Sitting Still

fall rush, 2026

My son is a baby frat boy.

The term was coined by my friend Liz, who saw him wearing a cute plaid collared shirt with khaki cargo shorts and a wide, who-wouldn't-love-this? grin. At first I was offended, but the more I observe, the more accurate I think the description is.

Yesterday, we went to a birthday party for one of Claire's friends. I'd put Gage in a cute but kind of girly-looking seersucker outfit. He grumbled about it, but I insisted to him that he looked adorable. Then he found the one guaranteed way out of a sissy boy outfit: he crapped all over it. With the costume change, we were back to the wrinkled button-down shirt and grey shorts.

When we arrived at the party, Gage quickly located his new girlfriend. She was thin. She was blonde. She was adorable. He kept flirting with her, throwing gummy smiles and boyish glances her way, while trying not to try too hard. The next thing I know, he's sitting on her lap, gnawing on her elbow and she's gently rubbing his back telling him what a good boy he is.

Eventually he got handed back to me, but not without first making a pass at his new girlfriend's chest. I fed him a nice leisurely meal of milk and then put him on my shoulder.

He burped. No, babies burp. He belched, in the way that beer-guzzling, football-watching, pizza-eating men belch. It was loud and gross.

And then he smiled and looked around to see if anyone had appreciated it. He got a "That was a good one, buddy!" from someone, and you could see the sutures in his baby skull widen just a bit to accommodate his enormous head.

watch out world

I don't know where I lost it. That's the whole idea of losing something, right? You're not sure where you put it, or where it got to, or you'd go right to where you left it and pick it up and put it in your pocket and it wouldn't be a big deal. But sometimes the thing you've lost is hard to describe. That thingamajig. That whatchamacallit. That -- what's the word? Hmmm. I can't quite put my finger on it.

I'm guessing it got misplaced somewhere between the third trimester of pregnancy, delivering a baby, having a husband gone and then sick. When you're waiting for the other shoe to drop, you don't really care whether your feet are pedicured or that your sandals are last season. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other, looking up every once in the while to make sure you're headed in the general right direction, but not really sure which way that is.

Then all of a sudden you realize that it's been months since you read a book for pleasure. Or taken photographs for the fun of it with that camera you so desperately wanted. Or written something that was outside your comfort zone. It's been since December that you hosted friends at your house. Even longer since you wore something you liked for a reason other than it was clean. Nevermind that your year-long sabbatical for motherhood is approaching an end, and you're craving the stimulation of a workplace that does not constantly need cleaning and the wardrobe of clothing that is not made by Old Navy.

The haze of the fourth trimester is lifting. Gage is thriving. Claire is adjusting well to sisterhood. And now, I want me back. Strike that. I NEED me back.

Change comes slowly. Still one step at a time, but now in the direction I want, towards goals beyond survival. I'm looking for a job. Digging into the stack of books accumulated on my nightstand. Making an effort to trim down the pregnancy weight and find clothes that fit my body and make me happy.  Taking walks whenever I can and taking pictures whenever the mood strikes me. Volunteering to host a baby shower on a moment's notice despite the fact that the house is dirty and the yard still needs a spring clean-up. Enjoying my last months as a stay-at-home-mom with trips to the strawberry fields and plans to make homemade jam, at the same time I'm writing kickass cover letters and hoping for a great career opportunity.

One day at a time, one decision at a time, I'm starting to feel like myself again -- sassy, smart, and on top of my game. There's a spring in my step, a smile on my face, a twinkle in my eye, and a hunger in my soul. I want more, and I'm about to reach out and take it.

I don't know where I lost it, but I know it's returned: Mama's got her mojo back.

Consider yourself warned.

leafy greens are the new Prozac

After some contemplation, Ron and I decided to join a CSA this spring through a local farm. Every Tuesday, we drive to a nearby market, pick up our share of this week's harvest, and fill our refrigerator with healthy, locally-grown produce. It's fresh. It's delicious. It's, frankly, a bit overwhelming.

The crops harvested right now are from those plants that don't mind growing in the cooler weather -- namely, leafy greens of all varieties. This week, we got a box that included kale, green oak leaf lettuce, spinach, tat soi, arugula, mustard greens, and turnips with greens attached. Apparently, somebody thought our house needed some regularity, based on the high fiber content of my refrigerator.

Having all of this healthy food around is definitely good for our diets. We feel guilty letting any of it go to waste, and so I'm searching for ways to get greens into dishes aside from eating them raw. I'm beginning to think that CSA actually stands for "Consume Salads All.the.time." (If you have any favorite salads that take lettuce to a new level, please pass them along. Seriously.)

And while I sometimes wonder whether I can stand another lunch of salad and strawberries (also in season), I'm seeing benefits. Turns out those nutrition experts know what they're talking about when they tell us to eat this stuff. My skin has cleared up, my extra pregnancy insulation is thinning, and my mood has improved. It seems that when I put less crap in my body, I feel less crappy. Genius.

Now if I could just find a way to make those mustard greens tasty without cooking them with bacon, imagine what other improvements I might see. Possibilities are endless: children who never tantrum, a blissful marriage, the perfect work-life balance. All if I could eat my greens without a little salt and fat from the pig.

Yep, pork is all that stands between me and world domination. Delicious, delectable pork.

this evening

Sitting in a beach chair on my deck. Fussing with Twitter (addicted). Watching my husband play soccer-tball-tag with Claire while Gage snoozes in the swing.

Right now, for this moment, life is good.