A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY

For the past week and half, N has been fighting bath time. She kicks and screams, wriggling on the floor. We present her with choices, we discuss the joys and benefits of regular bathing, and lastly, we plead for her to just get in. When none of the above works, we put her in ourselves, soaping and rinsing her body against the wail of her. Tears run down her cheeks and onto her neck, tiny rivers helping us rinse the day away from her. We brush her teeth solemnly, tired from all the hours that came before and exasperated by day 6 of bath strike. Why can’t it be otherwise?

N sits in her rocker with T, wrapped up in her new blue shark towel. Her biggest source of comfort is him, which I am grateful for—and, having worked hard at overcoming it over the past two years, only slightly envious of. In another life, I would be my child’s chosen source of comfort. It could’ve been otherwise. 

I sit on the floor at their feet and work her pajamas over her body—first, beginning at the feet and pulling them over her legs, her belly, her arms. Already she is slimming, moving further away from rounded baby into toddler. Who knows what comes next? Whatever it is, I know I’m not ready.

N moves onto the floor in front of me and we read a book together while T combs her hair. “Dada, I’m going to give you a kiss on your cheek!” she says triumphantly, looking at him. Her eyes are stars, bright and sharp. T gives her his face, obliging willingly, and she kisses him once on each side. My face splits into a grin. Who am I to begrudge such an act of love? It shouldn’t be otherwise.

Afterwards, she turns to me. “Mama, I give you a kiss on your cheeks!” she says, watching my eyes turn wide. I lean towards her in shock while she presses her face against mine first on the left side, then the right. We’re not in France, but I’m certainly living outside of my own life. 

It’s the first time she’s ever kissed me. I know I must write it down. It could’ve been otherwise. 

TUESDAY

“I’ve realized how much pressure I’ve put on myself to be, and stay, well — as if being well is inherently better on the hierarchy of humanity. The pressure came even bigger when I became a therapist, and then when I became someone with a public presence — the pressure to be an image of healing and growth, a walking testament to what’s possible when we choose to show up for ourselves, a reminder for others that healing works — and that it working means we get “better” for the rest of time.

The problem with this isn’t the possibility of wellness, or the fact that we all deserve to be deeply well, or the truth that we can grow and become more whole. The problem isn’t the desire to be well or the reality that life tends to feel a lot better in seasons where we are well. The problem, for me, is how this striving often sets us up to hide when we’re not in a season of feeling our best, and to feel bad about ourselves anytime life feels hard. Which then creates a deep urgency to get better, quickly. And life is going to continue feeling hard — more so in some seasons than others — forever.”

—The pressure to be well from Lisa Olivera’s Human Stuff

WEDNESDAY

I have a few new cards out with Biely & Shoaf, and I’m especially proud of this one, which welcomes new faces into the world with my favorite little elephant. 

My entire line of cards and boxed notecards are available on the Biely & Shoaf website. 

THURSDAY

“Secrets are everywhere. Some humans are crammed full of them. How do they not explode? It seems to be a hallmark of the human species: abysmal communication skills. Not that any other species are much better, mind you, but even a herring can tell which way the school it belongs to is turning and follow accordingly. Why can humans not use their millions of words to simply tell one another what they desire?”

—From Shelby Van Pelt’s Remarkably Bright Creatures, which I’m currently halfway through, and is about humans, octopuses, and the unspoken nature of both. 

P. S. I recently finished John Boyne’s The Heart’s Invisible Furies, gifted to me by a friend, and it’s one I looked forward to reading each night and am still thinking about weeks later.

FRIDAY

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

—Otherwise by Jane Kenyon

xx,

M

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