On marriage

My brain is full but the words just do not want to come stick to the page. Perhaps because I am doing battle with myself and the swirling, whirling of my brain. It feels raw and vulnerable to put that down where others can read it, can see it. Even as I long to be seen. Perhaps, as it turns out, I don't always wish to be seen.

The thing about having four small children is that I live in an alternate universe but I can't really tell. When I say I'm having trouble with something, say my marriage or my health, the person I'm talking to will say "Yes, but you have all these little kids." Which I take to mean "Yes, but it won't always be so hard." Hell, I give myself that same advice.

Be patient.
Don't make any big decisions.
Just keep taking it day by day.

Patience. Being still. Those things are hard for me.

Marriage is hard for me.

It's scary to write that, on the internet no less. It's scary to say out loud, even though I do say it out loud to close friends whose opinion matters.

I have high expectations for marriage coupled with extreme doubt that what I envision exists anywhere. I have a dangerous relationship with the word "should" and an embarrassing addiction to Facebook which takes me momentarily out of my own head and into other peoples' lives. I understand, in my head, that comparisons are odious and that the outside of what we see rarely matches the inside of what people experience.

I know many people who find marriage challenging. Marriage with small kids, especially, is a topic I've read about or heard people talk about. And yet. It somehow only helps a little, for a second, to know I'm not the only one. Sitting in the hardness, trying to decide whether to address something or let it go, trying to decide what is something I can work on by myself and what is something we both own, trying to find energy and interest to have a conversation when we've spent the past hour diapering, brushing, wiping, comforting. . .it is just hard.

Last week was our third wedding anniversary. We still have more kids than we do years married. The smoke is still clearing from a couple years of total, identity-crushing life. There are all these small people--eating our food, spilling, falling down, crying, delighting, fighting, climbing, talking, crapping. It is a series of turning in circles and collapsing into heaps, looking at the piles of laundry, the weeds, the recycling, the too-many toys, the too-small clothes, the dog hair, the half-finished projects. It just doesn't feel very fun.

Road trippin

So we decided to drive our minivan to Montana. Two parents and four toddlers. People clearly thought we had lost our minds.

My husband grew up in Montana and his parents still live there. He and I visited once, in January, when it was approximately 7 degrees and I was sick as a dog with a major colitis flare that lasted for almost the entire year of our engagement. Needless to say, it wasn't a great visit--I sat on the couch, reading my book or watching football, not eating and running to the bathroom every thirty minutes or so. Fun house guest.

This is the year of our 20th high school reunions and his was held last week, over a series of days. We talked lightly about going but didn't really decide until two months ago. Once it was officially on the books I could see he was looking forward to it. We briefly considered flying but since the consideration of it gave me heart palpitations, an anxiety attack and a deep feeling of dread we opted out of that mode of transportation. Two small people each? On a plane? With a layover? And then on one of those smaller planes? Ugh, shoot me no way. We discussed possibly renting an RV but he looked into it and reported that it would make more financial sense for us to buy an RV. . . which we hope to do some day but not quite yet. So it would be the Odyssey for our odyssey. And you know what? It was actually pretty fantastic.

I had heard it takes18 hours to drive from the Bay Area to Helena, Montana. Though I just put it into maps to find the actual distance (1,090 miles) and it reported 15 hours and 44 minutes. Whatever it says, the total trip for us each way took about 34 hours. That's including stops and spending one night in a hotel each time--I set a stopwatch when we left just to see. This is a log I kept on the way out:

2:20 pm Noisy books (Elmo and trucks)
2:26 pm Lap tables
2:50 pm Kids' CD
3:09 pm New CD
3:30 pm Snack
3:52 pm 1st new toy (wooden puzzle)
3:58 pm Book to Cleo
4:13 pm Third CD
4:25 pm New toy for Cyrus (little train)
4:57 pm Pouches
5:04 pm Total breakdown. Stopped at Panera in Auburn.
6:12 pm Back on the road after running around the patio. 2nd bottles of the trip handed out.
More than an hour of crying, fussing and whining in the car after the stop.
7:15 pm Littles asleep
7:50 pm Gas stop in Reno

Good night in Winnemucca. Sleeping by 11pm. Cyrus fell asleep for the first time all day right as we got off the freeway.

All three girls crawled down the hallway of the Best Western to breakfast with me while the boys slept.

Packed up and on the road just after 10 am. Littles asleep immediately. Everyone quiet for 10 glorious minutes.

11:20 am New toy (Magna Doodle) Successful entertainment.
12:30 pm Lunch and gas in Wells, NV. Bella's Restaurant and Espresso--yum! Everything made from scratch. Played next door on a forklift. People are very nice to us.
2:00 pm On the road again
2:08 pm New toy (wooden animals with balls--like the toys you find in a pediatrician's office where you push the balls along a metal rod, like a roller coaster track)
3:14 pm New toy (Magnatiles) to the Bigs, wooden toy to Cleo, Daph sleeping (Daphne was a road warrior. She chilled for almost the whole trip, both ways. Who are you, my mercurial child? Whoever you are, thank you for your calmness on this trip!)
4 pm (ish) Playground in Twin Falls, ID.
4:54 pm Snacks and pouches back in the car
Silence reigns.
5:08 pm Listening to The Roald Dahl Audio Collection on Audible. Lily only one awake. This was such a great listen for us, the parents. Read by the author, the stories are magical and especially funny with his British wit.
7:03 pm Stopped in Pocatello at Outer Limit Fun Zone for dinner and playtime.
8:44 pm On the road again.

We arrive at Grandma and Grandpa's house at about 1 am, which includes a one hour time change.

The Littles sat in the way back of the van, facing out the back window. It is almost impossible to imagine what the trip was like for them because it was like they were in their own world back there. Cleo had some crying jags where it was clear she was OVER IT and wanted to get out. Often she was soothed by milk, a snack, a toy or a parental hand rested on her head. I think it helped her to know we were still there.

The Bigs talked a lot. The first day there was almost no silence whatsoever because our son didn't sleep at all. Someone was always awake and, though there was lots of time without crying, there was always talking or whining or exclaiming. We looked out windows a lot, pointing out and getting excited about:

-back hoes
-cows
-horses
-choo choo trains
-tunnels

We passed a few different lots full of construction-yellow heavy duty equipment-diggers, dump trucks, and all sorts of other things--and we all practically leaped out of our seats with excitement. We did some singing when nothing else seemed to be working to calm people down. We discovered that they could go about 3.5 hours before totally losing their shit.

The kids drank a lot of bottles of milk. At home they all mostly get a bottle of milk at bedtime--in the car, they pretty much got them whenever they wanted. This seemed like a good deal for all of us.

We didn't use any screens for them, though my husband and I were each happy to look at our phones when we got the chance. I also relied on mine to figure out where we would eat or stop to play.

We realized quickly that they did not care about stopping to eat-they needed to move. Stopping for a meal with four small children is not much fun for anyone. Though we did have two separate people compliment their behavior after two separate meals. Swoon. Thank you, kind strangers, for that gold-star of parenthood. (A future post--it's kind of weird to feel glad when people are saying how well-behaved your kids are...well-behaved is not my main goal for them but it sure makes me feel proud when they are)

Staying at a hotel that included free breakfast was key--one less stop or loading up of the car.

My superstar husband drove the whole way there and almost the whole way back--I drove one leg on the return trip. I, a star in my own right, did a lot of climbing into the backseat to play and most of the mood, activity, distraction management. We were a good team.

That's basically what it all came down to--as a family, we are a good team. They genuinely had a good time, with the expected and understandable (and familiar) feeling of GET ME OUT OF THIS CAR BEFORE I EXPLODE that we all know. We had a good time too.  We like road trips. We like hanging out with our kids. We had pretty low expectations. We didn't book anything ahead of time--we planned as we went, based on what towns were coming up and how much good will we still had left.

There were plenty of moments when I would have paid good money for them all to just be quiet for an extended period of time. But seeing my two-year-olds look out the window at cool rock formations? Sweet. Journeying together? So sweet.

I have absolutely zero desire to do it again any time soon. But do it again we will.

Dinner time

Yesterday we left the house at 5pm to go check out Off the Grid--a gathering of food trucks in downtown Walnut Creek. My cousin is in town and I wanted to show him a little of the life out here. Plus I needed to feed myself and him and the kids. . . so it seemed like a good plan. We got some looks.

The kids were fussy when we arrived; one was asleep. We rarely leave the house in the evening. My cousin and I held toddler hands and pushed the double Bob, trying to converse. I love food trucks--that's my favorite way to eat, tasting different flavors, getting to choose from among a host of different options. Expecting everything we do to reach some level of chaos, I have a hard time differentiating between what will be hard but doable and what will be just plain silly for us to attempt. Can't quite say where this experience fell.

For the most part we camped out in a shady spot between the front of the hot dog truck and the back of the lobsta roll truck. I forgot to put shoes on the little girls because I'm still adjusting to the reality that they are almost walking. In short order the soles of their feet were black with dirt. People walking by looked curiously at the little girl crawling on the dirty cement, a pork dumpling in one hand, remnants of curry chicken smeared on her face and shirt. My son wore a a dress--sky blue with white swans and a lace collar, pulled on over a blue polo shirt and plaid shorts. His buzz cut is growing out but he was unquestionably a little boy wearing a dress. We got some looks.

My kids took turns crawling under the large, shiny bumper of the hot dog truck. My husband came to meet us and we three adults took turns balancing a child, taking bites, and taking in the scene. I saw a mom I know from my moms' group. As we left, I ran into two of my former co-workers. They stood in the frozen custard line as I scrambled to get us out of the crowd. We stopped to chat a bit and they admired my filthy, adorable children. I wasn't sweating, which I sometimes do when things get really tough. I go into tunnel vision mode--must get out of here. Wasn't quite at that point but was getting close. A band was playing, people had to step back to make room for the stroller, it seemed the looks we were getting had more kindness than before. . .was that true or had my perception shifted?

At one point, before we left, as I sat on the dirty ground in front of the hot dog truck my two-year-old feeding me forkfuls of curry, my one-year-old crawling into and out of my lap seemingly for the sole purpose of rubbing food and grease onto as many parts of me as possible, I took a deep breath and pulled my shoulders down from around my ears. Was I having fun? Not really. At least not in a way I would have formerly recognized as fun. Yeah, no. I still wouldn't call it fun. But with the deep breath and the rolling of the shoulders I brought myself back to myself. With happy kids, tasting different tastes, in a sea of people. Nothing we do is easy.

On race--an awkward, unedited beginning

When I was a senior in high school I took a theology class called Ministry, taught by my father. The course was a combination of reading, discussion and volunteer hours spent in different shelters in San Francisco. One night I was working at Hamilton Family House in the Haight. It was a homeless shelter for families and my work consisted mostly of playing with the kids. At one point a boy asked me if I was part Chinese. My eyes are a bit hooded by my full eyelids. No, I told him. But I realized I was glad he had thought so. I had been feeling out of place; I was one of the few white people in the room and that was not an experience I was used to.

Later that night I heard a black grandmother call her grandchild to her--"Come here, baby." The word in her mouth was a casual, velvet caress and I decided that was how I would call my children to me once I had them.

That night in the shelter got me thinking. I'm not racist, I thought. At least I don't think I am. But I don't really have any black friends. I would be attending Boston College in the fall and when I received my housing form I checked the box for the multicultural dorm. When I got the letter telling me I would be living there, in Xavier Hall, I burst right into tears. Panicked, I wondered what the other dorm mates would think of me. I wasn't multicultural! I wouldn't be welcome. I would stick out. I was scared.

I wasn't the only white girl on the floor my freshman year--we were a mix of white, black, Puerto Rican, Dominican (which I didn't even know was a thing to be until I moved to Boston), Asian. Puerto Rican directly from the island, Puerto Rican from Woocester. Light-skinned, dark skinned, good hair, bad hair. My education had begun.

Boston College at the time had a student body of about 8,000 undergrads, 6% of whom were students of color. It looked a lot like my high school--a Jesuit school in San Francisco that was mostly white, with a huge focus on sports and partying. I had a hard time there--thought about transferring my sophomore year because I wanted a more intellectual environment, but I was too scared that I would make the move and not like my next school either. I played soccer for two years which was grueling and almost no fun at all, which definitely influenced my time there. And I mostly hung out with the black and Latino students--which is one of the main reasons I'm writing this essay.

What do I want to say? I'm back in California now and once again have hardly any friends of color. This country continues to erupt with violence against men, women and children with black skin--nothing new there except people have cell phone cameras and there are alternate news sources and Twitter so common occurrences can be captured and shared and discussed. Most of my white friends are silent on Facebook. So am I. I've been afraid to say the wrong thing, afraid to get into heated debates or fights. And I'm tired. I'm raising four little children and my bones and skin are tired. But that is one of the many examples of the privilege of having white skin in this country--I can opt out of the conversation because I don't have the energy.

Here are three tiny stories:

 My sophomore year I went with some friends to visit their extended family in the Boston area. There was a 2-year-old boy in the house and he fell in love with my long, blonde hair. I held him in my lap as he faced me, running his fingers through my and making admiring sounds. The adults in the room laughed at his reaction--everyone in their family had black, curly hair and we all thought this reaction to the difference was cute.

My senior year a group of us went to Martha's Vineyard for the weekend. My friend's niece was brushing my hair. At one point she asked "Can I put grease in it?" No thanks! I replied, imagining how my long, fine hair would react to hair grease.

Spring Break senior year, a bigger group of us went down to Miami. Many of my friends got their hair permed. This meant straightened, not curled. Once down there, those same friends stayed out of the water because they didn't want to mess up their beautiful, expensive hair.

This is hair we're talking about. So much to learn and so many differences--without even going into anything "big" like violence or racism. In my time at BC I learned more about hair than I knew there was to know--that not all stores carried the hair produces women of color needed, that not all salons could style black hair, that there was "good" hair and "bad" hair.

Why am I going on and on about hair? Because it is one example, a mostly non-painful one, that points to the fact that if we don't know and spend time with and learn from people of different skin, and hair, types we can't possibly understand what their experience in the world is. I think we can follow this logic to bigger topics--if I don't have black skin and I don't have people in my community with black skin, how can I say what people with black skin experience at the hands or in the eyes of police officers? If I don't share my life with people of color, witnessing and asking questions, why would I think I have anything of value to add to the conversation about racism in this country?

It's overwhelming. Where do I start? What do I read? What if I make people mad? It's also hard to be in a conversation, Facebook or in real life, when there is so much anger directed at people who look like me. I can feel my defenses rise when I read "That's why white people. . ." No matter what follows that beginning, I already feel like saying "Hey! Not me!" But that's not useful in this conversation.

At Boston College, I often felt like I didn't fit in. In a school where the majority of students looked like me, I was at dances at the Rat where I felt like I couldn't find the beat. Where very few of the students looked like me. I took part in conversations, vacillating between keeping my mouth shut and expressing my own opinion, where friends would say something disparaging about white people and then say to me "Oh not you, you're not a real white person." And I would think quietly to myself Yes, I am. You can't take me out of that group just because you like me. I mean, I was honored in some ways--I was being accepted. And I also knew that wasn't true. I didn't want to represent white people but I didn't want to disown them either.

When racist cartoons were published in the conservative on-campus newspaper, I attended the town hall. My roommate didn't. I was then surprised at the rage in her voice when she talked about what was happening. I thought "If you're not going to get involved, why are you getting so mad?" I wish I could go back to that year and sit at her feet and ask her to talk to me. To just listen and try as hard as I could to really hear her.

Parenting

I'm a good parent. Most of the time I know that for sure; sometimes I question myself a bit. 

Parenthood suits me. One of my favorite things to do is observe people. This is why I love reading fiction and I love watching movies and TV. I like to think about what makes us how we are--where do our traits and personalities come from? Personality tests are totally my jam too--Meyers-Briggs, the enneagram. Having some algorithm or outside entity tell me what I'm like has often been soothing to me--especially during times when I was really trying to figure myself out. See the reason I will start cleaning the kitchen but not finish is because I'm a "P" which means I get excited to start projects but don't like to finish them. Ah ah! So much insight.

My main parenting goal, I would say, is to provide a supportive and safe environment in which my kids can learn to be themselves. There are lots of sub-goals, of course. I want them to be kind. I want them to have good table manners and to be adventurous eaters. I want them to be curious and interested. I want them to read for pleasure. I want them to see skin color and race and culture and gender and ask questions so they can better understand what those things all mean. I want them to play outside. I want them to be good friends and have good friends. This list could go on and on. The main thing, though, is to give them space and guidance on how to figure out how to listen to the voices inside them. Their guts. Whatever it is that just IS. What we're born with. Our souls?

It is endlessly fascinating. To have four children and watch them--how different they are, the things they have in common, the things they like to do, the strengths they each have. Where does it all come from? What role do my husband and I play in all of this? Parenthood is totally my thing.

It's worth mentioning, however, that I can be very judgmental. Of others and of myself. I have a bad habit, a challenging mindset, that tells me that there is a right way of doing things. I'm probably my most frequent target. Not sure where that comes from but it's there and I have to pay close attention to it, trying not to let it get in the way. I mention it because it comes up as I'm trying to help my kids learn to be themselves. Presumably they will do things and be things that I might not like. I do think I have some influence--that part of raising children is teaching them values, or at least explaining mine.

That's the other part of parenthood that I like--the way it shows me myself in new ways. Why do I react so strongly to certain things? Why do some behaviors piss me off? Why do I think certain things are so important? So many opportunities to observe! I love it. I mean, it can be exhausting and annoying to be observing and thinking so much but a) that's part of who I am and b) that's why I go to yoga, so I can keep learning how to quiet my never-quiet mind.

And finally, there are some things that I hold to be true no matter what when it comes to kids.

It is my responsibility as an adult to do my best to make sure all kids around me are safe. 

Being a kid is important and sacred.

Kids are little people. They are as old as they have ever been every time you meet them. They deserve respect and attention.

What I do matters. The way I treat people and treat myself is something they see and learn from.

Kids like and need boundaries. As I an adult, I make the rules and communicate them so that the kids can be safe and not have to worry about who is in charge. 

I am learning so much. There are things I do as a parent that I always knew I would do, long before I ever actually had kids. There are other things, many things, that have surprised me and make me question my own views and priorities. It kicks my ass, it makes me smile. Sometimes it makes my heart swell with love, other times I have tunnel vision so I can get through the next five minutes. Why do I think I'm good at it? Because it's who I am, because I love it, because I pay attention and learn so I can do better, and because of some mysterious combination of who I am in my soul and who I've been brought up to be.

Mountain play

We celebrated our little girls' first birthday on Saturday with our first pool party. Last year at the Bigs first birthday party the pool was an empty pit and some of the kids hopped in and picked up tools to chip away at the plaster. . .safe and fun at our house!

I bought the six of us superhero capes in honor of this milestone. More than a few people told us "Once you get through the first year. . . .it's much easier?" I can't remember the last part of the sentence but the implication was that the first year was really hard and then it would get easier. So superhero capes to proclaim that ta da! We made it through the first year! Again!

Ha. Then we upped the ante and took the kids to the Mountain Play atop Mt. Tamalpais in Marin yesterday. The husband and I are still recovering from the excursion. It was. . .not easy. We didn't expect it to be easy but it was really, truly the opposite of easy. Our kids can handle an hour long drive in the minivan with few complaints. And my boy was super excited to see the line of school buses waiting to drive us up to the top of the mountain--he looks buses. And backhoes. And garbage trucks. And mail trucks. Apparently he does not love riding in a school bus--at least not up a windy road that keeps going and going. Each of us parents had a one-year-old in a hiking backpack, a bag (picnic and diaper) and a two-year-old, alternately by the hand or in arms We got very few questions or exclamations (usually we get a chorus of "Wow! Twins!" "Are those all yours?" "You've got your hands full!"). I think our fellow passengers were mostly silenced by their thoughts of what in the fuck are these fools doing? Yep. That was us.

There was crying. And whining. And seat switching. Eventually I pulled out some chocolate covered pretzel sticks. . .about one minute before we saw the entrance to the play. Sigh.

They were immediately entertained--by the people, by the little golf cart decorated in ribbons (used to transport people who needed help walking). We walked up the sloped hill to the amphitheater and found the seats my parental in-laws had found for us. Stone steps stretched down the mountain side and people sat on bleachers made of dirt and stone. My older daughter promptly fell off our bleacher onto the picnic set-up of the two men below us--a fall of about a foot and a half. She cried but was comforted pretty easily. The men were gentle and forgiving, despite having wine and cheese flung about. I may have yelled Jesus Christ! very loudly when it happened.

The play was sweet--Peter Pan. I didn't expect to watch much, if any of it, and I didn't. But it was nice to hear the singing while breathing in the fresh, mountain air and that distinctive Northern California smell of dust and bay leaves, salt and pine. We passed kids amongst the six adults and they all seemed to have fun. We sat on a blanket in the shade and played with sticks and moss and rocks. During the dueling scene Peter Pan shouted "He's mine!" of Captain Hook and Lily, in my arms, said "Mine". So she was listening, which was very cool.

We packed up early to get in the front of the line for the shuttles--the idea of waiting an hour just to get back on the school bus made me want to cry. Despite not enjoying the ride up Cyrus was happy to see the buses again, chanting "school bus" as he pointed them out. This bus was more crowded and we wedged in, two babies each. At one point I looked over at my husband and was pretty sure the look on his face exactly mirrored the one on my own. It was a look that said There is no where to go and no way to get out of this except to wait. Painful. It's own fresh circle of hell--covered in tired, hungry, diaper-rashed babies on a school bus riding down a mountain. There was vomit. And poop. And screaming. Then it ended and we hustled off the bus as fast as two weighed-down parents can hustle. We dumped bags, backpacks and children in a pile (the children were lovingly placed, not dumped) and then my husband ran to get the car while I kept our crew out of the way of cars and buses. Both little babies were asleep--one in my arms, one in the backpack.

The thing I keep realizing about adventures and outings with children is that it doesn't stop when the excursion is over. We are the ones who still need to drive them home, unload them, feed them, bathe them (sometimes) and put them to bed. Hours later, laid out on the couch watching reruns of Friday Night Lights on a randomly discovered and randomly existing Texas Longhorn TV station, we looked at each other and sigh. Like two limp dishrags, all energy and life-force having drained out from the soles of our feet.

Probably the people who said it gets easier after the first year didn't mean for us to test that theory by doing harder and more tiring things with these kids, just because we can. And of course in many ways it is getting easier--they sometimes play together on their own, which is a delight. The older ones can communicate so much more, which makes things very fun. The littles are interactive, joining in all our reindeer games and cracking us up. They all mostly sleep most of the time. Except for teething and random freak outs and other impossible to understand crises.

Yesterday was meant as a celebration of my mother-in-law's birthday, which is today. It's a big birthday and I know we will never forget it. Fun was had. Some misery too but that's the beauty of being human, and of being a parent. The misery fades and soon we'll be energized enough to plan another adventure.

Unedited

Ulcerative colitis was my first diagnosis. This past Monday was my first day at a new job. I'm working at the transplant center where I received my liver transplant almost fifteen years ago. My colitis flared with a vengeance Sunday night after being quiescent for a good, long while. As I waited for my day to start I looked around the waiting room in the liver clinic where I used to sit, newly cut open and reorganized, waiting for someone to come get me. When I first got out of the hospital I had to go to clinic every day for a month. The halls seemed so long as I shuffled along the carpet on my way to the elevator. Getting up from a chair made me look like a hunched, old woman bent over as I was to protect my abdomen held together with 55 staples in the shape of an upside-down T.

Colitis is...embarrassing. It's about poop and intestines and blood and nothing I ever really want to talk about so I rarely do. I certainly didn't want to greet my new employers with any details of this, even as I thought about how they more than anyone know some of the stories my body has told over the years. So I took deep breaths and excused myself when necessary and left early, my stomach clenching in pain. The rest of the week I spent in bed or on the couch. Sometimes I played with the kids but usually my husband took care of them, with the help of many other members of our team. I hardly ate anything. The idea of food sounded bad all around.

Someone once told me that with bowel disease or lots of diarrhea you end up flushing all of the good hormones right out of your body. The dopamine, the serotonin. That felt like a relief to me, to know that something scientific was occurring because these colitis flares make me so drained completely of all hope and happiness. I can almost recognize the untruth of the feelings because they are so pervasive that I have to remind myself that I don't actually hate everything in my life. That's not me...right?

Folding laundry on Thursday night I started crying. Matching one tiny pant leg to another to fold away a pair of size 9 month pants I felt the weight of time and its passage. It's excruciating slowness, it's warp speed. I remember sitting on the same couch, discussing our surprise pregnancy with fear and worry. Those surprise babies turn one today. My big twins are talking more and more and looking more and more like little kids.

Have to stop because there's crying from one of the kids' rooms. The birthday party starts soon. This is just a tiny scrape off the surface of more than two weeks worth of thoughts and words that have been wanting to come out but haven't.