Tempo

My husband took this while I was trying to {quite precariously} set up the mast head photo. It's an out-take of course that I would normally delete, just like every other photo that I happen to find myself in. When I pass by this one in the iphoto library, I see the tea that I was spilling, the weight that won't go away, the bra strap. The problems.
I see the problems.
This is something I am working on.

The night before my daughter's 1st birthday party, I worked on her cake until 2 in the morning. My first attempt at a pink cake in the shape of a number 1 came out looking very much like .... well....boy parts.
One boy part really. So I had to start over.

I worked so hard on everything to make it a pretty party to celebrate both her birthday and getting through what had been a very tough year: a year where I went back to work full time 9 weeks after she was born... a year when we had been through Rotavirus, RSV, Hand-Foot-Mouth, ear infections, and vomiting blood. A year when my husband had to take a master's exam after being up all night bailing water out of the basement. A year of contentious cases and deadlines and the beginning of my sleeplessness. A year that was just as challenging for us as it is for anyone else who has had a baby.

I just wanted it to be a nice day. I wanted my daughter to have photos from the day that she could look back on and think, "I was really loved."

One guest, who doesn't really know me very well, said without smiling and to no one in particular, "well, everything is just perfect, isn't it. As usual." Back-handed is the perfect description of that kind of compliment.

I guess she didn't see the black circles under my eyes, the cake in the trash can, the weeds in the garden, the years I'd spent hoping for a child.

That kind of comment or ones like it (it's easy for you, it's perfect for you) are meant to put you on a raft and cast you out to sea while everyone else turns their backs and goes back to the beach bonfire of common experience. You can't relate. It's perfect for you. You're not one of us. You're on your own.

About a month ago, I got the same kind of comment about this space which has sort of made me not want to post here since because I want to make sure that I'm not sending the very dangerous message (particularly for mothers) that being a parent, or anything really, is easy or perfect.

Like most people, cropped outside the margins of my work, somewhere in the periphery of each image or essay are enormous personal heartbreaks that I may never, ever find a way to fill. And, as it is my goal as a writer to do no harm, I don't feel it is appropriate to write here about tragedies that don't just involve me. None of us live or work in a vacuum. But I try to leave the good stuff here as the focal point: the things I am grateful for and want to return to when the day is cold or the night is long. When I sit down with anyone for very long, I find that all of us have had a rough go at one time or another, especially in these times.

There's a moment at the end of The Royal Tenenbaums when Ben Stiller's character turns to his father and admits, "It's been a really tough year, Dad." That scene always makes me cry. It has been hasn't it? For all of us.

There is no one form of expression that can encapsulate human experience. This place is just my metronome, a lightly tapping foot to remind me to slow down, be thankful, notice beauty. I hope it is for you, too.

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In the good energy department, Katy, the beautiful new PhD had her second amazing son Owen this month and also the brilliant soon-to-be PhD Grims introduces her beautiful Nuala Jane.
Two new babies of super moms who stop by here from time to time. You are the luckiest little babies! I'm honored to know your moms.