Author: portiabutler

The sweetest moments

First off, thank you. It can be scary to put yourself out there, even if only to friends and loved ones. I am working on being more vulnerable, more courageous, more open, and sharing my writing was a big step for me. Having you dear people respond to my efforts with love and kindness is a gift. So thank you, again and again.

I have come to deeply appreciate the notion of change, the promise that nothing we experience or feel is permanent. There is peace in realizing and accepting this truth. It is reassuring to know that the bad will pass, and it is comforting to know that the good will come again. This idea may be cliche–you know, nothing lasts forever–but the clarity of the concept is new to me and has brought about a much-needed sense of well-being.

I have always found the period of change from one season to the next to be particularly magical. I guess that’s because it’s easy to see the transformation during the in-between times, before the freshness wears off and we become accustomed to the feel of the days. There is new energy, shifting light, a difference in the way the air feels and smells. Now that it’s spring, Lucy and I go out into the yard every day to see what’s changing. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so giddy over each new sprout, bud, and bloom, so mesmerized by the movements of birds and snails and ladybugs.

I savor the change in my own awareness, too. The simplest experiences have become the sweetest moments. During treatment, I hated the sensation of the shower on my bald head; now, I love washing my hair, feeling it grow longer every week. During treatment, I was sensitive to the sun and could barely go outside without covering up in hats, sunglasses, long sleeves and SPF 50; now, I rejoice in the warm touch of sunshine on my skin. During treatment, I was restless at night and woke each morning thinking, “I have cancer. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit;” now, I sleep soundly. And I wake up to snuggles with Lucy and excitement for each new day. I love feeling healthy and strong, free of pain and nausea, calm and content. I realize that I wouldn’t know how good all this feels if I didn’t have the darker days of treatment for reference–and I find myself thankful for everything I have been through.

Often, when people hear my cancer story, they tell me, “But you’re so young!” Too young for serious illness, too young to be thinking about mortality. But we all know this disease doesn’t discriminate. And really, there is an upside to being diagnosed at a relatively early age: I get to move forward in life with a changed perspective, with gratitude for every single today and the small beauties each one brings. I like myself better than I did before cancer. I have more patience. I judge less. I don’t worry about much anymore. I am happier. How strange that something life-threatening should give me such freedom to live.

♥♥♥

In celebration of change, here are two recipes that transform vegetables I consider rather dull–radishes and beets–into something I am excited to eat. Roasting the radishes mellows out their spiciness, and pickling the beets cuts through some of their earthy sweetness. These are very loose recipes, which is how I like best to cook. You can adjust the quantities of the ingredients to your liking.

 

Roasted Radishes
adapted from thekitchn.com

Ingredients:

Radishes, trimmed and washed
Olive oil or avocado oil
Sea salt
Lime wedges and chopped cilantro for garnish (optional)

Directions:

Preheat oven to 425°. Cut radishes in half crosswise. Toss radishes with oil and salt to taste. Place radishes cut-side down in a cast-iron skillet or other heavy baking sheet or pan. Roast for 10-15 minutes, until the white parts of the radishes start to turn brown and the skins begin to wrinkle. Toss with a little more salt, a squeeze of lime juice, and a sprinkle of chopped cilantro.

Pickled Beets
inspired by my dad, who has always been a big fan of beets

Ingredients:

Cooked beets, peeled and sliced into 1/4-inch rounds
Vinegar (I like white, red wine, or apple cider vinegar)
Water
Garlic gloves, crushed
Herbs and spices to taste (I like dill weed and mustard seed)
Salt to taste

Directions:

Mix together equal parts vinegar and water, enough to cover your beets, in a bowl or large, wide-mouthed canning jar. Add a couple of cloves of crushed garlic, along with whatever herbs and spices you like and a couple of pinches of salt. Stir well to dissolve the salt. Add the sliced beets to this mixture, cover tightly, and store in the refrigerator.

Signs of life

I have never wanted anything so badly.

The days leading up to the meeting with my oncologist, to the appointment where I would find out whether or not all of my treatments had worked, were fraught with a weirdly anxious excitement. I was hopeful. I expected to hear good news. But I was afraid, too. My husband was nervous. Our families and friends were encouraging and optimistic, but I know they were worried. So much hinging on this brief visit.

Waiting for the doctor was torture. My pulse and blood pressure were wildly elevated. I stared at the scuffed tile floor, hands clasped, tapping the toes of my boots back and forth. I had received a lot of bad news in rooms like that over the past fourteen months. Mike rubbed my back with one hand, pulled at his hair with the other. As the minutes ticked by, I started to really worry. Surely, if everything were fine, he’d be in here by now? And then, footsteps, a knock, and it was time.

A curt greeting, a half smile, then,”Your blood pressure spiked. What’s going on?” A joke. Was that a joke? Ohmygodohmygod please just tell me I’m okay. “Your CT scan, it looks okay.” I didn’t say anything. My expression must have been disbelieving. He handed me the report. “Look at it. It’s okay.”

Sheer relief, a flood of it. Tears. Laughter. “Really? It’s okay? Really?” I took the report, read the words: no convincing pulmonary metastases, no abdominal or pelvic metastases. Just some radiation-related inflammatory changes in my lungs and a hairline fracture in my hip bone. No cancer. No cancer. Stage 4, no evidence of disease. The best we could have hoped for.

I hugged my doctor, kissed Mike, sent the text to my family: “ALL CLEAR!!!!” We discussed next steps. I will finish my year of Herceptin infusions (only two more to go!) I will stay on the estrogen-blocking pill, Tamoxifen, indefinitely. I will get my port removed. I will have reconstructive surgery. I will have another scan in six months. I will be vigilant of symptoms of recurrence. I will look after my whole self, body, mind, and spirit.

I floated out of the room, feeling released and rinsed clean. For the first time in over a year, I could breathe, fully and deeply, without feeling the constriction of anxiety across my chest. I was euphoric. And very tired.

I know there is a chance my cancer will return some day. But there is also a chance it won’t. Having this opportunity to reset has given me a tremendous boost of hope, confidence, and purpose. I am eager to move forward, to live with awareness and courage and gratitude. Spring is here. The garden is waking up. Signs of life are everywhere, within and around me. I can think and act with new clarity. I can remember life before cancer without regret. I dare to be excited to see my baby girl grow up. I have been so afraid of missing that.

I am also yearning to tell my story. This experience is life-changing, and it can feel very lonely. I am luckier than many; I have support, insurance, education, and privilege. But I am no more deserving of health, happiness, and well-being than anyone else. If I can offer hope and encouragement to someone who needs it, that would well be worth the discomfort of vulnerability that comes from sharing something so personal.

Life is funny; I am frequently tickled by its uncanny quirks and coincidences. Cancer was certainly not on my radar when I came up with the title for this blog. I chose it because I liked the ring it had and because prunes and pears were two of of my daughter’s favorite foods. I still like the sound of the alliteration, and Lucy still likes prunes and pears, but now I also connect those words to growth and healing. Pruning a rosebush of diseased or unproductive branches redirects energy towards buds and new growth. Paring a vegetable removes the dull, tough outer skin, revealing something vibrant, tender, and full of vitality. I feel as though I have been pruned and pared, my sickness and fear cut away, my energy redirected toward something much more positive. I can feel it happening, in a tingly, magical way. I am ready to heal, from the inside out. I am ready to grow and bloom and shine.

Celebration Supper: Tandoori Chicken with Saffron Rice and Lentil Salad

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Ever since finishing chemo, I have been enjoying cooking and eating with new intention. I will admit to a victory martini following my happy results. (I mean, come on. A girl has to celebrate.) But then I got back to work and cooked the kind of meal I have come to crave, one full of international flavors and rich in cancer-fighting ingredients. Interestingly, though not surprisingly, cancer rates are lower in countries like India and Japan and Greece, places where people are more likely to be eating traditional dishes instead of the highly processed foods that makes up much of the American diet. It makes sense to model our eating habits after those of some of the healthier parts of the world if we want to live healthier lives. Eating this way happens to taste really good, too.

Broiled Tandoori Chicken
adapted from How to Cook Everything, by Mark Bittman
serves 3-6, depending on how hungry the people you are feeding might be

I have used this marinade on various cuts of chicken, as well as on tofu. It is bright and flavorful and full of anti-inflammatory goodness. It comes together fast in a food processor or blender, but you could also mince or grate the onion, garlic, and ginger and then stir everything together by hand. You could probably substitute coconut milk for the yogurt, too, if you wanted to avoid dairy.

Ingredients:

1 cup organic yogurt, preferably grass-fed
1 small onion, peeled and cut into chunks
2 cloves garlic, peeled
1 inch-long piece of fresh ginger, peeled
2 tsp maple syrup
2 Tbsp lemon or lime juice
1 Tbsp ground cumin
1 tsp ground coriander
1 tsp ground turmeric
1/4 tsp cayenne
1 tsp sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
6 organic bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs
Lime wedges and chopped cilantro for garnish

Add yogurt, onion, garlic, maple syrup, lemon or lime juice, cumin, coriander, turmeric, cayenne, salt, and a grind or two of black pepper to a food processor or blender. Process until smooth. Give it a taste adjust the seasoning. Put chicken in a shallow pan or a large plastic freezer bag and pour the marinade over it to coat evenly. Let the chicken marinate in the refrigerator for as long as possible, ideally for several hours or even overnight.

Set an oven rack about 6 inches from the broiler. Preheat the broiler on low (or medium if you have that setting; my oven has only high and low). Remove the chicken from the pan or bag and wipe most of the marinade off so it doesn’t burn. Place the chicken skin-side down in a cast-iron or other heavy, broiler-safe pan. When the broiler is hot, pop the chicken in the oven and broil it for 20 minutes. After 20 minutes, flip the thighs over and continue cooking until the skin is golden-brown and crispy and the juices run clear, about 12 minutes more–but keep an eye on it so it doesn’t blacken. Serve over rice, garnished with lime wedges and chopped cilantro. I especially like this over saffron rice.

Note: Like I said, you can do this with other cuts of chicken or even tofu. You will just need to adjust the cooking time. If you use a boneless cut of chicken, gently pound the meat  to uniform thickness before marinating it. With boneless pieces–or with tofu–you will also be able to shorten the marinade time to as little as 30 minutes.

 

Mediterranean Lentil Salad
adapted from The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen, by Rebecca Katz (Seriously…just buy this cookbook. It’s wonderful.)

I love Greek salad. This dish has all those flavors plus the protein boost from lentils. The original recipe calls for cucumber; I didn’t have one, so I used a small zucchini instead, and it worked great. You could add some diced tomato, too.

Ingredients:

1 cup dried lentils, rinsed and drained
1 clove garlic, smashed and peeled
1/2 tsp dried oregano
Sea salt
2 bay leaves
1 cinnamon stick
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Zest and juice of 1 lemon
1 tsp minced garlic
1/2 tsp ground cumin
Freshly ground pepper
1 red bell pepper, diced
1 small cucumber or zucchini, diced
1/4 cup pitted Kalamata olives, sliced
3 Tbsp chopped fresh mint
3 Tbsp chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
Crumbled feta cheese, organic if possible, for garnish

Combine the lentils, smashed garlic, oregano, 1/2 tsp of salt, bay leaves, and cinnamon stick in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to medium-low, cover, and simmer for 20 minutes. Taste the lentils; if they are too al dente, simmer for an additional 5 minutes or until tender. Drain the lentils and discard the cinnamon stick and bay leaves.

In a medium bowl, make the dressing: whisk together the olive oil, lemon zest and juice, minced garlic, cumin, 1/2 tsp of salt, and a few grinds of pepper (you can do this while the lentils are cooking). Taste and adjust seasoning. Add the warm lentils to the dressing, toss to combine, and refrigerate for 20 minutes.

Take the lentils out of the refrigerator and stir in the red pepper, cucumber (or zucchini), olives, mint, and parsley. Taste and adjust seasoning. Sprinkle with crumbled feta. This salad is even better the next day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There will be rainbows

I have been thinking a lot about hope. Hope is where I live right now, but my shelter is fragile. Fear comes calling often, and so do doubt and grief and worry and anger and pain. And there are cracks in the walls and leaks in the ceiling that I must constantly mend. Some days they are easy to patch and others, not so much. With an important post-treatment CT scan looming on my horizon, my battle between hope and fear is raging.

I have a tendency to expect the worst–or at least, to not expect the best. It is one of my most trusted defensive plays; by expecting the worst, maybe the disappointment will sting less. The problem is that I sacrifice opportunities for joy, surprise, and delight. I fail to see the power I have as the author of my own life. I get too caught up in grim possibilities to recognize what is good and wonderful right now. I am working on that.

A few weeks ago, Lucy and I were on the road to my mom’s, heading down the freeway on a typically gray February day. Eyes straight ahead, I drove on, aware of the cars around me but pretty much on autopilot, having made that same trip countless times. I was jolted out of reverie by a sudden exclamation from Lucy in the backseat.

“There’s a RAINBOW, Mommy!”

I glanced over, expecting a faint swath of color or some reflection in the window. (She has no difficulty finding wonder in the most ordinary things. She makes friends out of scraps of paper. She thinks dust motes are beautiful.) Instead, I was startled and amazed to see a perfect, full arc stretching across the sky. It was complete, vibrant from end to end, each color equally strong. It was the most beautiful rainbow I have ever seen, and I almost missed it. I’m so thankful for the eyes and heart of my brilliant daughter. I am grateful for the way she sees the world and shares the magic she finds. She teaches me to notice and appreciate life and to be excited about it. What a remarkable gift at a time like this.

I hold on to these moments, these sparks, with more care and tenderness than I used to. I am learning I can change, that maybe those fatalistic tendencies are not my true nature. I am finding that I believe in magic and miracles and signs and meaning. This cancer journey has released my spiritual world, a world that has always lived in my heart but which my rational mind has been shy, ashamed even, to embrace.

I am learning to change my perspective, to soften and bend and be vulnerable. To give way to hope, to let it fill me with light and comfort and ease. To forgive. To really love, unconditionally, and without expectation. To let go of guilt and resentment and bitterness towards myself and others. It feels good. And though I struggle every day to keep the fire going, to strengthen it, to believe in it, I am shifting toward a truer peace and happiness than I have ever felt before. The battle is raging, but hope is winning. She is stronger than fear. She can outlast.

My scan will come and go. It will be good to have it over with, no matter the results. I have found it is better to know than to sit with uncertainty in these situations. And there will be more scans and tests and anxious moments in my future. There will also be plenty of other worries and fears that are not related to my own personal health. But there will be rainbows, too, lots of them. I just need to notice.

Rainbow Soup, aka minestrone
adapted from The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen by Rebecca Katz

I acknowledge that I have been a big ball of emotions in my last few posts, but I do intend to continue sharing recipes on this blog. I have learned a lot about the power of nutrition in strengthening the immune system and supporting the body’s ability to fight cancer and recover from treatment. Rebecca Katz’s fabulous cookbook has been life changing. I hope that some of the ideas I share here will inspire or help someone else who might be going through cancer treatment–or who just wants to cook and eat healthy, delicious food.

It has been very chilly in our neck of the woods lately, and I have been eating a lot of soup. This one is hearty, colorful, and full of flavor, especially when topped with basil-lemon pesto.

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Serves 4-6

Ingredients:

1/2 bunch Swiss or red chard, stems and leaves separated
2 tbsp olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
Sea salt
3 carrots, peeled and diced
2 stalks celery, diced
2 small or 1 medium zucchini, diced
1 tsp (or more!) minced garlic
1/2 tsp dried oregano
1/4 tsp dried thyme
1/4 tsp fennel seeds, crushed (Use a mortar and pestle or a rolling pin.)
Pinch red pepper flakes
8 cups vegetable or chicken stock
1 14-oz can tomatoes (Use tomatoes that are already crushed or diced, or get whole tomatoes and crush or roughly chop them.)
1 15-oz can red kidney beans, drained, rinsed and tossed with a little lemon juice and sea salt
1 cup shredded purple cabbage (about 1/4 of a small head)
4 oz short pasta (elbows, ditalini, rotini, etc), cooked and drained
1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley

Instructions:

Finely chop the chard leaves AND the stems. Set each aside separately. Heat the olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add onions and a pinch of salt and saute, stirring occasionally, until soft and slightly golden, about 5 minutes. Add the chopped chard stems, along with the carrots, celery, and zucchini. Saute for an additional 3 minutes. Add the garlic, oregano, thyme, fennel seeds, red pepper flakes, and a large pinch of salt, and saute until fragrant, about 30 seconds to 1 minute more. Add 1/2 cup of stock and deglaze the pan, scraping up any brown bits and letting the liquid reduce by half.

Add the remaining 7 1/2 cups of stock, along with the tomatoes, beans, and cabbage. Bring the soup to a boil, then reduce the heat so it simmers gently and cook, uncovered, for 20 minutes.

Stir in the chopped chard leaves, along with another big pinch of salt. Cook for 3 minutes more or so, until the chard is slightly wilted. Add the pasta and parsley and stir. Taste, and adjust seasoning as needed.

Serve topped with Basil-Lemon Pesto (recipe follows) and grated Parmesan cheese.

Basil-Lemon Pesto
adapted from The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen by Rebecca Katz

1 cup loosely packed basil leaves
2 tbsp freshly-squeezed lemon juice
1 tsp lemon zest
1 clove garlic, crushed and peeled
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 cup walnuts
1/2 tsp sea salt

Place all ingredients in a food processor and process until the walnuts are very finely chopped and everything is blended well together. Taste and add salt or lemon juice if needed.

The storm

I have been having difficulty finding the appropriate story or recipe with which to come back to this space. It feels like a major announcement, like a really big deal, to share what I want to share, and I want to do it right. But mostly I just want to do it. I want to get it out there so I can move forward. Because, you see, what I need to tell you is not exactly a good thing, at least not at first glance. It’s a really, really scary thing. And it’s hard for me to think about and I don’t want to freak you out. But I need to get beyond it. I need to heal.

So: off with the band-aid.

I have cancer. Or had cancer. I’m not sure yet if it’s gone. I hope so. I’ll know more next month. I found out about it just over a year ago, last January, a few weeks after my 37th birthday. I got thrown into the waves, bobbing, gasping, dog paddling, barely keeping my head up through eleven rounds of chemo and its myriad side effects. And then, in July, I found out I had a metastatic lesion on my right hip bone. Stage 4. I went under.

I thought my life was over. From that first moment in January when I learned that I did, in fact, have breast cancer, I prayed that it was anything but stage 4. I knew that earlier-stage disease could be treated, even cured, but that stage 4 meant chronic, terminal. No. Nonononono.

I was drowning. My doctors, my family, my beautiful little girl, my friends…they surrounded me, lifted me, pulled me back to the surface. I did some research, learned that remission was still possible. Learned that cancer statistics aren’t everything. I read that a small percentage of women with metastatic breast cancer never have a recurrence. I resolved to do everything I could to get myself into that group.

A month after I finished chemo, I had radiation to the hip lesion, followed by a double mastectomy and lymph node surgery. I had radiation treatments to my chest and armpit for 32 days in a row. I am now on hormone therapy and am also getting infusions of Herceptin every three weeks. My hair has come back with a vengeance, and my energy has returned. I have healed from my surgery and the radiation. I marvel at my body’s resilience, at strength I didn’t know I had.

Not long after learning that my cancer was stage 4, I began seeing a naturopath at the treatment center. If I’m going to stick with a nautical metaphor for this experience, she would be the one who steered my lifeboat to shore. She helped me understand that there were things I could do to affect my outcomes. She gave me real hope and practical tools. She empowered me to take back some control of my health and well-being. With her help, I have changed my diet. I practice yoga. I meditate. I see a counselor. I take supplements. I get acupuncture. I breathe. I laugh. I allow myself to be happy.

The hurricane has passed, and I am still here. And though I am not sure if I am through the storm or merely in its center, all that matters today is the blue sky and sunshine. There is so, so much to be grateful for.

I do believe I have many years ahead, and I intend to make them beautiful. I choose joy. I choose courage. I choose love.

I choose to live.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. See you soon. XO

First day of chemo.
Sporting a new ‘do.
My last day of chemo!
Enjoying the sun a few weeks after surgery.
My final day of radiation.

 

Life gets in the way

Well. Hello, there. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? It feels a little awkward, coming back to this space, but good. It’s like getting back in touch with an old friend, someone you haven’t spoken to in forever, someone you’ve been meaning to text but haven’t, someone you miss but whom the effort it takes to contact is more than you can muster. But then, when you finally do reach out, and you talk or get together, it’s like no time has passed and you leave each other saying, “We should do this more often!” and meaning it. And you really want to, but life gets in the way.

An awful lot of life has happened for my little family in the last year. I say that not to make excuses, but just so you know why I’ve been gone so long. I’ll tell about it, as best I can; not today, but soon, and I hope you’ll understand.

Until then, thanks for sticking around. I’m going to share a recipe for turkey soup as a feeble attempt to make up for my long absence. My dad went rogue this Thanksgiving and cooked a small, organic, free-range turkey. And though there was a modicum left over (as compared to the heaping remains of 25-pound Butterballs of the past), it was more than enough for soup, and I was inspired by such a fine specimen of poultry. I don’t usually get too excited about turkey soup (or turkey anything), but this one turned out good enough for seconds.

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Take care of your beautiful self (as my mom always says), and I’ll see you soon.

Turkey Soup
adapted from The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen by Rebecca Katz

Ingredients:

2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
1 small (or half of a large) onion, diced
2 carrots, peeled and diced
2 ribs celery, diced
1 small parsnip, peeled and diced
1 tbsp (or more to taste) minced garlic
1/4 tsp dried oregano
4 sprigs fresh thyme, or 1/4 tsp dried thyme
1/4 tsp ground caraway (a really nice addition if you have it, but optional)
1/2 cup pearl barley, rinsed and drained
8 cups chicken stock
2 cups chopped or shredded cooked turkey
Juice of half a lemon (about 1 1/2 tablespoons)
Salt and freshly ground pepper

Instructions:

Heat the olive oil over medium heat in a large stock pot. Add the onion, sprinkle with salt, and saute until soft and golden, about three minutes. Add the carrots, celery, and parsnip, and continue to saute for another three minutes. Add the garlic, oregano, thyme, caraway, and barley, and saute for another minute or so. Pour in the stock, raise the heat and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat so the soup simmers gently. Add the turkey and simmer for 20 minutes, or until the barley is tender. Turn off the heat, stir in the lemon juice, and taste and adjust for seasoning. Serve with good bread. Makes 4-6 servings, depending on whether or not you go back for seconds.

Glow

On election night, I struggled to sleep. I tossed and turned in bed and was thankful when Lucy awoke at her customary 3 a.m. I changed her and nursed her and sat with her as she drifted off on my lap, cozy in a blanket and secure in my arms. I fell asleep like that, in the yellow armchair with my feet propped on a stool and my nose in her hair. I slept there, holding her, until Mike came in sometime after six, already showered and dressed, to get a sweater from the closet in her room. I didn’t want to let her go.

I had been having nightmares about Trump winning the presidency in the weeks before the election. So I wasn’t altogether surprised when it happened, but, boy, was I sad. I had hoped hard that the bad dreams wouldn’t come true, that my fears would be allayed with a sweeping victory for Hillary Clinton, a victory that would not only give us our first female president but also reassure us, resoundingly, that our country is not lost to hate, ignorance, racism, sexism, and xenophobia. I hoped hard as I waited in line to drop off our ballots. I hoped hard as I played with Lucy at the park under the warm, blue sky. I hoped hard as the results rolled in and the night stretched out, looking bleaker and bleaker. I was ready to celebrate on November 9, to be proud, as a woman with progressive ideals, as a mother to a strong-willed daughter. “That could be you, someday, my love!” is what I wanted to say to her. I wanted to be excited for the future, not scared of it.

But now I am finding it hard to look at her without feeling like I failed her by somehow allowing this ridiculous, terrifying outcome to transpire. I do not want my child to grow up in a country where hate is legitimized and bullies win, a place that is isolated from the world, a place where liberty and freedom and equality are empty promises for most, truly only intended for a privileged few. I don’t know what the next four years will hold, but I am worried. Not just because of the man in office, but because of the ugly truths of this nation that his campaign uncovered. I am worried that people will not be good to one another.

I didn’t want to leave the house yesterday. I had to, though, because we were out of diapers. At the store, I felt distant and floaty, as if I were underwater or had taken a sleeping pill. I pushed the cart slowly, feeling disconnected and yet wondering how many others around me were experiencing the same sadness, the same sense of muted rage. Back home, we went about our day. I stayed away from the news and social media.

After dinner and washing and pajamas, we went outside to say goodnight to the moon. We’ve missed it lately, either because of its newness or the weather or some unnecessary urgency. But last night the moon shone through the window and Lucy beckoned me to the front door to take her outside, into the darkness. I held her up, and she craned and reached toward that glowing rock, joyful and amazed. The world is so magical in her eyes. I need to keep that wonder alive for her as long as I can, to glow for her, reflecting her glory like the moon shines by the sun. She is my sun.

I am uncertain of the future, but what I know is that right now I need to be strong and hopeful–for my sake and for Lucy’s. I need to love her and teach her to love–and to care. We have entered into a strange time, and it is hard not to feel alone and angry and impotent. It doesn’t help, though, feeling like that. It doesn’t make it better.

So her daddy and I will teach her to love. We will teach her to be proud and to believe in herself. We will teach her to look out for those who need help. We will teach her that the world is much bigger than herself.

We will also teach her hard truths, about injustice and prejudice and power. Not to scare or embitter her, but because she needs to know. I don’t want her to be knocked down by somebody else’s blindness or bigotry; knowledge is the best armor we can give her.

Most importantly, we will teach her to see goodness in the world. In people, in nature, in art and music, in experiences: see the good. Reflect it–glow from it–so that others notice, too. Use it as a shield when the world feels menacing.

I hope that this election, which stunned so many, will ignite conversations, actions, and movements that bring healing to communities across the country. I hope that instead of further distancing and alienating ourselves from our neighbors, we seek ways to connect and to fight back, peacefully, for the good we believe in. Perhaps these connections and conversations and actions and movements and fights will be the good that comes out of this mess. We will have to wait and see.

In the meantime, I will watch the moon with Lucy.

Unburdening

It’s funny how saying something out loud (even if “out loud” means shouting it into the cacophonous dump that is the Internet) takes so much of the heaviness away. I guess it’s like confession, an unburdening of what weighs on the spirit. I feel so much better.

Lucy is 16 months old today. Closing in on one-and-a-half…hard to believe. The sun is still with us, off and on, here in late October. We have not yet hunkered down for the long, dark, rainy days of winter in the Northwest. She loves to be outside, no matter the weather, and on days like today, it is easy to go.

 

We go to the park or to the beach, sometimes both. She runs and climbs and slides and follows other kids around. Sometimes she tries to share wood chips with them. Today, she wanted to swing forever. She put her head back and her arms out and laughed at the wind.

She chased seagulls, too, and tried to go after geese that were as big as she is. No fear.

I let her run; she stopped before she hit the water and came back when I called her. When it was time to go, she waved to the playground and said, “Bye-bye!” so sweetly, with no tears. Maybe I bribed her with an applesauce pouch for the ride home, but so what? We’re learning, both of us, and we are happy.

What matters most

I am a monster. I feel prickly and ugly and mean. I yelled at my baby today, and I made her cry. I cried, too. Ugh. I don’t want to write about it, but I need to. I need to unpack and examine the pieces of the broken thing so that I can put it back together in a sturdier way.

My Lucy is, I think we would say, “spirited.” She is unlike me in so many ways. She is confident, outgoing, curious, questioning, physical, and fearless. I love that she is so strong, but it scares me, too. I expect her to do what I ask and to listen when I tell her, “No.” When she doesn’t, when she laughs instead and continues climbing on chairs or eating paper or running away from me, I don’t know what to do. If I snatch her up and try to restrain her, she arches and squirms and practically foams at the mouth, and I fear I will drop her. I want her to learn to communicate and follow directions, not to use force to get what she wants. But I also have to keep her safe; from the beautiful, scary world and from her bold, reckless self.

Today it was the recycling bin. She followed me into the laundry room, where we keep the garbage and recycling. I was changing the wash and looked over to see her picking up an empty beer bottle. “Lucy, no,” I said firmly. “Put it down.” She looked at me and shook her head and said, “No-no,” with her mischievous smile and bright eyes, then lifted it toward her mouth. “NO!” I yelled, in big, red, angry letters. And, in a rage fueled by insecurity, I yanked the bottle from her hand, slammed it down, steered her out of the room, and closed myself in. From the other side of the door, I heard her start to cry in shaky, heaving sobs. I started the washing machine, then stepped out, tears in my own eyes, and gathered her up, shushing and soothing and wiping wet cheeks and apologizing.

I try to stay calm, to use words and actions to teach her limits and expectations, to show her what I mean. I try. But I have a temper that is hotter than I like to admit, and I get so frustrated when she won’t do what I say. I take it personally, as if this 16-month-old baby is deliberately trying to make me mad. (Well, maybe she is because she thinks it’s interesting when I get red in the face and make loud noises.) So I end up grabbing things away from her, picking her up, and removing her, kicking and screaming, from the scene. And then I feel awful and incompetent and too guilty to function for several hours afterward. It is not good. I worry that I am not the best person to be with her all day, every day. I worry that I am going to raise her to be completely out of control, that her teachers will talk about her in the staff room and she’ll need a behavior plan at school. I worry that she’ll be scared of me because I yelled at her or held her too tightly.

Usually, as was the case today, after the tears there are snuggles and stories and a nap. The nap fixes a lot. Lucy gets the rest she needs, rest that is hard to come by for a child who never stops moving. And I get time and space to myself, to take care of what needs tending most–whether it be housework or the emotional beast that lurks in the space that connects my heart and soul and mind. When she wakes up, we are happy to see each other. She buries her face in my neck and lets me hold her for a long time.

I am not a monster, not really. I know that. I’m just a mama who has no clue what she’s doing–and yet feels like she should be doing it better. I’m good at everything, so I should be good at this gig, too. But this is not a gig, and it’s not about doing it right. I’m  not doing it for reward or recognition or even for my own satisfaction. Being Lucy’s mother is my life. It is who I am now. I love her more than myself, more than fresh air and water and stars. I hope that is what matters most. I will learn to be more patient and less uptight, to trust myself as a parent, to find creative and loving ways to teach and discipline. I will try not to yell. Whether or not it harms her, I hate the way it makes me feel.

I will forgive myself, and I will keep trying. I know that she will, too.

 

 

Still here

Hello! We are still here. Why didn’t anyone tell me that the first three months of toddlerhood would be as hard as having a newborn? Seriously. We had this baby thing down. And then, suddenly, we most definitely did not. Lucy transformed–it felt like overnight–from a relatively gentle and mild-tempered child into a running, shrieking, poo-eating, pissed-off tyrant. I was not prepared for the change, and it was tough on all the levels. I felt as though I had done something wrong, and I didn’t know how to fix it. Our “baby-proofed” home turned into a house of horrors, and our beautiful yard became a toxic minefield of hazards. At the park, all she wanted to do was eat wood chips and hug dogs and strangers. At grandma’s house, charge headlong down the stairs and play with fireplace tools. The last couple of months have been nonstop–fraught with anxiety but full of love and fun, too. We are still here, and we are getting the hang of it.

Lucy’s second summer was bursting with firsts. Her first steps got surer and faster every day, and now she runs everywhere on her long, sturdy legs. She finally got some teeth, and now they are coming in strong–and sharp. She understands so much–which she demonstrates by either doing what we say (“Lucy, go get your ball!”) or impishly shaking her head and running, giggling, in the other direction (“Lucy, come get your diaper on!”) She went on her first airplane trip this August, when we flew to Las Vegas and then drove on to Arizona to celebrate her sisters’ birthdays and visit with family. She has learned to make animal noises and use a spoon, sort of. She takes big bites of toast, pizza, bananas, and whatever else she can get her teeth on. She gives the best, tightest hugs and the sweetest kisses. She says, “Mama,” at last. It is such perfect music–even when it’s delivered with dramatic sobs because I won’t let her eat toilet paper or drink my coffee. She is becoming herself. I guess I could say she is becoming more independent, but I’m struck by how little meaning that phrase has until you see it in action.

I am starting to relax a little again, and to revel in her delight at the widening freedom she finds every day. I am amazed by her growth. I can enjoy it now that I am not so constantly terrified of it. She is adjusting to new capabilities and limits, and I am learning to be comfortable with this small person on the loose.

And so we settle in, cautiously content while anticipating the next wave of change. The season is changing, too; fall is here, and I am glad. I love the slanted light and the smoky air. Lucy loves the big, bright moon and the crows. It is cool enough to turn the oven on and bake. We are busy in the kitchen; she reorganizes the pantry, bringing me soy sauce and an unopened box of tapioca while I make cookies. I stop frequently: to comfort her when she drops a can of beans on her toe, to pry from her jaws some bit of crud she has found on the floor, to admire the lid or container or spice jar she wants to show me. I tried letting her stand on a chair to help me mix in chocolate chips, but she thought it would be better to remove them from the dough by the fistful. She’s not so grown up, not yet. Soon enough. I can wait…and I can’t wait. It’s the strangest thing.

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Chocolate Chip Cookies

These are my favorite cookies of all time. I have made two batches in the last three weeks and am almost ready for more. We have been eating quite a lot of cookies lately. Recipes for chocolate chip cookies usually call for equal amounts of white and brown sugar. I was out of brown sugar, so I used extra white sugar and added some molasses (which I did have, for some reason), per the conversion chart in one of my cookbooks. The results were just as good as the original. I also believe chocolate chip cookies are better with nuts. I usually use walnuts, but I was out of those, too. I used cashews in one batch and almonds in the other. Obviously, since we have polished off six dozen cookies in three weeks, these substitutions worked out just fine.

Ingredients:
2 1/4 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1/2 cup each white and brown sugar OR 1 cup white sugar plus 1 tbsp molasses
1 cup (two sticks) butter, softened
2 eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract
12 oz (1 package) chocolate chips
1 cup chopped nuts

Directions:
Preheat oven to 375°. Combine flour, baking soda, and salt in a small bowl and set aside. In a large mixing bowl, beat together butter and sugar until fluffy. Add eggs to butter mixture one at a time, beating after each addition. Beat in vanilla. Gradually add the flour mixture to the wet batter and mix well. (Add about 1/3 cup of the dry ingredients at a time and mix after each addition to minimize the faceful of flour you get when you turn on the beaters. Or mix by hand.) Stir in chocolate chips and nuts.

Drop spoonfuls of dough onto an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake cookies for 9-12 minutes, until they are golden brown. Cool on the cookie sheet for a few minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.

 

We made it

My baby turned ONE!

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It happened so fast, just like that man at the grocery store warned us it would. The last three months have felt like someone pushed fast forward and sped us up, so that now, at this pause, we are breathless, tired, and exhilarated. We made it.

I’ll get to her day in a minute, but first I need some space to stash a few milestones and memories, so that when it’s my turn to give condescending advice to young mothers, I can say smugly and with confidence, “Well, my daughter didn’t crawl until she was almost 11 months, but then she she started walking less than a month later!” while they nod kindly, and murmur, “Mm-hmm,” just like I do now. I understand why they say things like that, in those tones, the veteran mothers. It’s pride and love and enthusiasm for their children, so I don’t mind. But I am always surprised that they remember so clearly. I worry that I won’t. I can’t remember who won the Super Bowl or the World Series from year to year, so maybe I’ll forget Lucy’s stats, too. And really, it doesn’t matter, but I’d like to try to hold on to them–for her, at least, if nothing else, because I’m sure she’ll want to know.

So. She started crawling shortly before the 11-month mark. My sister Maddy was enticing her with a dog-gnawed, slobber-damp tennis ball on the floor at my parents’ house, and Lucy was pretty keen on getting her hands and/or mouth on it. Scooting and army-crawls ensued. A few days later, she started crawling at home, beelining for cords, outlets, sharp corners, and choking hazards, and getting faster by the minute.

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She started pulling herself up on the furniture next, first on the couch and in her crib, then on low tables and windowsills.

(If you are the Mommy Police, please forgive the mobile in that first picture. I didn’t realize she could pull it down on her head, until she did, and then I saw that it was intended “FOR BIRTH TO FIVE MONTHS ONLY.” Oops.)

Cruising came next, slowly at first as she gingerly moved from chair to ottoman, then faster as she became more sure of herself, and finally flying around the perimeter of the living room, coasting smoothly from one handhold to the next. And then, all of a sudden, she let go! She stood there, balancing, clapping, waiting. Mike and I watched, frozen, as she took one step and then a couple more before falling back onto to the carpet with a bump and a giggle. These miraculous steps happened on Tuesday, four days before her birthday on Saturday. Wednesday was my last day of school, for the summer and for the next year because I am taking leave to be just a mama for a while. We made it.

Now it is summer, warm and easy. I’ve been waiting for this time, waiting for the stress and work and worry of teaching to release me so that I can turn my whole focus on home and family. Waiting for Lucy to be one, so we can get on with the business of toddling. I am so happy. She is happy. Mike is happy. It feels as though our whole house has taken a giant sigh of relief. We made it.

We had tickets to the Mariners game on Lucy’s birthday, June 25, but as we got closer to the day, that seemed like the wrong activity for a baby’s first birthday. So we gave them away and went to the zoo instead. Lucy loved it, as we knew she would. She smiled at the gorillas, howled with the lemurs, and crooned at the giraffes. The rainbow-colored tropical birds delighted her, and the wiggly brown otters made her laugh. We bought her a stuffed tiger at the gift shop, and she hugged and kissed it until she fell asleep on the way home.

For dinner, we had salmon and lentils with roasted cauliflower (one of her faves), followed by vanilla cupcakes. She ate it up, proudly using a small fork and spoon that belonged to my sister; my mom had pulled them out of the curio chest last time we visited her. She was too tired to open her presents that night, so she went to bed and slept like an angel.

She opened gifts the next day, some from us and some from her grandparents and aunties. She loved them all: the baby doll, the blocks, the toy lawnmower, the mini trike, the zoo puzzle that makes sounds, the dump truck with drivers, the stuffed narwhal. Each morning now, when I bring her out of her room to greet the day, she giggles and points and wriggles toward her birthday loot.

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So it was a great success, birthday number one. Lucy is not a baby anymore. I didn’t cry, like I thought I might, at such an important and bittersweet transition. She is such a bright and cheery light, one that is much too strong to let sadness linger very long. And now we will move on, into the summer, with walks and talks and trike rides ahead. Days at the beach and baseball games and popsicles and sprinklers. We made it.

Birthday Dinner (Pan-seared Salmon with Braised Lentils)
adapted from Cooks Illustrated – serves 4; or 2 adults and a toddler, with leftovers

2 tbsp butter, divided
1/2 bunch Swiss, red, or rainbow chard – stems and leaves separated, stems chopped and leaves cut into 1/2-inch ribbons
1/4 cup finely chopped onion
1 clove garlic, minced
1 big pinch dried thyme
2 cups chicken stock or water
1/2 cup lentils
1/2 tsp lemon juice
salt and pepper
4 salmon fillets, skinned
1 tsp oil

This is a one-pan recipe, so choose a wide-bottomed, heavy skillet that is big enough to fit all of your salmon fillets.

Melt 1 tbsp butter over medium heat. Sauté the chard stems and onion until soft, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and thyme and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add 1-3/4 cup broth, lentils, and lemon juice. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, cover, and simmer until the lentils are tender to your liking, 30-45 minutes. Taste and season with salt and pepper. Transfer the lentils to a bowl and cover to keep warm.

Wipe the pan clean. Pat salmon dry and season with salt and pepper. Heat oil over medium-high heat. Add salmon, skinned side up, and cook until browned and fillet releases easily from the pan. This takes five minutes or so. The flesh should be opaque to a point about halfway up the fillet. Carefully flip the fillets and continue cooking on the other side for 3-5 minutes. Transfer to a plate and tent with foil to keep warm.

Finish the lentils by transferring them back to the pan. Add remaining 1/4 cup of broth and cook until hot. Add the chard leaves and remaining butter. Stir until chard is wilted, about 3 minutes. Taste, season, and serve topped with salmon fillets.