I decided last week that I’d like to blog every Monday, no matter what’s on the agenda for the day. I usually wait for inspiration before typing a post, or set the idea aside completely because I’d be blogging instead of tending to baby or doing work. (In other words, I kept guilt tripping myself.) But I realized last night that blogging is just as valuable, because it feels good to write, no matter what about. It’s a way of taking care of myself.

We got a couple inches of snow yesterday, but it didn’t deter me from attacking the kitchen with a passionate case of spring cleaning. I organized cupboards (organizing has been a bit of an obsession for me lately, it’s so fun!) and did crazy things like wash the top of the fridge, clean the microwave, scour the interior nastiness of the oven, and scrub off a lovely patina of garbage off the garbage can. At the end of the day, I knew I had accomplished a lot—the kitchen is such an important part of a home, and I made it more efficient, clean, hygienic—but I felt I had accomplished little. What is it about me that is never satisfied with my productivity?


March 23, 2009


I’ve been wanting to post this for awhile. I hadn’t knitted in almost a year and thought this head wrap thing would be a fun return from the hiatus.

It works well for long hair because you can put it up—hard to do with a winter hat. And still keeps your ears warm.

Still on the life-long quest to find the perfect warm winter hat for curly hair (hat hair is esp. worse for curly headed folks).


You can find the pattern here.


I recently read this lovely Sharon Olds poem and felt it resonate. I feel I’ve experienced a lot of what I wanted to before starting a family—in other words I was ready for this challenge, and have no regrets about having a baby right now in my life—but for all of the amazingness of motherhood there are those moments where the burden of responsibility weighs heavily. Life expands; lifestyle condenses.

When Our Firstborn Slept In

My breasts hardening with milk—little seeps
leaking into the folded husband
hankies set into the front curves
of the nursing harness—I would wander around
the quiet apartment when her nap would last a little
longer than usual. When she was awake, I was
purpose, I was a soft domestic
prowling of goodness—only when she slept
was I free to think the thoughts of one
in bondage. I had wanted to be someone—not just
someone’s mom, but someone, some one.
Yet I know that this work that I did with her
lay at the heart of what mattered to me—was
that heart. And still there was a part of me
left out by it, as if exposed on a mountain
by mothering. And when she slept in,
I smelled the husks of olive rind
on that slope, I heard the blue knock
of the eucalyptus locket nut, I
tasted the breath of the wolf seeking
the flesh to enrich her milk, I saw the
bending of the cedar under the sea
of the wind—while she slept, it was as if
my pierced ankles loosed themselves
and I walked like a hunter in the horror-joy
of the unattached. Girl of a mother,
mother of a girl, I paced, listening,
almost part-fearing, sometimes, that she might have stopped
breathing, knowing nothing was anything, for me,
next to the small motions as she woke,
light and wind on the face of the water.
And then that faint cry, like a
pelagic bird, who sleeps in flight, and I would
turn, pivot on a spice-crushing heel,
and approach her door.

2 month stats

March 12, 2009


Our boy is healthy and thriving!

13 pounds 10 ounces —89th percentile
25 inches —98th percentile
41.5 centimeters of noggin —85th percentile


almost there…

March 1, 2009


April 5, 1974

The air was soft, the ground still cold.
In the dull pasture where I strolled
Was something I could not believe.
Dead grass appeared to slide and heave,
Though still too frozen-flat to stir,
And rocks to twitch, and all to blur.
What was this rippling of the land?
Was matter getting out of hand
And making free with natural law?
I stopped and blinked, and then I saw
A fact as eerie as a dream,
There was a subtle flood of steam
Moving upon the face of things.
It came from standing pools and springs
And what of snow was still around;
It came of winter’s giving ground
So that the freeze was coming out,
As when a set mind, blessed by doubt,
Relaxes into mother-wit.
Flowers, I said, will come of it.

by Richard Wilbur