Blog a la Cart

My Mirror

This morning before work, I was standing in the bathroom obsessing about my pimple-ridden face and glaring roots, when Courtland came around the corner and stopped in her tracks.

She cooed enthusiastically, “Mama! You are perfect!”

“Thanks, love, but why do you say that,” as I continued to fixate on the red bumps along my chin.

“Because you’re fancy, and beautiful, and I love you. Let me take your picture and show you.”

She proceeded to haul me into the room where I frequently snap her photo and demand my phone. I pulled down my sunglasses to hide the bags under my eyes from a night of restless sleep and she quickly insisted that I put them on top of my head.

“I want to see your eyes!”

She took this picture. And I caught a glimpse of what she sees. She doesn’t see acne or hamburger eyes or messy hair. She sees a woman who loves her beyond measure. A woman who loves her for seeing beyond the flaws and reminding her to do the same.

We could all use a Courtland mirror.

I hope she saves that same lens for herself. And if not, I’ll be her mirror.

#youarebeautiful #andothercheesybuttruebodyloverealness

Separation. AGAIN!

Courtland and I just returned home from a whirlwind trip the South Coast of Massachusetts to drop Sunny off with Auntie Kimmy for 2 weeks of art camp by the sea. We spent the night, we sisters four, and beat the heat in the ocean for a few hours this morning, but then Kaki and I loaded up and headed back west.

She cried for a solid hour, bemoaning their SECOND separation, and expressing dismay that we KEEP MAKING THEM SAD AND NOT TOGETHER!

The reality is, they’ll be reunited in three days when James and I drop Kaki off at my parents on Cape Cod, and Kimmy and my parents juggle the two of them while James and I head to Chicago for a wedding and then Michigan to meet Sunny’s FGP’s newest addition, a sweet baby girl (OH-M-GEE BRING ON THE INFANT SNUGGLES!). But three days feels like an eternity in the life of a preschooler. And so sob she did.

How lucky they are to have one another and a love like this.

Soul Sister

We’re hand in hand strolling from her preschool to the ice cream shop. She’s singing one of her signature made-up tunes at full volume, causing smiles to explode on the faces of passing strangers. Sunny skies. Fresh air. Small town life. Me and my second born.

Mama, Cookie Sumbustion (combustion) is my favorite flavor. But I sometimes like to eat Purple Cow, too. We’ll have to look at the menu and see what they have today. You like Mud Pie but it has coffee in it and that will make me sick. But remember when Noah (friend, age 3) drank his mama’s coffee, that was so silly. My hand is so sweaty, but I like holding your hand, so I guess I like being sweaty…

I let her ramble on, quietly delighting in the explosions of thoughts and language coming out of my child who was rather delayed on the verbal front. While her pronunciation of words still needs plenty of work, she is anything but non-communicative these days.

Our ice cream rendez-vous is a happy affair. She has a full conversation with a lady on a nearby bench about ice cream flavors and sprinkle color choice. Smiles and giggles abound. When it’s time to head to the car, however, I feel her energy shift. I feel the frenetic, unpredictable quiet take hold.

I don’t want to get in the car. I want to walk home.

I explain, calmly, that our home is not a walkable distance and that we need to get into the car and get home to the dogs.

But I want to WALK home.

As her voice elevates, I know that our happy scene is about to devolve into tantrums and tears and frustration.

And so it does. And she screams and stomps and shouts and whines and cries the entire 15 minute ride to our house.

In the heart of my frustration, my mind is swirling with mean, cruel thoughts about my child, the child that only moments before I had so proudly and blissfully walked hand-in-hand down the street has turned into a demon that I cannot tolerate or begin to understand.

Why does she do this? I whisper across the seat to James, under the shit storm unfolding behind us.

Because she’s 3. Because she’s sensitive. Because she’s our Courtland.

And that is the heart of the matter. Our Courtland, who has always ridden the highest highs and lowest lows often within mere minutes of one another, is one heck of a ride.

Bed time was a similar event, though by that time in the day my patience is spread so thin that my once calm responses begin to mimic my child’s tantrums as I stomp and yell and cry in reply.

And yet, this is how we ended our evening. Her, asleep on my chest, after she’d crawled into my arms and we’d said our “I’m sorry for yellings,” “I’m sorry for not listenings,” “I love you to the moon and backs.”

The ultimate display of unconditional love, to forgive and end the day with words of kindness and gratitude. And wake up the next day, knowing you’ll brave another unpredictable shit storm and feel so gut-wrenchingly grateful for it.

Hancock Shaker Village // 2015

More images from my birthday excursion to Hancock Shaker Village, because so much cute! So much floral! So much love!

Mother’s Day

“Moms come in all shapes & sizes, but they’re pretty easy to recognize because they’re the ones who teach you stuff all the time about how to be in the world & sometimes that sounds a lot like: chew with your mouth closed, sit still. stand up straight, be polite, Look them in the eye. & sometimes it seems like that sort of thing doesn’t add up to a whole lot. Until the day you feel the soft ache of love in your heart that makes you take care with a friend who hurts or when you look in a stranger’s tired eyes & you stop & smile. Or when you listen to the ABC song for the thousandth time & you laugh & say ‘again’ & suddenly you understand that is the real thing moms do & it adds up to the whole world.”

–StoryPeople

P.S. Thanks, Mom. 143.

Bits of Sparkling Humanity

I heard someone describe their children this way today, and it seemed like a poetic (albeit cheesy) capture of how I feel about my own brood.

I’ve been solo parenting since Sunday morning while James is away at a conference, and it’s been exhausting and humbling and strangely fulfilling. My life has had to be so carefully scheduled and orchestrated to survive coordination of all of our activities and demands, all during my craziest work season, that I haven’t had time for the superfluous stuff. And that superfluous stuff is so often so unfulfilling that it’s been unexpectedly pleasant to only have room for the necessities. I’ve had intimate one-on-one time with my girls, in my home, in a way that is empowering (I can do this!) while also serving as a reminder of how grateful I am to have a supportive partner so that I don’t have to do this alone regularly. (Let’s not pretend like I haven’t had some seriously ungraceful, ugly moments over the course of the past three days).

Single parents are motherfucking super heroes.

I do so love these bits of sparkling humanity.

The Throw Up Game. (Yes. Really.)

The girls have a habit of reenacting whatever experiences have been most recent and pertinent in their lives in their daily play.

For instance, after a trip, they play “Airport,” packing backpacks filled with stuffed animals and crayons and books, and turning our couch into an airplane as they fly from Vermont to Florida or South Carolina or wherever our most recent destination. They play “School” and “Ballet Class,” “Puppy” and “Bedtime.” (Alas, “Bedtime” is just an elaborate midday routine of closing every shade and turning off every light in the house, lying down for no more than 30 seconds, and then turning back on every light and opening every shade. Rinse, wash, repeat. No actual sleep involved.)

But recently, ever since Cart Stomach Bugapalooza 2015, the girls’ absolute favorite “make-believe” has been “The Throw Up Game.”

And thank the sweet baby Cheezits it does not actually involve any bodily fluids.

As you can see from the grainy snap above, they meticulously line the floor of our house in their baby blankets, mimicking the spread of dog towels James and I use to create throw up paths to the toilet when one of us is actually suffering from gastrointestinal troubles. Trash bins turn into porcelain thrones, and stuffed animals, or, as seen above, wooden dolls, fall to the maladies of vomit and diarrhea.

OH NO! MY BABY IS VOMITING. IT’S ALL OVER THE CARPET. AND MY HAIR! QUICK! I HAVE TO DO LAUNDRY AND TAKE A SHOWER!

These loud, aggressive declarations from my three-year old, I fear, accurately capture my own lived distress when anyone in the Cart Family falls ill.

I do not manage puke gracefully.

And so my children’s reenactments of what occurs at Barfwheel Farm are filled with frantic shouts and dramatic proclamations, an all-too-accurate imitation of the real thing.

UNICORN IS PEEING OUT OF HER BUTT! IT IS SO SMELLY! SHE IS GOING TO GET A RASH!

MILKSHAKE JUST THREW UP HER MACARONI AND CHEESE ON MINNIE MOUSE. WHERE ARE THE DOG TOWELS?

I NEED THE PUKE BUCKET! NOW!

Anyone up for a rousing game of “Itchy Vagina” or “Poopy Bum,” you could play today, because here in the Cart Family, our play knows no bounds. Apparently.

Baby Belly

Mama, it looks like there is a baby in your belly.

I visibly wince and look up from my book.

An insecurity that hovers just beneath the surface, particularly about my mid-section, particularly post-two pregnancies, comes rearing to the fore. Fashion magazines of wash board abs and the harsh reality that my body is anything but collide at the words of my oldest daughter.

As I take a deep breath to respond, James jumps into the conversation…

Sunny, we shouldn’t…

And I cut him off before he has a chance to finish his thought. I know that he is about to “defend” me and try to protect me from any comment that might make me feel critical of my body. (A body he adores, and that I adore, but of course find myself critiquing in moments of weakness or nostalgia (Oh if I’d only appreciated my body before two babies made me “soft”!) (Such outrageous thinking as my body is fucking badass for creating such incredible human beings and bringing them into this world. They’ve made me tougher and more amazing – not softer! Not less anything!). But James’ attempt to tell Sunny that we shouldn’t say that to a woman (because it is considered inherently a criticism rather than a neutral, or GASP! positive statement) is about to do more harm to our daughter’s perception of beauty and health and wellness than he realizes. .

Does it? Well, I don’t have a baby in my belly. But I have lots of yummy food from last night’s dinner and ya know, mommy’s tummy always sticks out a little bit, especially after having you and your sister live in there. That belly was once your home, so sometimes it might look like a baby is in there, because once upon a time TWO babies lived in there.

Well, I love your belly, Mama.

And I tell her that I love my belly, too, because I want my daughters to love their bodies, whatever form they take. I want them to push out the noise and the demands and the ridiculous standards that will tell them that they are somehow flawed, or not enough, or too much, or less than, or lacking, or in need of change. And they remind me to do the same and weight loss was definitly a big topic of discussion at the time everyone wanted me to go out and lose weight but it was seriously so hard! I tried a

SNOW MO

While we’re certainly sick of shoveling (namely James, and namely for lack of space to pile any more mountains of the fluffy stuff), it is such fun with the kids and dogs. Given how sick we’ve all been, I was grateful for Monday’s snow day, as it provided time as a family to just get outside and have some fun in the ridiculous mounds and mass quantities of snow. We put the iPhone 6 to work and made snow-mo (har har) after snow-mo.

And we were all so worn out and physically wiped from traipsing through the snow that everyone went to bed easily and happily. Here’s a compilation of our favorites from the afternoon. I particularly love our voices in slow motion.

January Weekends

I’ve found these January weekends cold and tiresome. If I’m being honest, I’ve dreaded the onset of these unscheduled days, all of us at home and un-programmed for 48 hours. I do not thrive without a schedule. I like structure and busyness and activity. I find I slip into lethargy and laziness when I’m without events or plans, and that sends my grumpiness sky rocketing and my happiness spiraling.

Admittedly, in the summer or the warmer days of spring and fall, I welcome unplanned hours to tackle gardening, landscaping, and general outdoor maintenance. You can navigate to this website for landscaping projects that require an expert touch. The kids can play in the sprinkler or on their swing set. We can pause for a walk with the dogs or a swim at the local pool. Our little house expands as the gardens and fields and yard become an extended living room and play yard.

In the winter, the clothing alone proves an exhausting obstacle, and that’s assuming that the temperatures are civilized enough where clothing can provide some semblance of warmth. It’s been too bitterly cold for much outdoor fun. Even the dogs stand in distress, picking at their paws and trembling from the wind.

I’ve scheduled exercise squarely into my day, the activity and resulting shower a guaranteed hour or two of respite. We’ve built fires. Read books. Watched movies. Practiced our instruments. Served Penelope hot chocolate. Done arts and crafts. Constructed puzzles. And yet, there are still moments where the kids start using the couch as a trampoline and every blanket and cushion within a 2 miles radius is loaded onto the living room floor and cymbals are clanged and screams are shouted merely for the sake of hearing the capacity of one’s lungs, and I feel like I want to yell and stomp in reply, or curl up in a ball and crawl deep inside myself and stay there until the snow thaws and I can push everyone outside and finally have room to breath once again.

It’s not their fault that they resort to these antics and revelries. They’re children. But our house is compact. My fuse short. And the lack of Vitamin D palpable. James bears the brunt of my wretchedness, and counters my dark cloud with homemade pancakes and tickle monsters and pillow forts. Right now, as I type this, I can gaze out the window and up the hill to our barn to see a snow ball taller than Courtland being rolled about by three pairs of hands while two frantic balls of black fur leap with joy.

The temperatures have elevated, and there’s no excuse not to take advantage of the wonder of the snow before it melts away. Yesterday, while the cold still hovered in the single digits, but the sun shone brilliantly, James bundled us all up and insisted that we spend some time outside, for however long our fingers and toes could stand it. Snow angels and snow glitter and magical photographs were captured in that 30 minutes. And it restored a piece of my sanity. Of myself. I laughed and smiled and felt a gratitude that was so easily lost over these weekends of cold and inactivity.

Winter can be so breathtakingly beautiful, but it is also the hardest time of year for me. I wish for snow and sunshine and 30 degree temperatures so that I can sled and ski and skate without discomfort, but January is not always so accommodating. I realize that that’s part of the magic and beauty when those days do present themselves, but it does not make my management of the interim any more graceful.

But even the process of writing through these feelings and this melancholy have cleared my head and lifted some of the oppressive fog. We’ve scheduled plans for dinner. And there’s baking to be done. And the endorphins from this morning’s run are kicking in. Assuming the weather stays warm (in winter terms), I’ll be taking Sunny for her inaugural ski lesson this week and I’ll get an afternoon to myself on the mountain. And how fortunate am I to live a life that allows for such experiences.

Thanks for listening, friends. Do any of you ever suffer from wintertime blues? How do you combat the darker days and colder temps? Especially with young children! What activities keep your children busy in the winter so that you don’t all go totally stir crazy? I’m all ears! xo Ash