expect the unexpected

Dora started a new school at the beginning of February. It was bittersweet for us - seeing her leave behind friends and teachers we had all grown to love, leaving the security of the only place that she had ever gone, where she was known for her bottle refusals and strong personality. We are happy about the new school - especially because she ended up going there with a friend - but it's been an adjustment.

Dora has been telling me stories of other kids being unkind in various kid ways. We've talked to the teachers, who assure us that Dora holds her own very well. We've talked to Dora about how to deal with kids when they aren't being nice. And, I realize that some of her stories may be embellished in her own three-year-old way. Still, I had not expected to be dealing with this so soon. I'm responding to it as best I can - trying to be reassuring without being unrealistic, and without making a huge deal out of it so she worries more. I'm not sure I'm handling it exactly right, but I guess I thought I'd have more time to prepare. 

I think I was fairly notorious in my elementary school for being the girl whose mom wouldn't let her have Barbies. My mother didn't like the image of beauty that Barbie portrayed. I think it bothered her to think of little girls playing with big-breasted, super skinny, sexualized dolls. I was allowed to have Skipper - Barbie's undeveloped little sister who came with a horse. I haven't really thought about this in years, until the other night when Dora asked if we could play with Barbies. Again - I did not think I was going to be answering this question yet. I told her that, no, we are not going to play with Barbies, and that we're not going to get any Barbies either. I told her how, if Barbie were a real person, she would not be able to stand up because her body proportions are physically impossible. I'm sure this really meant a lot to my 3-year-old. We moved on to reading Personal Penguin. 

In a way, I should not be surprised by any of this, for the theme of parenthood really is "expect the unexpected". I can't even count the number of times I've been surprised, sometimes pleasantly and sometimes not, by being a mother. I'm surprised by myself - how great I can be sometimes and how sometimes I can be really impatient, really unfair, really not the mom I want to be. I'm surprised by my daughter - how smart and beautiful and funny she is, and how she can frustrate me so much so easily. I'm surprised by my fears and my hopes and by all the thoughts this experience brings up for me. It makes you see parts of yourself, your partner, your world you never even knew existed. 

Tonight during yoga our teacher told us it was our last class - a surprise and disappointment to all of us, including our teacher. I realized in class tonight for the first time the power of controlling your breathing as you do in yoga, of forcing yourself to slow down and get quiet. I felt the power of the poses, of breathing through them with purpose. I looked down at my hands in Downward Facing Dog, at my turquoise ring that belonged to my mother, and my hands looked just like hers. I don't remember ever seeing that so vividly as tonight. 

As I snuggled Dora into bed tonight, stroking her hair and her cheek and her perfect little ear, I thought about how I had touched her face this way on our first night together. Awash with the power of labor and the overwhelming new love I was experiencing for the first time, I learned my first lessons of motherhood, of how it opens up the depths of your heart as never before. I look back on it now and think how much more I might have loved her then if I had known what she would become, if I had known how completely central and essential she would become in my life. There is really not much I would change about her birth, but I do wish I could go back there knowing what I know now, so I could really soak in those first moments of her life, really look at her then while knowing what she would become. This is not to say that I didn't love her perfectly then, because I did - it's just that my love for her has grown so much, I wish I could whisper in the ear of myself as a new mother, "you think you love her now? Just wait. It's going to get bigger and stronger every single day, even if you think that's impossible."

Perhaps there will be some sense of this our second time around. Perhaps we'll be able to soak in the weight and depth and breadth of our new baby in his or her first moments. Or maybe to do is physically impossible, like Barbie in real life. I'm excited to find out, and certain that whatever the experience is like, it will also be unexpected. 

To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect. 

--Oscar Wilde

help us to show our love

Yesterday at dinner, Dora and I said grace before we ate. It seemed like a day that needed that - a moment of silence or simple words to thank God for our blessings, and to pray for others. I confess that we don't normally say grace unless on a special occasion - something I picked up from my own childhood. But last night, it was just the two of us, and an edamame, cabbage, chicken, and noodle stir-fry on a regular old Monday night. Nothing special. 

I was somewhat surprised to find myself reciting a prayer we said as children, one I hadn't heard or thought of in many years. We've taught Dora the short child's prayer, "God is great", etc., and on special occasions I recite the Runser family traditional prayer, based on Psalm 145, and referred to in our family simply as "the Eyes". But this prayer - I can't even think of the last time I said it: 

Lord, thank you for this food, 

and all the blessings of today, 

help us to show our love, 

by being kind and good, we pray. 

After this, we prayed for the people of Japan. As with any disaster of epic proportions, I am overwhelmed and saddened for all of those who are suffering from this tragedy. As news reports come in of tens of thousands of lives lost, villages destroyed, displaced people going hungry, and possible nuclear crisis, I am reminded of how small and helpless each of us are. It feels like even those of us who want to help can hardly do so, as what does a small donation really mean in the face of such loss. 

I look at my safe, warm, beautiful little girl, my loving husband, our sweet little life, our new baby on the way, and I know I should be saying grace at every meal. I should be thanking God at every turn for all of the grace afforded to me in so many ways, the abundance given to me that is embarassing in comparison to the needs of others. It simply doesn't make sense, how some can have so little while others so much, how some of us are in peril while others are us are warm, safe, fed, and dry. 

I know only one person in all of Japan, my friend Hiroshi. I heard from him yesterday and I know that he, and his immediate family, are safe. He is traveling around the country, trying to document through his photographs what has happened, and hopefully keeping himself safe in the process. In a short message to me he explained that he and his family are safe, and not directly impacted by the earthquake. But, he added, "this is not a matter of where they live and where we live". He went on to say that everyone in his nation must unite to face this crisis. 

This is true for all of us: it is not a matter of where they live and where we live. All of us need to unite with our brothers and sisters in Japan, as we have done for others in the past, to face this crisis, to help one another, to lend a hand, even if we feel small and helpless and like our tiny contribution won't make a difference. 

Help us to show our love, by being kind and good, we pray. 

For a list of ways you can help the people of Japan, click here.

parallel universe

On Monday, I happened to be in the car for most of the day and caught a Fresh Air interview with physicist Brian Greene. Now, I took physics in college, from the illustrious Dr. Baker, and I actually enjoyed it quite a bit (in large part because Dr. Baker found ways to make his class funny, somehow). But I don't pretend to understand what Dr. Greene was discussing. Basically, he was discussing a theory that states that matter can only combine in a finite number of ways, and if the universe is infinite, then that combination will occur repeatedly throughout the universe. In other words, in an infinite universe, there may be many parallel universes, within which matter has organized in the same way (as in, we are all there in the parallel universe, living our lives like we do here, I guess). 

As mind-boggling as this concept is, I have thought in the past about the possibility of different moments in time happening simultaneously - like envisioning that my mom is her young, healthy, witty self somewhere else in the universe. Maybe then I'm some sort of inter-generational tie between my mom and my daughter, who will never get to meet in this world, connecting them as I reach one hand into the past and hold onto Dora's hand stretching into the future.  

 And there's a sense of parallel universes when you think about all the joy and pain that simultaneously take place in each moment, day, year, life. In my own little life we have an amazing, flashing light of joy among us - another baby coming to join us later this summer. We have dreamed of this for so long and are overjoyed that our sweet Isadora will get to be a big sister. Yet in the midst of our happiness, we have friends as well as strangers in the greater human family facing unimaginable sorrow. Just today I learned of one friend involved in a serious car accident and another, whose courageous journey I have mentioned before, who needs our prayers now more than ever. Perhaps only quantum physics can explain how such beauty and such pain can at once be contained within this world, how the blessings and the sorrows get tossed out across the universe like so many shining stars.

As I put Dora to bed tonight, she said to me, "I wish I was in your belly". I asked her why and she said, "so we could snuggle". I promised her that she will always be my snugglebug, that I'll always snuggle her. We talked about her being a big sister, all the things she will teach her little sibling, how she'll help me with the baby. Dora refers to this baby as a girl, even though we don't know (and won't find out) the sex until the baby arrives. After a few minutes of quiet she said, "maybe she'll like James Brown." I squeezed her close and laughed, wondering how many three-year-olds are so into the Godfather of Soul that they hope their siblings-to-be will share in their musical tastes. 

Maybe not so many three-year-olds would say it now, but maybe on some other plane in the universe there's a 1960s kid about to become a big brother or big sister, hoping their new sibling is going to get up offa that thing, too. Maybe in the parallel universe Mike made it home safely from work yesterday, and Rachel is so healthy she hasn't had so much as a stuffy nose in the past three years. My prayer is that, if matter really can only organize itself in so many ways, these realities in the parallel universe become reality here. I pray for wholeness for the entire human family, for health and healing for all those who need it, for wisdom for those who provide medical care, and for an unending capacity for love and forgiveness among all of us. With all of these things, the universe truly is infinite.

old movie stars

I made it home safe and sound from my trip last week that involved airplanes. Lots of praying and holding tight to my cross, and reading a fabulous book to take my mind off my fears. Everything was fine, and I am happy to be back home again. 

Dora spent the week in Ohio with my dad and stepmother. I never like the way this house feels without her in it, but we made the best of our time without her. We finished up projects around the house, got her room totally reorganized (finally), and went to a movie. After much debate we saw True Grit. Being the Coen Brothers/Jeff Bridges fans that we are, we both wanted to see it. But, I saw the John Wayne version as a kid, so I was apprehensive about that final scene with the horse. I remember sitting on the faded tan cordoroy couch in my parents' living room, shocked and crying about what happened. My apprehension about the final scene was over me like a cloud in the theater, and at the end when it came I was just as upset as I had been all those years ago. To me that has to be one of the saddest scenes involving an animal in a movie ever made. It just breaks me heart. 

I've always been an animal lover, and I can hardly bear to see one hurt in a movie, even knowing all the rules and regulations in place to protect them during filming. I read that the rules about the equine actors used in True Grit were more explicit and rigid than the rules governing the 13-year-old human actress. In the river crossing scene, the water had to be a certain temperature for the horses, whereas there was no mention of a required temperature for the humans. Nonetheless, I am always tender-hearted when it comes to animals in film. 

In the ladies room after the movie, I was not the only one wiping my eyes. For many of us, animals are a connection, a place of common understanding to which nearly all humans can relate. Sure, there are a few non-animal people out there, but most of us understand the way a cat or dog curls its way into your heart and home, staking out a permanent place of honor at the foot of your bed, on the back of the couch, or on your hearth. 

At Christmas, we adopted a cat from home, a beautiful, long-haired, black and white Maine Coon named Hedy. She had been given to me by my friend Maria years ago, but soon after she walked into my life she adopted my mother as her favorite human. She was definitely my mother's cat. She was a wonderful companion to her, sleeping on her bed, following her into the bathroom, kneading and purring incessantly. When my mom died, Hedy was sleeping on the bed next to her, curled up beside her like she always was, waiting for my mom's hand to stroke her black fur. 

Now that this old movie star is living with us, she sleeps on our bed, purring incessantly, kneading and drooling, happy to be with us. She's as beautiful as she ever was, happily waiting for the next opportunity for someone to pet her. Beyond just enjoying her company and her perfectly symmetrical markings and her stunningly long whiskers, my home and my heart are warmed by her presence because of the connection to my mother that she represents. There is something so comforting about running my hands over Hedy's beautiful black fur, knowing my mother did the same thing not so long ago. I hope Hedy feels that connection, too, a little spark of familiarity, a little bit of extra warmth from a hand that feels just a little bit like one she used to know and love.

all you need is love

Happy New Year! 

I know it's been a long time, but I'm still here. I still love this project, and many days thoughts of what I'd like to write go through my head. I can't always make the time to write here, but I'm going to keep it up when I can. Thank you for coming back to read again and again. That means so much to me. 

2010 was quite the year of ups and downs. We shared many joys with our friends and family - new babies (or news of babies to come in 2011), marriages, successes, adventures. We shared sadness, too - losses of loved ones, illness. Together Brian and I grew a lot this year, facing our own challenges and finding that our commitment and love saw us through yet again. We watched Dora grow into an entertaining, inquisitive, and loving little girl. We each branched out into new creative arenas - photography, craft projects, and music, music, music. We said goodbye to one of the world's most lovely and adorable cats, our dear sweet Mackeson.

This past year I was amazed again at the resiliency of love. In late November, a good friend of mine lost her son in Afghanistan. Her loss is unthinkable, yet she maintained so much grace and positivity I was overwhelmed. Her son's beautiful light in the world - and their love for each other - shines on. This year I saw love see friends, family, and self through pain and loss and seemingly insurmountable difficulty. Though in the darkness it can sometimes seem impossible, John Lennon was right. All you need is love.

I'm looking forward to 2011, trusting that love will again see us through the good and the bad. In less than a week I'm flying for work, which is a big accomplishment for me - facing a fear I've been unable to overcome for a long time. At Christmas I received three old Kodak Instamatic cameras that belonged to my mom, and I'm really looking forward to using them this year, holding in my hands the same tools she used to record so many of our family memories when my brother and I were young. This year I want to read, write, take pictures, make things, take care of my house, stay connected to my wonderful friends, and snuggle up with my beautiful family and pets. Yes, all you need is love.

100% From Scratch Pumpkin Pie

I cooked all day yesterday, just for the three of us. I made nearly everything - except for the butter, the drinks, the bread for the stuffing, and the fried onions for the green beans - from scratch. Even the mushroom sauce for the green bean casserole was from scratch. It was warm and sunny. We cooked with the windows open, peeled potatoes in our shorts.

It was a non-stop kitchen extravaganza, but we did find time for playing games - Candyland and Memory - while the chicken roasted. I couldn't see roasting a turkey for two adults and a toddler, so we had chicken with herbs. 

 

As we sat down to dinner, the song we danced to at our wedding - I've Got You Under My Skin - came on. It seemed like a sign - a sign of all that we have to be thankful for, a sign of commitment and what it really means to be in a committed relationship, a reminder that everything about us - even our beautiful girl - starts from one tiny, simple, sacred space together. 

It was a beautiful day, and the only thing that would have made it more beautiful would have been if our table could have somehow magically been surrounded by all our friends and family, all the people we love so much, living or not. That would have made the meal absolutely perfect. 

Most of what I made came out well, but not everything. The mashed potatoes weren't quite right, and the bread cubes I cut up for the stuffing were too large. The best part, without a doubt, was the 100 percent from scratch pumpkin pie. I've never before made a pumpkin pie that started out as an actual pumpkin, and now that I have, I'm not sure I'll ever make another one that starts out as a can. This pie was so absolutely perfect - great texture, delicious pumpkin-y taste - that the minimal (and I mean minimal) extra effort needed to roast the pumpkin instead of opening the can was completely worthwhile. The best part - even better than the fact that I still have about half of this pie left - is the fact that I have another pie pumpkin from Flying Cloud Farm in my collection of winter squashes, patiently waiting for its destiny in my pie plate. 

 100% From Scratch Pumpkin Pie 

 

For the crust: 

I use this recipe from Martha Stewart for my pie crusts. For this particular pie, you can halve the recipe. 

For the filling: 

1 whole, honest-to-goodness pie pumpkin 

2 large eggs 

3/4 cup brown sugar 

1/2 teaspoon salt 

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract 

1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon 

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg 

1 cup half and half 

Preheat the oven to 425. Line a rimmed baking sheet with tin foil or parchment and oil very lightly with vegetable oil. Without scooping out the seeds, roast the pumpkin, cut side down, until tender and browned - about one hour. Allow to cool completely. Discard seeds and scoop flesh (even browned spots) into a medium bowl. Puree using an immersion blender. When smooth, press through a fine mesh sieve into a large bowl, discarding any solids left in the sieve.

To the pumpkin add the eggs, sugar, salt, vanilla, and spices. Whisk until combined, then whisk in the half and half. 

Reduce oven temperature to 375. Place the pie crust in a 9-inch pie dish. Line the pie crust with tin foil, and fill with pie weights or dried beans. Bake until firm, about 20 minutes. Allow to cool for about 15 minutes.

Reduce oven temperature to 350. Pour prepared filling into baked crust. Bake until set, about 1 hour. Allow to cool on a wire rack for one hour before slicing. Serve with homemade whipped cream, and kiss those cans goodbye.

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A few weeks ago someone told me, wisely, that I should write down all the cute and funny things that Dora says and does. If I were actually finding time to do this, I'd have plenty of material. Like the time recently when she said to me while using the potty "girls stand up, and boys sit down". I asked how she knows that and she said, "because it's true". We went camping recently and she enthusiastically introduced herself to all sorts of people, kids and adults alike. She walked up to a woman dining at an outdoor restaurant and reached for her sweet potato fries, "hey, can I have one of these?"  A jogger ran by us at a waterfront park and she said, "I hope that man doesn't fall in the water!" Today she asked Brian why his chest is so hairy, and tonight, when I suggested she share a cookie with her friend, she said, "yeah, I can do that, because I'm really very nice". 

There seems to be no shortage of funny, charming, or observant things running through her mind at any moment. She's pretending all the time, imitating us, saying things we say. But she's coming up with her own things, too, showing us the little individual she's becoming. I feel now as I did when she was a tiny baby on her first day, wrapped up like a burrito in my arms. I looked at her, amazed at how different and interesting she was, and overwhelmed by how much I instantly liked her. 

 Last month she spent her first overnight visit away from us, staying a whole week in Ohio with my dad and stepmother. I enjoyed the time apart at first, the time to focus uninterrupted, the easy mornings, the spontaneous dinners out, seeing a movie together. But I missed her so much, too, our house feeling instantly cold and empty without her. A sock lay strewn across her bed, waiting. I woke up in the middle of the night terrified, panicked at the thought of the miles that lay between us. My home did not feel right without her in it, and I wanted her back as soon as possible. 

We met in West Virginia to exchange child and dog. We had lunch at a crowded, buffet-style restaurant. I took Dora into the dingy bathroom, and instantly thought of my mother, of all the dirty West Virginia bathrooms we braved in our years together, driving to vacation in the Outer Banks. I missed her so much at that moment, longing for her to be there, to see me now, to know me as a mother, to know Dora. 

Back at the table, the season's first snow falling outside, Dora looked at me and said, "where's your mom?" We've talked about my mom a lot before, but she's never asked me so directly about her. "Well, that's an interesting question," I said. "Remember how Mackeson got sick, and then he died and went to heaven? Well, that's what happened to my mommy. She's in heaven now." Dora pondered this a moment and said, "that's her home?" "It is now," I replied. 

I drove us home through the last signs of fall and the first snowflakes of winter. We passed flaming red poison sumac pointing to the sky, bright orange maples, the ground around them blanketed in gold. Above us was a bright, amazing sky - gray, foreboding clouds, layered with thin white filament and backlit with a powerful glistening sun. I wondered how it was possible a 3-year-old could not only charm me with her witty and often funny observations of the world, but also somehow be so insightful and knowing as to ask questions that shoot right into my heart like an arrow. 

I was asked recently about how I've felt my mom in my life since she died. Some people report dreams, or feeling a presence. For me it has been much more fleeting, much more like glimpsing the tail of a comet. Her smile appearing on Dora's face for an instant, or my hand looking just like hers in the evening, turning pages as I read to Dora, my mom's silver and turquoise ring glistening on my finger.  On the first anniversary of her death, Brian and I drove over to Lake Lure, me anxious for something to do other than sit around the house thinking about what I had been doing one year before. It was a surprisingly warm day. We walked Murphy along the lake, empty vacation homes all around. The cherry trees along the water's edge were covered in tiny, pink blossoms just beginning to open, and it was only January 7th. 

When my mom died, I hoped that I would someday have a daughter, that I would someday have that mother-daughter love in my life again. Now that I've been blessed with my amazing little girl, I want nothing more than for her to know all she can about my mother, to know who she was and what she meant to me. When she asks me her witty questions, or when she eats and writes and draws with her left hand, or when that mischievous smile crosses her face for just an instant,  I wonder if she already does.