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. 

DOUGH DATE + ARTFEST

Sometimes, when winter just begins to outstay its welcome and the entire city feels like an endless ocean of filthy slush, smoggy drizzle, and icy sidewalks, you look out of your window and want nothing more than to hibernate until the arrival of the spring equinox.  But instead, you lace up your boots, strap the babies in the stroller, and begin digging your way through Brooklyn, in search of fun and friends, and... donuts.

We met our favorite gang of Brooklyn Mama's at the absurdly delicious Dough.  The kids were more interested in looking out the window and counting passing umbrellas than in the actual donuts, which was okay with us because that meant more pastries for us and less sugar for their little teeth.  The things we do in the name of playdates.. :)  They found one particular spot just beneath the coffee creamers where they could all squeeze side by side under the counter and get a good look out the window- a makeshift toddler fort.  We stood back, eating their donuts (dulce de leche, creme brûlée, and salted chocolate caramel for us me... next time I'm trying the hibiscus!) and watching them carry out their little date without us.

Lately, when I've taken Biet on her playdates, I've felt more like an observer, a third wheel of sorts, standing against the wall and watching my kid hang with her friends.  My own interactive position as activity-leader has morphed into quiet sometimes-referee, and I find myself lingering in the shadows in case the kids need me to help with a game or to resolve a dispute.  She laughs, and creates, and fights, and makes up with her friends, and it blows me away every time.  I stand back watching this little firecracker of a girl who've I've known for nearly three years really begin to show the rest of the world who she is.  Soon, I imagine, she won't need me there at all on her playdates.  It's such a bittersweet stage to be going through, but then again, aren't they all?

We left Dough and made our way, a brigade of stroller-pushing city Mamas, through the ultra-slushy sidewalks and puddles of BedStuy to meet more friends for "naked toddler artfest".  At one point, after nearly tipping my double stroller (or "minivan" as my lovely friends like to call it.. very funny, ladies!) over, we ended up having to walk in the middle of the street because the snowbanks were too ridiculous (this cascade of snowstorms we've been experiencing is no joke).  Finally we arrived to the warm apartment for our much anticipated artfest. We stripped the kids down to their diapers and underwear, taped some butcher paper to the floor, and let them go to town with a rainbow palette of paints.  I don't know why we never tried this before.. it was a huge success! Naked artfests are definitely our new go-to rainy/snowy day activity!

So if you ask me, springtime still can't come fast enough, but we're definitely making do in the meantime. :)

OVER THE WEEKEND

..A few shots from our afternoon wandering the streets here at home in Brooklyn this Sunday.  With so much commuting, rushing, and working in Manhattan on a regular basis, it was a welcome break for us to stick around home for a few days. Also, we got to bring our fifth family member (we love you Nico!) with us most everywhere we went, which is something I really miss.  When we lived downtown Nico used to tag along everywhere that we went.  A surprising number of stores and shops in Manhattan allow dogs (the bank! the laundromat! Duane Reade! Bloomingdales!), so we would sometimes leave with her in the morning and walk her around the city for hours.  Since moving to Brooklyn over a year ago, we've had to ride a lot more trains, schedule a lot more of our lives, and be much more precise and timed with walking Nico.  It always makes me a little sad (okay, a lot sad) when I have to rush her around the block and then take her back home before hopping on the train to run errands.  It always fuels the Brooklyn vs. Manhattan debate in my head once again too...

Anyhow, this weekend we stuck close to home, and made time to wander. We walked around proudly as a family of five.  Sometimes I would catch passerby's laughing in disbelief when they saw Gaby, baby strapped to his chest, pushing a toddler, who held the leash of a pitbull, who walked by my side as I lugged our bags.  We must be a pretty amusing sight.  I can only imagine what we'll look like when both of the kids are walking/running/chasing/being hooligans... :)

Thanks for being good to us this weekend, Brooklyn.

**My kimono is c/o Arnhem Clothing. You can find it here. Thanks ladies, I love it!**

BRICK WALLS + BLUEBERRIES: A SIMPLE FOURTH

The car rumbled over the cobblestones uneasily as we passed the warehouses and abandoned junk yards making our way towards the water.  The sun beamed down the oddly deserted streets blinding us as we drove slowly in the direction of the old pier.  We knew we were close.  We had assumed that we would simply follow the crowds of other New Yorkers flocking to Red Hook to watch the fireworks, but alas, there were hardly any to be found.  The parking spots were open, the streets were quiet, and the air was still.  As we neared the old shipping yard I began to wonder if perhaps we had made a mistake in venturing to a brand new spot on the fourth of July; a spot that, before today, I had never heard of.  But then we turned the last corner and I gasped.  I knew in that moment that we had found something special.

Sunlight poured over the old wooden pier, soaking the grassy knoll behind it and bouncing off of the old industrial buildings.  A few wooden picnic tables had been brought out in front of the adjacent warehouse, where a bustling key lime pie stand was in business.  Two dogs guarded the front of the stand, and a few others lounged on the grass with their families.  A few dozen people laid on blankets, picnicking and sunbathing.  A cool breeze blew in from the calm river, and lady liberty herself looked down upon us from her throne in the distance.

We laid out a blanket by the water and began to eat.  Biet stole all of the blueberries for herself, and thought it was just the funniest thing to adorn her little blueberry container with handfuls of grass.  Lucien rested his head upon his sling on the grass at stared up at the orange-streaked sky as the sun descended.  Gaby and I took turns chasing Biet to the pier and back and watching sailboats float by.   As we waited for the sun to set and the firework to begin, Biet and I explored the neighborhood a bit.  We climbed old brick walls and wandered down dirty alleys.  Biet collected stones along the way, showing me each one excitedly before putting it in her pocket.  We stopped in for a mini key lime pie on our way back to Papa and Lucien, and the owner gave Biet the cutest little key lime to add to her stone collection.

As the buildings' shadows grew long and darkness blanketed us, little eyes began to grow tired and little legs began to grow weary.  We made our way to the end of the pier, Lucien nursing in his sling and Biet in the arms of her Papa.  The pier slowly filled will people, and the first booms of the fireworks echoed across the water.  By the time we realized that our perfect little spot had a not-so-perfect view, we looked down and realized that our babies, having had a full and adventuresome day, were ready to sleep.  Biet wouldn't even lift her head from her Papa's shoulder to see the tiny fireworks in the distance.  So humming to our children over the excitement of the crowd, we ventured off the pier, through the grass, away from the water, and back to the car.  We hardly saw any of the show, but it was kind of a perfect ending to a beautiful day.

This little space of the city that we had discovered, so new to us at the same time so old, felt like it had been waiting for us all along.  Our afternoon there had been so magical, and so free. And what better day to experience an overwhelming sense of gratitude and freedom, than on Independence Day.  After all, isn't that what this day is all about?

And at the first stop sign we came upon not two blocks away, a rambunctious group of teenagers suddenly bombarded the street and set off the brightest, biggest, scariest firework show right in front of us.  Alternately terrified and thrilled, we drove through and away from the booms and whistles and explosions in the sky, sparks flying all around.  Leave it to kids of Brooklyn to put on the best Fourth of July show in the city.

WEEKEND EXPLORERS

For the first time in all of my years in New York City, I find myself in possession of a car.  We will have the car for just one week, so we are setting out over the next few days to explore NYC in a whole new way: subway-free.  We zoomed around Brooklyn this past weekend, turning down the streets we would usually never walk through and wandering around tucked-away neighborhoods.  Biet frolicked in new playgrounds and shimmied down new sidewalks.  There's something so refreshing about being somewhere unfamiliar every once in awhile.   

I will always be amazed at the magnitude of this city.  We've discovered so many wondrous little places so far, and still have a few more day trips planned.  It turns out that our second-born hates riding in cars even more than our first-born, so the trips have been a bit bumpy at times (give these kids a subway car any day!), but, let me tell you, it's certainly been nice to have a little break from carrying strollers up and down subway steps.  

I've definitely already fallen head-over-heels with a neighborhood or two.  I keep finding myself daydreaming about driving around Brooklyn all day and uncovering more new-to-us nooks of this great metropolis (discovering old, weird, city relics is my driving-into-the sunset). New York City, here we come..

ON THE BROOKLYN WATERFRONT

It's an amazing feeling to witness your baby, the evolving personality and beauty that you created and birthed from your body, slowly step away.  They learn to eat, and learn to speak, and learn to walk and run and paint and dance. And with each new accomplishment, they move a little further from your side,  and a little further away from the wee sleepy little newborn who nestled warmly against your bosom.

I am so grateful to be able to spend so much time with Biet these first few years of her life.  Up until now, Gaby and I (and Nico, and most recently, Lucien) have been her whole world. Her whole world. We have play-dates and constantly run around the city, but her home and her comfort are here with us. The other day that all changed, as I witnessed her step away from me in the most beautiful and natural way, and into the world of genuine friendship.

The Brooklyn waterfront has become a toddler's dream as of late, with open sunny space abound, views of the water and the city and the passing boats, and both a carousel and an ice cream factory.  We met up with Latonya and River for an afternoon of moseying around, and what began as an innocent hand-holding obsession between our two little ladies quickly grew into something novel.  As I watched the two run and chase each other and explore the tiny toddler-sized spaces in between the buildings around the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, I realized that the spark in Biet's eye was one I hadn't noticed before.  Her voice and her laughter took on a new tone, she had a certain spring in her step, and she was playing with a confidence that I'd never seen before.  She was playing as a real kid. At one point, she grabbed River's hand saying "Come on, Rivvuh!", and then turned, looked me straight in the eye and "Bye Mama, bye."

And I felt the tide change.  I knew in that moment that we were no longer her whole world.  Slowly, the actual whole world, with its people and experiences and joys and heartaches, was becoming hers.  From now on she would have her friends and her favorite places in the same way that I have mine. Her budding friendship with River is something so sacred, so monumental.   As I watched them try to run away to the playground together, I couldn't contain my joy.  I'm so proud of my little girl.