I want to look not old

Last month I attended a fundraising event at Blossom Birth, a little resource center that helps men and women transition into parenthood. The event was all about pampering moms and moms-to-be with mini spa services like aromatherapy, massage, and make-up. Having not slept for longer than 3 or so hours at a time for nearly a year, I needed a lot more than pampering. But it was a start. I signed up for as many services as I could get.

I want to look not old, I said to the pretty girl at the make-up table. She wore purple eye shadows of different shades from the bottom of her eyelids all the way to her brows. She was maybe 20-years-old. She had bright brown eyes and shiny dark hair. Her skin was flawless. She had on a little black outfit with difficult stilettos. She sort of tottered and shuffled around, unable to walk from heel to toe.

She half-laughed at my request, uneasy with what I had tasked her with. I imagined she thought something like, lady, there’s nothing I can do about your being old.

Instead of addressing my needs head-on, she apparently fell back on her trusty color scheme and asked, How do you feel about purple?

I feel fine about it, I replied. Why not? I thought. It might make me look not old.

Pretty in Purple went to work on me. Eye liner. Shadow. More shadow. More shadow. And ten minutes later, voila! She gave me the mirror.

Here’s the sad truth, I really had expected some sort of change. A mask to hide my mama fatigue, my years in the sun without sunscreen, and my serious caffeine consumption. Instead it looked like my eyes were afraid of the rest of my face and were trying to take flight. I had distinct, groovy purple wings swooshing out from my eyelids.

It looks pretty, Purple said.

Mmmmm, I nodded politely. I looked ridiculous, but I thanked her anyway. In her own way, she had done what I had asked her to do. I definitely looked too weird to look old.

Afterwards, my weird, winged-eyes and I mingled among the other mamas. No one said anything about my daring new make-up. I didn't know whether they were quiet out of kindness or horror, but I no longer cared about what they might think. I was feeling grateful for the chance to feel good and different. I had an artist paint a mendhi flower on my hand. I sipped too much coffee. I ate one of those monster chocolate chip cookies. I visited with old friends and met some new ones. I had a great time.

By the end of the afternoon, I was relaxed and happy. It felt so good to care for myself. As silly as it sounds, the purple wings around my eyes somehow lifted my spirit, even if they had not turned back the clock.

A poem about Saturdays

My son will wake me early
wanting his milk and cuddle.

I’ll hold him then we’ll stroll
down to the market
in the spare lot.

He’ll chomp on pluots, tomatoes,
and apricots, his favorite.
Using his 7 little teeth.
Juice running down his chin.

We’ll buy fresh eggs, lemon basil,
red and white carrots. Strawberries.
Maybe some chard.

I will eat a scone.
Sweet, crumbling, filling me.
Give my son a taste
as he toddles through the stalls.

Walking home. Uphill.
He sleeps. I sweat.
Hoping this activity
balances my proclivity
for eating pastries.

Swim lessons are next.
Daddy with the baby.
Me in the big pool
back and forth
back and forth
breathing left
right
left
right
then it is time to help Daddy
with the wet baby in the swim diaper.

Back home I can rest.
Or prep vegetables.
And dream of someday having
a Kitchen Aid
to keep alongside
my Dustbuster.

Books and Bites

The day I was back in a law library, I was so happy. It was quiet. I had a sturdy chair. I sat behind a desk and could see stacks and stacks of multi-colored books with bold titles on their spines. I was so calm. The books made it seem possible to control damn near anything! It felt like I could boil any problem down to its smallest parts and then follow the steps to solve the whole of it. There were answers.

The big books chunked life into digestible pieces. CONSENT TO TREATMENT, a practical guide. SPORTS LAW PRACTICE. LABOR LAW – BASIC TEXT. I felt grabby. I wanted to pull the books off the shelves with my whole arms and have them. I wanted to lay them open, each book overlapping the next, and reference and cross-reference. I wanted to inhale the information. Internalize it. Have it at my ready disposal so I am never unprepared.

The boundaries were so clear. The carrels marked proper study spots. Beyond the front desk was the space for Art Law. Land Use belonged in the next aisle, next to Gender, Justice & Law. It felt like I was where I was supposed to be. And everything else was too.

In my daily life outside of law libraries – way outside of them, so far away from them in mind and body that I wonder how the attorney part of me can continue to exist – there is so little order. Instead, my darling, love-of-my-life child colors my world with smashed bananas and randomly placed Cherrios. He twirls in loopy orbits and flaps one arm like a chicken wing for good effect. He pulls me. On my hair, on my thoughts, on my heart. He holds on, holds on, holds on to me tightly so I do not put him down. He is in constant motion, climbing up and climbing down, yanking clothes from drawers and heaping them into piles, scattering clattering kitchen utensils on the floor. He drops drumsticks in the bathtub and phones in the trash. He takes laundry out of the laundry basket and puts himself in.

Despite my son’s comfort with the chaos, I am rocked by the unpredictability. I feel entirely unprepared to parent well. No matter how many parenting books and articles I read, I can’t find the Good Parent answers. Boundaries are smudged away by sticky handies.

Today Ethan and I were in a different kind of library, listening as a librarian read about Maisy’s Nature Walk and other toddler tales. Afterwards the little kids tripped around the room, clambering up chairs and onto book shelves. Ethan played with the spring lid on the trash can. I thought about stopping him, but then engaged in chat with a parent on the other side of me. I took my eyes off my son. As I did, a bigger kid bit Ethan hard. Really hard. This kid looked like he was younger, unable to express frustration or control his impulses, but huge for his age. He towered (and teetered) over the other kids like a baby Andre the Giant.

The teeth marks were deep and purple in my son’s skin. I was shocked by the damage. How did that kid have so many teeth?! It was like Ethan had been chewed by a bear. Another mother commented that I should have him checked for rabies!

Ethan was hurt. I was so upset. Andre’s mother apologized sincerely. I said, “it happens” as I hurried my son into the bathroom. His skin was unbroken, but I gave his arm a lengthy washing.

I should have protected you from that big kid, I said to him. I’m so sorry. I should have known he might hurt you. I wasn’t watching when I needed to. I let you play with a trashcan for chrissake.

I think I did the right thing by letting Andre’s mom off the hook. Little kids bite. They hit too. It happens. But where are the proper boundaries? Part of me wishes that I had stood up for my son. I really hope that when it counts I can give the offending child’s parent hell. I am, after all, a lawyer even if I spend most of time reading books like Thomas the Tank Engine in a library very different from the legal kind.