You know something?

I will hold her hand as long as she lets me.

*

In Life, are you more focused on the things that will end or the things that will begin?

So. Today it has been four months. Four months without my (beloved) wine or any booze for that matter.

Argh. Okay, I wish I could tell you that things are peachy keen and I adore this experiment of mine and am thrilled with my decision to do it and do it in such an wildly public fashion. I wish I could tell you that I never think about pouring a glass of wine, that life is just infinite bliss without it.

I can’t tell you these things because, well, they aren’t true. And if this year is about one thing, friends, it is about truth. Honesty. Being real.

So. Let’s do it. Let’s be real. You see the above picture?I took it on Sunday. Mother’s Day. I do this sometimes. I reach up, angle my phone down, and make some iteration of the pensive Aidan face. Voila.

Here’s the thing. Sunday was a really good day. It was. It was a day full of family, and life, and love. We spent most of the day outside in our garden, relaxing, eating, chasing, salving a surplus of skinned knees. We went through a lot of Band-Aids this weekend.

If I am honest though, it wasn’t an easy day. The kids were all over the place physically and emotionally. Little Girl was extra-clingy and wouldn’t eat much for some reason. At one point, Husband looked at me and asked: Are you okay? And I said to him, tears rising up, and said, Yes, it’s just that I feel pressure today. To be something that I’m not.

It’s weird because I’m not even sure what I meant by that statement. I think I probably meant that I felt (and feel) pressure to be that easy-breezy, super-smiley, gratitude goddess of a mother, and particularly on the Day of Mothers. But the reality is that I am not that mother, or that person. On any day. And I am certainly not that mother, or that person, on days when I feel I am supposed to be that mother, that person. I think I said what I said because I felt extra-compelled to be present there in that garden amid the sweet Sunday swirl of little girls I adore, and the fact that I didn’t feel that way, not entirely, made me feel bits of anxiety, and guilt.

And when I felt this, these things I sometimes feel, I wanted it. Wine.

In the past, Mother’s Day would have included wine, or probably some Mimosas (which I like to call Momosas on this special occasion). In the past, I would have sipped and smiled and maybe not have had these tricky thoughts, these thoughts made of pressure, of expectation, of unease. In the past, things might have been more sunny. Or they might have just seemed that way. Because, I am realizing something, something important, four months into this experiment of mine: Wine was for me (and I suspect for many of us) nothing but a Band-Aid. It worked well in the moment, to cover up the scratch or the bruise, but it did nothing to address the source, the deeper wound.

As I said, Sunday shaped up to be a gorgeously good day. Despite moments of anxiety. I would venture to say it was even more gorgeous, the colors more vibrant, because of those scattered bits of gray. It’s hard to articulate, but I guess that the day was so great because it was so real, because I felt it, and fully, because I didn’t escape it when it became, in moments, too much. I am proud of myself for sinking into the day, for allowing myself skinned knees along with my many smiles.

But there is another takeaway: I wanted wine on that day. And there have been more occasions recently when I’ve wanted it. I’m not sure why this is. I think maybe it’s that I have truly proven to myself that I do not need wine, that I am completely okay without it, so now I think I am beginning to resent myself for this whole experiment. I think I am beginning to feel the cascade of Whys. Why am I doing this to begin with? Why a whole year? Why did I decide to do this, this no-drinking-thing, in such an exotically public fashion?

You know something? There are times when I wonder whether I am, on some level, exploiting myself, and my life. Whether I come up with ideas and embrace them because I know they will make for a good “story,” and will garner an “audience”? Am I doing this wine free year for me, or somehow for my “career”? These are questions I ask myself, and often, to keep myself honest.

But the truth is I know. At the end of the day, I know I am doing this for me, for my health, for my family. I wouldn’t go to this trouble unless I felt like it were very much worth it, unless I felt like I had something profound, many profound somethings, to learn. And I do.

I guess all of this is to say that none of this is easy. I miss my wine. I miss the faint fuzzy feeling it gives me when I drink it down. I miss the power it has, albeit temporary, to keep emotion and anxiety at bay. I miss the gentle fizz of my Momosa.

I think I knew this would be hard. And now I am feeling confirmation of that. Most days I feel wonderful about all of this, and I don’t even think about it, the fact that I am abstaining from something. But some days – and Sunday turned out to be one of them – are a bit tricky. I guess that’s okay, right? And I guess it’s good that I am able to come here and check in and be real about it all?

I think so.

I know so.

*

New Here? For background on my Year Without Wine, check out the following links:

I Sit Here Shaking. And Smiling.

Can I Hold Your Hand?

Complicated (a.k.a. Three Months Without Wine)

The Day I Changed

Drinking Words

*

Please take a moment and remind me just why I am doing this, this oft-cruel experiment in change. Are there moments when you feel pressure to be something that you are not? When are you most inclined to reach for that glass of wine (or that piece of cake, or that whatever of whatever)?

I think it is important that we remember this.

Every artist was first an amateur.

Every man was first a boy.

Every woman was first a girl.

Every story was first a word.

I know we are focused on Next and Last, but let’s never lose track of First.

In this society of ours, why do you think we are more focused on destinations than departures, ends than beginnings? Do you think we can transcend this bottom line thinking if we try?

Do you know how hard it was for me to abstain from annotating the foregoing pics? Did you glimpse goodness this weekend? And what, really, does that mean?

More than five years into this gig, this honor, and there are still moments of disbelief. And in these moments, the airs grows crisp with questions.

I am their mother?

They are mine?

And I am. And they are.

Wow.

(Did you ever realize that Wow is Mom upside down? I don’t think this is a coincidence.)

*

Do you ever experience moments of disbelief that you are who you are, and you are where you are? And that those little people are yours? Happy Mother’s Day to you or the moms in your life.

Four words. Good words. True ones.

A sentence. A good one. A true one.

In the past, I had a hard time saying them, saying it.

But now. I say these words. I say this sentence.

And saying them, saying it, seems right, feels right.

It took time to get here, to this saying place.

But I’m here. And plan to stay.

I am a writer.

*

Do you have a hard time articulating what it is you do? Are you a writer? Are you able to say aloud this simple sentence, this good sentence?

We tell our kids to use their words. But how often do we use ours?

Meet Kate Hopper. Kate teaches writing online and at The Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, where she lives with her husband and two daughters. Kate holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Minnesota and has been the recipient of a Fulbright Scholarship, a Minnesota State Arts Board Grant, and a Sustainable Arts Grant. Not too shabby, huh? Kate’s writing has appeared in a number of journals, including Brevity, Literary Mama, and The New York Times online. She is currently an editor at Literary Mama.

In her new book Use Your Word: A Writing Guide for Mothers, Kate writes thoughtfully about using writing as a means to process parenthood, and life.

…I believe that you can experience a transformation—a therapeutic transformation—in the writing process and still end up with art… If you are truly doing [this] work of “reckoning,” of diving in and fearlessly searching for the story in the material of your life, it’s impossible for you not to make discoveries and gain perspective on the life you’ve lived. Isn’t that process, at least on some level, therapeutic? Experiencing that does not detract from what an author has carefully crafted.

I am thrilled Kate asked me to be a stop along her virtual book tour. And now, for a very exciting opportunity. Here is a wonderful writing prompt:

Motherhood Models

Take a few minutes and describe your mother. If you didn’t have a mother growing up, did someone else play a mothering role in your life? Describe her. Maybe you didn’t feel you had a “good” mother and maybe you didn’t know anyone who fit this description. So what would a “good” mother look like? How did/does this ideal affect your own parenting? How have you parented your own child the same or differently?

*

Your turn! Answer the above prompt in 600 words or less and email it to me at ivyleagueinsecurites [at] gmail [dot] com by one week from today (5/16). I will submit the best entry to Kate Hopper and the contest winner will receive a copy of Kate’s book, a one-hour phone or Skype consultation with Kate Hopper, and a chance for publication in Literary Mama’s online magazine!

*

In keeping with this fun theme, tell me something about your mother. Who is she/was she? Do you talk to her often? Does she, or did she, play a big role in your life, or in the life of your kids if you have them? What is one thing she did growing up that you do or plan to do with your own kids? Any particularly powerful memories that involve your mom? Come on – this will be fun. I plan to pop in throughout the day and leave my own musings about my own mother. (Don’t worry, Mom. They will be universally kind musings!)

Today. May 8. It was to be my first due date.

I remember having that lunch outside. It was summer and sunny. We decided we were ready. Ready to try. This decision brought smiles to our faces.

And we tried. And before I knew it I was in my little bathroom staring at a stick of plastic and a plus sign. It was too good to be true. And it was.

I called my doctor. Made an appointment. In we waltzed, all youthful bluster and optimism. On the tiny screen, we saw a tiny flicker. The heart beat. May 8, she said.

Four weeks later, and we were back. In the waiting room, we talked baby names and crib colors. That little room again. That little screen. This time, no movement. No life.

I am so sorry, she said.

*

Six years later. I am here. Here in the folds of my good life with my three little girls, creatures who delight me and drain me. Creatures whom I do not take for granted. Not for one minute.

Especially on this day.

*

Even though it happened a while ago and I truly feel like I have moved on, I feel strongly about writing about this experience because I now know so many people who have suffered, and struggled through, similar losses. I think there is a tremendous power inherent in sharing these stories.

I am linking up today with several wonderful writers over at The Extraordinary Ordinary’s Just Write.

*

Has it been easy or hard for you to build your family? Have you suffered any losses or setbacks in your efforts to have children? Why do you think people are so hesitant to talk about these things even though these stories are so unbelievably common?

A couple weeks ago. It was the first really warm day and I told the girls they didn’t need jackets. This was exciting. I had dressed them in matching dresses and leggings, something I swore I’d never do. I’d never be that mom, you know the one who buys matching clothes for their little girls, the one that waxes poetic on how big her creatures are getting, the one who oh-so-tritely bemoans the cycle of seasons, the passage of time. Let me tell you something. Let me tell me something:

I am that mom.

We walked to school. We have started doing this every day and oh how I adore this time with them. I wonder if it’s too far to ask them to walk, if it’s too great a distance for their little bodies, if it will tire them out before school. But they tell me no when I ask. They tell me they are fine, that they love it, walking all that way.

We were a few blocks from school and Big Girl looked up at me and put her little hand on her little chest and said something, something wonderful, something I will not forget.

Mom, my heart is beating. For real.

Yes, babe. It is. It is beating.

I smiled and we walked, the sweet sun shining down on us. I did what I could to soak it all up – that hair that had never been cut, those colorful backpacks, those matching dresses that won’t fit for long.

Yes, I am that mom.

And I love being her.

My heart? It’s beating. With love. With awe. With awareness. With life – theirs, mine, ours.

For real.

Are you the mom you thought you’d be? The dad? The person? Do you think it is inevitable that we become the things – often good things – that we vowed never to become? Do you dress your kids in matching clothes? Do you wax poetic about the relentless march of time?

It is no secret that I have fallen madly in love with taking pictures. Doing this, snapping away, helps me see. It helps me see this city, this life. It helps me notice things that would otherwise evade my eye. It helps me slow down, and stop sometimes. These are not the easiest things for me to do, but I’m trying.

I took the above picture many weeks ago. I wish I could claim credit for the result, but it was all a bit accidental, the fact that it turned out this way. I have my trusty Hipstamatic iPhone app to thank for the shotgun marriage of film and lens, and the ultimate image which frankly blows me away.

We are all navigating. We are all en route between Then and When, Here and There. But the thing is – the amazing and maybe sometimes unsettling thing – is that we will all get there a slightly different way. There is no map. There is no GPS.

There is instinct.

There is intuition.

There is always more than one way.

Is it difficult for you to slow down or stop? Do you take pictures of things other than your family? What has your way looked like? Has it been linear or circuitous? Does it comfort you or rattle you to know that there really are no definitive maps in life?

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