born and made

It just so happened that when the girls' school called at 10:00 a.m. to say that they'd done a school-wide check for head lice, and that, in fact, one of our girls had been found to have some of the tiny bugs and eggs on her head, both her mother and her father were hours away and unavailable. As such, I was the one sent to collect her.

A short while later, while I carefully studied my choices in the lice poison section of the super market--phone in hand, googling questionable ingredients, reading product reviews, trying to make an informed decision about how best to delouse a six-year-old--she quietly entertained herself, hop-scotching up and down the tiled aisle, and paused at one point to ask:

"Are you my mom?"

I ended up going with the pesticide-free poison and the extra fancy, metal, nit comb. I let her pick out a smoothie and a box of crackers, and we headed home to get busy.

"This is really not a big deal," I assured her. "I had lice plenty of times when I was a kid."

I could remember, without difficulty, the way it stung when my mom applied the lice medication to my own scalp, how sharply the scent of it burned in my nose. She would make me lie down on the kitchen counter with my head in the sink, a practice that was reserved for this particular ritual. Then there were hours spent with my head under a lamp, as she tediously combed through my hair and removed nits.

I felt a rush of confidence as I cleaned out our kitchen sink and prepared the counter with towels. After her head had been saturated with Nix, and well-rinsed in the sink, the real work began. For the rest of the afternoon, I carefully combed the metal comb across her scalp, removing nits until I was certain that I had gotten them all.
____________

Three of my children--my first three sons--came to me in the usual way: my blood gave life to their developing cells, my skin stretched to accommodate their growing bodies. My fourth son was conceived in the womb of his other mother, my ex-wife, with sperm from a stranger that I had warmed in my bra, and tried, as best I could, to fill with my love. Now there are these daughters, whom I neither conceived nor conceived of, whom I cannot claim in any legal or biological way--but whom I have snuggled in and out of sleep, whom I have let play with my loose and rippled mama-belly skin (they say it feels like a pillow), and now: whom I have tenderly deloused--and a third path to motherhood. 

first of all: yes

I can remember absolutely everything about the first time we met: the clothes she was wearing, the expression on her face, where she was sitting. The way I felt about her shoes. And that, straight away, there was this burning desire to know her, to be known by her: an almost frantic desperation to discover some grounds upon which we might connect. She claims that she felt the same way, and that I played it all cool, and that she never would have guessed I was feeling it, too. We may have exchanged a few words. But we didn't fall in love on that day, as the story might want to go. 

In truth, I'm not sure when or where or how, exactly, we fell in love. It happened quite by accident, over the course of years, and we held off on realizing it until the whole thing was very much established. I woke up one morning and knew. I knew the whole weight of it. And it was only then that I could look back, and remember the day I first saw her, and all that had--so innocently--transpired between us since that initial meeting. I laughed at myself for not having gotten it sooner. And thanked God for having spared us the realization before then.

Our love story has no place. But when I've pictured where we might someday wed (and what she might be wearing, and how her hair might be styled loosely and purposefully, all at once), I've often seen us at the ocean. There's something about the veracity of the sea that has felt relevant to each of us in relation to the unfolding of--and the process of giving ourselves over to--our love, even though the actual facts (time spent together at the beach, for example) don't necessarily support our claiming it in this way.

Last week, we went, finally, for our first visit to the ocean, and--as we had somehow known it would--our love felt maybe especially fiercely-alive and irrefutable in its presence.








We were only four of us (having left the boys back home), but we were a family and we felt like a family. 

"I think you should get married," she said, carefully. "Because married people love each other even more than people who just love each other. And so, that would be good for you to be married." And then she danced a little ballet in the low-tide puddles, and we wished together to find a sand dollar, whole, and then, just like that: we found one. 

The sand was exceptionally soft, the water was unusually warm, the sun shone brightly (though it had been forecast to rain). And I was, of course, blown away by her beauty. And by the beauty of everything around us. 

Maybe there is something to this notion that the sea has somehow been an instructive participant in our union. Perhaps we have felt ourselves given to this love just as the ocean is given to the moon. Maybe what is happening between us, what has been somehow known from the very start, is very much of the same breed of magnetism and gravity. Maybe that's just what falling in love is. 

Like exploding sun/ Let the light unfurl/ Been a million years full of fears/ But I found my girl.

we went to the beach

In the very last gasp of summer, because I wanted to and because I'd told them I would, I took my babies to the ocean. And I fell in love with everything all over again. 

Every thing: these salty children, this warm sun, countless sea-smooth and perfectly colorful stones, the sea herself: so angry and so soft. And also: my lover back home, the daughters I long to truly belong to (and to share this love of sand, and of salt and of wind with), and even: the other mother of my sons, she who once was here, also, reading her book, laughing, collecting treasures, beside me, marveling at the joy of these children who were born of our love.

I expected to feel alone, to feel like the single mother with all so many children, bogged down with bags of towels and snacks, beach chair hanging off one shoulder, toddler monkeyed on hip, 4-year-old grasping at belt loop. And I did. I saw their eyebrows rise, and then furrow, as they tried to figure me out, those other families on the beach.

And at first I thought: shit, dude. This is a mess. And then, in the next breath, as the next loud and lusciously alive wave crashed against the shore, I claimed it: I am the single mother with all so many children, and I am so happy to be here. And I busied myself with doling out granola bars, and applying sunscreen, and photographing my babies as they played with their most favorite ocean friend. 

We always loved the ocean in the old life, and we loved it just as much in the new life.

We slept together, the four boy-children and I, in a cozy nest of a bed in our sweet family tent. We all slept solidly and comfortably, and then woke up early to head back to the beach. And at the end of our second, long, sunny day, we packed into our sandbox of a minivan and drove all the way back home. And it was past 10:00 when I dropped them off at their Mama's house, and apologized for their still-salty hair, and kissed them each on the forehead, and then turned the car around, and drove straight to town, and to her house, where I slipped easily back into the arms of my beloved.

And she breathed in my ocean smell, and protested my desire to shower it off, and listened while I told of starfish and humpback whales, and lobster rolls eaten on the bay-side. And we dreamed of next summer, when we might all go back, and be a family in-love-with-the-beach, together. And we dreamed of the summer after that (or after that, or after that?) when we might all go back: all the mamas, and the papa, and whoever else wants to be a part of it when we get there.

Sometimes, the ocean is really, absolutely enough. 

We really are going to make this work, aren't we?

to survive a hurricane

I took the warnings in earnest. I filled three 1/2-gallon ball jars with tap water, and I took the children to buy special storm snacks, and we moved all of the important things off of the basement floor, lest it flood (as it did this spring, when three feet of snow tried to melt all at once). The girls and I picked the blossomed sunflowers from the garden, and arranged them in vases throughout the house, assuming we would otherwise lose them in the wind.

But at the pet store, where I went to buy dog food (not because I was stocking up out of fear or preparedness, but because we'd been completely out for weeks, feeding the dogs canned tuna and the kids' neglected dinner meat), there was a dramatic sign posted on the door: "WE DON'T HAVE ANY BOTTLED WATER OR BATTERIES." And as I hefted the 50 lbs. of kibble over my shoulder, the cashier handed me my receipt, looked me straight in the eye and said, with her whole heart, "Be Safe."

For serious?! Come on, people.

And by the time Irene got here, she wasn't even a hurricane anymore. Of course, we referred to her that way, anyway, for the excitement of it. And for what she lacked in rage outside our little house ("but when is the storm going to get here?" the children complained, at the very height of Irene's intensity), we made up for on the inside. I've begun referring to us as a "blended" family, and the blending is at times feeling rather like being swept up in a cyclone.

Children are resilient. They are adaptable. They are open-minded. But change is hard, even when it's a long time in the making. And these kids aren't shy about telling us what they think about all of the changes our families have gone through in the past couple of years. They aren't shy, and they aren't quiet. And sometimes, we (the mamas) feel like we are just putting out one fire after another.

And, sometimes, we (the mamas) just make a big pot of chili.



The basement didn't flood, but the backyard did, and when we'd had enough of the chaos inside (and when it seemed the storm had done all that she was going to do), we sent the children out, for a swim in the grass.

But even water wasn't enough on this day. Littler children had to be rescued by medium-sized children. Bigger children had to be thrown in puddles by frustrated-and-trying-to-help-them-snap-out-of-it mamas. Space was then enforced.

And then, at the end of the day, when Irene was well gone, when we could have, reasonably, put them all into bed, we chose not to. Instead, we declared it "family movie night!" and told the children to make some popcorn and a cozy spot for us to gather on in the living room. And, for the first time maybe all day, they listened to us, and they obliged. 

And, together, we sat and watched Billy Elliot. The littlest ones fell asleep in our laps, and the biggest ones couldn't always understand the actors' accents, but no one complained, not at all. It was too special.

When it was over, they begged to "please, please let us do a family movie night again soon!"

And we said ok, yes, we promise. And we carried them upstairs, and tucked them in to their very own beds. And we tucked ourselves in, too, and left the window open, so all the post-storm air could blow over us while we held each other, hard, and slept.

of girls and girl things

I always imagined myself as the mother of daughters. I come from a family of girls (the middle child of three sisters), I am a lesbian (a woman who loves women); from the time I was small, girls were always, always: my favorite and my best. Girls were safe, familiar, relatable. And when, at the age of 22, I conceived my first pregnancy, I felt certain that the child within me was female. Being pregnant felt grounding and the life within me, soft; she must be a girl. 

In fact, I was quite wrong. I was wrong every time. Three pregnancies resulted in four sons (the first two came as a pair), and my initial years of mothering greatly expanded my understanding of all things boy. I came to claim this unsought identity, a gift from my children: I was absolutely--and fiercely so--the mother of sons. 

Now I find myself, 8 years into this whole parenting gig, incorporating a new vision, developing a new identity. This fresh and unexpected life includes, among other things (an ex-wife, a new partner, shared custody): two girl children; two daughters. 

They are small enough (at 6 and 3) to accept me easily as a mother, to find comfort in my mother-body, to want me to claim them just as much as I want them to claim me. But they are grown enough that I feel still a few steps behind, not entirely sure about how it is they see the world, or what makes them tick. How strange to realize, four sons later, that these daughters are somewhat foreign to me--not just because they are coming into my life at a later stage in development--in part because they are girls. 

The other day, I found myself annoyed by their need (or desire) for dresses and skirts. 

"Can't everything just be gender-neutral? Why do we have to buy into this? Shorts and t-shirts are so much more practical!" I complain to their mother, she who is wise in the ways of daughters, these two in particular. 

She sighs in response, "Because it matters to them. We can't just make them wear the clothes that we would want. We have to respect their identities, too."

I feel skeptical, the way I imagine my sister (when my niece was small, before she birthed my nephew) raised her eyebrows at my twin sons' love of construction vehicles. Are these desires born or made? 

A few days later, I find myself scouring ebay for dresses made by Olive Juice. I like the old-fashioned look of them. 

My lover shakes her head at me, "I thought you were anti-dresses," she laughs. 

In truth, shopping (even just "window shopping," or the online equivalent) for dresses feels exceptionally indulgent--and it's not just that I worry I am giving into some social construct about gender or what it means to be a girl--because it is a category from which I had come to accept that I was, and would be, excluded. I had grieved my lack of daughters, and the dress purchasing that might come with them. I had come to feel at peace about it. 

Now, as I contemplate corduroy jumpers and striped cardigans, I let myself fast-forward to puberty, to the menarche rituals I imagine performing in the girls' honor, and then beyond: to eventual pregnancies and births. I envision phone calls and coffee dates, confessions of first love, and celebratory shoe shopping. I let myself taste a bit of this once-longed-for future that I thought would ultimately be missing from my story of mother/womanhood.  

But in letting myself carry on like this, I taste also the full weight of what it means to raise girls, the ways in which being a mother of daughters is a different flavor of responsibility from that which I have grown into with my boy children. And I sense the ways in which a mother's identity as a woman might feel differently entangled in the identity of girl children who will also grow to be women. 

I close the browser without bidding on anything. I'm not sure that I really qualify yet, I don't know that I truly belong in the "Olive Juice Dresses" section of ebay. 

But maybe I will someday, after all. 

taller towers fall more loudly

Every couple of days, someone will break out of boredom and start building a tower on the living room floor. 

Always the goal seems to be the same: how tall can we build it? 

They come from all corners of the house, these children, none of whom can resist a tall, tall tower. The big ones roll their eyes (at themselves?), but still they come, they stack blocks carefully, higher and higher. They are kind to the littles, if only briefly. They take over when their shorter siblings can no longer reach the top. 

Excitement builds as the tower climbs higher. We do not have enough blocks to actually reach the ceiling, but it seems that this possibility continues to exist, tower after tower. 

We stand back, watch, and say little. We hold our breath, and smile softly. The children are playing together. They are working toward a shared goal. They are being gentle and inclusive. 

Sometimes, it feels like a science experiment. We can be detached and objective, observing, making small notes. 

And then, at other times, it's a challenging study of discipline and morality instruction. Our hearts swell and collapse. We feel all together a part of it: responsible, required to manipulate, especially involved. 

Always, every single time, the tower crashes noisily back to the floor. 

And then the blocks are collected before the children scatter once again to different corners of the house. 

We exhale, prepare another meal, and brace ourselves for whatever might come next. 

the here and now

I was born with a gift for fantasy. My wildest imagination is, quite possibly, much wilder, with more colors and details, than the average version. I could spend a whole day lost in it. Which is kind of like being nowhere and anywhere all at once. It is both a comfort and a distraction, one minute: my saving grace, the next: my greatest weakness. 

I am never bored. 

My children are bored very much of the time. These August days are too hot, too unstructured, too lacking in peers. I tell them: "this is ok. Being bored makes your brain grow. You can't think up cool things to do if you're not first bored."

"Give me something to look forward to," pleads one of my first-born sons. He folds his sweaty eight-year-old body up in my lap, arms around my neck, head buried into my collar bone. "I just need to know that something fun is going to happen. Please."

It is tempting. I want to soothe his mid-summer angst. I want to promise him excitement and adventure, some small incentive to keep loving life, the will to seek and find joy. But I know that what he needs, really, is to learn how to just be, and that now, when he's relatively small, when his brain is still growing by leaps and bounds, is the time to learn it. 

If you are always living in the what-might-come-next, hoping each moment for a future moment, are you ever actually living any of it?

How do I teach them to do something that I have not yet learned how to do myself?

I woke up this morning to find a parade of miniature animals underfoot, eagerly marching all the way from the boys' bedroom into mine. The littles were so pleased with themselves, with the distance covered by their plastic pals, and perhaps even with their own initiative, their cooperative effort. I was pleased, too.

"Where do you think they're going?" I asked, groggily, half-awake.

"Huh? Oh, they're just going. They don't even need to know."