IT'S DIFFERENT NOW: DIFFERENT GOOD

I used to travel alone all the time. Sometimes for work and sometimes for fun. Several years ago after a bad breakup I decided that I just couldn't celebrate Thanksgiving the traditional way (surrounded by family all tilting their head to one side as they asked me how I was doing...ugh) so I booked a solo trip to Oceanside, CA. The hotel pity-upgraded me (this poor thing is all alone on Thanksgiving, give her the suite). I walked to a grocery store and stocked-up on diet cokes and hot tamales and picked out a dusty Cup-O-Noodles to eat on the beach at sunset on Thanksgiving.

It was perfectly heartbreaking; all of it. I remember sitting alone and watching the sun melt into the Thanksgiving waves and I felt peace. I was at peace being alone. At peace digging my toes in the sand. At peace slurping my Cup-O-Noodles. At peace with my anonymity. Mostly the last one. You know how there are people who always needs to be with someone? Always need to call a friend and can't stand spending one night alone watching Bed of Roses for the umpteenth time? That is NOT me. Being alone and anonymous is practically the best thing ever because you can feel how you want to feel and act how you want to act and NOBODY notices.

Now when I travel I'm part of this big caravan. I'm not the girl in the window seat on the plane who puts on her headphones and sleeps the entire flight. I'm the mom with toys and bottles and a poopy diaper in my purse who has an entire game plan for a smooth flight. I'm the woman that girl with the headphones is trying to avoid. Goodbye anonymity.

The first few days in Santa Monica were just for me and Clem to enjoy. Nate had meetings and work to do so I'd put Clemmy in the stroller or baby bjorn and we'd just go on mini adventures. And the thing is, I wasn't anonymous for even a moment. I always got noticed with Clementine. I know people love babies; people LOVE Clementine. A lot. To the point where I couldn't go anywhere without someone tickling her or playing peek-a-boo with her or biting her toes. Yes, I said biting her toes. And it's not their fault, really. It's Clementine's fault. Because she has these eyes that cast a spell on you. She's got eye of newt and dragonfly wings and all sorts of spellbinding concoctions behind those baby-blues and once you look into them you cannot be held responsible for your actions.

See. I told you.

So now I'm basically Clementine's wingman. We walk into a room, she sniffs out the nice ones and then they are magically summoned by her eyes to come and talk to us and tell us how cute she is. How is that for a commanding presence? She forces me out of my quiet; out of my shell; out of my head. And I have to interact and make eye contact and share my Cup-O-Noodles and sunset with handfuls of strangers who I never knew could make life so much more interesting.

HYSTERICAL BLINDNESS AND A MACHETE

In my life I've played both the role of a brave warrior and a yellow-bellied coward. For instance: when I was about ten I used to climb up this tree in our neighborhood and swing on the rope swing (warrior). But then one day I somehow slipped out of the tree and broke my arm. I ran all the way home crying and vowing NEVER to go on that rope swing again (yellow) and I never did.

Once, in college, I agreed to go bungee jumping with some girlfriends. I tried everything to conveniently get out of it since the mere thought of being up high gives me vertigo. Unfortunately my friends wouldn't accept any of my excuses. There I was, crawling up the stairs of the tower on my knees (yellow) even my spleen was quivering with fear. But then, quite unexpectedly, I plunged off the tower without hesitation (warrior). Don't go throwing the confetti and celebrating my achievement just yet because after I jumped off the tower I WENT BLIND. Really. I'm not just using that as a metaphor to say I was really scared. I literally lost my sight. It's called hysterical blindness (yellow).

There are plenty more examples to share but I should save some of my stories for when we meet in person. I can't give away all my funny conversational anecdotes. I used to think this was normal until I got married and Nate pointed out that I was basically insane. That people don't work themselves into a lather the way I do.

See, disasters don't really have to strike in order for me to turn yellow and get scared. My imagination does a perfectly good job playing out the worst possible scenario, the most horrific outcome, the absolute most painful ending to just about anything. And that's really all it takes for me to decide it's safer here, sitting on the side of the pool with my feet in the water. Really, it's great here. You go enjoy the rush of the water slide or the cliff jump. I'm just fine here in the shade.

So the same thing was happening when we started talking about having kids. In my mind the delivery was super traumatic and my baby ended up with six heads and I was the worst mother on the planet. I just couldn't bring myself to give birth to my beloved six-headed off spring. I was yellow. As yellow as they come. But then 37 became 38 and then I was 39. Time was not on my side.

So Dec 31, 2010, I took a pregnancy test and faced all those fears at once. Alone. Sitting on the toilet frozen in time. I don't know if I sat there for 3 minutes or 3 hours. Thinking about my six-headed baby and his 12 eyes blinking at me and then biting off my hand with his razor sharp teeth.

The pregnancy was pretty crazy. I started with twins, hemorrhaged, miscarried one of the twins, grew a uterine cyst the size of a cantaloupe and went into labor 6-weeks early. My plans were a quiet and peaceful hypno-birth and what I got was an emergency c-section where I was cut open with a machete. In my mind it was a machete and a chainsaw and they held my middle open with one of those devices you see at the orthodontist. Only bigger. This part is actually true. Nate witnessed it. He said there was one person on each side stretching me open like the grand canyon. I wince at the thought.

And then out came this perfect creature. Bruised and tiny but so so brave. I was taken one way and she went another and for about 6 hours I didn't hold her. But this sense of total accomplishment came over me. I thought, now, if I can do that surely I can bungee jump and rope swing and the million other things I've been too afraid to do.

Clementine is my anthem. My badge of courage. Giving birth to her was the scariest thing I've ever done. And every time I look at her little face I'm reminded of just how wonderful and rewarding being brave can be. To imagine a world without Clementine is a world that isn't as bright and lacks adequate joy. And if I had allowed my fear to stand in the way of that it would have been a real tragedy.

So, here's to all the scary things in my future. To all the things that make my knees buckle, make my hair stand on end or even cause psychological blindness. Here's to the machetes and bone saws. If that's what it takes to bring sunshine into the world then I'll do it. I'll do it. I'll do it.

Little Tiny Brave Clementine

I'M SICK IN LOVE

Well, it's that time again. Time to grab the Kleenex, sip the warm cold remedy of choice, and tell Nate every ten minutes how much my throat hurts/chest is heavy/body aches. And also the time to lament and regret every open-mouth kiss I've shared with Clementine the past few days. I pray her flu shot and immune system strong-arm this bug.
The worst thing about being sick when you are a mom...nothing changes. Diapers still need to be changed, dust still gathers, laundry piles up, dinner needs making, dishes need washing. Dear moms from eras gone by, current and future, I THINK YOU ARE AMAZING. The way you manage to hold things together in between sneezes. The way you still take care of your families when you need some TLC yourselves.

"Hey Nate, my throat hurts"

Now for the love part of this post. I love my baby girl. I love her crazy little hairline that can't make up its mind. I love her deep blue eyes that already have a story to tell. I love how she mimics Nate when he talks to her. I love her little nose and how she wrinkles it up just for fun all the time. I love her spongy little cheeks and how they feel when I kiss them. I love her forever pink plump lips spreading wide when she smiles. I love her fingers and how she is so amazed by them at the moment. I love the little bald spot on the back of her head. I love those eyebrows people! I love how she gets all grabby with her feet, how she is a baby tsunami in the bathtub, and how she spit up directly into my mouth today. There is just so much to love.

"Nate, my body hurts. So. Much."

There are two main comments I heard when pregnant.
1. You and Nate better enjoy the afternoon naps and spontaneity now because your lives are about to change. ("duh")
2. They grow up so fast. Enjoy it while you can.

Both cautionary tales scared me. Kinda. The first one was more irritating than anything else. First of all, I'm 39, I think I'm hip to the idea that having a baby will change my life. Also, I found it pretty interesting that the same people that were warning me about how my life was about to get so much harder were the same people that kept saying "you need to have a baby, it's the best". Sidebar: our lives have changed, for sure. All for the better. All for the better.

"Nate, my chest feels so heavy."

The second statement echoed in my head over and over like Berlioz playing at the end of Sleeping with the Enemy. Scary. Like, I knew things were going to end badly. As in, me 70 years old, listening to Cat's in the Cradle and smelling one of Clementine's old baby blankets while I lay in a ball up in her old treehouse. How do you make sure to enjoy every minute? This warning has turned me into a basket case. I'm doing my best though. I smell her head and kiss her and nibble on her toes and hug her little body when she sleeps on my shoulder. I tell her I love her and smile at her and cheer her on when she does something groundbreaking like sit up or eat. Sidenote: I'm learning how to enjoy every minute while brushing my teeth and folding laundry because multitasking is in my blood.

"Nate, can you make me some tea?"

Finally, one of my favorite photos. Just 3-weeks old and weighing little more than a butternut squash.

Her hands are the size of walnuts.

WHAT IS MY STORY?

Tonight I went on a date. With my husband. Like, the kind where you leave the house wearing lipstick and go someplace like a restaurant or a theater. Only I just wore lip gloss and, of course, sweats. Nate's dad and brother are picking up his mom at the airport tomorrow; she has been in New Mexico helping out with the newest member of the Conger clan (new baby Brian Asher. Double yay!). And since we live so close to the airport...So, long story short, I put Clementine to bed, made pizza, and then Nate and I went to a movie at 10:30 PM! Thank you Grandpa and James for standing guard and protecting my little one while she dreams.

We saw Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I loved it. I went prepared to sob my eyes out. But instead found myself completely involved with the story and, more than anything, adoring that quirky, neurotic little boy. I walked out of the theater thinking, "If my little Clementine can be that brave and determined and curious with her life then I will have done my job well."

On our way home from the theater Nate and I were talking and an interesting topic came up. One worth thinking more about. It started out like this:

Tonia: That movie reminded me, again, how important it is not to judge people. Everyone has a story and if we knew their story we'd understand them better.
Nate: Yeah Tonia, I've been meaning to tell you that you are so judgmental (tongue-in-cheek).
Tonia: Well, I do make assumptions sometimes about people that are more on the eccentric side. But I guess we are all pretty eccentric when you think about it.
Nate: yup.
Tonia: But do I want anyone to know my story? I kind of feel like it's pretty typical. Born into a middle class family, had pets, learned to swim, broke a few bones, went to prom, college, jobs, marriage, baby. Nothing extraordinary happened or didn't happen. I really want my story to be interesting...not like everyone else's. Hopefully it will stand out in some way before it's over.
Nate: Oh Tonia (shaking his head).
Tonia: One of my greatest fears is living a mediocre life so I'm hoping my story can stand on its own some day. That it won't be so forgettable.

Anyway, that's the beginning of our conversation. But not the end of my thought process. I hope it doesn't sound like I'm ungrateful for my life or looking for any drama. I just want the story of Tonia to be one you want to be told over and over. Or the kind of story you start reading at bedtime and just can't put down.

I think the only way to have a story like that is to be authentic and live honestly. Not for anyone else but you. Not with any thought to "what will others think". The best way to encourage Clementine to live courageously, determined, and curious is be courageous, determined and curious. Make no room for doubting. No room for second guesses.

I'm writing my own story, word by word. And I'm helping create Clementine's story, and I'm playing a key role in Nate's story. So I have a lot of responsibility. I have a lot of living to do; a lot of living minus all the fear and doubt. That's a big pill to swallow.

2009, Mexico. I was horrified to scuba dive. But I did it.
And look at my smile. Must have more of these moments.

How do you do that? How do you live free of worry and doubt and second guessing? How do you live without the presence of fear? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

LOVE, AND OTHER WORDS CLEMENTINE TAUGHT ME

Being 40 when you have your first baby is super rad. But I must admit that days after we had Clementine Nate declared "Let's do this again soon" and I retorted, "Why did we wait so long in the first place?" I love being Clemmy's mama right now, just as it is, forty and fabulous. But I feel a little silly having lived 40 years before I learned the meaning of certain things. I graduated with a degree in English. My vocabulary is okey dokey (see?), but then along came Clem and my eyes were opened. Case in point:

SAHM: Stay at Home Mom. Yes, I joined some online mom communities. I knew there would be questions I'd have at 2am and the Internet would be the only one awake to answer them. SAHM gets thrown around a lot, as does DH (dear husband), LO (little one) and EFF (exclusively formula feeding). That last one stings because EBF (exclusive breast feeding) moms think you are pathetic and lazy. Suck it EBF moms. I EFF and my baby is strong and healthy and PERFECT. Sheesh

MAMA BEAR: I thought I had a handle on this one. I've always said that if you mess with my family or friends I'll go "mama bear" on your ass. But I think I only knew how to go "bear" on your ass before I had Clementine. For example, let's say you're unkind to my sister. I would come to your house and tell you exactly what I thought of you...throwing in all sorts of expletives and "why I oughta's". Say something unkind to Clementine and while I'm at your house giving you the "what for" I'll also reach into your chest, pull out your heart, and feed it to you. THAT is how I serve up a little mama with my bear.

PARENTAL PRIDE: I just didn't understand those tacky parents who drove around with the stickers that said, "Proud parent of an honor roll student." Oh, I get it now. I mean, if I thought you'd listen I'd tell you how Clementine is the world's best sleeper/pooper/smiler and that she eats solids with such voracity that I want to stand on my front porch and tell the world that my miniature-born preemie baby eats solids way better than ANY BABY EVER DID while I held her little body up toward the heavens ala Lion King.

OVER-PROTECTIVE: My plan before I had Clementine was to go back to work. For my sanity. Yeah, right. Let me just say that I've caught myself telling my own mother how to feed my baby. I've also given her pointers on how to change a diaper, read a bedtime story, and burp. My. Own. Mother. Hi, I'm Tonia, and I'm over-protective. If I've ever let you hold Clementine, feed her, change her, or look at her for too long, then you know I love you and trust you with my most precious possession.

LOVE: Sure I loved before Clemmy. I loved my family, my friends, Nathan. Nate has been known to make fun of me because I love so enthusiastically. He calls me Elmira after the Tiny Toons character. I grew up hearing my parents and Sunday school teachers tell me that Heavenly Father loved me. I sang songs about it in primary. I knew it as a fact the way I know that Abraham Lincoln was a good president; because someone told me he was. But after I held Clementine for the first time; saw her tiny wrinkled body thriving and strong; recognized her graceful, patient spirit; witnessed this miracle baby sprint into life with the kind of gusto you read in a Hemingway novel; I thought, Wow, Heavenly Father does love me. He loves me enough to let me take care of THIS little one. And he probably loves me the way I love her. I really had no idea about love.

Are you kidding me with this face? 

LOOK UP

I read a well-written and perfectly-timed article from the Huffington Post by Glennon Melton a few days ago. I was feeling really down about my body, getting super tired of the two pair of black yoga pants I keep wearing, tired of all my sloppy t-shirts, tired of my gray hair and ashen skin. Just tired. Period. I cannot blame this on Clementine. She sleeps 8-10 hours every night. Has since she was 8 weeks old. I did nothing to make that happen by the way. She gets all the credit. Anyway, read the article. It will change your perspective.

So after I read the article I knew I had a choice. I could look up or I could look down.

When I look down I see my morphed body. What used to suck in now doesn't. What used to be tight is now...not. When I look down I see the crumbs on the floor and the dust bunnies floating around and settling in great numbers in the corners. When I look down I see the laundry I sorted but didn't get around to doing anything about. When I look down I see my dirty tub and toilets, a stack of books I keep meaning to read, Christmas stockings I never finished making, a bag of clothes that needs to go to the DI. When I look down, my bed isn't made and there are dishes in the sink and formula spills on the couch. When I look down I miss Nate's face.When I look down I get down.

When I look up it's a different story. I see Clementine doing an amazing superman impression, above my head. When I look up her face swallows me up and hours pass unnoticed. When I look up I see Nate's eyes that I swear can speak to me if I'm quiet enough. When I look up I see the walls and ceiling which rarely look dirty. When I look up I see potential and hope. God is up there, too, just hoping I keep this perspective a little longer. When I look up I'm alarmingly present and living in the moment. When I look up I don't see myself and the body I've become. Looking up, I'm aware of who I really am and it has nothing to do with yoga pants or dust bunnies and the dirty toilets.

So much time has been wasted looking down so I quit. To hell with it. Tonight I watched Nate give Clementine a bath. My two favorite people splashing and totally connected. Both of them smiling. I smothered lavender and chamomile lotion all over Clem's body and noticed how soft her feet are. I put her in those cute polka dot jammies I love. I fed her carrots and apples and bananas and parsnips and she ate it all with the ferociousness of a lion. And then we rocked and I told her the story of when she was born and I watched her eyes sloooooooowly close. I would have missed it all searching for buns of steel.

So I think I've just figured out what my resolution is. Scrap all the "go to the dentist" and "lose 30 pounds" because that will come in time. But if I live this year...or better yet, if I live this LIFE looking up, then boy have I really lived.

I love taking Clem on walks and talking about stuff!

THANK YOU 2011

Two Thousand and Eleven has been both ugly and beautiful. Without getting specific, the ugly part ended around 5:00 pm on April 20 whereupon my frown turned upside down and I was able to liberate myself from a really bad situation. Ridiculous circumstances; ridiculous people. Ahhh. Relief. Freedom.

But let's focus on the beautiful part of this year. Please. The beauty started late in 2010 when little Clementine secretly joined our family. I didn't know. Nate didn't know. But Dec 31 we both discovered her clandestine plan and celebrated in secret among friends. There was something fun about locking eyes with Nate in a room full of new-year celebrators, and sharing THAT secret with him.

I became more real in 2011. Removing the crap gave me the opportunity to really figure out who I am. So, let me introduce myself. I'm Tonia. I turned 40 this year; I'm told I look 30 which I find kind of fabulous. I love lip gloss but recently decided to try red lipstick. I take long baths but it's less realistic with a baby. I like trying new recipes and I'm almost always surprised when they taste good. I curse less these days but when I do I REALLY mean it. If you see me picking my cuticles you'll know I'm either nervous or bored. I hate socks.

I'm a mom now. Three short days after turning 40 (and six weeks ahead of schedule) a little 4.5 lb Clementine burst into our lives with such vim and vigor. I've never met someone and immediately known what kind of animal they would be...until Clemmy. I spent ten days in the hospital, staring at this little person who was more brave, patient, ferocious, determined and gracious than anyone I've ever met. She was my LION. Which I guess makes me one, too.

I'm much quieter. I don't mean I've stopped talking or being super obnoxious; I just mean that my thoughts are more quiet. It's a little more peaceful in my noggin now. Clementine had a lot to do with that but so has weekly therapy and LOTS of hard work. When I'm tired and the week before my period, all bets are off though.

I had someone at the doctor's office call me a homemaker and my heart jumped into my throat in the same way it would if someone told me my baby was ugly. I'm still working through that one. Changing my VP acronym to SAHM (google it) has been super tough but one of the very best things I've ever done. However, could someone PLEASE figure out a good way to help mom's feel more appreciated. Maybe mother's day will work; I'll let you know.

And let's be clear. If my body wasn't so freaking comfortable in yoga pants I'd be wearing those super cool colored jeans this season. I love them. Probably bright day-glow yellow and saturated blue.

In March, Nate and I sat in our hotel room on the 8th floor of the Marriott in Oahu and watched the destruction of the tsunami hit Japan. And then we settled in for a long night as we heard emergency alarms sound all over the island. In April we went to Arizona to hear The Black Keys (rad show) and then flew to San Diego to see The Kills the very next night. I was pregnant and believe you me...we got good seats because of it. Clementine enjoyed the shows.

Thank you for the good and the bad, 2011. Thank you for teaching me so much, taking so much away, and then giving it back tenfold. Thank you for being beautiful. For Clementine. For jobs and a home. For Nate. Thank you for family, for my hair, for yoga pants and the internet. Thank you for friends and love and baby formula. Thank you for mammograms and c-sections and baby magic lotion. Thank you for being over now so I can start new and fresh.

Also, and completely unrelated, LOOK HOW BEAUTIFUL MY LION IS. Did you just melt into a big human puddle on the floor? I don't blame you. It's been my constant state since July 22, 5:47pm.

THIS HOUSE MADE ME SMILE

I try to keep my house tidy. And like most people it can get the best of me sometimes. It's not at it's worst, that's for sure. That might be the day I was baking banana bread, doing all sorts of laundry, wrapping presents...you get the idea.

A year ago I tried to live a very grown up life. You know, nice coffee table books out to make me look smart and interesting. A cashmere (faux) throw tossed over the corner of the couch. The cool candlesticks I got in Africa and the man-on-cow wooden carving Nate picked up in the Philippines displayed so everyone would know we were well-traveled.

When we first had Clementine one of my friends dropped in to meet her and he told me that finally we were like everyone else..."you have baby stuff everywhere". When I heard that I was all, "hell to the no". I mean, there was still some old Tonia remaining. The girl who thought her house defined her.

Tonight I was upstairs and I stopped at the window that looks over our greatroom. As I gazed over the unkept room I saw Clementine's swing in the corner, her play yard in the middle of the floor, a baby blanket on the chair, her car seat stashed behind the chair, a bumbo seat on the counter and several baby bottles laying around. And this house made me smile. My clean, grown up house never gave delight the way a tiny sock laying on the floor can. 

THIS I BEQUEATH

Have I got bad habits. Lots and lots of them. Probably at least one for every hair on my head. Look, I'm not bragging about it; just being honest. That might be one of my bad habits right there. I'm pretty open and I really don't think there are many taboo topics. So while I'm being honest others might find me irreverent (at best) or really offensive (I'm sure...many times). In the middle of a story it's not uncommon for Nate to sing out "TMI Tonia, TMI.
So, I've become really worried about Clementine adopting my bad habits. I've heard time and time again that a child's biggest influence is the same gender parent which means I have the honor and burden of being the biggest influence in Clemmy's life. SCARY. Scary because the voice in my head can be really critical and mean and it has an eagle eye for every flaw I have. Scary because I can be lazy. Scary because I'm tremendously addictive. Scary because the fear of failing often stops me from trying. Scary because the pursuit of perfection is exhausting.
I've spent some time talking with my therapist about my fear of passing on bad Tonia-traits to Clementine and have had an "aha" moment. Thru our discussions I've learned that no one is perfect and every parent is sure to pass on dozens of bad habits to their offspring. There's really nothing we can do about it. Any of us. So I'm focusing on something else. If Clementine sees me openly working on my faults, without judging myself, then she'll realize that it's okay to be imperfect. She'll see that life is just a process of working on yourself, to improve what you can and accept the rest. If I can pass this self-acceptance and self-improvement on to her then I'll be forever completely proud of myself. Also, I apologize if Clementine is irreverent or offensive. She learned it from me.
The end.

We were both sick. So we snuggled.