Sam Lamb, or Lessons from an Aspiring Mother

Recommended Listening: Two of Us, The Beatles

You and I have memories

Longer than the road that stretches out ahead

Sam Lamb wakes up each morning, his little ears clutched tightly through my sons waking hands.  He holds on as best he can as Bro flings him from one side of his body to the other, and then begins to rake him across the side of the crib. 

Of course, it usually doesn’t end there.  When I make it upstairs, Sam is usually under Bro, as Bro looks up at me, angelic, and says, “I don’t know where Sam is.”

Brody wakes like me, and it is not a pretty picture.  There is anger and confusion, followed by anger and resolve, and Sam, much like my husband, muddles through it all as best he can.

I always take Sam out from underneath Bro, pat him on the head, and give him back to the opened hands of my son.

And so, I have come to love Sam Lamb as a member of the family.  I will not stand for throwing, kicking or standing upon Sam.  Bro is learning to use a bat, and just yesterday I took Sam out of the line of fire, patting his head gently and reassuring him that he was safe.  If someone tells me Sam stinks, I take it to heart, and when Bro asks me to kiss Sam, I plug my nose and always give the little dude a peck. 

But this is not to say that Sam and I were always on good terms.  When Bro first began to love Sam Lamb, I was terrified. 

Bro, a feisty 6 month old, hated bedtime.  One night, when Bro was in the midst of one of his fits, my husband rested Sam beside him. 

It is because of this moment and many afterwards, that I have become convinced children know exactly what to do in all situations to immediately terrify their parents.  If Bro sees something hot, it must be touched!!  If Bro sees something even remotely resembling a string, it must be wrapped around his neck!!  And if you give Bro, a baby of 6 months old with a mother still terrified of SIDS, a stuffed toy at bedtime, it must be placed over his face!!

Bro immediately grabbed Sam, placed him on his face, and fell asleep.  In a calm, and reasonable manner, I asked Justin to “get Sam the &*% off of Bro’s face!”.  Justin removed Sam, and Bro woke up, an angry Sleeping Beauty.  Promptly, and with disgust in his eyes, Brody grabbed Sam and placed him back on his face.  Eventually we would let Bro do this until we were sure he was asleep, and then as quietly as we could, we would swipe Sam away.

This continued for months, and I don’t recall sleeping well that entire time.  Eventually we outgrew our fear of SIDS, and Bro took to sucking on Sam’s ear, which was a whole new set of troubles. 

Motherhood is a loaded term for me, as I assume it is to so many, or we would never have so many books written about it.  Even now we spend our days trying to figure out who and what a good mother is. 

These days, we aren’t so much looking for the bad parent, as the ones who are just a bit off.  For example, what if you love your child with all your heart, but you clean your house with Clorox wipes that smell lemon-y fresh?  Not only are you using Clorox, and so taking away your child’s future, or at least his future on this planet, but you have chosen to use the ones with fragrance . . . !!!!! 

I admit this to you now because I think about these things constantly.  Sam is not organic, and Brody literally sucks on him night and day until he is green.  I cleaned and still clean Sam constantly, but I cannot get it back to the soft, silky and no doubt dangerous fabric that it once was. 

I used to dream of the night I first purchased Sam Lamb, all wide-eyed and optimistic.  How terribly naïve, I chided myself regularly, for being!  Sam was so soft and creamy, his coat with a fine luster.  I looked back on that day time and time again, and wondered why I had not chosen the ugly little troll lovey next to him that was organic?  I judged a book by its cover, and perhaps my son, I feared, was paying for my vanity! 

I wondered: was I, as a mother, just a bit off?  I feared going to the Mothering.com site to learn that hundreds of women did choose the troll lovey, and prayed for me, a prisoner of Sam Lamb.  That little troll haunted my dreams, his little wooden-head all blissful and absent, while my green Sam Lamb kept saying, “Don’t you wish I wasn’t 25% polyester and 'Made in China'?

The truth is, if you watch the Today Show enough, you will feel a bit off.  Everyday another doctor is on telling us what might be hurting our children.  I used to hold my breath and pray that today it was not something in my refrigerator.  And then when I made the hard decisions and tried to feel good about them, that angry Nancy Snyderman would get on and tell me I was just giving in to fear mongering. 

I am perhaps a bit wiser these days, and I owe a bit of that to Sam Lamb.  As the months passed, I came to understand that Sam had my best interest at heart, and was, in many ways, just like me.  We both fell short of the now perfect.   

I even went so far as to buy a back-up Sam, whom my husband and I lovingly called "Spam."  Brody has embraced Spam, and refers to Sam and Spam as "the Brothers".  In the theme of "best-laid plans," we now need a Spam back-up.

As I write this, Bro has woken from his nap, and is talking to Sam.  “Hello Sam.”  “This is Sam Lamb.”  “Good Sam Lamb; you are good.”

All Sam and I want is what ultimately is best for Bro.  Sam has given his ear, I have given my heart and soul, and they are the same things.  Two years ago Sam was perfect, but he was only half the lamb he is today.  I hope that one can say the same thing for me!

Of Minnesota Wind Tunnels and the People Who Pull You Through Them

Recommended Listening:  Who Knows Where the Time Goes, Judy Collins

Across the evening sky, all the birds are leaving

But how can they know it's time for them to go?

Before the winter fire, I will still be dreaming

I have no thought of time

A little known fact about me is that I have known three Minnesotan winters.

My parents dropped me off at my centrally located Minnesota college at the start of fall.  Leaves were thick and heady in autumn gold’s and red’s; the air was full of promise. 

My dad smiled proudly, patting me on the back—“such a lovely place to study!”

If I had known what was so soon to come, I might have said, “Ja sure, you can have it!”  But I didn’t and my dad drove home to Michigan that day, and let me tell you, Michigan is Copacabana to Minnesota! 

Three months from that date I locked hands with five friends as we tried desperately to get through an actual wind tunnel on a day that wind chills were measuring -90F.  In all honesty, you could only see the desperate fear in all of our eyes as we were so tightly packed into our winter survival layers, and so I guess I just hoped I was not clutching the back-end of a stranger.

There were many nights that I thought of cramming down dry ramen, rather than face that wind tunnel.  I tried to convince myself, at my most desperate, that dry ramen was like to a raw diet, and those were supposed to be wonderfully healthy!  

The main point is that I never did eat dry ramen, because no one was ever willing to let me.

I am writing this now, as the winter makes one more desperate plea for survival, because in some small way I owe Minnesota a thank you. 

Somewhere in that frozen tundra I found out what it meant to hold someone’s hand and laugh when your hair had just frozen to your forehead.  I learned that you will take many falls on thick chunks of ice, but that someone will be there to pull you up (and probably pull you back down again quite by accident!).  I learned that it takes more than one person to get through a wind tunnel, and that there are at least four people out there willing to brave it with and for you. 

As I fumble through my thirties, I look back on those days and the lessons I learned in those cold winters, and I think mostly of the love that sustained me through it all. 

So to all my family and friends, those in Minnesota and all over the world, thank you!

My Spring Playlist

Recommended Listening: When the Day is Done, The Samples

When the day is done

I hope you're still the same

I hope that nothing's changed, with you

Every year around this time I begin to remember the feel of fresh air through an open window.  I can almost envision the way a crocus looks in the cracked dry earth just outside my door.  The sun is a little bit kinder, and I am a little more apt to believe it is returning.  And then, amidst all this hoped for, I can begin to hear the soundtrack of my spring.

Music has been a dear friend to me since before I can remember, and I’m not certain music is ever so sweet as it is in the springtime. 

When I think back on spring, I remember the open window of my dorm room.  It was an old window, long and filled with charming cut glass panes.  My room was a pale blue, and in the midst of gathering quotes for yet another paper on yet another author, music found a way of freshening everything that had become dusty and aged.

On those blessed late March days, I turned so often to James Taylor and Joni Mitchell.  I loved the sounds of Blue, and could not wait to find my way back to Copperline.  Always I had to dig my way around the mess that was winter to find my spring treasures.  Winter music was always an assortment of classical and heavier, more substantial rock. 

But the spring was when I longed for the simple, graceful sound of an acoustic guitar.  I wanted nothing that could crush the petals of the crocus.  I longed for music that could float effortlessly on a spring breeze.

My spring playlist mingled with the voices of people who had once more discovered the merits of sunlight and fresh air.  Even smokers breathed easier on spring days in Ann Arbor, and I sent my playlist out to all of them. 

So today, as I prepare to believe spring is coming, I wonder what your playlist is?  I set about today to discover how mine might have evolved, but as I sat by the window playing songs on ITunes for Brody, I realized that my spring music has not changed much, if at all.  While I have added a number of musicians to my world, I have not yet welcomed many new ones into something so precious as my spring playlist. 

Spring, for all that is new, is also, for me at least, a time when I remember the past.  I remember great streams of water making their way down my driveway, and the feel of my spring jacket against my cheek.  I remember opening the window in the car and dangling my hands outside.  Spring is a precious time, and I have guarded my spring playlist in much the same way as I guard my memories, with a sentimental fragility that keeps me returning year after year.

Home

It’s sunny in LA and in the low 60s. 

It’s snowing in Ann Arbor and in the upper 20s. 

But my son doesn’t understand any of this. Time and place are things he has not yet connected with as operating separately from himself.  Time is the time we share together, and place is wherever Brody is. 

When someone leaves, he has no idea where they go, only that they are not here.  We talk about other houses, and he can point to where the neighbor children live, but he does not yet have that notion that they might be doing something at the same moment as him.

And so it was hard this morning when he woke up and wanted to see his Uncle Darren.  I told him Uncle Darren had gone, but Brody did not believe me.  He walked his little rumpled self down to the basement door, and sat with Sam Lamb, waiting for Uncle Darren. 

Eventually, he sniffled a little bit.  Uncle Darren was not coming, because Uncle Darren had to go to his house.  I tried explaining to Bro that Uncle Darren would be back, and that right now he had things to do at his home.  Bro repeated after me, “Home.” And then he looked up at me, smiling, “Uncle Darren home.”

What I had not realized is that, for Brody, place is perhaps more complex then I had originally assumed.  Home is not a place on a map, but a place where love resides. 

I touched Bro’s heart and he giggled.  “Home?”  I asked him. 

He did not answer me.  He simply walked into the living room with Sam and chased our littlest golden around laughing. 

And so Bro was right: Uncle Darren had not gone, he was home.

A New Place

Recommended Listening: Up On the Roof—the newest live recording from Carol King and James Taylor

            A few weeks ago I had my wisdom teeth pulled, and, as the moment arrived and my blood pressure skyrocketed, I tried to go to my peaceful place.  I closed my eyes and began to picture Tuscany, its soft rolling hills and glorious vineyards, its smell of fresh air and the luxury of a perpetually opened window.  Instead however, I saw a small purple face locked in a scream and little arms waving erratically in the air.   Before you start thinking Sigourney Weaver and space, I too was shocked to learn that this scene took place in our very own atmosphere.  My peaceful place had become, in short, the day my son was born.

            I think that we all have places we retreat to when the world becomes too much.  At night sometimes, when I cannot banish the anxieties of the day, I remember sitting by an open window and the feel of my old red patchwork quilt beneath my legs.  I can still hear that magic sound of the needle dropping onto my favorite record player.  I can taste my mom’s tuna fish salad and the feel of my pruned hands on long summer pool days. 

            And now there are more days to add to my bucket.  There is my wedding day, and the birth of my son, though not all my memories are so grand.  Most of them are homely like my patchwork quilt, and understand me like my favorite pair of slippers. 

            Now, when I am thinking back to those summer nights with my parents, a blanket of stars gathered above us, I can also add the first time Bro pointed out his window and saw his first star.  I can remember the time my dog Daisy and I descended upon the park after a massive snowstorm.  I can almost touch the spring crocus I now plant every year, and who never fail me. 

            Today I was watching Bro sitting in Zingermans and the pride on his face as he sat in his own chair with his own plate of food.  I wondered if this might become a peaceful place for him one day, and knew it had already become one for me.

A Moment to Restore Sanity

I am writing now to the sounds of "Bob."  "Bob is Bob."  "Uh-oh.  Bob is on the floor."  Long pause.  "Hi-lo Bob."
All this prompts me to ask, "Who is Bob?"
But perhaps I should start at the beginning.
I try to explain to my son everyday why he must take an afternoon nap.  I tell him how he will feel refreshed when he is done.  I tell him that it will help him to grow tall and strong.  I tell him we will have pizza when he is done, and pizza can only be made once a nap has been completed, because that's how the Italians do it.
And basically, he cares about none of this.  Brody cares about the sounds trains make and the way a city bus is not yellow.  He cares if the cat is in his seat, and if something is mine, why is not mine then too?
Brody owns a lot of things.  He is the venture capitalist of our household.  But the one thing he will not own, is his afternoon nap.
Today, as I was rocking and running out of songs I knew that were appropriate for a two year old, and trust me when I say that Bohemian Rhapsody is not, I finally spoke the truth to Brody.  I told him that he must take an afternoon nap so that his momma has a moment of sanity, and I think he actually got it, because he went calmly to his crib.
And perhaps this is because "Bob" was with him. "Bob" and him seem to be having a real hoot up there, while I'm down here, not resting but wondering who "Bob" could be.
And so, instead of restoring sanity, I contemplate "Bob."  And this is what it means to be a parent.