On Saturday morning, I checked my email. I checked my email and I saw a message from my friend. I opened the message and learned that her husband’s father had died just an hour before she wrote the message. He was sick, but being treated, and his death was sudden. My friend and her husband were skiing with their kids and did not make it home before he passed.

I read the email and I felt a rush of sadness. Sadness for him, this guy I know and like very much. Because I know what it feels like, and what it means, to lose a father. I am three-plus years out from losing Dad and my grief is still here, hovering, lingering, shaping me. It is more subtle in its presence, more quiet in its questions, more wily in its ways, but it is here. And Saturday, I felt it. I did. I was brought back to the day Dad died, a day that was surreal and slippery and just plain sad. I remember what my Big Girl wore that day. She was eighteen months. Basically bald.

She wore a gray tutu. I remember how she ran around twirling as we all sat there at my parents’ kitchen table bleary-eyed and stunned. My girl’s twirling saved me a bit that day. It did.

Saturday shaped up to be a good, sturdy day. Standard weekend fare. We spent hours in pajamas. There were juice boxes and art projects and cartoons. There was a trip to the playground. There were tears and laughs and snuggles. There was love. In the evening, Little Girl was fussy and I gave her a bath in hopes of soothing her before bed. I plopped her in the water and soaped her up and rinsed her. And then I watched. I watched her splash and squeal. I watched her study the tiny soap bubbles on the surface of the water. I watched as she poked these bubbles with her little fingers. I watched as her eyes grew wide and wild when she saw a little pink object pop up from below. Her own toe.

I watched. It was something I’ve seen so many times. But it was also brand new. I smiled.

Grief is a terrible and tricky beast. But there is something to be said for grief and what it can do. If we let it bloom, if we let it in, grief can make the little mundane moments that pepper our days absolutely magical. It can make those little snippets of ordinary life glisten and glow.

Like tiny little soap bubbles in a baby’s bath.

G – I am so sorry. There are no words.

You know just how much I love baby name posts. (Here’s the post where I asked you to help me name Little Girl. It’s the all-time most popular post on this blog!) And I know just how much you love baby name posts. So let’s get down to business…

As many of you know, Sister C is expecting her second child (yes, a girl!) in early March. She’s actually due on Little Girl’s birthday which is pretty cool, I think. Anyway, she’s getting close. A mere six weeks away. And she and her husband are still without a name for this little chickadee.

That’s where we all come in.

Okay, a little information to get our baby name radars pointed in the right direction. Sister C’s two-year-old son, known affectionately as Baby Bulldog on this blog, has a wonderful and unique name in real life. I will not disclose his name, but I will tell you that it is a three-syllable Irish surname that is quite obscure when used as a first name. (Think: Garrity, Gulliver, Callahan.) Their last name is two syllables, ends in an “y” sound. (Like: Rowley, Donnelley, Terry.)

I asked C to describe the kind of name they are looking for. And she said they are looking for a name that fits the following three criteria:

1. A name that is either unusual or not very popular;

2. A name that is two or three syllables; and

3. A name that is both strong and feminine.

I know this is still somewhat confusing and cryptic. How much simpler this would be if I just told you their son’s name and their last name? Alas. Not going to happen. But I will list a few names they like very much, and have considered, but have decided at this point not to use for one reason or another: Georgiana, Annabel, Henrietta, Bridget, Petra, Genevieve.

Okay, it’s your turn. Our turn. Oh yes, I plan to brainstorm today and post my suggestions too. Any ideas? I’m sure you’re full of them… Particularly you, my friend Abby Sandel of the fabulous baby name blog Appellation Mountain (where I stumbled upon Little Girl’s name last December!)

Ready, set, go! Let’s name my sister’s baby girl! If the above confuses you (it kind of confuses me) just throw out some unique baby girl names you love.

My girls are really good kids. At least I think so. They watch a fair bit of television and their nutritional proclivities need some work, but they are kind, thoughtful little creatures. I’m proud of this. I hope it continues.

The winter months are a challenge for us because they are chock-full of celebrations and gifting opportunities. Christmas obviously brings with it lists for Santa, expectations for certain loot, and endless goodies, edible and other. The season seems to spread itself wide, stretching for the whole month of December and beyond. It doesn’t help that we celebrate with both my family and Husband’s; there are gifts in both places, stockings in both places, doting grandparents, aunts and uncles in both places, and a surplus of cousins on my side. And then. And then it is Big Girl’s birthday and this usually entails several parties. The family parties – at home, with my family, with Husband’s. And the friend party. By the middle of the month (a.k.a. Now) our home is stuffed with stuff.

But this is not a post about stuff. It’s not a post about excess at the end of which I will predictably proclaim: Less is more! This post would be a compelling one; maybe I will write it and soon. But this post is about children.

My children. Your children. Children.

Okay, cut to the chase: When my kids receive lots of things, they ask for more things. They do not quite grasp that holidays and birthdays are discrete days that come and go, that they are not entitled to new stuff everyday. When I try to explain to my kids that they are fortunate, that they should appreciate what they have, they seem to understand but then they often slip into some kind of whine-fest/shockingly-articulate-negotiation-mode that drives me marginally berserk. Now, I must say, this whiny business has gotten leagues better in the recent weeks, but I think this is worth discussing because from what I’ve gathered by talking to fellow parental units, I am far from alone.

How do we prevent our children from becoming spoiled brats?

This question has been on my mind a lot lately. Husband and I have had many a conversation about this. And we’ve come to no ready conclusion. There are the obvious approaches: Do not give them an excessive number of gifts! Do not allow them to attend an excessive number of birthday parties or have birthday parties that are excessive in nature! If they have birthday parties, institute a no-gift policy up front! Engage your kids in meaningful service/charity opportunities through which they can gain perspective and glimpse lives of the less-fortunate!

There is no doubt that all of these things could work. I know that. But here’s the thing: My girls are five, three, and ten months. They are young. They are still new to this world. They can only grasp and internalize so much. I would love to know how to more subtly instill in them a sense of gratitude and graciousness. The reality is that they will get gifts. The reality is that they will go to parties. The reality is that they will celebrate holidays and birthdays multiple times. The reality is that they will be exposed to privilege and entitlement and stuff.

What can we do in the face of these realities? What should we do?

I write this because I am a mother and this strikes me as an important challenge.

I write this because I have a hunch this has been a challenge many of you have faced in one form or another with various degrees of success.

Mostly though, I write this because I love them and I care. About who they are now. And, also, who it is they become.

{The big girls’ lovely 2011 letter to Santa featuring an exquisitely-rendered Rudolph.}

Oh. P.S. – For any of you following the delightful Rowley vomit saga with interest, Big Girl, our last one standing, bit the dust last night. Poor babe. Five for five!

Any bits of more practical or philosophical wisdom on how we can avoid spoiling our children? How do we maintain the purity and goodness we glimpse in them this early on?

Maybe I was feeling extra vulnerable yesterday because I knew deep down that my entire family was about to be ravaged by the stomach flu that sidelined me on Monday?

Honestly, I thought we were in the clear. I got sick on Sunday night and was in recovery mode Monday and Tuesday. Husband and the girls were fine. How lucky, huh? Not so fast. While Big Girl and I were walking home from school (it was an unusually balmy January afternoon), Nanny sent the following text: Middle Girl is crying. Says her tummy hurts.

My (utterly eloquent) message back: Crap. Keep me posted.

Minutes later, from Nanny: She threw up!

As my eldest and I strolled home, we got several more texts and you know just what they said. When I arrived home, Middle Girl was in bed napping. That is, until I heard her vomiting her mac and cheese lunch into her hair over the sound monitor. A quick bath and change into ballerina pajamas and she was back on the couch, balled-up. Every twenty minutes or so, she grabbed for my arm and gave me that sweet and sad look with her blue eyes and I marched her off to the toilet. Rinse and repeat all afternoon and evening. She munched on a lonely Saltine and sipped some fancy water (Pedialyte) and curled up for bed on a blow-up mattress by the foot of our bed. During the whole ordeal? Barely a tear.

Husband was the next to fall. After dinner, my good man ran out to purchase the aforementioned Saltines and when he returned, he shot me a look that said, I am not okay. He melted into the couch, got sick fifteen or so minutes later, and then hopped over Middle Girl’s mattress throughout the night to make it to that magic bowl.

But the saddest by far? Little Girl. At one point as we were all trying to fall asleep, we heard a few coughs and whimpers on her monitor. We heard this and turned on the video monitor and saw our baby squirming around, but then she settled, and appeared to be sleeping. Phew, I mumbled. Foolishly. Husband, thoughtful man even when wildly ill, said that maybe I should check and make sure she didn’t get sick in her crib. Off I went.

When I opened the nursery door, I smelled it. I tiptoed to her crib and there she was, my sweet little girl, sleeping face down in a pool of cheery orange vomit. I plucked her from the nastiness. Her face was covered. The tips of her eyelashes were orange. Her blue eyes were red. I stripped her down and wrapped her in a towel. She played with a rubber ducky on the floor as I stripped her crib, changed the sheets, and threw all tainted items into the wash. Then there was bath. Though clearly miserable, she smiled a bit and splashed a bit. More pajamas. Another sleep sack. A bunch of cuddles on the rocking chair and I put her back in the crib (on a towel). She didn’t cry.

And I curled up to sleep on the daybed in her room. The place where I spent so many nights during her first months. Though exhausted and disgusted, it felt like an odd privilege to be back there, curled up, inches from my babe, listening to her breathe, and sleep. The problem though? I couldn’t. I couldn’t sleep. But I stayed there for hours, waiting for her to cry, to get sick again. Mercifully, she didn’t. Around 2:30am, I sneaked back into my own bed. The only issue was that Middle Girl had climbed in on my side and splayed herself like a starfish. I made it work.

At 5am, Little Girl cried again and so I went to her. This time, no smell, no sickness. Again, I curled up on that blue flowered bed and this time I slept. Goodness did I sleep. Until 7am when my sick hubby came to retrieve me to tend to the big girls who were awake.

So now? We are all up. PJ-clad, various levels of sicky. The baby is up t0o and seems to be on the mend. The wild card is Big Girl. She hasn’t gotten sick yet. My overwhelming instinct is to keep her home from school today, that she is a ticking sick bomb. Or maybe, just maybe, she has an immune system of steel?

Okay, that’s all folks. Sorry to regale you with the details of my brood’s descent into stomach flu hell, but somehow it makes me feel better to acknowledge my current reality here, to realize that my kids, even when tested and twisted by terrible germs, are really quite amazing and resilient.

Okay, must go. Need to fix Middle Girl an “ice chip sundae,” whip up a “fancy water bottle” for the baby, check on my man, and explain to my biggest that she will not be going to school because she might get sick at any minute. Alas.

Why do you think it can be helpful to record these stories despite their patent ick-factor and utter lack of profundity? Do you think it is the right call to keep Big Girl back from school? Seriously, I want your thoughts on this one. And what if she doesn’t get sick today – Do I send her tomorrow then?

My favorite posts on this blog are my vulnerable ones. The ones where I sit at this screen and admit being lost, examine my struggles, and say: I don’t know. To me, these posts are the most raw, the most human, the most universal.

My favorite conversations in life are my vulnerable ones. The ones where we sit together and admit being lost, examine our struggles, and say: We don’t know. To me, these conversations are the most raw, the most human, the most universal.

My favorite stories, read and written, are the vulnerable ones. The ones where characters convene and admit being lost, examine their struggles, and say: We don’t know. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s real. Maybe that’s grand.

Vulnerability. It’s clearly something I revere and yet it’s hard. There are times when I feel extra porous, keenly vulnerable, and my instinct is that this is bad, something to alter, to flee from.

Now is one of those times. I’m not sure why.

I think I am feeling vulnerable because my littlest is almost one and I feel like it’s time to up the ante professionally and I’m not sure how I feel about this. I think I am feeling vulnerable because after thirty-three years on this good earth, I’m not sure exactly who I am or what I want. I think I am feeling vulnerable because after almost three years here at this blog, I’m not sure what exactly it is, what I want it to be. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I have recently witnessed fallibility, true and scary and beautiful fallibility, in a friend. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I’m pondering, and living, a profound change in my days and my ways. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I have three small creatures to raise and I want to do a good job and I’m not always sure what that means. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I want very much to be a good wife and daughter and sister and friend and citizen and there are no instruction manuals to reference. I think I am feeling vulnerable because I am waking up to the reality that life is change, constant and compelling, sometimes crippling. I think I am feeling vulnerable because my body and mind are impossibly weak, just on the other side of a wicked flu.

I think these are some of the reasons. Not all, but some.

And as I write them, and read them, these reasons, I smile. I smile because this right here is real. I smile because this right here is honest. I imagine I am not the only one out there, out here, who feels both lucky and lost, riddled with uncertainties, insecurities, also inspirations.

So. I’m not sure what I am saying here other than I am feeling inexplicably, richly vulnerable today. And that’s okay. Maybe better than okay.

Maybe, somehow, it’s good.

Do you ever feel inexplicably vulnerable? Do you agree that in many ways vulnerability is reality? Do you agree that vulnerability (within bounds) is a good thing?

Zsa Zsa Gabor

What kind of attention are we (or is Zsa Zsa) talking about here? Sexual? Spiritual? Emotional? Existential? Does this mean asking about his day, his dreams, his doubts? Does this mean cooking dinner?

What really does this mean? Can a flame almost out truly be revived? Is there something a wee bit sexist about this quote? Are we wives fires too? What kind of attention and tending do we need to stay put, and stay satisfied, in the context of a marriage?

{I just read Husband the above quote and he thinks it might about men falling asleep when you don’t want them to. I don’t know why but this interpretation makes me smile. Particularly because I’m always the one who falls asleep without fail eleven minutes into a rented movie. Speaking of which, we are planning to watch Moneyball (and make a fire in our fireplace!) tonight. Was it good? And, in particular, how were the first eleven minutes?}

Thoughts on the quote? What does it mean? Is it sexist, or just kind of funny? Are you good keeping the fire in your life going? Any other movie recs for our mellow Friday night in? Anyone else nod off during movies?

I admit it: Yesterday’s post was a bit heavy. And that makes sense. Its words fell from a heavy place. I didn’t mean to be overly dramatic, or cryptic, or alarming. I just meant to say that I went through something big, and hard. That I stepped out of my own mind and acted. That I helped someone who needed it, and badly. I didn’t write about it to toot my own horn, to garner commentary, or applause. No. I wrote about it because I know that there are a lot of you who come here every day. And I know that some of you probably know someone who is struggling, more subtly or more severely. And I know that it is so hard to tell what is going on behind closed doors and closed minds and pretty smiles, but I implore you to think about it, what might be going on. Trust your instinct.

Enough of that.

I’m craving lightness today. Something sweet and airy and pretty and fun. And so. Here I am. Sharing with you pictures (edited to keep things appropriately anonymous) from The First Annual Rowley Girl Holiday Photo Shoot. Now said shoot? It was a total disaster involving screaming and splattered baby food and two very lovely and patient photographers. I’m not sure what possessed me to take all three girls alone with four outfits? Anyway, I left the cute little studio on Columbus thinking there was no way any good pictures would result from such chaos. But I was wrong. Boy was I wrong.

I brought the girls to the shoot in jeans and polos. Before we even got started, Little Girl’s purple pony was drenched in sweet potatoes. Alas. Thank goodness for photo-editing. I decided to get bold, to have my big girls hold Little Girl’s hands for a standing shot. All was well for a few seconds.

In case you missed it, check out my baby’s smile. Well, it didn’t last too long. Because she fell. She fell because she was only nine months at the time and doesn’t really stand yet and also because her big sisters are not schooled in the art of holding their sister up and they kind of just let go. Anyway, there was a minor splat. But some serious tears.

The big girls did their best to cheer their weepy sis.

This might be my favorite of the whole batch. I just adore the way my tiniest creature is looking up at her big sisters. I love the swirl of skin and hair and messy clothes. I love the toes.

As I tried my best to calm Little Girl, the big girls had a little love fest/ dance party in their frilly little tutu-things.

There were even kisses involved.

And lots of twirling. Lots.

I stood back, by the window of the studio, bopping my babe, whispering to her, begging her to calm down, and watching my girls dance. It was all very concocted, yes, this display. But there was something also very spontaneous, very free, about it. They are mine, I thought. This right here? The tears and the twirls, the smiles and the sobs, the cartoon band aids and yellow and pink nails? This what it is all about.

We got a few individual shots, too. Because they are not just sisters. They are people.

I don’t know if I will ever be able to cut this hair.

We were able to get a few happy shots of the three girls in their pastel numbers.

And then at least one in their woolly Christmas dresses. Those little white reindeer sleigh me.

And then one in their holiday PJs on a yummy Flokati rug. This one would have gone on our holiday card if I’d gotten my act together to make one and send one this season.

Alas.

A big thank you to Vanessa and crew at PhotoOp (named Best Children’s Family Photo Studio in New York by New York Magazine in their “Best of New York” issue) for somehow making that nutty hour turn into these priceless shots!

I named my fourth daughter. No, I’m not pregnant.

It all happened in a dream. A particularly vivid dream. In this dream, I was pregnant again. And we learned that we were having another girl. A fourth. In this dream, we pondered baby names and, get this, I came up with one. A name I’ve never thought of before, or heard of even.

A name I love. A name I will not share here. Just in case.

I woke up in the morning thinking of this name and smiling. Immediately, I shared the name with Husband. The name of our fourth daughter. He was not amused. There will be no fourth daughter, he reminded me. And I think I made some joke about how it could be a boy after all, but said joke didn’t fly either.

You see: Husband is done. No more kiddos as far as he’s concerned. And he has made his own jokes on this topic. He says that I will only have a fourth if I find a new husband. I do not like this joke. Because I love the husband I have. I also do not like this joke because, yup, I think I’m open to having a fourth.

Little Girl is getting big. She will be one in March. And I swear there is something biological about a woman starting to crave another baby once her current baby is one. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve even been asking the girls about it, whether they’d want another little sis. (Don’t you love how I assume it would obviously be a girl?) Met with this question, their eyes, their beautiful blue eyes, grow wide and they express their opinions because, yes, they have them. I think they are on Daddy’s side on this one. They say as much. But then Big Girl, my sensitive soul, my thoughtful tot, always punts to me. What do you think, Mom?

What I think is that I am not even convinced I want another. I certainly don’t want one now, or soon. If anything, I’d want to wait a bunch of years, enjoy my trio and man and write some good books, and then go back to the land of sleeplessness and diapers. Only then.

What I think is that this is about so much more. I think this is about the idea that I might never be pregnant again, that I might never stay up at night rocking a little bald bundle, that I might never utter these sentences again: She got her first tooth! She said her first word! She had her first bite of food! I think this is about the idea that a part of my life might be over, a door might be closing. I think this about moving on, to admittedly wonderful new things, but still, moving on.

This is hard. For me. I know that I am infinitely blessed. These little girls of mine are my world. Their eyes remind me of goodness, of love, of life. They are happy and healthy little creatures and they are mine, ours. This family? It’s my everything.

But is this family complete? Maybe. Probably. I imagine so.

And if that’s the case, I will come to be okay with it. Really, I will. I imagine that it’s probably a bit hard for all women to admit that their childbearing years are over even if they don’t actively want more kids?

And if by some miracle or odd twist of events Husband changes his good mind and we go for it, for a fourth, it’s good to know she has a name. A really beautiful one.

A dreamy one.

What do you make of my dream? Do you think that it makes sense that I am saddened at the prospect of not having more kids? Do you feel like your family is complete? Do you think this has anything to do with the fact that Sister C is due with her second babe (a girl!) on Little Girl’s birthday in March?

The course of a river is almost always disapproved of by its source.

Jean Cocteau, 1889-1963

Be honest. How much do you care about approval? The approval of your family, in particular. The family that created you. The family you have created. When you think about your life, and make decisions about how to live it, do you stop and ask, What will they think? Will they understand me? Will they applaud me? Or are these questions quiet, barely-there whispers in the background, as you plunge forward proudly, precariously making your course?

(I care. I do. I suspect I always will. Is this a good thing?)

Do you seek approval in your days and ways? Do you think this is a good thing or no? How do you cope when people you love disapprove of something you do or decide?

Double digits, kid. Ten months. How is this possible? Just yesterday, you were curled into the nook of my arm, eyelids fluttering, a beautiful little bobble-head. And now. Now you are scooting and standing and doing that sniffy smile. Now you are opening and closing your tiny fist, waving hello, and goodbye. Now you are clapping, usually in threes, precise little pats. Now you are chasing your sisters and hugging your kitties. Now you are saying words. Da-da-da. That-that-that. And my very favorite of course: Mem-mem-mem. Now you are eating real food: the lone soggy fry, the disc of bologna, the constellation of Cheerios across the sky that is your crusty tray.

Here’s the deal: You are likely my last. And so I apologize if I hold you a little too tight and a little too close. I apologize if I stare a bit, and swoon a lot. I apologize if I am forever putting a camera in your face, your beautiful face. It’s only because I am in awe, and in love. It’s only because sometimes I am foolish enough to think if I stop, and click, pressing pause on the mad machine that is life, time might stop too.

I love you, tiny thing. And those blue eyes? Really? Really?