Calling All Moms

Of the eight kids, guess how many were girls? I waited until after the volunteer training session ended and asked the two teachers who are women if I could chat with them for a moment. I asked why they thought more girls were not identified. That in turn got me thinking about my own upbringing in Texas in the 80s. And, yes, I think it matters where you grow up. More on that later.

Calling All Moms: Do You Have A Story To Tell?

The conversation was not a statistical or fact-based chat. It was a more nuanced conversation about our own observations. The most fascinating of which was the following: Many families have the following scenario play out in their house.

A child comes home from school and has a question about the math homework. Perhaps not in those exact words, but the sentiment is there. And if this is what your kid hears, how do you think that is internalized?

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Then the cycle begins again. Now imagine the two girls in this eight-person group. I guarantee you that they will immediately notice that they are the only girls. And so you have this subtle weeding out process beginning at this very young age.

Calling all moms - "MOM!"

Even fourth grade girls who are good at math think fourth grade boys have cooties! I have a 5 month old, a 6 year old, and a 9 year old. I was 7 months prenant with my magic baby, Bodhi. Bodhi was an IUD baby that three separate doctors said was an unviable pregnancy from the beginning. My best friend a 32 year old gay guy just moved in with me from Hawaii.

I was left without life insurance or a plan. I thought he was making a smoothie.

And my life feels like a tv show most days. But I am in love with all of it. As the proud mother of a 13 year old daughter and 5 year old son I have tons of stories to share about the highs and lows of motherhood and the lessons I have learned along the way on my journey. As I navigate my way through the challenges of the teenage years and prepare for the adventures of high school , college, and kindergarten all while juggling the demands of caring for two aging parents with various health ailments.

I submitted a post just now. I live 60 miles north of New York City, which is where most of my interior design projects — mostly gut renovations — are located. I take the train in to check on job sites once or twice a week. Most days I took advantage of mommy-friendly retailers with lactation rooms. But of course someone sat down next to me who really wanted to chat — a man, to boot.

He just kept talking…. I am a new mom and a writer. The first days and weeks of motherhood are like entering into a secret sorority. No one tells you, before the baby comes, just how hard it is at the beginning—the soreness, the constant nursing, the sleep deprivation that puts your college years to shame—and why would they?

Who wants to tell a glowing pregnant woman marveling over an Ergo baby carrier that soon she will be the primary caregiver of this helpless little human, who has never been to the world before and does not understand any of your rhythms, your literature, your culture, hobbies, schedule—that one day you will be writing to editors and hosting a dinner party and doing adult things and the next day your life suddenly runs in three hour cycles around a tiny little infant who needs your unending attention, who you must acclimate to being alive while frantically scrolling on your phone because you are sure you are doing something wrong and everyone has an opinion.

In those early days, I asked sometimes, why anyone would ever do this again. And the answer was always the same: Just wait until she smiles.

Here’s a little something about me…

It was also that I finally recovered enough physically to hold her up to burp her; it was that my hormones finally settled enough that I could process my baby as mine, that with the smiling came the ability to be more content, to coo, to track objects with her eyes. I knew I loved June before she smiled. But when she started smiling, something clicked for me.

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She is her own, full person, and first comes smiling, then cooing, then rolling, crawling, walking, talking, thinking for herself, finger painting, writing, math, sleepovers, dates, college, career. This work, which is so mundane in the details, a repetetive cycle of nursing, burping, rocking, swaddling, is the most extraordinary task I will ever undertake.

They enter it with cries and clenched fists, physically incapable of thinking past their own immediate needs. Maybe, before they can smile, or laugh, or express any sign of contentment, they have to know someone will be there for them. My body, in order to nourish hers, must be involved at the smallest detail, but because my body is so invested, so is my heart. And when she smiles,.