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Nap time travel

June 3, 2015catherinemryan

Newborn kangaroo care — At a week old, Peeper spent much of her day snuggled against my chest.

Every mother has a magic patch of skin. It’s easy to find: It’s the skin below your clavicle—your décolletage—which is, not coincidentally, right above your heart.

It’s magic because it has the ability to transport a mother back in time.

The other day, I went in to Peeper’s bedroom when I heard her wake up from a nap. She was crying, so I gathered her in my arms, sat back in the glider and started singing. She nestled into me, and her face snuggled right against the skin left bare by my v-neck shirt.

With the instant ease of a key turning in an oiled lock, my heart opened.

The best feelings of motherhood—awe, gratitude, love that practically blinds you as it shines out from every pore—washed over me. I inhaled Peeper’s scent, a mix of shampoo and toddler sweat with just a hint of peanut butter. And I was suddenly the brand-new mother of a newborn. Read more →

A (very unconventional) baby shower for #2

June 1, 2015catherinemryan

When my sisters emailed me about the need to start planning a baby shower for Kiwi, I told them no. “People don’t throw a shower for second babies,” I told them.

The idea of registering for things we didn’t need, playing games and opening a mountain of presents in front of guests—read, the usual baby shower—didn’t appeal.

Undeterred, my sisters convinced me by proposing a thoroughly unconventional baby shower (or sprinkle, as some folks call the more minimal baby showers).

Memorial Day

May 25, 2015catherinemryan

Today I remember the many—too, too, too many—men and women who died while serving in out military. My heart goes out to their family members.

Today I am also grateful for the extra time the holiday allows me to spend with family and friends.

No matter how you are spending the extra-long weekend, I wish you rest, relaxation, fun and peace. xo

Not your usual breakfast in bed

May 19, 2015catherinemryan

The other day, I read a post from the food blog Hummingbird High about an amazing-looking chia seed pudding with pistachios and kumquats (oh my gosh, right?). Michelle wrapped up the post by asking what readers’ dream breakfasts would be. The question made me realize that I had been getting my own perfect breakfast-in-bed for weeks—though it looks pretty different than how you might imagine.

Peeper goes through phases in her routine. She’ll wake up asking for a book for weeks on end then all of a sudden switch one day. For a long spell, she wanted nothing more than “raisin toast”—a cinnamon-raisin English muffin—as soon as I got her from her crib.

We developed an AM ritual. Eric would toast and butter a muffin and leave it for me on the bedside stand when he kissed me goodbye at 5:30. I’d sleep until Peeper woke up, and the breakfast would be ready for us.

Peeper and I would crawl back into my bed. We’d each grab a half of the English muffin and nibble while I read book after book to her—as many as lasted through my daughter’s appetite.

I kept a stack of books in the bedroom just for this reason. Peeper would snuggle into me and slowly wake up; I relished not only the closeness but the extra rest it gave me as I struggled through the tail end of morning sickness.

Sure, I had to sweep out a small mountain of crumbs from the sheets every day, and our comforter has butter stains now, but that was a small price to pay in return for the sweet wake-up routine.

One day, Peeper decided she no longer liked raisins. Just like that, she had switched allegiances to “triangle toast”—just toast cut on the diagonal, which apparently tastes completely different than toast cut in rectangles. Now we skip the books in bed entirely; she’d rather play while I cook our morning oatmeal.

I’m grateful to Hummingbird High for reminding me of that beautiful and crumb-filled stretch of breakfasts in bed. In the years to come, we might end up celebrating holidays by bringing pancakes or waffles (or chia seed pudding, dare I hope?!) back into bed, but something tells me I’d rather share cold English muffins and a few stories with my firstborn.

Thundercats, hooooooo!

May 18, 2015catherinemryan

Growing up, my older sister, brother and I would play Thundercats (my younger sister was still in diapers and didn’t quite get the concept of fighting Mumm-Ra and his villain lackeys until later). As the kid with no seniority, I was usually relegated to play Snarf, the goody two-shoes who tagged along and tried to protect Lion-O. We spent hours running around, protecting Third Earth and its berbils.

Years and years later, Cartoon Network began showing reruns of the 80s cartoon. I rushed home every day after school, popped a blank tape in the VCR and hit record with the opening song. We copied every episode.

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HcGNqrAtsgg]

Flash forward again. My brother recently cleaned out a storage unit when he moved back to Oregon. Among the boxes of books, old furniture and high school yearbooks he unearthed two child-sized suitcases of action figures and Matchbox cars.

“I’m not sure if Peeper will like them,” he began when he brought everything over one night and trailed off.

But he needn’t have worried. The moment Peeper laid eyes on the treasures, she was smitten.

Ever since, she spends hours playing with “Mama’s old toys.” She has learned most of the names of the Thundercats and the Batman villains who live alongside them in the suitcase. She scolds Batman for not wearing a helmet on his “bike” (aka Batcycle). She brings Kit to the grocery store and dentist, and she clutches tiny trucks and racecars to her chest when I read books to her. “Fast car read a book, too!” she’ll say.

She has never seen an episode of Thundercats or Batman, but that doesn’t stop her from imaginative play. “Touchdown!” she whispered the other day when playing with Jaga, his arms raised in the air.

Watching her reminds me of the countless hours I spent sprawled on the carpet, directing miniature dramas between He-Man and Barbie or Panthro and Pretty Ponies, and of the breathless play with my siblings and the rest of the neighborhood kids. We’ll see if she loses interest in the toys or if, like me, she’ll foster a lifelong love of snappy cartoons and their memorable characters.

Of course I hope for the latter. After all, I want to play, too. She’d just better not make me be Snarf.

Happy Mother’s Day!

May 10, 2015catherinemryan

Last year was my first Mother’s Day, but in the last year I’ve come to appreciate what the holiday means even more.

Living what it is to be a mother—the millions of choices and actions and books read and songs sung and car seats buckled and tempers checked and lunches fixed and owies kissed every single day—underscores everything the mothers in my own life have done (and continue to do).

My own mom believed in me fiercely. She encouraged me to turn every interest or passion into a business, certain that someone would want to buy tiny animals sculpted out of wire or t-shirts covered in my angsty teenage poetry.

My mother-in-law has always been unequivocally welcoming and accepting. Her hugs, confidences and phone calls made me feel as if it were a given that I am one of the family. I will never, ever, ever forget or take for granted the way she embraced me as one of her own.

My mama argentina, my host mother when I studied abroad in college, welcomed me as a stranger into her home. Ana and I chatted every night as she made dinner or as I sipped a submarino—a hot chocolate—at the breakfast bar. I left, four months later, as part of the familia and continue to love that collection of characters from afar—even as they expand their families.

And my grandmothers, of course, whose mothering I feel through the generations. These strong, beautiful women raised families amid less than ideal circumstances without complaint. My Grandma Hawkins, for example, loves to tell me about the moment when she discovered she was pregnant with twins—my mom and Uncle Steve.

She already had one baby at home and not a whole lot of income or support, but when she got back from the doctor, she stood in the middle of the kitchen and hugged her just-starting-to-expand belly. Then she threw her arms out and spun around. She couldn’t contain her happiness and couldn’t believe her luck that she was carrying twins—twins!—a secret wish she’d always carried.

These are the kinds of moments that make up motherhood. Yes, parenting is also colored with frustrations and peanut butter stains and pooplosions and sleepless nights, but it’s the joy and reward and unending gratitude that stick with us.

That gratitude stretches in both directions, toward both generations. I cannot express how thankful I am to my daughter and this growing life inside me for choosing us as their family. I am also thankful to the long line of women who wiped noses and corrected homework and spun in kitchens so that I could be here.

So I’m sending love to all the mamas in my life—the ones who helped raise me, the ones who brought up my loved ones, the ones who I’ve known since they were kids, the ones who struggled so hard to become pregnant, the ones who are celebrating their first holiday as moms. You all deserve to be celebrated every day, but these 24 hours are dedicated to you.

Happy Mother’s Day.

22 months

May 7, 2015catherinemryan

Throughout the month, I’ve collected little vignettes of Peeper being Peeper. I wrote them down as they happened, not wanting to forget the ordinary yet remarkable moments that make up our days.

I just read over them, and it struck me that most of them revolve around Peeper talking.

As she turns 22 months, she continues to bowl me over with her gift of gab. Whether she’s telling us what she remembers the zoo animals doing at our last visit, repeating nonsense words to herself or telling me she loves me, her mouth is motoring nearly all day.

She wakes up talking. “Change your diaper. Lots of pees in there!” she’ll say as I pull open the blinds.

And after I put her in the crib at night, we hear snippets of toddler monologue through the monitor.

I’m glad I wrote down these interactions—they’re the silly little things I’ll want to tell her about when she’s older. I thought I’d share them on the blog, too. Here, then, is a ~~glimpse~~ listen into Peeper’s world. Read more →

The three sweetest words

May 6, 2015catherinemryan

The sun shone down on us in one of those perfect spring days that makes you wish you could stop time. Peeper had insisted on wearing her sunglasses “like mama,” so she was looking especially cool as she flew back in forth in the swing and stomped over a bridge.

Later, she climbed into a shaded play structure—the ones in the sun were too hot—and was crawling through the tunnel that led from the stairs to the slide. I ducked below the tube and popped my head up to the tiny windows in the tunnel. “Peekaboo!” I exclaimed, and I blew raspberries at her.

She giggled, squealed and looked for me again and again. Soon enough she was blowing (much spittier) raspberries back at me.

Then, out of nowhere, she told me, “I love you.” The unprompted declaration took my breath away, but in a flash the moment—and my daughter—were gone. She crawled the rest of the way through the tube, and I had to rush to take my place to catch her at the bottom of the slide.

“I love you”—the three sweetest words in our language, especially coming from a tiny voice that can’t pronounce its ls yet. Granted, she had spit bubbles dripping off her chin, but that lack of pretense made her gift even more special.

Even now, my heart catches remembering that simple phrase. Strangers and friends remark on what a talker my daughter is, and she spouts fully formed sentences with correct pronouns and tenses all day long. But those three words—“I love you”—were more precious than anything she’s uttered so far.

I love you, too, sweet pea.

A mother’s gratitude to the ugliness of boxing

May 5, 2015catherinemryan

If your Facebook feed is anything like mine, updates about the Mayweather-Pacquiao fight flooded your feed over the weekend.

Even though my dad was an amateur boxer before he became a college professor (and has the artfully rearranged nose to prove it), I have zero interest in boxing. I may go so far to say it disgusts me. Lovers of boxing have many reasons for defending the sport, and I won’t get into a tit for tat argument about its merits here. Suffice to say I’m not a fan.

I was grateful for one thing amid the hype about zillion-dollar purses and winning streaks, though: The hugely anticipated match made many of us confront the ugliness of domestic abuse and the glorification of violence.

Floyd Mayweather, I learned through links that friends posted on Facebook, is a convicted domestic abuser (pleading guilty to a misdemeanor in order to avoid felony charges). The most chilling article I read included an image of his then-10-year-old son’s description of Merryweather beating his wife—and taking away all the phones in the house so no one could call the police. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who would call Mayweather a decent human being—at least with a straight face.

Yet I am not surprised. The man has a garage full of Ferraris thanks to his skill at beating opponents unconscious. What’s more, entire arenas fill to watch—and cheer—as he unleashes his every violent impulse. Is it any wonder he beats women—bashing their heads into car doors or pummeling them while his children watch?

Of course not every boxer is a beast. My dad is just one example, as is Manny Pacquiau, who in his spare time (ha!) is a semi-professional basketball player, singer, actor and member of the Philippine House of Representatives. Proponents will say boxing teaches restraint, skill and determination. But at its core, boxing glorifies and encourages violence.

I thought a lot about what this means for my almost-two-year-old daughter and her sister growing inside me. To start, we will not be contributing to the madness that surrounds matches like the one Mayweather won on Saturday night (even if Eric likes to watch them, and even if we had the spare money to throw down hundreds of dollars to watch it). I want no part in contributing to the payout of a man like Mayweather, even indirectly. That’s the easy step.

I will also read and contribute to conversations about domestic violence and abuse. Stigma and fear envelop victims—and protect perpetrators, which only ensures the violence will continue; outsiders’ silence makes us complicit.

I cannot bear to think of my daughter becoming entangled in an abusive relationship. I am not so naïve to think that any amount of advocacy and education could entirely wipe out the scourge of domestic abuse, but awareness and discussion like that which accompanied Saturday’s match helps.

I will do my best to raise daughters who are advocates for themselves. I will do my best to teach them that no one has the right to belittle, manipulate or harm them in any way.

I will also do my best to instill fairness, kindness and empathy as core values. No one—including girls and women—should abuse their power over another, especially a loved one.

And I will hug my daughter extra-tight. I will welcome our second child into the world with as much love as is possible—and then some, because somehow having a baby exponentially expands your capacity to love. I will raise these children the best I can and work every single day to ensure them a bright future—one without fear of people like Mayweather.

National Domestic Violence 24/7 Hotline

National Coalition Against Domestic Violence

Spook Club Vice President, at your service

April 29, 2015catherinemryan

Old photo preschooler Catherine Ryan Gregory — Even as a kid, I delighted in an innocent scare.

When I was little, I was fascinated by feeling afraid.

One night, for example, my dad, sister and I walked from his office to his car past the graveyard on the University of Oregon campus. We made up an entire song (“The werewolf is howling, the vampire is prowling, it’s a fu-u-u-ll moon”) that I still hum to myself when I catch a glimpse of a moon anywhere near full.

And we formed the Spook Club, complete with a “secret” set of hand motions that we’d sign to each other with knowing looks and raised eyebrows. We mostly scared ourselves silly by watching black and white horror flicks, along with some movies of questionable suitability for an 8-year-old. I still get chills thinking of the bleak desperation of The Last Man on Earth, in which Vincent Price spends every day hunting vampires. I remember lying awake on my parents’ bedroom floor after the credits finished rolling, thinking that I’d never be able to carry on if I were that utterly alone.

This is a bit strange to be writing after my last post about children’s books to quell childhood fears, but I found myself thinking about Spook Club last night as I was reading before bed. I’m about halfway through The Boy Who Drew Monsters, by Keith Donohue (thanks for the rec, West Metro Mommy!), and I realized I haven’t changed that much since peeking from behind a blanket to watch The Twilight Zone and Alfred Hitchcock flicks. Read more →