You can't fix this with butter, Paula

Oh, Paula. You've gotten yourself into quite a mess, haven't you? My Facebook feed is full of people from back home who want to "bring back Paula Deen!" They simply can't live without the butter and the ridiculous accent. Girlfriend, I'm with you on the butter, but you are doing your IQ a disservice with your drawl.

We all know you are one smart cookie. Butter loaded, sugar sprinkled, passed down from your Mimi's kitchen cookie.

The thing is, I don't watch your show or read your cookbooks. Nothing personal, I just don't get into them. You have plenty of fans, so I know this little fact doesn't hurt your feelings. My opinion about you doesn't apply to your show, books, or endorsements. It doesn't matter to me one way or the other.

What bothers me is that the conversation so quickly turned to whether or not you should be punished, or persecuted, as many are calling it. It's really not the point. 

The point is that we are glossing over the entire attitude. We are once again, downplaying the fact that the glorification of the Old South is hurtful and does nothing positive for our community. Sure, the dresses were pretty, the houses magnificent, the parties to die for, but it was built on the backs of slaves.

There is nothing about that I can be nostalgic for.

I know what they say. It's heritage. It's our history. We've moved on.  Shoot, even the Supreme Court ruled that the South has worked through their race issues at the polls. Go, us. We have come so far.

So far that when a popular tv personality such as yourself is recorded under oath being nostalgic for the days of old when black men in white coats made an event glorious by reflecting the days of slavery, we simply argue about your tv show being cancelled.

You know, Paula, you are held to a high standard. You should be. You are white, privileged, and in the public eye. Using the n-word and waxing nostalgic for the good old days of slavery are not okay. Turning the conversation to your persecution is not okay. We have a responsibility to teach future generations, and according to the responses, apparently current generations too, that the way our ancestors built their wealth on the backs of others was not okay. That it is nothing to remember fondly or to be proud of. 

I understand that traditions run deep, and I know that food in the Deep South is a connection to our roots and our heritage. But you would do us all a lot of good if you could stick with the recipes and leave the fondness for plantation life in the past.

Loving her isn't enough

Last night I dreamed that Momma and I were shopping. We were in some hip little downtown area, very much like Asheville, and we were in stores like specialty olive oil and dried herb shops. Places you wander leisurely through, wondering how they stay in business, but enjoying the window shopping.

Momma was strong, beautiful, vibrant, and we were having so much fun.

They were shops I had been in before, because the employees knew me. I introduced Momma to each one of them, and they showed her things that I had mentioned to them reminded me of her. It was very much how I often shop, "Oh, Momma would like that."

********************************************

She is on heavy duty chemo again, Momma. It isn't as easy this time around, not that it was ever easy. But it is easy to forget how much harder a weekly injection is than a daily pill. Especially easier to forget when you aren't there.

The boys made her cards. I made her a minky eye pillow with dried lavender in it. She called me when she got it and gushed about the cards. I was proud of my boys. Then we talked about the pillow and how she could heat it or cool it to use on her eyes or head.

She said, "That's so nice. Elizabeth always puts a cool rag on my head with I'm throwing up, so I'm sure I'll be able to use this."

And in that moment, I failed her. Here is your silly eye pillow, when you need someone holding your hand, wiping your mouth, helping you get to the bathroom or bucket in time. I made you a PILLOW. A scented pillow to help you want to throw up even more.

Next week, I'll be with her. I'll get to do those things, but only for a week. It's ultimately not my responsibility. Or is it, and I'm shirking it?

I'm long distance loving her with dreadfully out of touch care packages. Loving her doesn't seem like enough.

On What I'm Teaching Them

Colin and I were on a date. Everyone else had plans or meetings, so the three year old was stuck home with Momma once again. I decided that we should have plans too, so we went on a date.

He chose a hot dog, and I ordered a BLT, knowing that he would eat half the bacon for me. I let him pick out a table. I don’t really remember what we were talking about. He’s three. He rarely stops talking. But we were enjoying being together with no toys, no computers, no phones, and nobody else.

Just Colin and Momma.

As we were finishing up, he said, “Momma, I really like this Kool Aid.”

I laughed. “Of course you do. It’s liquid sugar.”

The gentleman at the table next to us laughed too. He was eating alone and had been privy to our conversation going on behind him. He turned around, smiling, and apologized. He hadn’t meant to intrude, he said.

Then he asked me, “Are you a teacher, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“No,” I replied.

“It’s just that my daughter is a teacher, and you talk to your son like she does her children. Always teaching. It’s so good for them,” he said.

I told him that made my day and that I was going to remember him saying it for a long time, tucking it away for days when I felt like a terrible mother. He laughed again, and then we eased into talking about the weather for a minute or two.

*********************************************************

It was Susan, my life-long best friend, who taught me to always be teaching.

She taught me deliberately, giving me ideas of games and activities to share with my boys. Telling me which toys were good for stimulating which area of brain development. Suggesting books for them and books for me too.

I learned from my best friend that every moment of fun is also a moment of learning for children.

It has been hard to live up to her expectations of motherhood. I fail a lot.

And when I failed, she also taught me that we always get to try again.

Until, of course, we don’t.

Because some mothers aren’t there forever. Some mothers get cancer and die. Some mothers have to pack a lifetime of loving, teaching, and caring into five years of their child’s life. Some mothers like Susan.

**********************************************************

I take a pill every morning. When I decided to start taking an antidepressant, I felt like a failure. I called Susan to let her know how broken I was. How I needed to take medicine in order to be a decent person. That I had depression.

Like every good best friend should, she laughed at me. “Take your pill and move on, Marty. Every mother I know does. It’s better for your family if you take care of yourself. Oh, and you aren’t broken. You have a chemical imbalance in your brain. It’s medical. That’s why they make pills for it.”

She was such a scientist.

**********************************************************

I teach my children. I teach them to communicate. I teach them to be respectful. I teach them compassion. I teach them music, art, story-telling, dancing, singing, and anything else I can squeeze into our days.

I also teach them how to over react. I teach them how to throw a tantrum. How to yell. How to be self-deprecating. How to withdraw.

It is after those moments, the teaching of my own shortcomings that I rely so heavily on the kindness of strangers at next table and the wisdom of my best friend.

You are always teaching your children. Take care of yourself in order to take care of your family. And when you screw up, try again.

Because grace is one of the most important lessons of them all.

Birthday. Yeah, you missed mine again.

I'm not sure how to celebrate a birthday when you aren't here to actually turn another year older.

Cupcakes with big piles of unscientifically created buttercream frosting seem fitting, but I'm trying to cut back.

This is the year you would have turned 40. I did it in February, and customarily, you would just now be noticing because it's your birthday and, "Oh crap! I forgot your birthday again!" You only ever remembered my birthday by the fact that you had one too.

That will never cease to crack me up. You always apologized and never realized that I didn't expect you to ever wish me a happy birthday before April 13.

The other night, I dreamed that all of my guppies were still swimming around the tank, but they were only half of themselves. A head swimming around here, a tail swimming around there. I kept pulling half guppies out of the tank, searching and searching for a whole one. There were no whole ones. 

Sometimes, I wish my dreams were a little less obvious.

I don't know. I think I'll have that cupcake. Call your boys to say hello. Say another prayer for your mama. Feed our fish. 

When I eat that cupcake, I'm not singing. Because even though in my heart, I'll always celebrate the day you were born, I won't be saying "Happy birthday" about it for a long time.

Seventeen

Dear Mallory,

Today, you turn 17. It's a magical age. You are so close to being an adult, but yet you still get to claim childhood. For one more year, that is.

Of course, you have been such a grown up already. By sheer comparison, being the child who could do her own laundry and not poop in her pants made you seem incredibly mature. Aside from those accomplishments, there is also the fact that you really are incredibly mature.

You have the uncanny ability of someone far older than yourself to be able to tell us what you want or need and why. You can discuss how you feel about something, explaining your emotions in conversation many people three times your age wouldn't be able to replicate. It's not your favorite thing in the world to do, but you can do it, which is amazing.

This is the year you have to decide what comes next. You have to balance your last year of high school with figuring out your plans for your adult life. No pressure, right? It's a daunting task, I know. Don't worry though. It's not like you can't change your mind down the road, but you have to admit, there are some big decisions to be made this coming year.

I'm not worried about you. You are the most grounded teenager I've ever met. Lord knows how that happened. You have certainly endured your share of the crazy. And the diapers. And being woken up way before you should be on the weekends. And having to sit next to tiny people with sticky fingers at the dinner table. And parents who quote song lyrics as though they are part of the actual conversation. And  potty talk. So much potty talk.

However, there is something important about 17 that I want you to remember. You will be expected to make grown up decisions and start acting more and more like an adult. We will expect more from you. Your teachers will expect more from you. This is normal and important. You have to grow up, and there is no time like 17 to do it. But here is the important part:

You are still a child.

No matter how grounded and how mature you are, you still get to be a child. Yes, that means you are still allowed some tantrums and silliness if you need it. What it really means is that you can still come to us with anything that you need.

A lot of people will start treating you like an adult now that you are 17. But you have a safe place here. A place where you can still be a child. A place where you can ask for help or support or just someone to listen to you.

I guess that is true for the rest of your life. We will always be there for you when you need us. Just remember that as you become an adult, that doesn't mean that you have to quit relying on your dad and I for support.

Growing up doesn't mean out growing your family.

Happy birthday, Mal Mal. In case you didn't know it, and because you can never hear it too many times, I love you bunches.

Love,
marty

The Hubble Collection

Something spectacular happened today.

LympheDIVAs released a new line of sleeves in memory of Susan. They are sleeves designed using images from the Hubble Telescope - The Hubble Collection.

Not only are they a perfect tribute to her, they are beautiful. Really gorgeous.

For every sleeve and gauntlet purchased from this collection, LympheDIVAs will make a donation to Crickett's Answer for Cancer, a cause very dear to Susan's heart.

Here's what Josh from LympheDIVAs had to say about it:

"In 2010, Susan Niebur of ToddlerPlanet arranged a discussion between LympheDIVAs, manufacturers of medically correct and fashionable compression garments for lymphedema, and the 501(c)3 charity Crickett’s Answer for Cancer. These two organizations with similar geneses quickly realized the potential of a partnership and established a working relationship to help provide lymphedema sleeves and gauntlets to those who could not afford them. LympheDIVAs has donated thousands of dollars worth of garments to Crickett’s Answer for Cancer, but that is not enough. When Susan Niebur passed away last year, LympheDIVAs wanted to honor both her memory, her fight and her legacy and design a sleeve in her honor that would give back to Crickett’s Answer for Cancer."

I know that a LympheDIVA sleeve isn't something that all of us need, but it's something that if you DO need it, then it's very important. So, I hope that you will help me spread the word about these new sleeves. Every woman who needs one deserves for it to be this beautiful.

More than anything, it's a beautiful way to honor Susan's memory, and nothing makes me happier than when people remember and honor this woman I love so much.

Thank you, LympheDIVAs.

Aren't they stunning?

I get all these years as my own

Here it is. The last hoorah of my 30's. I told Kevin tonight that I was feeling introspective about it, and he thought I meant I was regretting it.

Not in the least.

I was just thinking about where I was in my life 10 years ago as I was living out the last of my 20's. It was a far different place. A far different space in my head.

The past decade changed a lot of things for me. Lost love. Found love. Parenthood. Lost Daddy. Lost Susan. Still have my momma, which is awesome.

I've learned to sew. I've learned to make pirogi. Heck, I even learned to make milk and birth babies. Not in that order.

No. I'm not upset about turning 40. I'm excited. Life just started getting good in my mid 30's and it's only getting better. I'm quite sure of it.

Now, I'm tired. Being 39 has been exhausting.

Peace out, 30's. You were a righteous decade.

It's not Connie Britton's hair

Almost a year ago, I stopped coloring my hair. It was partly an "I-don't-give-a-shit" decision, and partly an "I'm-lucky-I-get-to-be-here-and-go-grey" decision.

I was angry. Bitter. We had just said good bye to Susan, and I was about to turn 39 years old. On that day, my 39th birthday, I decided to never complain about anything having to do with aging.

And I stopped coloring my hair.

I also wore nothing but pajamas for several months, but that's not really relevant to this story.

Here's the thing. I stopped coloring my hair as a kind of "fuck you" to the youth loving universe. I wanted to see my grey hair. I wanted to look at it and be reminded that some people would give anything to be here long enough to go grey.

Funny thing about the universe. The universe said to me, "Fuck you back. You're not really going grey."

Meh. I have a few sparkly grey hairs here and there. For the most part though, my hair, my real hair color is the color of the Carter family. My grandmother, who died at the ever so young age of 97, had maybe a dozen grey hairs at the time of her death. The rest of her hair was a light chestnut brown color with a hint of auburn highlights. She never colored it.

My great aunt and her daughters - same beautiful hair. The Carter hair.

Last week, I turned my back towards the mirror in my bathroom and held a hand mirror up to see the back of my hair. I was checking to see how close I was to achieving some Connie Britton style (not close enough ever).

It surprised me. The highlights and the auburn in my hair. The natural color that I had covered for so many many years. I didn't even know what my natural color was until now.

I stood there, staring at my hair, realizing that my hair is nothing but a completely cliche metaphor for life. A ridiculous motivational poster for being yourself.

Stop trying to be something you aren't. You might actually like what you really are.

It will never be Connie Britton, but I'm liking my hair. All curly and confused. Brown and auburn.

Bring it on, 40. Me and my Carter hair can totally take you.

Douglas it is. My kiddo is getting an a+ education.

We got the best news yesterday.

For months now, I've been trying to ready myself and my attitude for sending Christopher to our base school. I've been chanting the mantra of, "It is what you make of it," and reminding myself that he will have a good education no matter what. I was promising to be involved and present. I was sending the worry down the river on a leaf every day.

His base school is a tenth of a mile further from another elementary school where the rest of our neighborhood gets to go. Douglas Elementary is in our neighborhood, not across a busy street, and is exactly what I believe an school should be.

Arts and science. That is their magnet program. Not just STEM. But ARTS and science.

I've had so many conversations with other parents who reassure me that my children will get the arts because Kevin and I are artists. True. Kevin is also a scientist, but we wouldn't take science out of Christopher's education just because Kevin could cover that at home.

I've also been told that it's normal to just have music class once a week. Or art. Or drama. Just a "special" within the constructs of the core curriculum.

I'm actually alright with that.

What I believe arts in education should look like is not about a 30 minute music class. It's about using the arts in teaching everything else. Integrated.

I don't need Christopher's school to teach him to play an instrument, but they should be teaching him music as the ultimate example of math and language working in complete symbiosis.

I don't need Christopher's school to teach him modern dance, but they should be teaching him how to use movement to express himself, to exercise, and to have fun.

I don't need Christopher's school to teach him how to be a sculptor, but they should be using visual arts to teach spacial relations, geometry, color spectrum - you get my point.

When I talk about integrating the arts into the classroom, I'm talking about using creative learning. There are so many different ways that children learn. If you can harness the individual learning styles of children through creative learning styles, why wouldn't you?

I'm so grateful that Christopher will be at Douglas. It's one of two a+ elementary schools in Wake County. A model that I wish would be adopted by every school. From the a+ schools website,

"The A+ Schools Program is a whole-school reform model that views the arts as fundamental to teaching and learning in all subjects. A+ Schools combine interdisciplinary teaching and daily arts instruction, offering children opportunities to develop creative, innovative ways of thinking, learning and showing what they know. In A+ Schools, teaching the state’s mandated curriculum involves a collaborative, many-disciplined approach, with the arts continuously woven into every aspect of a child’s learning."

That's the difference. We don't teach children science because we expect them all to grow up and become professional scientists. We don't teach them Language Arts because we expect them all to grow up and become novelists. I don't even teach piano privately because I expect my students to grow up and become concert pianists.

We teach them these things because they are part of a whole education that they need to become productive citizens. Just like creative thinking and the arts are part of that education, like this Washington Post article points out, giving them skills that are never even touched in the traditional curriculum.

So I'm extremely excited about Christopher's placement at Douglas via the magnet program. Now. If we could get every school to adopt the a+ model and give every child the best chance, I would be over the moon.

Something's gotta give

Maybe I've told this story before, maybe not. As Christopher's birthday cupcakes sit baking in the oven, I can't help but tell it again.

It was time for a party. Susan's youngest was turning six. She called me up, like she did whenever cupcakes were in order, and asked me to tell her how to make buttercream frosting from scratch.

Real moms make the frosting for their child's cupcakes. From scratch.

Or something like that.

I start in with my "You let your butter get room temperature . . ."

Wait. You mean it sits out of the fridge? On the counter?

"Yes. It's fine. I promise. I would probably use two sticks. When it's soft enough, put it in your mixer and start to cream it. Watch it - when it's getting fluffy, then start to add your powdered sugar."

How much powdered sugar?

"Oh, I don't know. At least three cups. Probably four. Just keep adding it until you get the consistency you like."

Oh please. There has to be a recipe. Do you mean you are just making this up? You can't just make it up. 

"Alright. Hold on. I'll find a recipe."

So I did. I looked up a recipe and gave her exact measurements for the butter, powdered sugar, and vanilla extract. Then, I got to the milk.

"It says 2-6 tablespoons of milk."

Silence.

"Susan? You okay?"

SERIOUSLY? There is a big difference between 2 and 6 tablespoons of milk. This is a RECIPE. It's supposed to have MEASUREMENTS.

We laughed and laughed. Always the scientist. Always the artist.

She didn't end up making the frosting. She was just too tired. Within a week, she went into hospice care. And then we all know what happened.

I can't help it. When I make cupcakes, I can't help myself. Laughing at her frustration over my shoddy instructions. Crying over the fact that she didn't get to make the frosting.

*************************************************************
Something has got to give.

I have more to write about. Colin is hilarious. Christopher is thriving. My momma was just here for a wonderful visit.

It's just when I'm in this space, I can't help but keep coming back to Susan.

Maybe I need a change. A fresh start. A new design. Maybe just a whole new blog.

I don't know. I know it's alright to miss her. I know it's alright to be happy and to be sad all at the same time.

But dang. I'm ready for my fingers to write about something else. Such is the downfall of free form, rambling blogging.

Almost that day

The day comes closer. It's just another day. The day before my daddy will have been gone for two years.

It's the day you will have been gone for one year.

I open your blog and stare at it, reading the post you wrote about our last visit over and over again. I smile when you mention me dropping the hood off the fish tank. I smile when I remember our Christmas card addressing. I smile when you talk about the meal you ate.

Then I cry.

Big sobbing, heaving, cries. Missing you like you were just here yesterday.

Some days aren't hard. Most days have happiness. The past week has been filled with birthdays and visits from Nana. But I missed M's birthday, and I could just kick myself. I'm no good at the long distance not quite an aunt thing. I miss your boys.

Moons and planets and stars and books and photos and blogs and scarves and fish and yoga pants and killer ponytails and everything.

It all reminds me of you.

Always.

WHAM. Done.

The therapy. It is tough. I'm often left all thought out, cried out, and tired out before I can open this page and begin to write.

But it's helping.

I'm supposed to be making connections. That's my long term homework. It's a hard assignment for me.

There are reconnections that I'm enjoying, and some that I'm not so much. It's good to get back to a friend you drifted from unnecessarily. A good friend.

But connections are hard for me. Trust is hard for me. Depending on someone is hard for me.

All I really want in life is to feel like I matter to the people I care about. It sounds simple, right? But it's not. There is this widely held notion that I cut off relationships with a cleaver. Just put them down on the chopping block and WHAM. Done.

It's partly true. I did call my ex-husband on Valentine's Day and tell him it was over. A seven year marriage. WHAM. Done.

But it's not like I didn't talk until I was blue in the face before that. It finally got to the point where if I felt like I was any less important, I would just drown.

I do try and tell people what I want or need. I do try and communicate. I think in the past, I've been too worried about pleasing people and not coming off as pushy or demanding. I think that I poorly communicated and then would just finally break. I also think that I had expectations far above what they should have been and then just plowed ahead to make my life meet them, whether the people around fit into them or not. Ahem, pushy.

It's just that there comes a moment when I can't stand one more ounce of pain and disappointment and I break. I lash out at what I see as the cause of the pain, and I break free of it. Not ideal, I know. It's how I have survived so far.

That isn't going to happen with Kevin. I know I matter to him. He shows me. He listens to me. He talks to me. We fight hard. We love each other harder than we fight. It is quite obvious that I am important to him.

And now there are children. There is mattering to someone, and then there is being a mother. There is no kind of being needed like the being needed of being a parent.

These holes I have are being filled. I know that I have to fill them myself too. I have to start mattering enough to myself, whatever that means. Or maybe it's that I have to give myself the right relationships to know that I matter.

I have spent the past several years feeling guilty that I didn't feel sorry enough for broken relationships and things people mistakenly blame on me. I'm done with that. I don't feel guilty. I'm not sorry. I'm incredibly happy. I have finally done what was right.

Just in case I needed affirmation on the decision that I'm done shouldering guilt and letting myself assume that I'm just an asshole - I had a dream.

I was in my old house. There were a lot more rooms than when I actually lived there, and they were full. Every room was full of people I was trying to take care of. I was roaming from room to room just letting people down because I hadn't been able to get whatever food they wanted or they were cold or they wanted a different view or whatever. I ended up back in my living room, drinking and crying when new friends walked in. It was Liz and her husband. They had come down from Brooklyn because they heard I had a great place to stay. She handed me a tissue while her husband went into the kitchen and got some more beers. Then, she looked around and said,

"Shit, Marty. Your old friends suck."

Harsh, I know. But dreams, at least my dreams, are often extremely exaggerated. The sentiment is there, though. It's time to make connections. Connections that I won't feel the need to WHAM and run from. It's way past time.

Deliberately

I'm not going to lie. 2012 sucked giant donkey balls. 2011 wasn't that much better.

Declaring that 2013 is going to be better just seems like a dare to the universe to whack me even harder than ever. Not something I want to even tempt.

So, I will declare only what I know will happen.

In 2013, I will turn 40. There won't be any complaining from me. I feel good. I'm lucky to get to turn 40. 

In 2013, Christopher will start kindergarten. I don't know where, and I don't know that I'm altogether alright with any of it. It causes me more anxiety than I would like to admit.

In 2013, Colin will start at Arts Together. I'm happy we have two more years to be there.

In 2013, Mallory will start her last year of high school. So we have one starting preschool, one starting kindergarten, and one starting her senior year. 

In 2013, Kevin and I will have been married for seven years. How is that even possible?

There are goals I have for 2013. I want to keep the house neater. I want to be in the 140's before I'm 40. I want to have my the way I eat when I'm counting points become more natural for me - have it not be a diet, but just the way I eat. I want to sew more. Write more. Play more. Sing more.

I want to be more present in my life in 2013. Aware of my children and their needs. Aware of my husband and his needs. Aware of my friends and their needs. And of course, aware of myself and my needs. 

It's so easy for me to just get stuck in my head. It doesn't take much for me to curl up like a pill bug and roll into my little hole. I'm going to let that be alright if it happens deliberately, but I'm going to try not to let it happen with me unaware.

In 2013, I will try to live deliberately, making thoughtful choices in my body, my mind, and my soul.

It's not a resolution. At least, not a New Year's resolution. It is a goal. One that my whole life has been leading up to. I think I have the tools to reach it finally. 

I guess we will see.

Merry Mammogram

Just in case the world doesn't end tomorrow, I went ahead and had my mammogram today. It's been a few years since I've had one. I've been a little busy having babies and breastfeeding. Which brings us to a couple of interesting conversations at the radiology place.

Tech: Any chance you could be pregnant?
Me: Not a chance. I still breastfeed though. Not much, just a little.
Tech: Oh. When was the last time you breastfed?
Me: I don't know. Maybe three days ago? He's pretty sporadic now.
Tech: How old is he?
Me: Almost three.
Tech: So how many times a day are you breastfeeding?
Me: Oh, not even once a day. Just when he comes in at night and I'm too tired to put him back down.
bbbTech: Um, how long have you been breastfeeding?
Me: Five years.
Tech: No, I mean just this time?
Me: Five years. I have two children, and I never stopped breastfeeding.
Tech: *blank stare*
Me: *stares back*
Tech: Um, I'm going to have to talk to the doctor.
Me: Okay, but they said it wasn't a problem at my doctor's office.

insert Jeopardy music while I wait in my little open front gown.

Doc: So I understand you stopped breastfeeding three days ago?
Me: Well, it doesn't exactly work like that. The last time my son nursed was probably three days ago. I don't know if he will do it again or not.
Doc: And how old is he?
Me: Almost three.
Doc: Huh. I don't have kids. But I have a dog who is almost four. I guess I can understand wanting her to still be a puppy.
Me: *blank stare*
Doc: You know, still my baby.
Me: Ummmmm, okay. It's actually called child led weaning, and it's quite common.
Doc: Well, I don't recommend that you get a mammogram today. I won't deny it to you , but you really should wait three to six months after you stop breastfeeding. I mean that can't be long from now, can it?
Me: *blank stare*
Doc: But it's up to you.
Me: Thanks. Let's get this done.

Yes. I still nurse my son because I want to continue to think of him as a baby. WHAT?

No. I still nurse my son because sometimes he still asks, and it's the least I can do for him to let him decide when to be done for good.

No. I still nurse my son because sometimes I want to sleep as much as possible, and I don't want to get up and sit in his room while he goes back to sleep at 3:00 in the morning.

No. I still nurse my son because I'm lucky to have been able to do so.

No. I still nurse my son because I damn well want to.

We are essentially done. It might have even been a week since he last nursed. It doesn't matter. There isn't any milk left. It's just the comfort of it that I can offer him.

But really? Please.

It didn't make me mad or angry. Maybe a little irritated. I was mostly just surprised. Surprised at how little yet another doctor knew about a real nursing relationship between mother and child.

There is a lot of work to do, ladies.

Thank a teacher today

Each December, the children at Arts Together put on a brilliant production of The Nutcracker. A little spontaneous at times, and a little abstract at others, it's a tradition and a treat.

Last year, Christopher didn't want to participate. He was the "music helper." I knew that was what his dance teacher did for him to help him feel included even though he refused to join in a lot of times.

This year, here he is as a Russian Dancer:

What a difference a year makes. What a difference a teacher makes. What a difference a class dynamic makes.

I appreciate that they didn't give up on him. 

Then, tonight, our sweet friend Kara gave us tickets to a fundraiser for the Carolina Ballet (we are so sorry for your loss, Kara). We got to meet dancers, eat cupcakes for dinner, and both boys fought the Mouse King fearlessly. And Christopher? He showed a real Russian Dancer from the Carolina Ballet how to do the Russian Dance, preschool style.

When the dancer asked him how he learned to do that? Christopher said, "Four year olds can do anything."

Thank you, Amy. Thank you, Karen, Renee, Nan, Rebecca, Emma, and Brenda.

Nurse nurse

He slips into my room in the middle of the night. Or in the very early morning. Either way you look at it, I'm still in a deep sleep.

I know he is there even though he doesn't make a sound other than his breathing. He stands at the side of my bed and waits for me to lean over the edge, scoop him up under his arms, and lift him into bed with me.

Most nights, he slips into the crook of my arms and falls right back to sleep. A few nights ago, he quietly asked, "Nurse nurse?"

He is almost three. During the day, he couldn't be bothered with nursing. There are bad guys to fight, dogs to chase, costumes to wear, cars to race. He doesn't have time for the "nuh-nuh's." When I put him down for a nap, he usually likes to nurse to sleep. I let him, and then I slip out of his bed and back downstairs to get some work done.

Only, lately, he has been too busy to nap. No nap, no nurse nurse.

So a few nights ago, he asked, I obliged, and we rolled over onto our sides and scooted into position for a little side lying nursing. I barely even woke up. I don't know how long he tried. All I know is that the next thing I hear Colin saying is,

"Mama? I really want for the milk to come out."

Then my heart broke just a little bit.

My last baby. My last nursling. And the end just snuck up on us.

It's alright. I knew it wasn't going to last forever. I've sold the cloth diapers. The crib and the toddler bed are long gone. Cups don't automatically have lids snapped on them before being given over to the small people. Booster seats have replaced convertible car seats.

It's been a long time coming. He's almost three. I love who he has become in his three years. He is smart and funny and I wouldn't trade him in for a newborn for anything.

But, just, ooooph. It's just a little bit hard to be letting him go. My baby.

Thank goodness November is over.

I would blog, but there's a snoring dog on my lap.

There is one thing I can say though, I've been wearing teal mascara this week. Considering I've been wearing teal mascara because I couldn't read the tiny print on the bottle and didn't KNOW it was teal - I'm thinking I might just be too old to be wearing teal mascara.

Just a thought.

Listen to Your Mother: Raleigh-Durham is live!

Can I just say that the Listen to Your Mother: Raleigh-Durham show is going to be fantastic? We just finished a webinar (a word I did not make up) with the fabulous ladies of the national Listen to Your Mother group, and I am all tingly-ified (a word I did make up).

Our local site is live. It's naked, but it's live. You are going to want to bookmark it NOW so you are the first to know about the date, location, and time of the 2013 show. And you KNOW you want to be the first to know about AUDITIONS. 

In the meantime, head on over to the Listen to Your Mother show website and check out the bios of all the incredible women spearheading the shows in 24 cities next year.

KeAnne and I are working hard to secure a venue and get a date lined up for this. We want it to be a huge success, and given the talent here in the Triangle, I know it will be. 

Please stay in touch with us about the show. This is all about our community coming together to give a voice to motherhood. 

It's going to be AMAZING.

That last glass

I'm petering out on the whole posting everyday in November. It's just not in me anymore. There is plenty I have spinning around in my head, but not really much I want to put here.

Mainly, I keep thinking about anniversaries. December marks a lot of anniversaries, most of which I'm not terribly excited about.

My last hug from Susan.

My first miscarriage.

The death of my grandmother.

Then there's Christmas. YAY! Happy times. Happy times.

I don't know. It's not as bad as I make it sound here. We have three trees up (so far), my mantle is done, my grandparent's Nativity is out for the first time in years. I'm getting it on with the holiday decor - which didn't happen last year.

I was a little distracted.

Maybe I'll always be a little distracted at Christmas time and just learn how to focus in spite of it.

There are stories that I want to write - moments that I want to put down on paper - of that last weekend I was able to spend with Susan. It's just not for the blog.

When I do that though - have things that consume my thoughts - it's hard to write anything else.

There is one other December anniversary that I don't talk about much. It is an anniversary that I wouldn't have made without Susan. One that I'm surprised I'm still celebrating now that she's gone.

My last drink.

It was a glass of prosecco, in case you are wondering. At Gravy on Wilmington Street. Don't remember what I ate or what I wore, but I remember that glass of beautiful bubbly.

Cheers, y'all. The holidays are coming. Whether you damn well like it or not.

A gift guide for the husbands and partners of blogging women

So. Your wife is a blogger and you find yourself having no earthly idea what to get her for Christmas or Hanukkah this year? I am here to make you look FABULOUS.

Sure, you could just go to her Pinterest page (Yes, she has one. Yes, I'm quite sure.) and shop straight from it. Or, I'm pretty positive that you could also go to her Etsy favorites page, although that would require a little bit of hacking on your part (and if you do that, don't order from her account, or she will know what you got her).

What you need is a fail proof list with links that will set you up right now. I have that list for you.

First of all, you need to get her a subscription to Stealing Time. For reals. It's a new magazine with actual WRITING in it. She doesn't need more magazines that tell her how to orgasm 28 times a night, wear fake eyelashes during the day, or let her know that Lindsey Lohen has gone off the deep end. She needs this magazine. Stealing Time. Go. Order it now so the Genesis copy can be under the tree and she has something to unwrap announcing her subscription.

Alright. This one might require a bit of hacking on your part too, but it would totally be worth it. You need your wife's Instagram account username and password. After that bit of espionage, head on over to Canvas Pop and start creating canvas prints of her Instagram photos. If you really want to score big, don't include any of yourself. Just use the artsy fartsy ones or the great photos of your kids. The 12x12 ones are a great size.

You can never go wrong with books written by bloggers. We like to be all community minded like that. There are books that she would love to have like Let's Pretend This Never Happened by Jenny Lawson (which I've read in one sitting) or Confessions of a Scary Mommy by Jill Smokler (which I haven't read, but come on, it's another blogger book - I wouldn't steer you wrong). Then there are books that she doesn't know she wants, but are awesome, like Behind the Woodpile by Emily Rosenbaum. It's an e-book only, but that's alright, your blogger wife can totally handle that.

Spinning off of books written by bloggers is stuff made by bloggers. You don't get much more awesome than stuff made by Robin Plemmons.

While you are on Etsy, go ahead and search "blog design." You will find tons of ideas there. Maybe your wife would like some new buttons for her posts? Pretty buttons to link to all of her other landing spots on the web? Or maybe a gift certificate for a blog redesign?

Last, but not least, in fact - it's actually the most expensive - buy your blogging wife a ticket to BlogHer. It's in Chicago in 2013. Go ahead and get her the full pass, book her a room, and plan on keeping the kids that weekend. Imagine her finding THAT in her stocking.

Now go. Get thoughtful things for your wife. Tell her they were ALL YOUR IDEA. Don't mention me at all.

You're welcome.

Oh, and nothing here is an affiliate link. I make no money off this, and I didn't get anything free for writing it. In fact, just writing this part makes me feel like I feel every time they ask me at Target, "Would you like to save 5% today and everyday and apply for the Target Red Card?" and I say, "NO. I HATE SAVING MONEY."