ON SELF-LOVE

They say that there is no greater love than that a mother feels for her child. The moment we step into the abyss of motherhood, we tap into a love so great, so primal, so nurturing, it is unlike anything we have ever known.

Three times over now, I have held my newborn child with arms trembling, utterly exhausted, limp, and exposed, after mustering an otherworldly inner strength from some unknown source to bring them into this world, and I have experienced the birth of this raw love. I have looked into their squinty blue eyes and felt it. And yes, it was the most honest and intense love I could ever remember feeling. Nothing had ever felt so right. And yet, to my surprise each time, it was not unfamiliar.

It was a love I had always known, yet somehow rarely acknowledged.
It was a love that maybe I remembered, possibly, from when I was small.
It transcended every label and every relationship I had ever known.
It came from deep within, where it had always lived quietly.
It was the love of life, of one another, of our bodies, and each and every magical cell within them.
I discovered later that it was an extension of what they call self-love.

In giving birth to my children, I, in a way, gave birth to myself, and it has reshaped my life and empowered me as a woman in ways I never expected. When you experience your own body wax and wane, stretch, ache, and toil through pregnancy and childbirth, you can't help but realize what an incredibly magical creature you are. I think that children are born knowing this, but somewhere along the line, whilst navigating the ocean of labels and comparisons, wading through the sea of pictures and projected expectations of smooth skin, flat tummies, white teeth, and "perfect" physical bodies, we begin to doubt it.  We slowly push it away, and then one day, we forget.  We begin to believe that we are not enough. We think that maybe one day, one day when, one day after, one day in the future, we might be. This is untrue.

It took giving birth and tapping back into That Great Love for me to remember the perfection of what I had always been. In experiencing the awe, fascination, and pride over what my body was capable of,  I was able, for the first time in my life, to look in the mirror and feel like I really truly loved myself.

I remember how strange it felt the first time I honestly and wholeheartedly looked in the mirror and said "I love you." After talking to a friend about this deep connection with and appreciation of myself that motherhood had brought about, she recommended doing it. It felt funny, but good, and I began to incorporate this practice into my life daily. At first it seemed strange, but over time, something funny begins to happen. Those stretch marks, those little age lines, those exhausted eyes, those slightly crooked teeth- you begin to fall in love with them. Then you get better at it, begin to feel it, fiercely, all the time. Soon that self-doubt and cloud of inadequacy- they begin to weigh less and less until one day, they can no longer touch you. Along with the words, I try to practice nurturing actions: reflecting daily upon all that I'm grateful for, meditating, touching base with myself and recognizing what I need to feel whole, feel empowered. At times that means waking up extra early to write for a couple of hours or to simply walk through the city and enjoy time alone, and at times it means indulging in a massage or a good book or a night out with friends or my husband, holding a space for each other to celebrate and connect. Often times, it means actively and consciously allowing myself to feel beautiful, sexy even, exactly as I am. Not when I've gotten a full night's sleep, or had my hair done, or have lost a few pounds, but right now. It's an incredible feeling.

The more I practice this, the more I begin to wonder if it might be a hidden secondary purpose of that all-consuming, impenetrable love we feel for our children. If in falling in love with them, we can fall in love all over again with ourselves, becoming our own greatest advocates and realizing our own perfection just as we are, well isn't that lucky for the little babies who we're in charge of raising? What if That Great Love every woman feels when she becomes a mother is not just meant to ensure that tiny newborns are nurtured, protected, and cared for as they grow into children and then adults, but also meant to foster a self-love in mothers so deep, so passionate, so empowering, that they become shining examples of how it should be done? So that when our babies, the little mirrors and mimickers of all that we are, grow, they will naturally believe in and realize their own perfection too.

The other morning I hazily rolled out of bed, messy-haired and disheveled, make-up-free and unglamorous.  I awoke my middle child Lucien, kissing his cheek and rubbing his back and beckoning him to the kitchen table with fresh fruit and scrambled eggs. We sat together, perfect in our imperfections, me sipping coffee, he eating his eggs with extra ketchup, and he turned to me and said, "Mama I love you. And I love Papa. And I love Levon. And Biet. And Nico." Then he paused for a moment, took a bite, and continued, "And I love me."
"And you love you?" I asked.
"Yes Mama, I really do. We have to love ourselves. That's the most important thing, you know."
I smiled. We finished up breakfast. And I felt that maybe I'm doing something right in this crazy thing called parenting after all.

_______________________________________

This post is a part of the #TogetherWeMother Essay series which I'm honored to contribute to. Be sure to check out the other creative women in the series by visiting their blogs below:

Sometimes Sweet | Lucky Penny | Kikhaly

Household Mag. | Above Harrison | Chels and Co. | Petite Biet | Chrissy Powers

THE MOMENT WE KNEW

Nico was the first to know, as per usual.
She tried to tell me all day, but I wouldn't listen.

It was late summer and the city was awash in deep greens and yellows. Clothing was scarce, sunshine plentiful, and downtown felt both brewing with chaos and hazily stagnant at the same time. It was the season of the streets, the best time of the year for walking, and walk we did- up through the labyrinthine of west village alleys, under the shadows of the Highline, down along the Bowery, popping in to run errands here and there, stopping for coffee at a sidewalk cafe, scouring the farmer's market for the perfect tomatoes- always with Nico at our side. When we'd wake in the morning she would leap towards the door, ready for adventure, ready to pull us towards all of her favorite places- the dog park and the basketball court and the Spanish bodega where they let her put her paws on the counter and gave her treats. Except for that day. That day she didn't budge.

As we lazily attempted to roll out of bed that morning, Nico planted her head and paws firmly on my stomach and froze, refusing to let me rise. We thought it was the cutest thing. When Gaby called her to the kitchen and she ignored him, we laughed, amazed at her sudden fondness for me. When he poured food in her bowl and grabbed the leash for her walk, and she stayed pressed to my belly like a protective statue, we were bewildered. As the day passed and she kept within a foot of me at all times, we knew something was ajar. That's when we decided to buy a pregnancy test.

We didn't really believe anything would come of it, not really. It was just another night like all the rest, he and I, dancing and scheming and dreaming in our apartment. A night like all the rest, except our dog was acting funny.

We read the test. The universe shifted. We stood together, amazed.

We would ride a wave of firsts over the coming months- when we found out she was a she, when we heard her heartbeat for the very first time, the jolt of that first kick from within, and the accompanying realization that behind it was a strong and willful person who would eventually be full of her own ideas and opinions and experiences, the moment the contractions became regular and we understood that the time was now, and that finally, after all of the waiting, we would meet her.

But that first naive moment when that second blue line appeared, the rest of the world fell away and suddenly the only two things left that mattered were us, and our story, which we were continuously piecing together in our little apartment filled with paintings and books and dreams bigger than the Chrysler. That moment was ours alone. It felt like floating.  It was as if we momentarily zoomed out, the city with all of its lights became smaller and smaller below, the perpetually elusive clouds suddenly felt all within reach, and we saw, for the first time, all that we had to give. This city would be hers. This love that we'd leaned into and fostered would be hers. The deeply hued oil paintings hanging on the walls, relics from my mother's days in art school, would be hers, and would carry with them the magic of her late grandmother. The notes of music that filled our apartment night and day, streaming from the dusty records that we'd carefully collected at flea markets and long-shuttered shops, would be the soundtrack of her childhood. When she would be born, we would hold her and love her and memorize the curves of her tiny face, and we would give her our beloved world.

When she grew, we would walk together through the village and tell her the stories that the city held. That cafe over there overlooking the park- the one with the pretty flowers in the glass vases- that was where your Papa and I met every week for years on end to talk about our dreams late into the night. That corner table under the window is where he nonchalantly rolled up his sleeve one night over coffee and dessert, sometime after midnight, and revealed his first tattoo- my name "Belle"- scrawled across his arm, and I nearly dropped my coffee mug in surprise. And that block right there, baby, just past the subway station, is where we all met during the blackout of 2003 and took care of one another, bringing instruments from our apartments and food from our fridges and candles from our pantries, and held an impromptu block party well into the night. Because when the world gives you lemons, you gotta make the best lemonade in town.

We lied side by side in bed and the magnitude of our Great Secret slowly sank in. We couldn't really know the immense joy that parenthood would bring, nor the unfathomable challenges that would accompany it and balance it out. We could not know the specific fiery and protective love that we would feel for her. We could not know the hastening of time that, from that moment on, would forever be present as the days flew by.

All we knew was that suddenly a new world, waxing and waning and burgeoning silently somewhere deep inside me, had been born. The universe had shifted, and a new adventure lay before us.

It was the beginning of a great adventure.

_______ 

We snapped these pictures the other day just a block from where this all took place, down by our old apartment where Biet was born. My dress is from Fabrik. The carrier is from Ergo. 

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This post is the second in a writing series I'm collaborating on called #TogetherWeMother with a few other amazing women. Check out their blogs below:

Sometimes Sweet | Bluebird Kisses | Lucky Penny | Kikhaly

Above Harrison | Chels and Co. | Petite Biet

Chrissy Powers | Mom Crush Monday | Bonjour Ava | Household Mag







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TOGETHER, WE MOTHER

Happiness used to be the clink of cheap wine glasses on a windy fire escape and the laughter of friends trailing into the night.

Then it was the way that a new pair of heels clicked on the pavement to the tempo of my masterfully adopted New Yorker gait.

Down the line, happiness became crown molding, fresh ranunculus's from the farmer's market on Sundays, and the sophisticated way my vintage-diamond-and-sapphire-ringed finger leafed through the New York Times.

For a good many years, it was one-handedly clicking the shutter of my camera in the early morning with a child kicking inside my belly, and one-handedly typing stories well into the evening at our  round white formica table in our funny little Manhattan apartment with a baby nursing at my breast.

And later, without question, happiness became a blustery playground, a cup of coffee burning my lips, and again, the exhausted laughter of friends trailing into the wind.

I never thought that I knew it all. As a new mother, with a neatly stacked pile of folded swaddles and the teeniest tiniest pair of knitted booties sitting upon my dresser, people would ask me if it was hard. Was the sleep deprivation unbearable? Had my life completely transformed? The answer to all three, without question, was an unremarkable no. I felt somewhat guilty for this. Those early days were supposed to be burdensome and exhausting. They were not. I awoke in the morning with a content, if not stubborn, little girl, strapped her into her carrier, and headed out into the world. And life, for the most part, remained just as I had always known it to be: caffeinated, romantic, and, surprisingly, somewhat spontaneous. Dinner on the roof tonight? Yes, please. And outdoor concert at the park? Bring the baby! Weekend road trip? Why not?

As the first of nearly everyone I knew in the city to have a child, we were pioneers. And we knew nothing. So we walked into it with open arms and no expectations of any kind, cloth diapering and making our own baby food and living knee-deep in culture and music and excitement, and somehow, remarkably, it worked. I never read any books about parenting, and if I had, I'm sure I would have dismissed it all anyways. We knew instinctively everything we needed to: nourish the baby with the very best nourishment we could muster, cut her hair when it grew uneven (which took awhile, and has happened approximately twice in her lifetime thus far), and love her.

I never knew it all.

By the time the second and third babies arrived, we'd moved apartments, left and returned to the East Village, and said goodbye to many friends who'd abandoned the great Metropolis for greener pastures out west. When I walked down the street with my newest baby, still acclimating to the overflowing happiness of being a mother of three, passersby would not stop and giddily congratulate me as they had the first, and even second times around, but begin to smile at his tiny squishy face and then, as their gaze passed over the screaming two-year-old in the stroller and the straight-faced four-year-old walking with her hands on her hips, the corners of their mouths would shift and the smiles would morph into bewilderment, bordering on horror, and they would exclaim, "Ohhh, congratulations? You look like you've got your hands full!" My husband and I would joke about these all too common reactions. But looking back, what I really wished is that one of them would have put a hand on my shoulder and said, "It's ok. You got this."

I never knew it all, but the feeling of not knowing it all didn't set in until right around this time.

When a two-year-old Lucien, upon moving into our new 11th-floor apartment, dumped his entire basket of toy cars out the window, I felt my heart stop for half a second. There was an interim of about three days, an oversight on management's behalf, after we moved in, during which we were residing in the apartment but the safety bars had not yet been put on any of the windows (as is required by law in NYC when there are children living in an apartment). They were a very nerve-wracking three days, especially since I was pregnant and had the attention span of a peanut, and Lou was two and had the climbing capabilities of a cat yet little to no rational thinking skills. I remember being in the bathroom, hearing the thud of something hitting the top of the neighbor's window air conditioner below, and lunging half-naked into the living room in horror. The mere moments it took to turn the corner into the next room were an eternity, and when I saw him standing in the windowsill with an unhinged window before him letting in a springtime breeze and an upturned blue wire car basket in his tiny hands, tears began to well in my eyes. That was the first time I remember the thought crashing into my mind, "I can't do this."

When a newly five-year-old Biet gave herself two haircuts, in two days, I was furious. The first was just a little piece of hair from underneath, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. The second, a perfectly centered, perfectly curled lock right in the middle of her forehead.  Right after I'd told her not to hold scissors near her face, right after I'd offered to cut her hair for her if she liked, she decided that an uneven one-inch chunk of fringe, front and center, seemed like a good idea. And of course, it makes complete sense. That's Biet. I should have understood from the get-go, from the time she was a tiny little thing in her knit booties, that of course she would cut her own hair. But that was the first time I remember hearing the words of my father escape my lips: "How many times do I have to tell you?", "You do as I say!" and, most embarrassing,"That's enough, young lady!". After those first mutterings, it happened more and more. And perhaps my patience shrunk more and more.  And as we all continued to grow, and life became more complicated, those frightening little words began to cross my mind more and more often as well, "I can't do this. I just can't do it all."

I don't remember the exact moment when I truly began to understand and appreciate the magnitude of my village, but I remember the people.

Perhaps I'm in the minority, of having to reach a breaking point before making real change. Or perhaps everyone reaches this point and it's just that no one really talks about it. Or perhaps we all know nothing and are just winging it day by day, year by year, and randomly finding one another along the way. But for me, it happened around the birth of Levon. Coincidentally or un-coincidentally, one of my best friends in the city happens to be on the same life-trajectory as myself, as far as motherhood is concerned. We bonded when our eldest became best friends, our middle children are only months apart, and our youngest must believe, I assume, that they are brothers of some sort. That is how much time they spend together. To find another woman crazy enough, in this already chaotic city, to have three children within four years, is one of my greatest blessings as a mother.

One morning while trying to get everyone buttoned and brushed and packed for school, my brows began to furrow in anger and frustration and my voice cracked in that awful way that a stern mother's does, and I yelled at my children, "Now we're late! Again! This is impossible!" I knew that it wasn't their fault- they were just being kids, with no concept of punctuality, no awareness of how wildly counterproductive it was to begin playing dress up now, when we were already fifteen minutes late trying to get out the door. But I yelled anyway, and as always, it did no good. The cleanest article of clothing I owned at the moment was covered in milk-stains, but at least it was black (I have a silly notion that one will always look at least somewhat glamorous in black, even in the most unfortunate situations). My hair was unbrushed, but looked very "downtown," I authoritatively convinced myself as we locked the door behind us. I silently hoped that I didn't run into anyone I knew along the way.

But of course I did run into a friend, just as soon as we stepped out the door. I ran into my friend and her three children. And her shirt had milk stains. And her hair was unkempt. And our eyes met one another in a way as if to say, "You too?!".

And that, my friends, was the beginning of the end... the beginning of the end of feeling burdened by the fact that there simply weren't enough hours in the day, simply not enough hands, not enough patience, not enough of me to go around to possibly pull off this wild one-woman show called mothering... the end of believing that I simply wasn't enough.

We walked to school together. Everyone was late. And it was ok.

We walked home together that day too. "You can come over," she offered, "but our apartment is a disaster." I didn't care; our's was a disaster too. We made tacos and let the kids destroy the place further in a happy storm of markers and superhero costumes and jumping on the bed. We just sat there and breathed, exchanging war stories and nursing our babies. The babies toddled together, the middle kids bossed around the babies, the big kids mothered them all, and we chaperoned. There were cries and messes, and mayhem all around, but for the first time in a long time, if felt ok.

I remember being a new mom with a slumbering baby girl, reading glossy magazines and blogs full of perfectly happy mothers and their perfectly happy mother friends. They'd talk about their beautiful children, their days at the park, their successful careers, and how they balanced it all. That's what I want for us, I would think. That must be what the old phrase, "It takes a village" looks like!. But I, knowing close to nothing mind you, turned out to be completely wrong. When that illusion was shattered, it took some time for the dust to settle.

A village, as it turned out, and as took me a few years to learn, is not merely a group of friends who are also mothers and whom you meet for play dates and coffee. A village, in my experience at least, is deeper than that. A village means honoring one another even when we feel that we are failing at motherhood. A village means offering understanding and empathy to one another, as all of the trivial yet taxing tasks of the day build up and break us down. A village is more than people- it is a space, created by love, free of judgement, and full of honesty. A village means picking up the crying baby, no matter who's baby it is, and slinging him across your hip as if he was your own. It means showing up unexpectedly at a friend's apartment and cooking all the kids breakfast so she can take a shower for the first time in days. It means looking into a friend's tired eyes and reminding her of the queen that she is, even if she feels like her castle is crumbling. Because she damn well is a queen. We all are.

And when we create this village, this space of support, and these instinctive habits of caring for one another and letting ourselves be taken care of, the most miraculous thing begins to happen. One day the baby's crying (no idea who's baby it is, there are too many to keep track of at this point), and just as you go to sweep him up in your arms, your eldest picks him up and puts him on her hip. And all is well. A couple of days later, one of the toddlers falls off a scooter and scrapes her knee, and you watch as the other children huddle around her, lift her up, and encourage her to keep trying. A few weeks later the kids surprise you early in morning with breakfast in bed, a gloriously bland meal of cheerios and grapes. And as they snuggle next to you and your son burrows into that little crook of your arm that he's always loved, he mumbles, "You're the best mama EVER. And you're the most beautiful mama EVER too." It's the best bowl of cheerios you've ever tasted.

I never knew it all, and I don't pretend to now. But if there's one piece of advice I can give new mothers everywhere, that I wish someone had given me (although I am grateful beyond words for the journey that it's been to discover this for myself), it would be: find your tribe. Find the women who will stand with you when the going get's tough, and who aren't afraid to talk about it all.

Find the women who make you feel strong, and heard. Empower them. Listen to them.

Find the women who aren't afraid of dirt and diapers, who try to find the beauty in the chaos, and who understand the transformative power of both laughter and tears.

Find these kindred women and love them. You're children will see the love, and they will mimic it.

And over time, this village will be your biggest support system.

Because over time, my village showed me that the problem was never that I wasn't enough. The problem was that, somewhere along the way, I'd adopted the idea that I had to be.

______________________________________

This post is the first in a writing series I'm collaborating on called #TogetherWeMother with a few other amazing women. Check out their blogs below:

Sometimes Sweet | Bluebird Kisses | Lucky Penny | Kikhaly

Above Harrison | Chels and Co. | Petite Biet

Chrissy Powers | Mom Crush Monday | Bonjour Ava | Household Mag

*images are from this summer's Mermaid Parade at Coney Island, to which a friend and I took 7 children. It was amazing. 

DON'T CLOSE THE DOOR

If there are things I wish that I'd known all along, they would be (in no particular order):

Write everything down.
Take more photographs.
There are no mistakes.
Coincidences always end up making sense.
Love the way you look today.
It all matters, even if you can't see it yet. even if you never see it. It matters to someone.

Because one day, when the kids are grown, leaning in to their own adventures and plotting their grand entrances into the world, we'll look back on these days when Levon was still a doughy little thing on his mama's hip and think to ourselves, those were the days. And we won't be wrong.

There was, once upon a time, my magical first year in the city. I knew nothing then, and longed to know it all. A lifetime of dumb luck and naive mistakes loomed before me, and there was no conversation too trivial nor moment too insignificant. It was all so new, and all. so. thrilling. Life in the Lower East Side was a dazzling haze of art openings and parties, coffee and cigarettes, and creation. Creating films, creating music, creating art... making anything we could get our hands on just for the sake of that fleeting sense of expressive satisfaction- making things for joy. There was a cafe our closely-knit gang of friends all congregated at from the time we rolled out of bed- messy-haired and positively brimming with tales from the previous night's escapades- until they closed at 2am. Then we would pay our bill and all migrate together, clad head to toe in faded black, cloaked in oversized second-hand leather jackets and worn boots and antique jewelry, to the bar across the street to continue our conversations until the sun came up. Some of us worked at the cafe as well, and it quickly became our clubhouse of sorts.  Each day was a caffeine-fueled romp through the narrow streets and shops and galleries downtown, each night an unimaginable scene from some gritty surrealist film. We had all been lucky enough to find one another, an unassuming little group of wildly optimistic misfits, in this run-down neighborhood in this great big city, and we were quite certain that it would never end. With so many influential and interesting people passing in and out of the cafe day after day, week after week, year after year, we were sure that the magic would keep growing forever.

We'd all heard the hushed whispers that the cafe was closing, all accepted the fact that our beloved clubhouse was on it's last legs, but when the day arrived, quietly and without occasion, and the front gates of the cafe stayed pulled down and locked, we mourned. The neighborhood followed shortly- beautiful century-old tenements bulldozed one by one and replaced with luxury hotels and condos. Our favorite places began to disappear, and soon our favorite people followed. And suddenly our home was unrecognizable. That was the first time I heard myself mention, those were the days.

I came to find out that we were indeed right, the magic does keep growing forever. But it morphs and twists and takes on new forms with age. The next five years of living in the city were golden. I grew up a little, learned a bit about grace, a bit about humility- stories for another time. But my oh my, those were the days. Then there were the first years of my marriage, when it was just us against the world. We partnered off, found an old railroad apartment in the East Village and over time re-built, re-wired, sanded, painted and sculpted the space into the wood-plank-floored kingdom of our dreams. We painted portraits and hung them on the wall surrounded by dried roses we'd given one another over the years. We wallpapered our kitchen in vintage french film posters and built a headboard out of tree branches. We became the ones who threw the parties, overcooking the entrees while our guests laughed and played guitar on our torn Victorian sofa in next room. One time I botched an entire Thanksgiving dinner for close to 40 people, grossly underestimating the amount of time it would take to cook the turkey and ending up not serving food until well into the evening, when our friends had all had one too many drinks and the music selection had naturally evolved from Billie Holiday and Louis Armstrong to rare Beatles recordings to old Sephardic Jewish records. We ended up eating dry turkey and smoking cigarettes and dancing to Moroccan mandolins well into the night, crammed like sardines amongst the overflowing bookcases and antique lamps in our funny little apartment. It was very Breakfast at Tiffany's, and I'd hear friends lamenting, years later, well those were the days.

Spaces changed, babies were born, and the city, as always, continued to transform. When I first walked into The Deep End Club, I couldn't quite put my finger on what about it seemed so familiar. It was just a shop around the corner from our tiny tenth street apartment, run by the sweetest woman with the most interesting stories. You could always count on Tennessee's smiling face and charmingly formal British accent to be there. Over the next couple of years a community grew around that shop. The space became greater than the sum of its parts, and The Deep End Club bloomed into a neighborhood sanctuary, a place we could go to meet like-minded people, see friends, plan movements, and support and empower one another. It was where my children learned how to use a rotary phone. It was where I learned to practice Reiki. It was where I sat, nearly two weeks overdue with Levon, surrounded by women meditating to try to help bring the baby. I went into labor the next day. It was the birthplace of some of my most treasured friendships. And as our country teetered on the verge of massive shifts, it was where we all gathered to discuss how we could organize and stand up against the insanity, violence, oppression, and racism that our country has been stuck in since long before my time. It was a place of hope. It was our new clubhouse.

One late spring day my children set up a lemonade stand outside of the Deep End Club. They had painted rainbow-hued signs and taped them up and down the block with scotch tape. All proceeds from the sales were going to the Bernie Sander's campaign, for which we'd all actively been campaigning for months. "Lemonade for Bernie!" they would joyfully heckle at the passersby. The faint sounds of Tennessee's band NAF practicing down in the shop's basement drifted up through the gate to the sidewalk, a fitting soundtrack for the slow and sunny afternoon. The door of the shop was propped open to let in fresh air, and as someone passed they accidentally closed it. The children ran over to pull it back open, hollering enthusiastically, 'Don't close the door!".

Later at one of her shows, Tennessee told me that they had heard the children's voices drifting down into the basement and  had turned that line into a song on the spot.

The Deep End Club closed it's doors for the last time a couple of weeks ago. Before the end, we all made this video together. And while, yes, part of me is saddened; the older, wiser, and against all odds, more optimistic, part of me knows that everything that happens is simply paving the path for what must happen next. Of course we'll look back and this time of our lives will all seem like a long lost legend, a glamorously romantic period in the city. It always does. And of course we'll nostalgically ask one another, well weren't those the days?

But I think that maybe, just maybe, the best days are yet to come. And that all of these tiny stories are just bits and pieces of something so big, so grand, so wild, that we'll only be able to read it backwards. I'd like to think so, anyways.

TO NARNIA / SPRING BREAK

Spring break has never meant too much to us. It comes and goes each year without occasion, save for the noticeably fewer NYU students downtown. The streets quiet down a bit. You might randomly run into a few old friends who you haven't seen in years, fellow old-fashioned city dwellers who stick around town when everyone else goes away. But aside from that, spring break means business as usual. Or at least it did. Before we had a daughter in school. 

What does it mean now? It means sleeping late, cooking more. Long, slow-roasted meals with fresh vegetables from the farmers market. Strawberries for breakfast. Painting our toes bright colors. Paul McCartney and Beirut and Iggy Pop. It means adventures in the daytime with my brood, weaving through the sidewalks of the village, taking our time, manifesting adventure. I may not be taking my kids around the world, but we discover whole universes here at home. Like our favorite treehouse, hiding in plain site in a magnificent city garden. 

We've been to most of the gardens in the neighborhood, but this one is special- almost wild, and always full of music and wonder.  The plants are luscious and unkempt in a way where you feel not the precision of what man can create but the fury or what nature can. The dirt feels different- it almost pulsates under your feet. The birds sing louder. When you stand in this garden, in the heart of Alphabet City, you're no longer in the city at all. You've entered a storybook. We like to call it Narnia.   

To Narnia we walk, hand in hand like a string of paper dolls, a happy little band of outsiders. Biet is on one side clasping Lou's hand, anchoring him at street lights, leading the way. I am on the other with Levon slumbering on my chest. I pace my steps to his tiny breath and walk with the rounded gait of a woman with child. After three pregnancies I don't think that cloud-like walk will ever fully leave, as if my body now completely expects to always be carrying a child in one way or another, and has compensated with a slightly softer, slower step. Biet cautions us each time we pass an open sidewalk gate. With a devilish grin and quick laugh, Lou excitedly tries to derail us down random side streets. The sun shines warm on our backs and we march south. The garden awaits, with its fresh tulip bulbs and slanted wooden treehouse. Spring is here.

Inside the garden we meet a man who feeds the pigeons and tends to the vegetables. Tomatoes, carrots, basil, we grow it all, he says. The children are enchanted. He looks Lou in the eyes and speaks to him like a man, and then hands him a rake. Get to work. Lou's eyes widen with pride and a grin spreads across his face. He rakes and rakes the patch of dirt he's assigned to until he's worn himself out. I am so proud of him.  The man brings a bag of birdseed and teaches them how to call pigeons. Plumes of seed fly from their tiny hands and fill the air, and suddenly pigeons are everywhere, gracefully spreading their wings above us and perching on the branches at our sides. Biet says she thinks they are beautiful. The white one is her favorite.  

We climb the ancient wooden ladder up into the treehouse for lunch. Laying upon the weathered wooden beams, we share mangos, apples, and cheese. I nurse Levon. I don't even know what time it is now. It doesn't matter. Biet disappears down the ladder and goes wandering, and after a little while of spending time with just my boys, I climb down to find her.  I see her standing stoically in front an empty flower bed of overturned soil with a dusty found pocket mirror in her hand.  A dozen or so pigeons hop about at her feet, combing the stones for rogue seeds and breadcrumbs. Her gentle hands silently tilt the mirror back and forth, up and down, until it catches the sunlight and beams it across the flowerbed, like a tiny golden spotlight coming from her fingertips. She sees me watching her and tilts the mirror up, shining the light into my eyes and blinding me momentarily. She laughs mischievously. The notion that she can control the sunlight is so grand, so otherworldly, that it overtakes her and she excitedly reports, "Mama look! I can make magic!"

My Biet. I love that you believe in magic. I do too. I love that you consider the birds of the city your kin. I love that you dive into your own little worlds sometimes, twirling your fingers in front of your face in spastic circles and crossing your eyes and not giving a damn who sees you doing it. And when I gently ask you what you're doing, you tell me matter-of-factly, "Oh Mama, I'm just making pixie dust." I love that you know that you're strong enough to build anything you dream of and wise enough to always come up with a plan to get it done. I love that you're a planner. I'm one too, you know. And I love that you are the most stubborn person I know when it comes to following through with your plans.  

The sun is getting low in the sky and we say goodbye to the man. The birds are fed and the soil is raked, and it is time to say farewell. We plan to come back tomorrow, and every day of spring break, to tend to our garden. Next time we will bring seeds. 

________________

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IMPASSIONED- A STORY OF BECOMING

Soon after my first baby was born, I found myself floating in a sea of old friends and cherished memories. Amongst the singles and couples, artists and parties, and same glorious world of the downtown set that had become my everyday since moving to New York City, I floated. But now, I was there with a baby. I'd birthed a beautiful little girl in the pink-tiled kitchen of our railroad apartment on second street, and now had to learn to navigate the murky waters of our new world. As the first of our friends to have a child, we knew nothing, were willing to learn everything, and approached our new roles with as much gusto as two sleep deprived first-time parents could muster. It wasn't easy. Then again, it wasn't too hard. But more and more often, we found ourselves floating, still part of the same NYC that we knew and loved, but at the same time, in brand new, unfamiliar territory.

And so, I went to the place where I feel most at home- within my words. I began to write. 

I shared my birth story and for the first time, I was met with reactions that were empowering and accepting rather than judgmental or skeptical. Instead of giving me a look of bewilderment or taking two steps back when they heard that we'd birthed our baby at home, women were emailing me and asking "What was it like?" or chiming in, "Me too!".  It was the very beginning of an online community. MY online community. It was a glittery little lifeboat filled with new friends, and it was raw and honest and uplifting. I became passionate about telling my stories, and motherhood began to make sense.

The words flowed and the blog grew. Online friends became real life friends. With the birth of my son, I became a mother of two. My world, and my days, became more and more full. Then came sponsorships and social media, and the blogging fortress that I'd built and which rested so near and dear to my heart became my actual job. I was so grateful. But I watched as the online worlds of many writers slowly became bigger and more powerful than their real-life worlds.  I watched as online personas and branding overtook individuality and authenticity. Trying to fit into this new ocean of blogging, my words began to feel forced. That's when I knew that I needed a break from it all. I needed a sabbatical. 

I continued to write privately, cultivating my ideas and reflecting on gratitude and change. I focused on slowing down. I cooked more. I dug in the dirt with my children. I traveled to California. I developed my photography. I became pregnant again and birthed my third child at home in our new apartment in an unassisted home birth. I lived life. I gathered stories. And I knew that when the time was right, I would once again tell them to the world. 

Don’t ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” 

 — Howard Thurman

The passion to write, to connect, swelled within me. I was busier than ever, with three children under five, a daughter in pre-K, a newborn, a thriving photography business, a pitbull, and a husband (who told me daily that he missed reading my blog).  But if motherhood has taught me one thing, it is that we are truly capable of anything we put our minds to, and that the more we do, the more we can do. 

And so, I write. 

I try to connect.

I tell my story. 

And I want to read yours. 

I have this theory that having kids forces us to abruptly reach our full potential (more on that later!), to take those risks we always wanted to, and to live as authentically as we can for our children's sake. If you had told me five years ago that today I would be sitting here at my laptop, writing (my then brand-new blog) at a fever pitch into the night, while simultaneously planning my daughter's fifth birthday party and my older son's third birthday party, and nursing my four-month-old son, I would have laughed boisterously. "Never in a million years!", I would have told you.  

But your gut has a funny way of steering you in the right direction, and my gut says that it's once again time to connect, to make my voice heard. I have so much to tell. I have so much to hear. And thank you so much for listening. 

xx

(I'm seriously looking for new blogs to read and friends to connect with, so please let me know via email or comments if you know of any spectacular writers out there. Let's uplift each other in this community together. Peace and love, dear friends!)

Images via my photo project with I Dig Denim

A NEW SEASON

The days creep by. The holidays approach. This year, the overall feeling in the city streets doesn't seem to match the season. The air outside is far too warm, crawling into the 60's most days, and it nudges us to spend our afternoons with ice cream in the playground rather than ice-skating in the park. Our heavy winter coats sit in the back of the closet, waiting patiently for their day in the sun. We continue to frolic lightheartdedly about the city as if the golden days of early autumn had never ended. It feels eerily similar to my childhood winters in California.

When Biet and I walk home from school, we like to play a game of counting how many vintage cars we can find. One day, after walking the long way home, across Tenth street and up First avenue, where a few of the old cars are regularly parked, she asks me what I want for Christmas. We walk two more blocks. She points out a seafoam green Ford Falcon parked across the street and I smile. I finally answer.

This year, I tell her, I want no wrapped gifts, no clothes nor books nor records nor jewelry. This year, I say, I want an adventure for Christmas, or at least to plant the seeds of adventure and hope to make one happen in the new year. I want to make a promise to one another to go experience someplace foreign, to dream big and to think in new ways about seeing the world. My heart has been bursting with wanderlust over the past few month and I'm ready to invest in experience and to embark with my family of five on an adventure like no other.  It could be a vacation, or a road trip, or a wild camping jaunt through the forest or countryside, I don't know. But my soul is seeking adventure, and I can think of nothing I would love more for Christmas than to sit down and plan it out. Biet watches me and I can see the excitement rubbing off on her. Then she nods her head and tells me nonchalantly that she'll take me to Paris, where we'll eat chocolate together and watch ballet. I begin to laugh off the thought but then the image of she and I wandering the streets of Paris hits me and I have to catch my breath. She's older, early teens, and a radiant wild-haired woman with a fiery confidence and a quick wit. To imagine your children grown is at once terrifying and thrilling, and I let myself get lost for a minute in the idea of being a mother of three grown adults. Then I blink and we are walking up First Avenue, and she is four, and we're looking for old Cadillacs, and Christmas is only days away.

Early that evening we walk over to Union Square to the Holiday Market, where vendors from all over city set up booths to sell their wares. There are tables overflowing with spices and teas, handmade candles burning, carved wooden ornaments piled high, rows of hand-blown glass, and dainty charms swinging from golden chains. The tepid December air carries spicy clouds of hot apple cider through the outdoor market corridors. Eleven-week-old Levon rides in the bassinet and sleeps nearly the entire time. He is such a peaceful baby with a happy bright demeanor. He also exudes a distinct spiritual energy that you simply must experience to fully understand. I watch a sense of peace befall those who hold him, and everyone seems to say the same thing- there's something mesmerizing about his eyes. Deep blue and piercing, they catch you off guard and hold your gaze with a vengeance. Even Santa Claus couldn't look away (we skipped the long lines at the big department stores this year and took the kids instead to an intimate little event my friend Brianne put together with Little Me at Lord & Taylor) when we took Levon to sit on Santa's lap for the first time. The only child of mine to not cry upon being handed to Santa, Levon smiled and yawned and stared deep into the eyes of the bearded man... no fear, no anxiety, just a perfectly comfortable baby burrowing into the fabric of a fluffy red and white Santa suit. Quite simply, baby Levon is one of the most brilliant people I've ever met.

In the back of the market we find what we've been looking for- a miniature table surrounded by miniature chairs inside a miniature room fashioned of wood and plexiglass. Baskets of paint and glitter are strewn about the tabletop and colorful paper ornaments hang from a clothesline against the back wall. My children see the little art shack and run towards it. Lou, my little mover and shaker, has ALL of the art supplies in his corner of the table within seconds, and is happily gluing yellow feathers to a blue snowman. He has a way about him that makes you believe that he can make anything, a boundless energy and enthusiasm for building things that becomes infectious. In no time we are all sitting around the little CMA kids table making christmas ornaments, inside the holiday market, in the middle of the park, as the sun sets over Manhattan. It's all very picturesque.

The sun has set and the children's bedtime is approaching. With our freshly-glittered ornaments layed to dry under the stroller and a couple slices of pizza in our bellies, we detour down 5th avenue to catch a glimpse of the Washington Square Park Christmas Tree before heading back home to our apartment. The wind blows hard up fifth avenue, swirling my hair above my head and turning my coat into a cape flapping behind me. Lou delightedly informs me that I look like Batman, and for a couple of blocks we run wildly against the wind gusts playing Batman and Robin. As I'm running with him I think about how this is something my Dad would have done with me, and the thought warms my heart and makes me miss my family terribly.

Finally we are standing under the majestic tree, strung with lights in all her glory and swaying precariously in the wind. Surprisingly, the park is quiet and nearly empty save for a few stragglers and people rushing home from work. I've never seen Washington Square so empty, and the rareness of the situation is not lost on me. Here I stand with the tree before me, the Empire State beaming in the distance, and my three healthy children by my side, and I am so grateful.  And I know Christmas is coming, but, once again, the city feels calm, warm, tranquil, and lacking the usual frantic energy which descends upon everything like a blanket this time of year.

In that moment I feel so at home, and I suddenly notice the unexpected beauty in having a quiet Christmas.  I decide to stop waiting for this year to feel like every other year and accept that ease and calm can replace the excitement of the NYC streets once in awhile, and that's ok. Here we are celebrating Levon's first Christmas, and the weather is warm, and life is simple, and that's ok. Standing under the tree I get this overwhelming feeling that our family is done waiting. We've finally arrived at some unnamed destination and are ready to begin something. What that thing is I cannot say, but I do know that we five have each other, and we have the city, and we are exactly where we need to be. As the winter solstice approaches, a new season is turning over in our lives. I am so eager to see what it holds.

I stay up at night after the kids are asleep and try to read. I've been trying to re-read a few of my favorite novels, Proust, Tom Robbins, Kerouac, Fran Lebowitz. The whole apartment is still and dark except for the dim yellow glow from the 1950's bedside lamp. I rescued the funny little lamp from the trash room of our building not long after moving in to our apartment- it's gaudy curved marble base and intricate floral velum shade had resonated with me when I spotted it, and so I gave it a respectable permanent home on my side of the bed.  Gaby can't stand the lamp, but it reminds me of all of the generations who lived in the building before me, and of all of the adventures that must have been had before my time. It reinforces the connection I've always felt to the past, and, like a handful of antiques I've collected over the years, sparks my imagination.

I usually get through about three pages at the end of the night before switching off the lamp and falling asleep. And then, for only a few hours out of the entire day, the whole apartment is quiet as we lose ourselves to our dreams.  I dream of Paris, and Christmas is another day closer.