonstration and he started talking about focusing all your energy on the existence of your left hand until it started to feel heavy and then light and then like it was nothing, not even a hand, just a ball of energy.

It was really cool.  Or so I thought.

See, I wake up 1-2 times a night to put our little baby back to sleep, and each time is usually at least a 40 minute exercise.  And during that time, there is nothing to do except think.  So what do you think about?

Sports food thirsty bathroom turned 30 job search job search job search baby's eyes open why is there no clock in the nursery it's like a casino job search sports warriors cal sports kids kids kids kids kidskids kids  job search money money eyes are closing jobs need job todo list work todo list money (see money: lack thereof) sports i left my car window up

The point is that other than sports, pretty much everything I think about at 4am is stressful.  Which is stressful, but understandable.  I could live with that.  The problem is, the people who know what they are talking about seem to think that getting no sleep and being stressed all the time makes people die.  So now, rather than simply wallowing in my stress, I walk back and forth across the nursery, holding my 78 pound baby (approximate), thinking "Don't be stressed!  Don't be stressed!"
In other words, my biggest stress is stress.

One night I tried Mr. MIT's advice.  I lasted about 30 seconds.

My left hand is sagging, drooping.  It feels heavy.
It's probably cancer.  I probably have hand cancer. 
Great I'm going to die at age 31 of hand cancer.

My heart started pounding and my body tensed up.  The baby woke up and smiled his googoo-face 4am smile, the one that says "you're not going to sleep very soon."

I break down and smile back.  Kids.  They are the opposite of stress.  How could anyone with kids be stressed?

Unicorn Babysits

The other day I was trying to cook dinner when I heard Aaron start complaining about being alone.

Me: "Rachel, can you go in the living room and talk to Aaron so he doesn't cry?"

Rachel: "Sure!" (runs away)

Five seconds later I see Rachel in the playroom and hear Aaron still fussing.

Me: "Rachel, I thought you were with Aaron?"

Rachel: "Don't worry. Unicorn is watching him!"

The Hole in the Universe

Andy and I both had the dearest, most wonderful friends while in college. You know, the friends you can call at 2am, the friends who don’t judge you but will tell you straight up what a jerk you’re being, the friends who know the name of your first pet, and—the holiest of holies—the friends who understand you.

My husband and I both went to college in different states than where we now live. And our closest friends still live in, or near, the states where we met them. Facebook, email, and texting are all great for staying close, but they aren’t the same as getting together in person whenever the mood strikes.

Andy works one-on-one with students outside of an office setting, so he spends a lot of time with 13-18-year-olds. I spend much of my time as “mom,” and when I’m working, I work from home or with clients with whom it would be inappropriate to become close. We do live in the town where my husband grew up and many of his wonderful friends are still around. We would love to spend time with them; however, most of them don’t have children and so our lives, schedules, and activities tend to be very different. We also had a fantastic community built around one of our children’s extracurricular activities, but it just sort of melted away when those activities stopped.

As you can see, we have a problem. A problem Andy, stealing from Arundhati Roy, calls a “friend-shaped hole” in the universe.

I have lots of awesome friends here; mostly moms from church and the people who stuck around after law school. These people ROCK and make my life better in a million ways. But oftentimes it's hard to coordinate hanging out around various lessons, nap schedules, work, trial preparation, kids’ illnesses.... it’s a long list.

Also, and perhaps more importantly, it’s just darn HARD.

Friends take a lot of effort, and we are (all) tired. Way too tired to pick up the house for guests or cook dinner or drag our two little ones plus so-n-so’s three little ones out in public where goodness knows what kind of mess might happen. With all those obstacles, it takes quite a bit of effort, time, and energy to reach the level of friend-closeness that naturally arises when sharing a dorm room or editing poetry into the wee hours of the morning over several cups of coffee.

I added this friend-shaped hole to my prayer list recently. After about three days, I had a "duh" sort of realization that Andy agreed with: this is not a friend-shaped hole, it is a TIME-shaped hole. The other realization I had was that *I* could do something to fill this hole (another "duh," I know. But I’m a fairly introverted person so this concept is foreign to me). I did not have to wait for a perfect situation to arise, the phone to ring, or an email to appear in my mailbox. *I* could reach out to another mom (or two or three) who very likely feels a bit of a hole in her own universe. It wasn’t easy, but I seized the opportunity that being home for a full month with a sick baby allows: I made phone calls and sent emails. I even wrote notes and, in one instance, baked a cake. I began reaching out to various people who are outside my normal circle to see what might happen.

(If you think you are one such person, trust me, you aren’t. If you’re reading this blog I already consider you a dear friend, even if we don’t have time to hang out or have dinner or play board games.) This was an effort to make our circle bigger, so I’m talking about people like:

--the mom and daughter who are always at the park when we are, and numbers have been
   exchanged but with no true expectation of a phone call ever being made;

--the woman I encounter in a professional role on a regular basis and have “clicked”
   with, but with whom I have never pursued a conversation outside of our work together;

--the neighbors down the street with a baby 1 month older than ours;

--the other neighbors who brought us wine to welcome us to the neighborhood;

--the older-than-us neighbors who are just so darned nice.

In all instances, I received a genuinely warm response, but comments such as:

    “I would love to, but we’re always so busy we don’t ever get to see anyone anymore.”

    “One kid or the other is always sick and so plans always fall through.”

    “I’m in trial... maybe in a couple of months?”

Keep in mind, all I was saying is “let’s have a playdate,” or “let’s coordinate a trip to the park,” or, “how about a quick lunch sometime?”

Trust me, I get it.

My husband and I almost always have to say “no,” too. Andy works evenings/nights and 12-hour Saturdays and Sundays are family day. We have one child who still sleeps 12 out of 24 hours, and another child who goes to bed no later than 6pm every night. Laundry has to be done and groceries have to be purchased. When we have a spare moment, we see our family who often feels like they see way too little of us.

So between your schedule and our schedule we are left with.... nothing.

I don’t have a solution. I’m not even trying to suggest that parents overschedule their lives, leaving little time for anything else. The fact is, infants need naps. Kids get sick. Toddlers have early bedtimes. Cultural enrichment is a good thing once or twice a week. And certainly, work is essential for survival.

I am saying that friends, even “surface” friends, make life better. They make marriage better. They make people better. They add a dimension of fun, commiseration, and, perhaps most importantly, perspective, to life, all of which are healthy and good. So I plan to keep this in my prayers and thoughts for a while. And not just for Andy and me, but for any parents of small kids who may feel a bit of their own time/friend-shaped hole in the universe.

P.S. -- Let us know if you want to get dinner, but it has to be no later than 4pm to make sure we can get Rachel to bed on time, and if Aaron’s asleep we won’t wake him so check your phone before you leave your house. And Sundays are out (family day), but Saturdays are okay unless Andy has to work or someone is sick. Oh, or if I’m behind on laundry or have to go to 3 different grocery stores plus pick up dry cleaning.