New Post, Finally!

I didn't want to close out the New Year without a post. This has been a splendid holiday season, the best ever. One thing that having children has taught me is that you can learn to be happy without going anywhere or spending any money. That wasn't entirely the case with this family this year, but I feel I have learned a lot about being happy without moving around, both physically and psychically, so much. When I think back on the past four years, I realize and celebrate just how far we have come as a family.

Four years ago, David and I packed up our car and drove to Tucson, Arizona, land of my past and of many mistakes. To put it in a nutshell, Tucson is where I went after I received my undergraduate degree. I had a difficult time in Tucson in my early 20's, all of which was a manifestation of poor decisions made on my part. From disappointing relationships to lack of direction, it was there where I experienced a real dark night of the soul. So returning to the seat of my angst was difficult. The fact that it is where my parents chose to retire makes it a place where the universe wants me to return over and over again. Which is probably a very healthy thing.

On that trip four years ago, I was lying in what used to be my grandfather's bedroom when what must have been the voice of God struck me and said, if not out loud than booming to my soul, "You must have a baby." This was very confusing, considering that David and I had long said we would not have children. We were truly looking forward to being retired young with lots of extra money and freedom to travel with and have a great time. When I announced to David what the angel of the Lord announced to me, he was very puzzled. A bit angry. A lot scared.

Several conversations later--you can pack a lot into a trip across Texas--David was on board, albeit he still thought I was pretty crazy. And then, two weeks later, we were pregnant with Ryan. Our life has bloomed ever since. And, based on our experience, I'll bet if you asked a flower if it was easy to get from bud to rose, it would tell you it was painful. But also joyous. And oh so worth it.

Now I look at Ryan and Charlotte, too, who came to us like laughter from the universe, and I am so profoundly humbled. They are truly good people. I can see it already. I think God has a lot to do with that, but I think the community we have built in the walls of our 1500-square foot home here in Baton Rouge has also played a significant role.

As I look forward to 2009, my intention is to be nice to David, Ryan, Charlotte, and myself, too. It sounds like such a trite, silly wish. But I mean to be genuinely kind to them, not just in terms of having nice manners but also of thinking gently when I am considering what I would like them to do, or be, or not do or not be. And remembering to speak to them with love and reverence for the unique, cool loving people they are. To see, when I look at them, the very best Ryan, Charlotte, and David; the people they are on the healthiest, most balanced day of their lives. And to always be grateful to each of them for showing me who I can be, even when I think I can't be or do anything.

Blessings to all of you this New Year's Eve. Namaste.

"You Are Not Your Daily Grind"

I read this on Steve Ross's Web site. In case you don't know who Steve Ross is, he's a man who teaches yoga on the Oxygen network at 6 o'clock every morning. Back when I was a working girl (yeah, right), I woke up every morning and did Steve Ross's yoga class live. In the bedroom. David still has dreams in which he hears a tenor voice saying, "Step or jump back, come down, up dog, down dog," to funky music. Yeah, that's one think I like about Steve Ross. He does yoga to songs like "Do You Want a Revolution (Whoop, Whoop)," and "Tomorrow People." It's a tough workout. But what I really like about it is the mediation sequence he does at the end.

Luckily, now I Tivo Steve and occasionally get a chance to practice with him during nap time. Today, it was absolutely essential, as Ryan pulled an incredibly rare "I'm gonna be bad and don't you dare try to talk me out of it" kind of days. Let's just say it started with torturing the dog, ended with perhaps intentionally knocking Daddy's chock-full glass bottle of Red Stripe on the tile floor thereby shattering the glass and dousing everyone within a 15-foot perimeter in stinky beer. In between, he took a carrot peeler (how he found it, I have no idea) and proceeded to scratch the television set with it. His dad had the fortune of being home for lunch when that happened, and I thought he was going to choke on his soup.

Since Ryan was a baby, we have always said we would never spank him. I stand by that, but I wonder just how much a child can stand being told to "Stop that behavior right now," or "Go to your room," Or "TIME OUT!" At a certain point, it seems like maybe a physical experience might work better. But I am afraid of what hitting--that's what spanking is, let's face it--might introduce an element of violence into our relationship that would not be good. Plus, Dr. Phil says it's easy to get worked up and go too far. If Dr. Phil says not to do it after having on all of those drill sargeants who scream at 13-year-old problem children, then I say maybe it's not a good idea.

Anyway, after all of that, that simple line from Steve Ross sticks with me. "You are not your daily grind." I certainly hope so. I find myself some days thinking, "I used to be cool. I used to be funny. What has happened to me?"

As my sister-in-law, who is raising three great kids, says to me "Don't worry. It doesn't last forever, it just feels like it does."

Items found while cleaning the yard today

We had a rare snow last week, which was beautiful, but also made me realize how much clutter there is in our backyard. So today I went out, armed with a 75-degree day and a few trashbags. Here is a short list of what I found:
Ryan's Baby's First Christmas 2005 ornament with a silver rudolph. Gasp! I had no idea it had wandered out there, and there it was, cradled in the rosemary. It is fine.
A washcloth
Several balls. Plastic, sports, you name it.
A beater. Probably used as Captain Hook's hook once or twice.
Cereal bowls
Pitchers
Pink Crocs, size 3 toddler
A faded plastic pirate ship
A deflated Spiderman jumper
Racquet that I use to play "wall ball..." Don't ask.
Cooler filled with water and tiles from our roof that blew down after Gustav

One Thing at a Time

The wood floor pressed into my spine to make up the first time in several days I was still while awake. I have a lot of trouble sitting still. Just ask my husband. It drives him crazy. We get settled to watch a movie, and then I am up to get a drink, and then I am up to get another cushion, and then I am up to get a snack...You get the picture. This, perhaps, is why yoga appeals to me so much. You move and move and move and then, your bones and ligaments all stretched and aligned, you stop moving. And you stop thinking and you exist.

Kim, my teacher at yoga bliss, reminded us at the end of class on Saturday to only try to do one thing at a time.

As you can imagine, I have trouble with this. I like to dabble here, then there, then over here. Even when I write, I am tempted to jump ahead and write the ending, and I am thinking about what I will write next. When I am talking in a group, I have to work really hard not to eavesdrop on two conversations at once while I am enjoying talking to a third. As a mother, I feel this often backfires, for the constant interruptions on top of my natural inclination to try to do a bunch of things at once means I don't get anything accomplished very quickly at all. Wouldn't I be better off to just do one thing and get it finished, then move to the next?

So this week I made an early New Year's resolution. One thing at a time. One thing. Even if I hear my e-mail in box ding, even if the kids are saying "Mommy, where's my noonie?" Unless someone is bleeding or on fire, I will focus on the task at hand and then, when I am finished, I will move to the next thing.

It is hard. I so want to run across the room for a second to button a shirt and then get back to doing the dishes. But, just for now, I am going to rinse the suds off of this particular dish, I am going to fold this particular sock, and then, then, I will get to the demand. The thing I have observed is that if I stay focused and finish my task, the kids figure out for themselves where the lost toy is. They decide for themselves what kind of shirt they want to put on. They work out their arguments. There are exceptions, of course. Like when there's an explosive diaper or someone is about to put the dog's eye out. But I have learned the number of times I drop what I am doing to serve another isn't always necessary.

Another nice side effect is I involve the kids in what I am doing. Yesterday, Ryan and Charlotte scrubbed pots and pans in the sink while I loaded the dishwasher. They had a great time and contributed to the effort. I had the satisfaction of actually entering the lunch hour without any dishes in the sink. These might sound like mundane concerns for one with a master's degree, but all you doctoral moms out there can relate, I am sure. An ordered house is an ordered mind. Mine is too often in chaos, on more than one level.

So the experiment continues, and we'll see where it leads. Namaste.

Obama Smoking in a World of One-Breasted Women

Two stories that fetched headlines in today's newspaper--which I actually was able to read because David took the kids to go visit his grandmother--has me thinking about the way we in modern life relate to the body. First, a story about a new breast cancer test that can more accurately predict who will be stricken with the disease. Second, a story about President-elect Barack Obama's smoking habit, and how his plight to kick the butt will be followed closely by anti-smoking groups.

Back in graduate school, I studied a particular vein of folklore known as bodylore. In a nutshell, it encompasses how people experience the meaning of their bodies in public and private life. Watch the news or read the paper, and you'll discover many statements about how today's Americans interact with their bodies. There is contradiction, of course. We love and hate our carcasses in balanced measure most of the time. We long to yield to ecstasy, at the same time mistrusting our limbs and organs, sure they will betray us at any time.

Take the story on breast cancer testing. Are we really prepared for a test that will tell us if, sometime down the road, our breasts will turn on us? I can imagine legions of women lobbing off their breasts, breasts that, in many cases, have never been used to nurse a baby because of the shift toward sexualization and shame surrounding this precious part of a woman's anatomy. I can definitely envision--frightening as it might sound--a time when breasts are considered unessential and take off the moment they begin to bud so that the woman can be safe. We'll reconstruct them, of course, so that they can still be pleasure pillows. But they'll be tamed, ineffective, and not the ticking time bombs the tests will tell us they are. The same kind of thing happens with childbirth. For most women, childbirth is a safe, completely wonderful experience. But now we have moved it to the hospital because we all know that it is really a crisis just waiting to happen. In the end, modern thinking often says, no matter how much we love them, our bodies will bring us down.

Now to the story about Obama and his smoking. I had no idea Barack Obama was or is a smoker. But now that he is about to become president, nothing, not even his body, is his own. He belongs to us now. I had the same reaction when John McCain released his 400-page medical record tome. In truth, we prefer our leaders to be more machine than man. If we could, we'd have a Web cam zoomed in on Obama's lungs, stomach lining, and carpuscles. Because, the thinking goes, his vulnerability is our vulnerability. We'll still shower our children with images of movie and TV characters lighting up because those aren't real bodies. Tobacco lobbiests in Washington will still have a helluva lot of power. But that man in the White House had better not light up.

Questions that Make You Think

I never dreamed I'd have to think so hard to answer the questions of a 3-year-old. Here is a sampling of things Ryan has asked over the past few days:

What is Hollywood?
Do we live in Hollywood?
What is to wound?
Why is it afternoon?
What is "during"?
What is rotten?
How does something get rotten?
Why is it dark at night?
How does the wheel on a ship get attached?
What is food?
Are we a family?

It's a Wonderful Life Actually a Dark, Melancholy Tale...Who Knew??

We get a video podcast on the Tivo from a film critic at the New York Times whose name now escapes me but, since I'm a journalist, I can just refer to him from here on out as "the critic," since we all know that no one reads by-lines anyway. Anyhow, this film critic in a recent video podcast lays out a pretty convincing case that "It's a Wonderful Life" is actually a dark and depressing look at modern American life. I mean, you've got George Bailey who is abused as a child despite any heroic actions he might have taken as an even younger youngster. Then he falls in love and gets married to the woman of his dreams. However, he gives away all of his honeymoon money to put a drop in the depression bucket. He has too many kids, a delapidated house and the general angst that follows the average married American father who, some times, would much rather be off in Europe living some other life. Then there's a snafu and he's sure his already doomed life is about to get worse. So he stands on a bridge in the cold at night and thinks about ending his life. Who does God send? A bumbling angel named Clarence who has to resort to some mighty creative storytelling in order to convince George Bailey that life isn't worthless after all. In the end, George Bailey realizes that his life really doesn't suck. He's got cute kids and neighbors who will bail him out. And who could ask for more than that?

Twilight Review: Skip It; See True Blood Instead

She dished up our popcorn, then asked us what we were going to see. "Twilight," we answered. And the 18-year-old movie theater worker replied giddy; breathless. "I've seen it seven times."
"Really?" My husband says.
"Oh, it's awesome."
It's date night. We are so thrilled to be out of the house that we banter with anyone who will take the time.
"I've read all the books. I love that movie. It's my favorite movie," she said, popping plastic lids on our Cokes.
We were hopeful.
I spent the entire summer reading the four "Twilight" books, inviting Charlotte to nurse more frequently so that I could sit and read. The town of Forks is emblazoned in my imagination, as are Edward Cullen, Bella Swan, and the rest. I waited to see the movie until the initial rush died down. Then David, my generous husband, agreed to go see it. Even if his cousins said it was a "chick flick."
So what's my verdict? I suppose, if pressed, I'd give the film about 2 stars. It's definitely a renter. Sad to say, since I was so excited to see it.
First off, the camera is constantly in the character's faces. As I read the books, I always envisioned their whole bodies. And I wonder what's the motivation in pressing us so far up their noses, unless it's to give prepubescent girls a really good look at Edward Cullen. All that did for me, though, was highlight the horrible makeup jobs. When the character of paste-white Dr. Carlisle Cullen, played by David Facinelli, was introduced, we laughed out loud. It looked like he'd been in a fight with the Pillsbury dough boy and lost. Even Bella Swan, played by Kristen Stewart, the best performer of the ensemble, looks drab and dishwatery in the film.
Then there's the acting. Robert Pattinson plays Edward Cullen. He makes Mark Hamill's Luke Skywalker seem Shakespearean. During the scenes in which Edward is wrestling with his inner bloodthirsty demons, Pattinson just looked constipated. Really, really constipated. It didn't help matters that David kept leaning over during those scenes and singing the Saturday Night Live digital short "Jizz in my Pants." Jasper Cullen, played by Jackson Rathbone, reminded me of a bad Cure video. Taylor Lautner's Jacob Black will no doubt have me at least renting the sequel. His chemistry with Stewart is palpable. I always wanted Bella to end up with Jacob anyway.
The movie's main action sequence in the dance studio was well done. Stephenie Meyer is a mediocre writer, in my opinion, and this is revealed when she inks action. The film did a better job of moving the suspensful parts forward. On the other hand, where in the world were the fangs? Aren't all vamp movies supposed to reveal killer fangs at some point?
When we got home, we put in an episode of True Blood. Now there's a vampire show you can really sink your teeth into.

A few things I have learned

Three-year-old boys and white shirts are not a good combination.
Always stop at the bathroom before you pick up a crying baby early in the morning.
You can use baby shampoo to wash nearly everything.
Neat piles are actually very attractive in a home.
You can jog with a newborn in a regular stroller. You don't need a jogging stroller.
Sit on the floor and play.
You will neglect your pets when you have a baby.
Your car will develop some kind of funk, no matter how anal you were before you had children. If you had a messy car that was dubbed "Kitty Box" before you had children, your car will be condemnable. How condemnable? Take the number of empty cups you had in your car regularly before you gave birth, multiply that times the number of kids you now have, and divide that by how many showers you take each day. That is how many unidentifiable gook-covered sippy cups you will locate in your car each month.
Your children will find the one breakable part of any object. Accept that and move on.
Don't try to sort toys. The moms in the playgroups will tell you to. Ignore them.
Play with your kids in the swimming pool. Don't sit in a lounge chair and watch them. Bonus points if you get your hair wet.
It's okay for kids to go barefoot on the beach.
Those shopping cart cozies are just weird.
Quit watching the birthing shows on Discovery Health when you are postpartum. Watch your baby instead.
Also, if you happen to be postpartum when PBS is airing "The War," keep changing channels.
Your kids will drop things in your bottled water which you will find like a worm at the bottom of a bottle of tequila.
Invest in a Lazy Boy before you reach your third trimester of pregnancy.
Do not read baby books cover to cover. Keep them around for mere reference. You will know what to do most of the time.
Babywearing is not easy in Louisiana in August.
Speaking of babywearing, if you do choose to wear your baby, get at least 10 different kinds of baby carriers.
You don't have to put the batteries in.
Don't try to cut your baby's hair yourself.
Wait until your baby is choking on hair to cut it. Otherwise, you'll end up with a 'do that the priest dubs "Tres Moderne" at your child's baptism.
Kids love backyard swimming parties. Skip the house-sized inflatables until they are old enough to ask for one.
And lastly, whatever you think you can accomplish while carting a baby is probably possible, but could cost you your sanity.

Where does the time go?

Think of the things a parent is asked for. The wipe of a nose, say, or the fetching of a top or a pair of shoes. The interventions between siblings. The lifting of a little set of eyes. The tidying of plastic parts. The rescuing from certain death due to Christmas lights and little fingers. The fixing of meals. The changing of diapers. The tucking in. The reading of stories. Think how often a simple request must be fulfilled. A small request that requires no longer than a few minutes. But over. And over. And over again. How much time can possibly pass between requests? Five minutes? If a miracle, fifteen? So if a request takes five minutes--or more--and happens every ten minutes, then you know where a parent's time goes.

Not just any garage sale

I have always loved holding garage sales. Not just for the cash that you get and the junk that leaves your house and opens its chest to possibility, dreams, and new directions. But there's also the people you meet. They walk like water birds through your past, dipping their necks, focusing their eyes in the half-light of morning. All the while, you flutter and talk about the history of your belongings. You hope to gain a fraction of their original worth. You hope for that much. There is a sinking feeling in the gut when someone looks down their nose at something of worth, something you once loved, and deems it unworthy of their dollars. But there is also the shared joy of meeting a need, for just a handful of coins; fulfilling someone for just a little while. Even those who don't buy often bring their stories and their open hearts. They are seekers. I love that.

This past weekend, we rolled our garage open in the cold and dark. We were ready for the early birds. On the carport, we laid down blankets and, on that, the trappings of our babies who are verging on no longer being babies. Even in the dark, they could be seen. The bright blue of the cow motif infant seat where Ryan would watch us eating dinner. The shiny globe on the floor-based play unit that Ryan and Charlotte spun in their fat, newly-minted fingers. The play table that taught them both how to sit up. The first visitor was a grandmother who insisted that David bring out a lamp to illuminate our beautiful baby girl clothes. She held the fabric up beneath the glaring bulb, running her fingers over the pale pink smocking and embroidery before deciding that we were charging too much for our finery. My head told me that it was good to sell the baby things. Someone who really needed them could use them. We need the space.

But sealed in that sale is the likelihood that a newborn won't live at our house again. Otherwise, why would we sell the stroller that we were using last week for a mere $15? Why would we part with the Feldman Brothers gowns and the booties. Oh, the booties. Of course we saved a few boxes of the threads that first caressed the skin of our babies. Still, it didn't feel good to have them assessed and turned over, the debate raging over whether $2 is too much to pay for a 12-inch-long dress.

The experience has had me turning over my future with the same scrutiny. Will I have another baby? Especially when the birth of Charlotte was so taxing on me and our family and included events that easily could have ended my life: Several blood clots and a hemorrhage, followed by anemia and a blood transfusion, surgery to remove the clots and several veins. Especially when this family of four seems, well, just right? The answer is clear. No more babies. But there is such a barren quality to that truth. Then, though, my mind turns a corner. As the infant carseat is loaded into the car of a friend who is collecting goods for a needy family who has a premature baby, I see the many possibilities of moving to the next phase of life. The adventures and stories we will share. And I am so grateful to have the family I have. I, who professed several times that I would never have children.

The night of the garage sale, I registered for the Disney Princess Half Marathon. This is a perfect way to announce the new era. After nearly four years straight of being pregnant, breastfeeding, or both, I am ready to create my own brand new "Once Upon a Time."

So, How's That No School Thing Going?

A couple of months ago, we decided to pull Ryan out of Mother's Day Out. We were happy with the program, but Ryan began asking if he could stay at home instead. When Hurricane Gustav hit, we had two weeks during which his school was closed, and while we dealt with a power outage and trees everywhere, we noticed a marked change in Ryan. He became suddenly much more content and centered. It was a subtle shift, but we couldn't help but question what we were doing, sending him to school at age 2 when he seemed to do so much better at home. So we pulled him out.

I am so happy about our decision. We are now living life at a much more organic pace. We have our daily routines and we are pretty self-sufficient. For the first few weeks, I attended several playgroups and felt like the Tasmanian Devil, with so much activity because I didn't trust that I could be home all day, day after day, with children without losing my mind.

Yet after a couple of weeks, I began to feel my confidence rise. Ryan, Charlotte and I entered into a daily dance that gave each of us a solid sense of what to do next. We became absorbed in learning opportunities right out the back door. We met neighbors and brewed coffee and formed natural friendships that don't involve driving across town for interaction.

Ryan and Charlotte are having a great time, and I am, too. From them, I gain insights that help my own creative growth. I am so happy that we decided to step away from what I thought we should do out of fear that I couldn't handle myself and my kids.

We are grooving. So much so that we have started to consider homeschooling so that we can continue this process. I never thought I had it in me. Turns out, this has been the catalyst that has opened me up to projects I never thought I could handle, such as writing a novel. Sometimes we create a matrix so that we feel held. That's okay, as long as you don't let the matrix cage you in.

Overwhelmed? One more guilt trip for moms.

Recently, this episode of Oprah aired about a woman who forgot her 2-year-old daughter in the back of her car. After 7 hours at work, a coworker came rushing in and told her that her baby was in the car. The little girl did not survive.

Oprah's angle on the topic is a bit puzzling. Her take is that this mother, like so many mothers, was just overwhelmed and multitasking so much that she forgot her daughter. To me, that sounds like a big yoke to put on all of us who are trying to do more than just focus on our children every waking moment. Oprah told her audience during this show that they should SLOW DOWN before they make a tragic mistake like this one. During the show, mother after mother lamented the times she wasn't absolutely, 100% in the moment with little 9 month old Charlie or 17-month-old Samantha "Something terrible could have happened," was the general consensus, "I let my mind wander and it is all my fault."

To which I say, Come on! This was one ridiculously out of it woman who actually talked about her children and still didn't remember that she had left one of them gasping for air in her car. As if motherhood weren't rife with guilt to begin with, now we have to feel badly if our mind wanders or if we want to check our Blackberry once in awhile.

I am all for being mindful, living in the moment, paying attention. (Heck, I used to race bicycles, which is a focus-or-die proposition.) But I think it is wrong of Oprah to condemn mothers who have more on their minds than what junior or little bit is doing this moment, to that moment, to that moment, to that moment to infinity.

Bless me AP parents, for I have let my child cry it out

Something in my personality leads me to embrace movements so thoroughly, to inhabit what I am learning or thinking about so completely, that I sometimes end up apparently swinging from extreme to extreme. But it's not really like that, I promise. I am a very balanced individual who just happens to be open-minded--open-minded enough to want to try on opposing viewpoints, to really get behind the lens of people who I might question. And then to step back again.

Enter the biggest experiment of my life: Parenthood. Pregnant with Ryan, I went to the library looking for a book that would help me make heads or tails out of this process of raising up a kid. I had heard that "Babywise" was excellent, but somehow Dr. William Sears' "The Baby Book" fell into my hands. Now, mind you, when I was pregnant, I was pretty sure I would let my baby cry a bit, have him on a schedule, know when, you know, I was going to be able to take a shower or read a book. But, alas, the library didn't have any books about that. They had "The Baby Book," a super heavy book with drawings that look a lot like those featured in the Campmor catalog of happy mothers and sweet babies. In this book, Dr. Sears convinced me of the following:
* Wear your baby all the time! Even when you are making a salad! (See the illustration on page 291 of the happy mom with a non-grabbing toddler on her hip).
* Sleep with your baby! Then your toddler! Then your kids! (Page 339 has a picture of two school-aged kids on a large mattress at the foot of what I assume is mom and dad's bed).
* Breast is best, even if your cat is about to be put to sleep and you have to rush out the door before the anesthesia wears off so that he won't have to suffer more than necessary! (Actually, that's not in the book, but it did happen and when it did, I was extremely and inappropriately panicked that my child would be exposed to--gasp!--formula when my sister-in-law babysat for us while we went to pet the cat as he died and then bury him .)

Dr. Sears' tone never came across as flippant. His words were simple and reassuring. "If your baby will only nurse out of one breast, it's okay. Your breasts will probably never be the same after pregnancy anyway." I am not kidding. This is in the book.

In the pages of "The Baby Book" I learned about attachment parenting, which felt so darned good that I sold everyone around me on it, especially my husband. We both became true evangelists of this parenting style (Hubbie's words to me: "You were the one who read the books! You were the one who told me this was the best!").

Fast forward three years. I believe now that my complete embrace of this parentideology happened at the expense of my own state of mind, my health, the health of our family and maybe even the health of our children.

What changed my mind so radically? Last week we decided, with heavy hearts and fearful souls, to allow Charlotte to "cry it out" in her bed to go to sleep. Nobody resisted this more than I did. Ryan never cried it out. I actually told people that I thought those who did the "cry it out" or CIO as it's known among those who have learned the parent lingo, that we were selling our children out by allowing them to cry. I think my words were something to the effect of "We are putting our needs on our children's backs."

About a month ago as I was driving my son in circles at 1 in the afternoon for the 365th day in a row, I decided I'd had it. And then, again, being summoned from a deep sleep to pick up my daughter to nurse at 12 midnight after she'd gone to bed at 9:30, I realized that I needed to lay down some healthy boundaries.

Ryan was openminded. I simply told him that he needed to stay in bed and he would be learning how to fall asleep really well like a big boy. He took to it right away and now goes to sleep happily. Charlotte was another story. She nursed repeatedly throughout the night, and when she wasn't nursing, I was bumping her in our bed, waking her up, and then she had to nurse to go back to sleep. She was cranky, and so was I. She also had severe separation anxiety and wanted nothing to do with anyone but me.

After doing a load of research, I uncovered "Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child," by Marc Weissbluth. His premise is that a well-rested family is a happier family. He advocates a pretty radical cry-it-out approach that took me some time to stomach, but made a lot of sense. Comfort your child, go through her usual routine, lay her in bed and walk out of the room. Do not return until it is early morning. So, armed with a strong sense that I had to stick to this or else I would never pull it off, one week ago, we cuddled and loved Charlotte, fed her, put her in her bed and shut the door. She wailed for two nights and then, on the third night, she slept all night. I mean it, 9 to 6, not a wimper, and such a happy baby the next morning.

Our family is now running on an abundance of joy. I feel a true sense of love for my children, where, before, I felt a strong bond, but not nearly as much joy. Charlotte has started hugging her daddy and happily exploring more than she was able to before. She is well rested and reflective. She is more at ease entertaining herself. Ryan has turned into a real people pleaser, which he already was by nature, but now he is doing so out of a good reserve of patience and energy.

Dr. Sears says his biggest fear is what happens when a mother ignores her crying baby. Does she lose her intuitive mother sense? Perhaps, if we're talking newborns. But eventually you've got to draw the line. Mothers are selves first, and it is only out of that self that they are able to give to others in a way that means much.

Okay, I've got to go delete myself from all of the attachment parenting online groups who would be appalled at what I have done.

Two Years Ago, and Still I am Learning to Practice What I Preach...

Two and a half years ago, I wrote the following as my farewell "Life at Work" column that appeared in the Baton Rouge Business Report. I wrote this column just as I was deciding to begin pulling back my career, the first time. Reading it now, I am astonished at the tugging, to-and-fro nature of this decision. I knew the answers back when I wrote this column, and still, have to come back to the questions over and over again. Such is the nature of life, I suppose. So here, I decided to go ahead and reprint this column. It first appeared in June 2006, when Ryan was a baby, commando crawling everywhere, months before his sister was even conceived. Life since I wrote these words has been so sweet, such a gift. I see the growth and feel a bit bugged by my own judgment of stay-at-home moms embedded in this column, even as I danced to join their ranks. Make no mistake. Being a SAHM is no frou-frou, frilly, can't do anything else, silly existence. This is serious work. I am humbled by it.

Life at Work
first published June 6, 2006
Baton Rouge Business Report
(c) Amy Alexander

Perhaps the greatest gift of being the owner of a small business is flexibility. Granted, there are times when owning your own business feels anything but flexible. Weekends can turn into marathon work sessions, as can evenings and the dead of night.
Still, woven within those long hours is the freedom to decide, in what can feel like big, choppy, intuitive moves, where your life—and hence the life of the business—is going. This can change over time, of course, as your values shift and evolve.
A few columns ago, I shared a bit of my story about working from home while juggling the days and oft-interrupted nights as a stay-at-home mom to my 7-month-old baby boy. I anticipated that I’d feel differently about my work after he was born, but decided I wouldn’t make any changes to my business until after I’d experienced a few months of motherhood. How else can you know, for sure, whether you want to work or stay home with bambino?
Seven months in, I’ve decided to make raising my son at home my main priority. To make this happen, I’ll need to cut back my freelance writing workload a great deal. That means—with an achy heart—putting down the pen on this column.
It seems oddly fitting that this goodbye is appearing in the issue where Business Report celebrates influential women. Today, women have the opportunity to become influential, and they have the right to decide for themselves what it means to influence others.
Making the decision to step away, temporarily, from bylines and deadlines feels sometimes like a step backwards. I find myself wondering if I am betraying all of my foremothers by choosing such a “traditional” role. Then I remind myself that what my foremothers fought for was the choice. As a modern woman, I can survey the landscape of wonderful writing opportunities, intriguing interviews in executive suites and entertaining lunches with contacts and opt, instead, for sandwiches eaten while plopped on the floor, chasing after blocks and pulling my precocious boy off of power cords and plants. I know this choice—and the chance to pace work to mesh with motherhood—is a privilege that precious few have, even in this time when women are told they can do anything.
Far too many mothers are pushed to make a decision about their careers and families while they’re pregnant or have just given birth. Then, it can feel like a rigid, confining either-or selection. Either you log into the office at 7:30, get home at 6, and try to shove homework, dinner, meaningful dialogue, time with your spouse and a wee me-hour into ever-dissipating twilight time. Or you sign up for a fairly isolated existence at home being all things to your little ones, doing laps around the mall to tinny shopping music and praying desperately for a good afternoon nap.
The hope I have for myself and other women out there—especially those who influence in ways that aren’t celebrated in our culture—is that we can carve out a way for women to knit motherhood into the pursuit of their goals and fulfillment of their educations. I’ve been blessed with a supportive husband and understanding editors who have allowed me to line up the stones and pave my own way. On-site daycares, paid extended maternity leaves, creative scheduling and community resources could transform what I deem serendipitous luck into every woman’s right.
“Life at Work” has always been written to help employers, professionals and just about anyone understand who they are and figure out how to expand on that and reach their potential. That calls for constant questioning: Why do we do things this way? Is this method working? How can I get from here to there? Signing off, I hope that in the last four years, I’ve inspired a few folks to see beyond the cages of the way things are, into the possibility of what can be. I hope that workplaces are learning how to operate as productive communities, always searching for the connection. Keep that line of thinking alive, Baton Rouge, and thank you for reading.
I’ll see you at story time.

CoMOMitment

The other day, I caught, for the first time, the film "The Karate Kid." I know, I know. It came out, what, 30 years ago and has been parodied over and over again (wax on, wax off!). But in one scene, the elderly Asian Mr Miyagi played brilliantly by the late Pat Morita, says "The man who is in the middle of the road, eventually, squssssh. Same with Karate. You either do, or you don't do. Otherwise, Squssssh."

The past few weeks have led me to decide that, for me, this is how it is with motherhood. Up until now, this blog has been all about how I plan to juggle journalistic pursuits with parenthood. I don't know if it was Hurricane Gustav who came and swept my energy into a focused beam or if I have lost my mind, but it has become completely clear to me that this, motherhood, is the task that has been delivered to me right now. I must focus on this and only this. I don't think this is some dogma that all mothers must embrace, but I think that God has a really good reason for calling me to be a student of my children for awhile. To lead them, learn from them and uphold my family in this way. I still have no idea how I will fill the days.

To that end, we decided to pull Ryan out of Mother's Day Out. He kept asking to stay home and I kept sending him because I felt like I couldn't survive without it. During the hurricane, I began to turn my perspective and to ask what am I missing out on by trying to do everything at once? Why not just really put all of my energy on these little people that we brought into existence? I am also cutting way back on writing. For now. Except for this blog, of course, and a novel I've been wanting to write.

So maybe it's true. You can have it all but not all at once. I fully expect that my career in whatever form I hope to take it will exist when these children go off to school and their own lives. If I invest in them with my full attention, I think we'll all be better for it.

Keep reading as I share this new chapter of this journey!

Discerning

Gustav blew in and raised the dust of my somewhat confused state of existence. It also allowed for some serious downtime; time to reflect on priorities. And then, my mother sent me the book "Mister Rogers Talks With Parents."

Fred Rogers is a big hero of mine. I had the fortune of interviewing him once and he is the real deal. In the first chapter of his book, he writes "There are reasons why close and consistent mothering are very beneficial to a baby's growth, but it is the mother's growth I want us to think about here."

And then, he quotes from educator Eda LeShan, who writes about regretting going to work full-time when her child was very small. "There are few decisions that I now regret more. Not for my child's sake, but for mine. She had much to teach me about wonder and curiosity, about joy and loving--and most of all about the refreshment of play. I wasn't mature enough to see that. What I could not comprehend was that when she left home at eighteen, I would be as vigorous as ever and have at least another twenty-five years of creative work ahead of me."

Wow. Here, I have been so focused on my feelings of stucktitude, my sadness over watching the news world pass me by, my regret at all the things I have been missing out on--not to say I feel this way all the time, but these feelings do come in strong waves. And I have never stopped to think that maybe I will regret it if I don't completely immerse myself in this very rich, fertile experience.

All I know is when that hurricane hit and it was tend to a deadline or tend to these two little people whose souls are rooted in mine, the choice was clear. I couldn't think beyond these kids and I loved sinking into that responsibility and letting it shape me. It has shaken me to my core.

We are okay...

The storm raged, and it ranted. It spit words I've never heard, and then some. But we emerged with only an unhinged fence. Driving around the neighborhood last Tuesday, we were amazed at the damage. Garage doors looked like pages from a frustrated novelist crumpled in a garbage can. Some of the trees we love stayed, but others looked like they'd been snapped in a moment of rage. On the radio, they described scenes of destruction. We sat in the dark, unable to go investigate. We were put on a curfew. We didn't dare go beyond our neighborhood. After the power went out on Monday, the heat began to rise. We opened the windows, but before long, the shelves of books and stacks of paper in our house began to buckle. We went outside. We talked to neighbors. Some were grilling some pork tenderloin that might be lost otherwise, and they invited us to come and eat with them. When we got there, several of our neighbors sat around the table, and we got to know them. We dragged chairs to the front porch and, with hurricane breezes still going strong, we laughed and talked about how this is how neighborhoods are supposed to be.

The nights were rough. But they were also sweet. We laid in our living room with all of the windows open and made shadow animals in the flashlight's enormous circle. Ryan got a kick out of that. I read my novel under a candlelight's flicker and tasted each word. You read much slower by candlelight.

Coffee was a big issue. David was determined to brew some cold drip. It was Chinese torture for him, watching each thick, globular, aromatic condensation of coffee land in the glass pitcher. Our neighbor has a gas stove, so after two hours, when we had a good bit of the brew, we toted our pitcher to their house for hot water. We sat out on the porch and talked and drank what is possibly the most delightful cup of joe I've ever had.

After a few days, though, the kids got desperate. Charlotte sported a constant ringlet hairdo from the humidity and her brow was sweaty. Ryan kept melting down. When David's sister returned to Diamondhead, Mississippi and invited us to her air conditioning, we couldn't pack fast enough.

We got back today, and our house was air conditioned and light. Not so for the rest of Baton Rouge, much of which will be without power for weeks. People are starting to get antsy and aggressive. Officials have banned alcohol sales, saying that it just makes things worse. And if you're not inside by 10 o' clock, you will be questioned. Grocery stores have limited supplies, so we shopped in Mississippi and stocked up.

Now, Hurricane Ike is brewing in the Atlantic, and is due to come somewhere near. We hope it doesn't. We can't even imagine going through this again so soon.

Power while you've got it

The wind is just beginning to pick up this morning, and the radio says we'll likely soon lose power. It appears the storm is going to come onshore to the southwest of New Orleans. This is better than a direct hit, but...

Postscript...As I was writing this, the power went out.

The first rain arrives

Plink, plink, plink...

Raindrops roll off of the leaves of the banana tree by my back door. It's not anything different from what happens here on a daily basis in July, just a summer storm.

This is the outer bands of the storm, which won't make landfall until tomorrow morning. It's going to be a long night.

We are trying to figure out how to entertain Ryan and Charlotte when the power goes out. Costumes and snacks will play a big role. If we get hot once the power goes out, we'll take a cold bath. We'll read books. Shine the flashlight on the ceiling and make shapes. Tell stories. We'll keep them safe. We're putting on a happy face now, saying what an adventure this will be. If this storm becomes a monster, we won't turn the TV on.

Jindal is on top of things

It is comforting to have a leader who seems to know what is happening and has a command that makes everyone relax and do what they need to do to stay safe. Thanks to Bobby Jindal, I know what is happening with the contraflow (the term for when they make the interstate all go one direction to get everyone out of a city), where the inmates are, where the elderly are, what's happening with the zoo animals, how many other states are sending their forces, and what we need to do (stay put, apparantly!). This is a man who delivered his own baby in the back of a car when his wife went into labor early. I respect him. At the local level, you've got to elect people who you respect as people. He is doing a great job of leading this state through a frightening time.

Running into the gales

We decided to take a family run because we knew that Hurricane Gustav is on its way and we'll likely be stuck inside for a few days. So we loaded Ryan and Charlotte up in their twin baby joggers and David, Ryan, Charlotte, the dog, Riley, and I headed out the door. Everyone in our neighborhood is home. Some are sawing away limbs that could get ripped off during the storm. Others are doing yard work so that they don't have to deal with it in the inevitable growth spurt that will occur after the storms. Others are just outside chatting with neighbors, something you don't see much these days with everyone always searching for that third space where they can gather, away from home. The sun is hot. Sweltering is one of my favorite words, but not the best running condition. We pushed the joggers, which felt like they weighed about 200 lbs. each. Riley's tongue came unhinged in her mouth, so we took that as an excuse to linger once in awhile. I wondered if the few birds we saw overhead knew what is coming. People are chatty today. They linger in their front yards, yearning for the community that seems such an afterthought when you've got a potential community of the entire world on the Web. But we all know that if the power goes out, all we've got is the place where we live. That's our community. It's always true, of course. It's just that we don't realize it. I am, over and over again, surprised at the festive atmosphere that precedes big storms. We all know the horrid things that can happen. If we didn't know it before Katrina, we know it now. But, still, there is this smiley, loopy, punch drunk feeling in the air. You could cut it. In college, I remember studying war literature. What is it about war literature that is so great? It's that, in war, you have to live in the here and now. Everything is so intense and crystallized. Death and destruction are accompanied by moments of sheer beauty and connection. It's all a mixed bag. I think it is true on the eve of storms. At the lake, a neighbor's dog runs headlong to the water and leaps in. The boxer's strong, long legs stroke through the water and his mouth gapes in a big grin. We feed the ducks and feel the sweat run down our legs and arms. Today is sunny. Today we are all here together. Let's celebrate.

Confirmed!

Sarah Palin is still nursing her baby. While I don't 100% agree with her policies, I've got to say that she has just propelled women forward by a huge push. We've been told for so long that we can have it all, just not all at once. And while I think that is a valid statement, I also think it is absolutely vital for mothers to pursue their passions with their children in tow. I know she will get a lot of grief about how she will balance all of this. But I am proud of her.

Sarah Palin

Let me come right out and say I am for Obama. But to see Sarah Palin on the campaign trail always with her baby--who is usually in a sling held by, I take it, a nanny--is so awesome. "That baby is 3 months old!" I say. I wonder if she is still nursing, which is highly possible. To see a woman with her baby at work doing what she loves is beautiful.

Watching Gustav

I was 34 weeks pregnant when Katrina blew into Louisiana. Watching the aftermath had was horrible. I wanted to get out and tell the stories of all these people who all had gut wrenching stories to tell. But I was in full-on nesting mode, expecting my first baby. Not about to go all "Fargo" like and run around in the trenches with my big belly. But, to this day, I regret that I couldn't be there to paint the picture of what it was like in my space at that moment with each moment. Now, here comes Gustav. I hope it dissipates. Out my window, it is cloudy and hot. Not a single leaf lifts with the wind. Charlotte, all sweet smells in jammies is nestled into my neck. What stories will I type one-handed next week? I hope it will just be the ones I had on my to-do list on Friday.

Babysitter's here, but not editors

My great babysitter comes each Wednesday to play with the kids while I work on the piles of stories that are sitting in my in-box. Except that it's August. The NY editor is no doubt at the Hamptons or some other fab place. Another has jury duty. Another is on deadline. Two of my story subjects aren't returning calls at the moment. No doubt, they, too, are at the beach or in the jungle or maybe halfway around the globe. All are nice, accessible people eager to participate in the feature stories I am writing. None are investigative in nature. None are muckraking or something unpleasant. Hello! I am on the inspiration beat!

I feel like a cub reporter again, so eager am I for work. When I get an assignment, I finish it quickly and happily. I keep putting leads out for stories, but I am a bit worried that I'll get a huge influx of work that's all due at the same time. Such is the life of a freelancer. So here I sit, all geared up to write and interview and nothing to do. But, oh, I need this time when the babysitter comes so I can think and write and wonder. So I sit and feel a bit guilty for leaving my hardworking, generous-enough-to-lend-me-the-last-two-books-in-the-"Twilight"series, lovely babysitter with screaming, teething Charlotte and eternal pirate Ryan. Shouldn't I be under five deadlines to deserve her?

The library is quiet. I'll meet my husband for lunch soon, and we'll marvel at how odd it is to be kidless. And we'll remember when we were just we. Wait. Isn't that so much more important than any career?

Getting started again

Back at my writing desk, I am faced with the enormous possibility that comes with starting over again. I am ready to break out, to expand my journalistic horizons. But there is always the temptation of going back to the familiar work, the kind that brings in paychecks but doesn't really help you grow. I have to admit I feel a sense of guilt at not pursuing the kind of work I have always done--i.e., business writing. I know we could use the money. But you have to take second chances when they come to you, whether they come in the form of the end of a long break, a graduation, a move. They don't come by very often.

For many people, having a baby is a great chance to renew a career. Becoming a parent changes your perspective in so many ways. It also gives you a whole bounty of new expertise you never thought you would have. It connects you in a way that nothing else ever will. Suddenly, you care more about the world, you want to see the tiny filaments that connect everything and keep you rooted. You want to understand the decay that can push it all apart. You also have a newborn work ethic, the kind that comes after you realize that you can stay up all night and do something worthwhile the next day.

Lately, David and I have been on a marathon schedule. Our kids run on both pistons from 7 am until around 10. There is a brief nap, which some days, I swear, I live for. We are trying to figure out how to do it all. Any suggestions?

The big profile is out!

check it out at www.225batonrouge.com

The new babysitter

I hired a babysitter. She seems to be a perfect fit. Her hobbies include running half marathons and she rides a scooter. She is perfectly at home being a pirate for 3 hours straight. And when she leaves, Ryan says, "You'll come back and play with me again, right?"

The babysitter comes twice a week for a couple of hours each time, but it feels like a week's break each time. I am completely not used to being out and about without children. It is so strange. At lunch with David this week, I was in a bit of culture shock, seeing tables full of professional women. Then on another day, I went to the library and ran into some moms. Usually, I'd be in line with them, praying that Ryan stays still and quiet while I check out the books. And here I was, or so it seemed, foot loose. I almost felt like apologizing.

When I got back home, the kids were exhausted from having a great time with Cacie, the new sitter. I put them down for their naps and had another two hours. Wow.

The photo shoot

Last week, I took Charlotte to the photo shoot of my profile subject and his family. Since I found out that we'd have access mere hours before the appointed time, I had no choice but to take my daughter to work. I figured we'd only be given a few minutes, and during the photo shoot, I'd wear Charlotte so that she would hardly be noticed, except for being super cute and maybe sleeping so peacefully as the cameras clicked away. We'd be out of there within an hour, home for her nap time, and all would be well. And then God laughed.

We arrived at 10 am sharp and met the photographer who, to constant amusement throughout the morning, actually looked quite a bit like she could be my twin. The subject of my profile has a secretary who also has a secretary. The first fortress guarder met us and ushered us to the waiting room area which had in its center a square, granite coffee table which probably has never had coffee set upon it but which had wickedly scary corners and, on one end, a large plaster bust of a tiger. This was to be Charlotte's plaything for a large portion of the waiting time. Did I mention that the waiting room was on the second floor with open areas overlooking a 25-foot drop and stony tile floors? Not the ideal place for a crawler.

We were there to take pictures of the man and his family. But neither the man nor his family was anywhere in sight. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Thirty. The frosty secretary started to crack as Charlotte's wails echoed off the glass, wood, tile and everything but carpet in this palatial office. She approached us, not with the news that we'd soon be meeting the man and his family, but with one of those small, stuffed cows that have pathetically and desperately painted a sign that reads "Eat More Chickn." This did not do the trick. Charlotte wanted one thing, and one thing only. So we headed to the car, the only place to nurse in this cold, harsh world of ours.

In the car, I considered quitting and going home. Charlotte grew quiet and calm. I welled up, thought "What am I doing?" Then regrouped. We went back into the offices. Back up the stairs. The photographer was still waiting, her camera at her feet. We started to kvetch in whispers about the nerve of this establishment and its leader. The ridiculous turns this story has taken. "Don't leave," the photographer, a star who shot during Katrina, said. "I don't know anything about this family. I am going in blind. I need your senses." So we stayed, and Charlotte kept creeping along the scary coffee table and I kept praying.

Then, the family arrived. the nine-year-old and the five-year-old headed straight for Charlotte. "She's so cute," they said. "How old is she?" Soon, the subject's wife was holding Charlotte. Then he arrived and started telling me to "ENJOY THESSSE TIMESSSS." (He has a booming voice and a strong midwestern twang).

In the end, we got some beautiful photos and great details for the story. I am figuring out how much I love this work and how much my children bring to the whole picture. Thanks, Charlotte!

Yowza!

Check out this article

Could it be that I have bought into the whole attachment parenting concept as a way of somehow reclaiming and attempting to embody this mythical mother figure in my own life, an icon that isn't real?

Adventures in Babysitting

Well, if I am going to do this writing thing, I recently realized, I guess I've got to find a babysitter.

As I embark on the hunt, I admit to having a serious ping pong of feelings. Everything from guilt to fear to joy to wonder to number crunching. The thing about freelance work is that there's always a lag between the work you do and the cash coming in. Then there's the fact that Charlotte is still nursing and has never stayed with anyone except family.

I keep falling into an either/or dichotomy. Either I work and my kids are with others or I stay home and feel cut off from myself and the rest of the world. Isn't this the kind of thinking that has betrayed so many women in the workplace anyway? Why can't it be and, and and? Without the burnout that comes with believing you can have it all?

Luckily, Ryan goes to mother's day out twice a week and is thriving. So I will probably end up hiring a nice sitter to come stay with Charlotte a few hours a week while Ryan is in school.

Vision board

Each day, I TIVO Oprah and if she's talking about anything I think might be useful, I tune in. We always laugh at her vocal mannerisms, as in "It's DENZEL WASHINGTONNNNNN!" but I admit that she has really helped me at times gain perspective on my life and spirit. I recall once, when I was just starting out and feeling very doubtful, I happened upon a show. I don't recall what the content or guest was, but I do recall Oprah saying that no matter what, "your work is good because you are a child of God." I remember being on my way to cover a public meeting for the local daily paper--not at all inspiring--and I just really needed to hear that maybe what I was doing meant something. Now that I look back, those meetings were integral to my journalistic training. I wrote the articles as the meetings went on, which taught me to condense on the fly. An important skill, no matter what you're writing.

Anyway, Oprah's been doing a lot on the "law of attraction," as in if you think it, you can make it come true. She and her guests recommend doing what they call a "Vision Board," in which you build a collage of the things you'd like to see manifest in your life. Considering that I am at a bit of a professional crossroads, I decided to make one. I pasted the name of the magazine I am currently freelancing for, along with a column from my current editor. I put a picture of the pyramids, a room that Clif Inc. provides to its employees for pumping milk (I want to work with/for organizations that promote breastfeeding), the NPR logo (I have no idea how you break into radio, but it's some of the best writing out there). There is a lot of blank space, but it seems like some of the vision board is already coming true.

Within 12 hours, I received an e-mail from my editor that is a highlight of my professional life so far, more meaningful than some of the national awards I've received because it has come at a time when I have had so many questions and doubts. In it, he complimented the profile I wrote (my first assignment since I had Charlotte) in such concrete, detailed terms that I have no choice but to just drink it in and know I am doing the right thing.

Oprah says that when you focus on the things you would like to see happen in your life, the universe rises up to meet you. It just seems so odd that just as I started to really picture that this, yes, this, is the kind of work I want to do, from here on out, for this kind of editor, said editor would return the same shout out. Just about right away, I started to riffle through the mastheads of such publications as Vanity Fair and Outside Magazine, magazines I admire, and who knows what kind of great yarns I could spin their way?

If you're reading this and wondering what you're going to do, I recommend getting a slice of cardboard and a magazine. Start cutting and pasting the images that call out to you. You just never know what flowers will bloom around your feet.

Just two people talking

As the first piece back at work sits here, almost completely written but for a bit of polishing and the always agonizing editing process, I reflect on the amazing changes that motherhood has brought about in how I approach and report a story. For years, I believed that I needed to report within a matrix, from a completely quiet place, with minimal distractions. As a business writer, this was always possible. Workplaces might seem like war zones, but this is a strictly symbolic sense. Quiet interviews are always possible, expected, even. When I quit writing more than a year ago, I was pretty sure that when I got back to work, I wouldn't write about business anymore.

So, here, looking at this personality profile that has not a single number or balance sheet mentioned in it, I feel my career has taken a turn. The circumstances surrounding its composition were unavoidable. I often had Charlotte on my hip when I was calling sources. She always wanted to be part of the conversation. And I've wondered if this was acceptable, but it always seemed to make interviews go more smoothly. The reporter-source rapport turned into just two people talking, which helped everything.

When reporters were embedded in Iraq, many wondered what would happen to journalism. I think it helped to relax what we think ought to be this distance between writer and subject. Being trained in folklore, where fieldwork is king, I have always questioned why a reporter can't just be a person. Colleagues have asked whether it's possible to maintain journalistic objectivity if the writer is being a person with other people. I think good journalism is all about being able to step back onto the shore after you've been immersed.

From now on, no matter what kind of stories I write, I will always know that's okay for me to be a person first. Here, with my desk shoved into the corner of the dining room (the old office became a nursery when Charlotte came along), with 2-year-old art all around, including a box we made into a printer cozy with paint and glued tissue paper and collage, I am truly embedded in life. This will be a wonderful thing.

Surrender Dorothy

Yesterday, I sat down and wrote 2,000 words of a 3,000 word profile that is due today. The main subject of said profile had promised an interview this afternoon. No problem, I thought, I'll just do the entire story based on interviews with this person's family, friends, work associates and others and then stitch in quotes from him here and there. It will be beautiful!

This is the first time I've ever approached a story this way. I thought, that's cool. No problem! This is how the best profiles are written, right? Talk to everyone around a subject, then talk to the subject. Right? Then my editor called and said that if I can get more access to the subject, then the story will be better, and we'll push the deadline back. No problem! So I got all geared up to charm the subject, ("just be yourself," my editor gushed.)

Fast forward to this morning. The kids are simultaneously screaming like a yeti and saying, "I want candy! I want candy! I want candy!" When the subject's secretary calls and says he's had a family emergency and the interview is off.

Looking at my 2,000 words, I am thinking, it's good. But it's not a complete work of art. It's just pieces, and it lacks soul. I've really got to spend more time with this person. But how? My editor urges me to call the subject on his cell phone. "Just be yourself." he says.

The kids are having a tough day. Charlotte's about to cut a tooth. Ryan's had it with the time I've already spent on the phone today. I tell my father-in-law that the interview with the subject is off, so he doesn't have to take the kids. The kids get more antsy and fussy. My husband calls. "Hello, Hell speaking!" I answer with a psychotic ring to my voice.

Charlotte finally collapses in a heap. Ryan asks for a story. I sit on the couch with him and we read "Winnie the Pooh." He is a warm puppy in my arms dressed for summer in just a diaper. I smell his fine hair. Really breathe it in. I say, okay. I'll just be myself.

The phone rings. It's the subject. I ask him a few questions, then he asks me how close in age my kids are. I tell him how I feel like I am living inside a washing machine. This is my first story in 13 months. "It'll get easier," he says. He's a father of four. We talk. We click. He says "What can I do for you?"

Now I know I'll have to start over on the story. Access is granted. This is going to be a completely different story. I'll just be myself.

Pizza for dinner again

Right after I had Ryan and was going back to work, I thought I'd never snap out of the haze of being up half the night and having half of my day consumed by mundane and repetitive--albeit soul-making--work of changing diapers, nursing, burping, changing diapers, nursing, burping. When it came to work, I was terrified I'd make a mistake. At the time, I worked for a major national financial publication. One error, and I could change the stock price for a company. One snafu, and I could get someone fired. The stakes were high, and it was stressful. I literally can count the number of mistakes I made during the 9 years I worked off and on for that publication because each one was so painful. To have an error go out to 100,000 copies in airports, Barnes & Nobles, and news stands without being able to call it back is torture. There's no way to really say sorry, even with the benefit of the corrections section.

Back to postpartum Ryan time. I was so afraid that my stupor would overflow into my copy and that I would make a mistake that I began to favor book reviews. At least, I figured, I could see, in black and white, the facts, numbers, names and nuances I was putting down on paper. I knew, though, that my work lacked the pizazz that I liked it to have. You have to pay close attention to really tell a good story. My attention span seemed about as good as that of a housefly. All of this was wearing on me when a wise friend said to me, "Relax. You're like the housewife who thinks she has to prepare filet mignon every night for supper. Sometimes it's okay to make a hot dog. Hot dogs are good. People love hot dogs. Or pizza, for that matter. It's okay to order a pizza." Meaning that your stories are sometimes lame. But the general 8th grade reading level public doesn't always mind lame.

I took that philosophy into my Self. And tonight, for the umpteenth time this month, we are having pizza for dinner. And it tastes darn good. Everyone likes pizza.

Working around the clock

Last night Charlotte was up at 3 AM so I took the opportunity to work on my latest story, a profile of a significant sports figure. Writing e-mails at 3 AM gives you either the advantage of looking like you are so passionate about your work that you are willing to work through the night or the disadvantage of looking like you are crazy and sleep-deprived. It could be a little bit of both, in fact.

Back before I had kids I truly did wake up in the night to write down thoughts I had. But honestly, I don't like working at 3 AM. So I desperately hope that the person I e-mailed responds with a nice interview.

It is amazing how you use whatever tools you have when you are a reporter. Last week I actually tried to get Charlotte to coo while leaving a message for a plum source because I know this guy is a sucker for little kids. Hey, whatever it takes.

Can I do this?

It's been 13 months since a single word of my writing has been published, but 3 weeks ago my editor called me and asked me to come out of retirement. Not retirement, really, but mommy-tirement. Charlotte is 10 months old. Ryan will be 3 in October. I stopped writing professionally when I was expecting Charlotte. The constant word churning was wearing me down, and I said more than once that I was tired of working two jobs, balancing diapers and deadlines, having to keep Ryan quiet while I phoned CEOs and celebrities. But when that call from my editor came, it was like the heavens were giving me a ring. Without realizing it, I'd slumped into a haze. At first it was pleasant. Then it felt lonely. I didn't even realize how much I missed my writing until I did my first interview back on the beat. It was like opening a window. I could breathe.

I know how politically incorrect this is, of course. I firmly believe in attachment parenting, the philosophy of mommying and daddying that is pretty much how it sounds. Make the child an appendage. Wear her. Nurse her. Birth her naturally. Sleep curled around her. Put her first. It makes a lot of sense. I have been up for the challenge with both of my children, and we will continue on that path. But to keep it up, I have to be able to breathe. And that's what writing is for me.

So I thought that I'd start this blog to chronicle my process. Mostly for me and those who are close to me. But who knows? Maybe there are others out there who are doing the juggling act, not just working with words but with numbers, paint, wood, paper. The question here--and I'd love to talk to anyone who has figured out the answer--is how do you be fully present in your own life and in the lives of your family? Is it unrealistic to expect that you could do both? Is it really in the face of feminism to think of your children as part of you? Is it really in the face of holistic parenting to want to chase down a plum interview or write through the night?

Let's discover this.