The Myth of Bouncing Back

Sitting at the dinner table this weekend, Dylan and I were asking, “What the heck did we do last Memorial Day?” Was our house up for sale yet? Had we just been released from an unexpected visit to the NICU? We couldn’t remember. Time and sleepless nights has a way of erasing the days that were painful to live.

By now, people are asking if I’ve recovered from baby’s first year. I’m not sure you recover from the addition of a child into your family. Like all major life transitions, I don’t thinking bouncing back is an option.

I made a loaf of focaccia this morning that turned out perfectly. Crispy bottom, a soft spring in a chew, with coarse grains of salt sprinkled on top. I sliced a square and made the perfect sandwich, munching away at my desk while working from home.

The bread had a bounce to it that made me smile.

The balls in her tiny ball pit bounce when she launches herself, face-first, into the foam pit.

Her toes bounce as she tries to master walking with a bow-legged gait.

I bounce her on my knees and in my arms, through sleep regressions and teething.

I bounce in the kitchen, trying to cook dinner one handed as a new toddler asks for crackers with a scream.

I haven’t bounced back. And, it’s not just about the return to pre-pregnancy jeans.

Folks are asking me when we’ll do it again – create another child – and I don’t have an answer there yet.

I’m too busy bouncing in between work and play and her room and my bed and on the floor on my knees and crawling quickly up the stairs. I’m bouncing to catch up, bending to put my hair into a messy ponytail that moves with me, bouncing forward.

May the forward motion be beautiful, rather than asking me to hop back to a version of me that no longer exists – pant size or not.

A “Life is Beautiful” Friend

I was invited to a ladies lunch this past weekend. The invite called together women to celebrate, with gratitude, for showing up for the hostess during a difficult season in her life. She welcomed fifteen or so of us into a small cafe for a meal and connection with strangers. I was nervous to go. Not being one for meeting new people, I coaxed myself into going out, tucked my messy hair into a bun, and drove to the luncheon.

Before we shared a meal, the hostess went around the room introducing each of her guests with a heartfelt message about how they were able to care for her as she cared for her mom, who was losing the battle of dementia. In her thoughtful reflection, she called me her, “life is beautiful” friend, and was grateful for my keen understanding of the pain we go through as humans. She shared that I reminded her, in a time of darkness, perhaps, grief is part of the beauty too.

I felt seen, in that room of strangers, in a way I haven’t for quite awhile. There’s a magic that happens when strangers become vulnerable and when the threads of loss and life and the mess of the middle connect us. By the time she went around the circle, the hostess’ friends were weeping. To be seen, to be a part of the struggle, to value friendship, surrender, and the power of asking for and receiving help is just such a gift. I was floored by the intentionality in celebrating relationship and in saying thank you for the people who carry you through.

A few weeks ago, I found myself home sick. Holding my baby, we watched Mary Poppins as we both recovered from a first family bout of a stomach flu. An infant’s attention span is short. Mary Poppins is long. But I tried to introduce her to Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious and dancing penguins and stepping in time on the rooftops of London.

I found myself asking where did this desire for good stem from? Where did the grown woman who longs for beautiful things develop her keen awareness for the power of a change of perspective? Mary taught me to turn ordinary into magic. To seek delightful things and to harness the giggles found in the absurd. Harriet the Spy taught me to watch and look just a little bit longer, for humans have complex layers and we probably ought to write about them. And, Mrs. Piggle Wiggle taught me you can have a chandelier on your floor for a fire place and stairs that work in reverse. Pippy Longstocking reminded me to befriend the imaginary creatures and dress as your heart leads you and go on adventures, even in your backyard. Characters who were close to home, willing to observe, and make note of the magic burrowed into my heart, and my way of being in the world.

I’m thankful for the stories that turned me into a seeker of good and a believer in magical things. And I’m grateful, for the women who continue to nurture me in this lifelong pursuit. To be called out as a “life is beautiful” friend stunned me a bit. Yes, the searching is in my essence. And in these virtual pages my journey continues. Thank you, readers, for being my life is beautiful friends, as well.

Peek-A-Boo

We play a game with my daughter where we place a cloth over her eyes for just a moment. She quickly removes the fabric with a giggle, as we say in squeaky voices, “Peek-a-boo.” The exercise is repeated until she bores of us, usually only a few minutes pass until she’s on to the next thing.

Spring in Colorado feels like a game of peek-a-boo. One moment you’ve got hats and gloves on, carrying bulky coats and boots into the house and in a flash, we remove the layers of fabric to sit in sunshine for just a few hours. Yesterday was sixty degrees. Today, thirty five and snowing.

As the sun peeks its face out, I giggle inside, knowing warmer days are coming. And when the gray returns, because we aren’t done yet, I find the blankets again.

In a brief moment when the sun was shining yesterday, I went for a walk to the park near my office. Walking quickly with my co-workers, I noticed the sound of laughter in the distance. The playground was swarming with kids. Coats piled up on the edge of sand, and parents watched from the sidelines. To see this playground full of children, buzzing with the sounds of bottoms sliding and legs kicking littles to new heights, warmed my heart.

In my emerging, I hadn’t noticed the return of the children to the playground.

We kept walking and two older women were hugging in the parking lot. “Don’t forget to get your beans at Lucky’s” one shouted to the other as she got into her car. We’re back to connecting on asphalt and reminding each other of the somewhat mundane tasks that make up our lives.

This has been a long, cold winter. Snow fell this morning, but Spring is playing peek-a-boo with me. Baby is too. These are beautiful things.

When the Fog Rolls In

It took seven years for the words to come more slowly. Muddled in fog, the memories pull my tongue back into my mouth, trying to make full sentences when the dryness comes at the beginning of March.

There are still words for the sadness and they are taking longer to take shape this year. In the stretching of letters into sentences, my brain seeps into places we used to live together. So much has changed.

This week we both sized up my baby’s car seat and moved down her mattress in the crib. We put up baby gates and took down too-small jackets into the basement. They told me this would go fast, and again, as the fog of new parenthood has lifted, I find myself bouncing up and down to catch up with her growth.

However, a familiar front has rolled in, bringing in old stagnant air of grief, and as the mixing air swirls around us, pushing the blur of her infancy into, well, the past. I can’t believe we’re coming up on a year of baby, and seven years without Dad.

Life happens as we live it. In the bouncing up and downs there’s now wine at the grocery store, cookies with crumb baked in, and baby babbles on the monitor as we wake up in the morning. There’s the ache of not knowing a parent as a friend, of watching others grow and wondering how we ever moved so far in different directions. There’s the putting on of his old sweatshirts and slippers, fingering tears in the worn brown sleeves, as you sit and you watch, chest upon knees, as the grief fog returns.

Seven years, and the words have slowed. The settling, the acceptance, the stillness of grief’s truth, all beautiful things.

Every once in awhile, I’ll ask readers and friends to do something kind in honor of Roy. Sometimes I’ll ask on his birthday. In other years, the day of his death. This week, please commit a random act of kindness in his honor. Buy the person behind you in the drive thru’s coffee. Send that card you’ve been waiting to send. Thank a nurse. Bring donuts to work. Clean up your socks even if you don’t want to.

Please email me or tag me on social media when you do and we’ll create a little bit of sparkle on a real sad Saturday. Do something kind. Help the fog lift. Make memories of Roy into beautiful things.

Every Seven Years?

A friend recently told me that the human body regrows every cell within seven years. As March approaches, yet again, with a large flashing seven over the 18th, the day of Dad’s death, I started to wonder, “Has every part of me replaced itself since that day?”

A quick Google search helped me conclude, it depends. Some cells re-grow quickly. Those found in human hearts are said to lag. And in our brains, some cells never replace themselves. More on the science here.

Head. Heart. Body. Three domains we will live and experience the world in. I’m comforted by the fact that cells still in my heart were around when Dad was still with us. And in neurons and tissues in my head, memories linger for a life time.

There’s that old Gershwin tune, reflecting on lost love:

“We may never never meet again, on that bumpy road to love
Still I’ll always, always keep the memory of

The way you hold your knife
The way we danced till three
The way you changed my life
No, no they can’t take that away from me
No, they can’t take that away from me.”

Sure, this was meant as a love ballad, but for me, I’m starting to worry about the things that seep away as we keep moving forward.

Skeletons take eleven years to regenerate. Parts of my bones still know him. And the metaphors we humans use to try and comprehend our human experience sink into my essence and pass on to my daughter.

She has eye balls and ear balls. That’s what Papa would have told her. Those eyeballs take on the shape of her grandfathers.

We carry in our bodies living systems of memories and wants and aches and our humanity. And when pieces of that human experience get lost, we turn our attention to what we can grow instead. Why must transition be so ladened with sadness? Why do we focus on what can be created to fill in the gaps?

In a recent coaching session, my coach asked “What if you can hold both? The grief and the growth?”

A strong image came to me of a small sunflower, bravely lifting a heavy center surrounded by pedals unfurling. The flower turn its head a different direction. The sun isn’t over there anymore, I thought.

In order to hold both, in my little growing pot, I need to turn my head to a new source of sun.

I’m growing, regenerating, creating life and seeking nutrients. And still, pieces of me remain the same.

I suppose the both-and is a beautiful place to be. A lagging heart. A brain that holds memories. All beautiful things.

Others Call It Living

I turned the corner west, towards the mountains, and took a deep breath as the winter sun tried to stay awake, barely past five. With white capped ridges in the distance, I turned the car to crunch over the layers of snow, fallen over the last few days. I parked, and with the door closing behind me, walked into a warm house where my baby had been cared for for the last six months. 

We’re transitioning her to a new place of care this week, and with yesterday’s last pick-up, I was feeling heavy. My feet shuffled reluctantly out of their home, and as baby’s carseat clicked into place, I told her that we just went through our first care transition with her. 

I’m not fearful for where she’s heading next; it’s sure to be delightful. However, the lingering weight came more from a place of longing for days I wished away. At three months old, I could barely care for her and myself. Since, she’s grown, and I’ve grown. 

I’m surprised how quickly this next chapter approached. We’re all bathing regularly now. Baby is almost ready to crawl. She’s moving into full time care outside of our home!

I, too, am crawling towards something new. 

As my birthday approached and I realized while yes, I am aging, so is my mother, and my in-laws, my husband, and my baby too. Marching towards the inevitable, some people call it. Others call it living.

This January has been cold. Hibernating looks different than last year. I find myself in bed earlier, with warm socks on my feet and hands tucked into sloppy sleeves of old sweatshirts. I float in flannel sheets, holding space for the new me that’s emerging. While Covid is still present, my panic around prevention has dissipated. Not all transitions need to be chaotic or fearful. 

I let the embers of awakening warm me.

To be in the middle now, with only one parental layer above me, and now a generation to care for below, brings a buoyancy of a different kind. This floating in the middle feels ladened with responsibility. Motherhood is teaching me to receive with grace, and to hold tightly to the people with whom I get to age.  I am caretaker now, in a different capacity, and I’m also learning to be cared for differently. 

I let the vacillating wishes of time to move faster mix with wishes of longing to grow. I wonder about what’s coming next, while staring in awe, at the little creature we’re responsible for as witness to how quickly things shift. 

We walked through another transition, yes, and I’ve found time to breathe before bed. Living. Beautiful, heartwarming things. 

Zebra Stripe Blinds

When I sit down at my home office for our daily work check in, the light comes through the blinds creating zebra stripes on my face. I try to move the laptop camera to remove the shadows, and still the sun dances through the gaps. While the team Zoom call is short, only fifteen minutes or so, I find myself quickly giving up on my attempts to create a steady flow of light on my reflection.

Searching for beauty feels these days feels a little bit like living through the blinds. Christmas and New Years passed in a blur. We spent time with family, juggled a baby and her gear between houses, and intentionally rested. Last week was only the first week back sending emails and coordinating, and I was quick to move towards overwhelm. On Sunday, during another failed nap time, I wept about all of the things my old-self would have accomplished. The shadows of shoulds seem to be drawing lines, keeping me from fresh morning light.

Yet still, I’ve been ruminating on the joys of baby being witness to the mundane. Piles of burp clothes and bottles in the sink feel less than glamorous. However, the noise makers on the floor mix with tiny socks and colorful books, reminding me of the gift of a child so many others long for. How quickly these days will pass. I want to be present for them when I can.

A friend recently shared how passing into a new year used to fill her with melancholy. The aches of what could have been and fears of what might be in the year ahead shaded an attitude of possibility and creativity. On December 31st, I wasn’t feeling sad for what could have happened in 2022. We packed in a lot of life in those 365 days. I did, however, feel a bit of dreadful wonder at what may be this year. There are many unknowns on a clean slate. I’m so good at filling blank pages with catastrophe.

Much like the mixing light on my face in the mornings, I want to approach 2023 with an openness rather than foreboding. I didn’t set a resolution. Instead I’ll be focusing on the mantra, “Uncertainty doesn’t mean bad things are going to happen.” I’ll hold space for the negative possibilities (Hello. My name is Katie and I’m prone to anxious and catastrophic thoughts). And I’ll also intentionally move to let more light in.

When responding to a birthday invitation I recently sent out, a friend shared, “Thank you so much for including me. One more step back to “normal.”  Feels fun and also weird, doesn’t it?” 

Choosing to live in the light is fun, and after the last few years, it is weird!

So here’s to more time in the ball pit my baby received for Christmas. More invitations for brunch. More connection. More reminders that hospitality and caring for one another may be more important than promotions or the next big project. Here’s to reviving the sourdough, playdates in the park, and hugs for our childcare providers. Here’s to redefining the possibilities in uncertainty and in the handholding when things feel shaky.

Here’s to the continued search for beautiful things and the reminder that letting in the light, despite the shadows that may come, is a beautiful thing.

Self-Soothing at Christmas

My daughter struggles to nap in her crib. She’s been lucky to be held while sleeping and contact naps have been her norm. As I read parenting books and blogs about sleep training, the multitude of advice, best practices, and shoulds are overwhelming. General practitioners tell me to put her down, walk out of the room, and wait for her to cry herself to sleep. We’re behind, according to the internet, in that she ought to be sleeping better on her own by now.

In this advice, my heart breaks a bit. For how many times, as an adult, have I, too, cried myself to sleep? The cause of suffering, of course, is different. The magnitude of pain seems more allowable as adults. Yet, why are we teaching our babies to self-soothe, when quite often the opposite, a compassionate touch, a hand on a shoulder, a warm embrace is what we long for most?

Recent weeks have been filled with attempts at the holiday bustle. We’ve got a tree up, yet I haven’t done any shopping. We baked cookies and forgot to decorate them. I’m allowing traditions to be replaced with other things; mostly contact naps.

Grief seeps into this season in now expected places. I know I’ll want to send texts to Dad, want his perspective on our decorations, and long for his spot at the table to be filled. I’ll get a bottle of scotch to sip on and leave a plate of cookies on the shelf for him during Christmas week. While friends donated in his honor this month, I longed for his advice in negotiating dynamics at work and a shoulder to lean on as my grandmother’s house was sold.

This year’s grief expands as we have another empty seat at the table. I wish Grandma could stand at my stove top, and teach me how to make our German cookies that she taught my mother to make. The weight and opportunity of carrying on tradition is ladened with loss. In our mixing of sugar, flour and dough, we have sprinkles of old memories. With each turn of cookie press, I remember laughter at smoke-filled kitchens and crinkles of crumbs falling to the counter. To carry on what she started is both a beautiful mix of opportunity and responsibility. There is space for the missing to take different shape.

When illness hit our house last week, with changing child care plans and overwhelming amounts of snot, I was hit with an incredible ache. If Dad was still here, we’d have one more person in our back up child care arsenal. Instead, I took a sick day, and allowed myself to rest, with baby on my chest. As baby cried from exhaustion, I, too, wept and rocked myself saying “It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok.”

Sure, I’ve learned to self-soothe. Yet, I still longed for a warm hand on my shoulder, for someone else to get me a tissue, for the cause of the pain to dissipate.

I’m not soliciting parenting advice, nor am I sharing another “should” for those who are trying to get their little ones to sleep. Instead, I’m wondering why our culture starts us off, at such a young age, by encouraging us to cry ourselves to sleep in the dark, when perhaps instead we need comfort and connection. The world is overwhelming for all of us at times.

The holidays come with a jumble of joy, aches, wishes, and wonder. We’re all familiar with the ways in which our stories fall short of the Hallmark versions of reality depicted on television. Whether you’re sitting in feelings of joy and connection, or weeping in the dark, I hope you’ve found people to lay a warm hand on your shoulder. I hope you remember to whisper “It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok” Self-soothe if you must, and I hope instead you can ask for comfort.

Experiencing the gift a snuggle, the glow of Christmas lights, and the choice to nurture and be nurtured are beautiful things.

She is his émerveillement

“He sweeps her hair back from her ears and he swings her above his head. He says she is his émerveillement, he says he will never leave her, not in a million years.” – Anthony Doerr

It has been seven years since I lost my dad, Roy. While he left us in the present, his presence lives on, lingering in my new daughter’s eyes, torn wool sweaters, and memories of dancing in the kitchen and breakfasts on swirling stools at smelly diners.

It’s easy to feel like we aren’t enough. The demands on our hearts, our worries, and our time distract us and pull us away, at times, from what matters most. Roy was good at seeing people. He practiced intentionality when he could, and believed in the gift of presence. He wouldn’t always say much, but he showed up when he could, in ways I’ll never forget. Texts with jokes from yahoo.com, a card in the mail, and conversations with soapy hands in the sink, doing dishes together. He reminded me, presence, when practiced well, is enough.

This year, you can give the gift of being seen to those who are grieving by supporting The Dinner Party. Your dollars help create community for those of us who are living without someone who shaped us. Their presence is missing, but we can be present. Help me remember Roy hasn’t left us entirely – in his knowing of us, he lingers and lives, for the next million years.

Donate here.

Your giving can be a beautiful thing.

Hands Deep in a Bowl of Dough

In the early years of my grief experience, I recall standing at the granite counter top with my hands deep in a bowl of dough. I was drinking red wine and rain was falling, I had jazz playing on my phone. It had been about six months since my dad passed, and I remember thinking to myself, whispering even, “I think I’m feeling happy again.”

It’s courageous to whisper these words.

Brene Brown reminds us of the risk of foreboding, how we have been trained by movies and culture, and sometimes life itself, to prepare for the next car crash, the next death, the next shoe to drop.

I also recall hearing that we, as humans, are bound to experience a major loss every seven years.

In a recent conversation with my mom, she nodded to that statement, and ticked off major life events that caused disruption in her life, every seven years or so. Was the truth there because she was noticing, or because we are bound to try to repeat our experiences in a flow that’s calculable?

I lost my grandmother six years and nine months after my dad passed. And we had a baby, disrupting my sense of calm and confidence I had worked so hard to cultivate since, just a few months before that. This year has been a blur.

And yet, once again, six months after the disruption, I found myself standing at a counter top in a new kitchen with my hands in a bowl of dough. I was dicing up butter and mixing flour and salt to make a pie crust. As I kneaded the mixture, I had jazz playing on my phone. Rain wasn’t hitting the skylights, but instead, a child cooed with her father on the floor. My child. My husband. The man who helped me to bring life into the world.

I dared again to whisper, “I think I’m feeling happy again.”

There are moments that shake us, shape us, and leave us wondering who we will be next. Like snakes, we step out of shed skin that’s no longer needed and move into bigger versions of ourselves. Do snakes feel pain in the shedding? I believe humans do.

In the transformation, the movement of days into nights, and turning of months into years, we have a brave choice to believe we can be happy again. The process takes a long time, and yet, the formula seems so simple.

Surround myself with people I love, with simple ingredients, with time to stand at the counter. I can focus on the next big disruption, or I can focus on the pie crust and what it will mean for a simple dinner at home.

I’m whispering “I think I’m happy again” and that is a beautiful thing.