There are no sick days for mothers.

I didn’t consider this very carefully when I ventured into motherhood. I didn’t know that my precious little Petri dishes would soon be licking shopping carts, mouthing sippy cups belonging to runny-nosed toddlers and bringing home hungry viruses looking for a vulnerable individual: like a sleep-deprived, stressed out mom. 

Despite immune boosting herbs and positive thinking, I awoke Saturday morning with all the dreaded sign of flu: headache, sore throat, chills and the feeling that a herd of Buffalo had used my body as a dance floor all night.

The baby was crying and the clock read five-thirty in the morning.  “Your turn,” I said, nudging my sleeping husband.

“Nooo,” he whined, turned over and started snoring.

I tried to lift my head. Like a sack of bricks, it came crashing back down on the pillow.

“Please,” I begged, poking him a little harder, “I’m sick.”

As the baby’s cries begin to sound like a smoke alarm, he rolls out of bed, grumbling. He leaves the bedroom door wide open for my listening pleasure.

The crying stops and is replaced by the squeaking of the crib as baby is lifted out. Then plastic and metal clang together as my husband deposits baby on floor with the contents of the toy bin. A short pause and then I hear heavy creaking as my husband flops onto my four-year-old’s bed.

Not surprising, the four-year-old is now awake, rattling off thirty already formed questions to Daddy who is probably already snoring away.  Soon the baby is screeching again and both kids are in my room asking for breakfast.

Maybe I could drive myself to a hotel and have a real sick day. I’d check in, draw the blackout shades, and crawl under the clean sheets and sleep. The bathroom, TV and chicken noodle soup from room service would be a bonus. Most importantly, there would be no screaming babies, conversation-demanding preschoolers, clueless husbands or barking dogs.

But, before that can happen, my husband needs to wakes up.

By Maya Creedman

Labels: Maya Creedman, sleep

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My four-year old takes the Asking Endless Questions stage seriously.

Like a game show designed to torture multi-tasking mommies, he requires that I deliver a brief, yet definite answer to each question in less than five seconds. If I fail, I will be pelted with increasingly difficult questions faster than I can pant, “Please wait! I need time to think!”

Unfortunately, these aren’t the kind of questions that I can formulate short answers to in a matter of seconds. These are not questions like, “Why can’t I ride my bike now?” Or, “Is tomorrow a school day?” And, “Can I have a snack?”

Instead, I’m asked, “Why is this world here? Why?” and “What happens when people die? How do they die? How?  

These are the questions that make my head hurt.

He fires out test shots throughout the day to check if I’m paying attention.

At breakfast: “Who draws the cereal boxes? Who?”

While we’re trying to leave the house: “How do they color clothes, Mom?  How?”

As I clean up after our sick dog: “Why do dogs do poop all over the place? Why?”

I try to focus, stay calm and show no external signs of panic or uncertainty.

But, he can sniff out less than fully present Mom faster than our dog can sniff out a treat. Catching me unaware, he pockets the test questions and pulls out the automatic questioning weapon. Then the bullets fly:

“How do our eyes see? How? Where do birds live? Where? Why are there so many strangers in this world? Why? How do we make trees? How? Why are you a girl? Why, Mom? Why?”

Like the dictation tests I failed in college Spanish, each question whizzes by as I try, hopelessly, to catch just one.

“Why, Mom? Why?”

Please don’t smugly suggest, “Well, what do you think?” I’ve tried that. His response: Major eye rolling accompanied by a whiny, “Mom! I’m asking you!” Then he loudly repeats the question as if I might have a hearing problem.

Ditto for my favorite teacher response, “Hmmm… that’s an interesting question. How could we research the answer?”

He scolds, “Mom! Don’t say ‘interesting’! Don’t say that.” And then, agitated, he repeats the question.

I love his curious mind. Really, I do. It is adorable, challenging, funny…. just not when I’m cleaning up dog shit and vomit while the baby screams, the phone rings, we need to leave the house in the next five minutes, and I haven’t even brushed my teeth. 

So, recently, when my four-year-old and I had an hour alone together, I was ready to philosophize. Brain uncluttered. A good night’s sleep.  No interruptions. Out in our garden. What better time and place to have a meaningful conversation?

Hit me with your best questions, kid. I’m ready.

Apparently, the questioner was out to lunch. 

My son was content to swing his Spiderman action figure from bush to bush, occasionally calling, “Look, Mom!” to show off a new Spidey move. In that entire hour, he only asked one question. “Can I have a snack?” 

Why? Why?

By Maya Creedman

Labels: children, help, Maya Creedman, questions

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My talent for losing things is coupled with an inability to locate those misplaced items.

I mainly lose keys, wallets, glasses, and important letters that must be mailed today! Since I’m the kind of person whose heart starts thumping at the threat of potential tardiness, missing car keys and wallets tend to result in an anxious, but unproductive, searching frenzy that makes my entire family miserable.

For the past five years, I’ve held onto the belief that this is all due to hormonal changes from pregnancy and too much multi-tasking. It isn’t anything that intensive yoga and a few more years won’t correct naturally.  

In the meantime, “locating missing items” is at the top of my husband’s list of responsibilities. Once (OK, maybe twice), I searched the entire house for my car keys, throwing sofa cushions across the room, emptying wastebaskets, buckets of bath toys, and even frisking my own children.  

That night, my husband went straight to my purse.

“Obviously, I’ve looked in there,” I snapped. “I’m not a complete idiot!”

Calmly, he reached into the side pocket and removed my keys.

“Oh,” I said.

After that, when I called my husband at work, he’d answer by saying, “What did you lose?” or simply, “Inside pocket of your jacket in the closet.”

Even though his almost paranormal ability to find things is essential to my sanity, it is still completely irritating. After all, it feels a tiny bit condescending when I’m digging through the closets surrounded by jackets, shoes and assorted athletic gear looking for swimming goggles and my husband pulls them out of a swim bag.

Couldn’t he at least pretend to be surprised?

Last night, I gathered together the necessities before leaving for The Writing Mamas Salon. “Honey, where are my licorice mints?” I asked my husband.

“Bedroom. Top of the bookshelf,” he responded from the kitchen.

Right. Of course.

In the car, I rummaged through my purse looking for my glasses.

“Bye, Mom!” my four-year-old son, Kai, called from the deck.

I rolled down the window. “Can you ask Daddy if he knows where my glasses are?” I asked.

“Up high, in the place for glasses,” Kai told me as if I’d just asked him the location of my car.

I glanced at the sunglass holder above the rear-view mirror and then back at my son.

Tentatively, I opened the holder and my glasses fell into my hand. No way.

“Thanks,” I whispered looking up at Kai with new respect.

He shrugged. “I’m just a good finder.”

Maybe it is time to stop making excuses and admit that I am just… not.

By Maya Creedman

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My family tree vibrates from top to bottom with talented musicians. My father is not one of them.  He sings off-key and his piano skills consist of thumping out chords from "The Fake Book" while humming enthusiastically.

Sorry, Dad, but you know it’s true

Where he lacks talent, my father compensates with his love of music. While talent is determined by the genetic dice roll, appreciation can be cultivated. Although my father’s interest in music is broad, the opening notes of a Broadway show transform his expression into mesmerized joy.  

Attending The Mountain Play was a tradition in our family as solid as the Marin County Fair. I was six years old when I watched, “Annie Get Your Gun.” As the orchestra played the first notes from behind the stage, everything fell away. I no longer noticed the sticky Popsicle residue on my fingers or the guy with the baseball hat blocking my view. I only heard the notes fluttering up to the tops of the trees and exploding like fireworks. As the show continued, colors swirled inside me. I wanted to throw down my egg salad sandwich and dance.

Even after the performers took their bows and the orchestra had packed up, the music pumped through my body like blood.  My father and I skipped down the Bootjack trail to the car singing, “There’s no business like show business!”  My mother pretended not to know us. After all, we were out of tune and practically yelling, and the trail was full of sunburned, tired playgoers who were happy to leave it to the professionals, thank you very much.  

But, if we didn’t sing, we might have burst.

This year, my husband and I continued the tradition and took our own children to see "The Wizard of Oz.”  When the music started, I snuck a glance at my four-year-old, Kai’s face. His eager expression was replaced with a look of pure concentration and awe. “I can’t wait for the next song,” he whispered after the first number. Time will tell if musical talent has shaken down to him, but there’s no doubt that Grandpa’s appreciation of music has deep roots.

On the way back to the car, the music still pumping through us, I grabbed Kai’s hand. We skipped down the hill, singing, “It’s off the see the Wizard. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.”

Loud. Possibly off-key.

My husband pretended not to know us.  

But, if we didn’t sing, we might have burst.

By Maya Creedman

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My youngest child just turned one. Colby’s official transition to toddlerhood – marked by a family BBQ and several renditions of “Happy Birthday” – wasn’t all sweet smiles and cupcakes. Behind the excitement and celebration was a lingering sadness. The truth is that Colby’s first year ended before I was ready to move on.

Grief wasn’t an ingredient in my older son’s first birthday. Each new development – from crawling to Kai’s first song – was as sweet as his very first cupcake. Only recently did I recognize the finality of each milestone. This leads to scary questions such as: If I’m not ready to move on now, how will I feel when my boys leave home? After all, if the first year can pass like a turn of a page, college is little more than a magazine article away.

To try to reassure myself, I imagine myself thirty years from now looking back in time. What advice would I give myself? Having only the benefit of imaginary hindsight, I can only answer with what I already know. I need to enjoy my kids and collect good memories along the way.

Instead of grieving the moments that have already passed, I can focus on enjoying the kids now. Often that means while I’m kitchen-cleaning, appointment-making, money-earning, bill-paying and other life-doing tasks. If these next few years zoom by faster than Colby can empty out the kitchen cabinets, I better remember the details.

Some of my favorite memories are the slow, ordinary ones – Kai pulling a chair to the sink to wash his hands, Colby crawling down the stairs backwards and the boys kneeling side by side sorting blocks. These are the kind of moments that just don’t fully register in my memory unless I make an effort to really pay attention. These are the candid photos of memories, the moments in between vacations, events and celebrations.

Next time I start mourning Colby’s lost baby days, I’ll focus my nostalgia on the upcoming “firsts” already lining up for their turn in front of the camera. For now, I’ll hold onto the memory of Colby toddling toward me, holding out a piece of used Kleenex like a prize, his six-toothed smile so wide that his eyes and nose crinkle together like a Shar-Pei puppy.

If I don’t hurry up and slow down -- I might miss what comes next.

.By Maya Creedman

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Watching a mom with kids in line at Starbucks, I smiled in recognition. She urged her preschooler trying to make a choice, while attempting to keep her toddler from molesting the packaged sandwiches. I knew this mom was hoping that the treats would buy her a few quiet moments to sip her latte in peace.

I’ve been there.

Except that I was wrong. This was no slacker mom. She sat the children down at the table next to me spreading napkins to shelter the scones from germs and puncturing straws perfectly through milk cartons. I generally forget to get extra napkins until the milk spills over someone’s pants and on to the floor because I’ve allowed my child to puncture his own milk carton.

Once the children are comfortable, Clean Mom whips out a book and begins quizzing her children. “What is this letter?” she asks as her preschooler wiggles in her seat and the toddler whines. “This is an S,” she continues hopefully, “It says star. Can you find the star?” She continues on with great excitement, encouraging the girls to recognize letters and find their associated pictures. The girls are more interested in wiggling, whining and tipping their chairs backwards.

I don’t even have my own children with me and already I’m exhausted. I need another latte. That’s when I notice that Whiz Mom doesn’t even HAVE a latte. This woman has come to Starbucks with her children to buy THEM a snack and pack in some academics.

I stare at her in wonder.

“Well, that was an interesting book, wasn’t it?” Whiz Mom enthuses as she stashes it into her designer diaper bag. I can imagine what else is in that bag: organic fruit carefully diced into bite size pieces; three different kinds of sandwiches cut into butterflies and heart shapes; veggies with dipping sauce and an ice pack to keep them cold. Of course, there are also two water-filled sippy cups that have been hand washed and properly sterilized in boiling water just this morning; two changes of clothing per child in case of spills or weather changes; sunblock for reapplication at noon; hats; a portable diaper changing station; and, of course, educational toys and books.

It’s a good day for me if I remember to throw a diaper and a bag of crackers into my milk stained, crumb-filled purse. But, then again anything I forget to bring on outings is likely to be found somewhere in the trunk of my car.

I’m pretty convinced that labeled toy bins, extra-curricular activities and preschool worksheets don’t make a childhood. But, maybe I’ve become a little too lax lately.

A few examples to confirm my slacker mom status: The kids get baths maybe twice a week. Sheets get changed every two weeks. Lunches and snacks consist of easy to prepare options such as yogurt, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, carrot sticks and easy to eat fruit like bananas. My sons drink out of the water fountain when I forget to bring along their sippy cups. Except for swimming lessons and preschool, there is no soccer, karate, gym, music or Spanish classes that require money and that I show up somewhere at the same time each week. I didn’t start reading to the baby until he was ten months old.

I make these confessions because my children don’t seem to be suffering so far. When I need to spend more time on lunches or baths, I’ll find another place to shave off minutes of mom prep time. With those minutes I save, I can read a few pages of a novel, take a shower, write, or spend a few more minutes in bed. I like to think those stolen “me” minutes don’t make me selfish: they just make me energy efficient.

“Let’s sing,” Hyper Mom is insisting of her children. “A, B, C, D, E, F, G. . . ”

I consider buying her some herbal tea. But, then again, maybe she has her own energy efficient moments.

I think I’ll go home and wash some sippy cups.

By Maya Creedman

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My four-year-old son has a new curiosity about the human anatomy.

Boobs, breasts, ta-tas, hooters, or whatever you call them. He has endless questions. “Why do boys have nipples, but not boobs? Why aren’t Mommy’s boobs flat so that baby Colby can be “closer?” How does Mommy make milk? Why doesn’t Daddy have breasts?”

I prefer the current boob obsession to his discovery of private parts when he was two. In the bath, he’d yell, “Penis!” as he yanked his little dude with glee. I shrugged and guessed it must be a guy thing. At least he was still in diapers, so I didn’t have to battle the “hands in the pants” habit. Still, I was relieved when he stopped yelling, “I have penis? Mommy has ‘china?’” in public restrooms.

A year later, he was fascinated with my enormous belly and concerned about how his baby brother would make it out. I thought I’d done an adequate job of explaining that there was a special tunnel until he began requesting “A Baby is Born” for his bedtime book every night for weeks. Each time we’d look through the book, he’d have more questions until he’d developed his own monologue to accompany the photographs.

Thankfully, like Mommy’s “china,” this phase ended and I thought we were in the clear until puberty.

But, I’d forgotten about boobs. Lately, the human breast obsession has expanded to include animals --“Does our dog, Daisy, have boobs?” -- and toys.

“Storm Troopers are girls.” He informed me, analyzing one of his Star Wars figures.

“Oh, really? Why’s that?” I asked.

“Well, because they have these bra things,” he explained pointing at the Storm Trooper’s chest plate.

I think I better go hide my tampons.

By Maya Creedman

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My four-year-old son has a new curiosity about the human anatomy. Boobs, breasts, ta-tas, hooters, or whatever you call them. He has endless questions. “Why do boys have nipples but not boobs? Why aren’t Mommy’s boobs flat so that baby Colby can be “closer?” How does Mommy make milk? Why doesn’t Daddy have breasts?”

I prefer the current boob obsession to his discovery of private parts when he was two. In the bath, he’d yell, “Penis!” as he yanked his little dude with glee. I shrugged and guessed it must be a guy thing. At least he was still in diapers, so I didn’t have to battle the “hands in the pants” habit. Still, I was relieved when he stopped yelling, “I have penis. Mommy has ‘china,” in public restrooms.

A year later, he was fascinated with my enormous belly and concerned about how his baby brother would make it out. I thought I’d done an adequate job explaining that that there was a special tunnel until he began requesting “A Baby is Born” for his bedtime book every night for weeks. Each time we’d look through the book, he’d have more questions until he’d developed his own monologue to accompany the photographs. Thankfully, like Mommy’s “china,” this phase ended and I thought we were in the clear until puberty.

But, I’d forgotten about boobs. Lately, the human breast obsession has expanded to include animals (Does our dog, Daisy have boobs?) and toys.

“Storm Troopers are girls.” He informed me, analyzing one of his Star Wars figures.

“Oh, really? Why’s that?” I asked.

“Well, because they have these bra things,” he explained pointing at the Storm Trooper’s chest plate.

I think I better go hide my tampons.


By Maya Creedman

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Years before I became a mom, I bought something for my future child. At the time it seemed overly sentimental and silly. A twenty-two-year-old graduate student, hostelling around Eastern Europe with a single backpack and a budget that barely allowed for three meals a day can’t make unnecessary purchases.

But in the gift shop of the Budapest Art Museum, I fell in love with a piece of artwork that I absolutely had to buy for my future child’s nursery. Something about the two dressed bunnies riding on the back of a tangerine lion made me smile. My traveling companion politely averted her eyes as I forked over my lunch money in exchange for the bulky poster.

“It’ll be worth it someday,” I told Paulette as she offered me a bite of her pizza.

Years later, I hung the print in a clean white frame in my oldest son’s nursery and it has been in one my boys’ rooms ever since. Was it worth the extra baggage and the missed lunch? The boys never really noticed it, nor did I -- until yesterday.

While holding my youngest, eight-month-old Colby, I noticed him focused intently on the print across the room. I took him closer, and he smiled.

“Lion, bunny, bunny, sky, sun,” I said. He laughed and reached out. He patted the lion, cooing and babbling away and I forced myself to pause – turn off the To-Do list items buzzing through my brain, and just look. I smiled, the colors reminding me of the children in paddle boats on the lake next to the museum.

The moment passes.

The laundry stills need to put away and I have work to do. I put Colby down on the floor and hand him a toy. But, he’s not finished. He crawls over to the nightstand and tries to pull himself closer to the print hanging above. “Uh, uh,” he says trying to propel himself up on wobbly legs and desire alone.

I lay the print down on the carpet and as I watch him crawl on top of the frame, mouth on the lion’s face and patting the bunnies, I laugh with him. This was why I sacrificed lunch so many years ago, back when my only responsibility was myself.

Even then, I identified with the lion’s long nose and narrow green eyes that said, “I will take my baby bunnies with me wherever I go.” Sharing smiles, Colby and I can go back together to a time with no To-Do lists.

Simple, beautiful moments like these, must not be allowed to pass.

By Maya Creedman

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It took me six months to take her tiny red iPod out of the case. It took me another three months to listen to her music. At first it seemed wrong, like snooping. Like the time, years ago, I opened a notebook she’d forgotten and read words not intended for me.

She was the one with real musical talent, even though I, the older sister, took piano lessons first. Before she could play award-winning concertos, we played “Chopsticks” – duet style – with loud and overindulgent improvisations. We were two sisters, one brunette and one blond, sharing a piano bench, fingers dancing together.

Nina’s been dead for almost ten months now. Yet, sometimes, when my fingers skim over her iPod’s playlist, she chooses a song for me, her musical tastes deeper and more eccentric than my own.

Something happens to me when I hear these unfamiliar songs. I fade away and then, together, Nina and I slip away, allowing the music to improvise our stories, and our emotions free to swirl along.

Maybe it is only my memory of Nina that allows her to be there. But, still she is there.

Today, my fingers stopped on an Ani DeFranco song I had never heard. The melancholy notes wash over me. The room is thick with loss, regret -- and something else I can’t name.

I listen again, to the lyrics this time. Slowly, the meaning changes. It isn’t regret that I didn’t spend more time with my sister while she was alive: it is gratitude for the time we had together.

This shift has to be Nina’s doing because I don’t have that kind of inner peace. Or maybe it’s because I’ve discovered a way to spend time with my sister again, dancing our fingers together over her iPod.

By Maya Creedman

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Exactly sixteen minutes after our power went out, my three-year old was rocking out to the “Star Wars” soundtrack on my husband’s iPod. Banjo music twanged at top volume from the baby’s new Learn and Groove music table.

My husband rummaged through the pile of batteries and emergency gear covering the dining room table. At that point, I should have realized that losing our electricity wouldn’t be all candles and snuggles in front of the fire.

Still, I couldn’t quite shake the idea that this power outage could be a mini vacation. After all, I couldn’t cook meals or do laundry. Instead, we could build cities made of blocks, and play cards, charades and read books by candlelight. If the storm eased up, maybe we could even do a little puddle stomping.

It didn’t work out that way. My husband spent most of his time hauling out buckets of water from under our house while I tried to keep the kids occupied. I think he enjoyed donning his headlamp and descending to the dank bowels of our house like a coal miner.

The baby was up many times each night, protesting his four layers of pajamas. And getting up at five a.m. with the kids was even more unappealing without lights, heat and coffee.

We ate crackers and peanut butter wearing our winter jackets. The baby cried over his cold dinner of pureed green beans and rice. I discovered that changing diapers by candlelight with a three-year-old “helper” was downright dangerous. After that, I embraced my husband’s assortment of flashlights, LED lights, and headlamps and put the candles away. I found myself looking forward to doing laundry when our power came back.

I thought three days without power would have stifled my love of candlelight forever. But, it didn’t. Now, I’m planning a mini vacation night, where we’ll do it my way. We’ll eat take-out on paper plates by candlelight. Then we’ll play charades, drink hot cocoa and read books in front of the fireplace. There won’t be any electronic gadgets. Best of all, we can turn the lights on if diapers need changing.

By Maya Creedman

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I bought tickets to a local performance of the "Nutcracker." I thought this would be the beginning of a holiday tradition: a special “mommy and me” event, perhaps even a monumental moment in my almost four-year-son’s cultural development.

A few days before the show, I reminded Kai, “On Saturday, we’re going to see the Nutcracker.”

“Mmm, hmmm,” he mumbled balancing his Jedi Star fighter on the edge of the table.

“Just you and me,” I added hopefully, “Daddy and Colby are staying home.”

“Vrrr Vrrr Booommm!” he screeched as the spaceship crashed to the floor.

Still, I was determined that he would love it. As we drove to the performance, I asked him if he would like to listen to the Nutcracker soundtrack in the car.

“No,” he said, “Can we listen to “Star Wars?””

As I parked, I got a glimpse of Kai in the rearview mirror, happily humming along to the Star Wars soundtrack while studying his Star Wars book. Please understand that my son has never actually watched Star Wars. His “Star Wars book” is really a toy catalog that came with the Star Wars figurine he earned recently.

“Here we are!” I announced, “Are you excited?”

“No,” he said, “Can we bring my Star Wars book?”

I realized that he might need a little external motivation to get through this performance. So, armed with a gingerbread cookie and the toy catalog, we found our seats and waited for the show to begin.

When the overture piped through the theatre’s stereo system, I started feeling a little disappointed. I had hoped for a live orchestra.

“Why isn’t anything happening?” Kai asked loudly.

“Shhh…” I said for the first of many times.

“Wow, look at that!” I whispered as the curtain went up to reveal a beautiful Christmas tree.

“Can I have a snack?” Kai asked, unimpressed.

Once the dancing started, Kai slid on and off my lap and wiggled, bumped and jiggled on his seat, only occasionally glancing at the stage. He laughed at the toy soldier’s jerky dance and I felt a surge of hope.

“Can I have my Star Wars catalog?” he asked.

“Shhh. . .”

Snowflake ballerinas of all different sizes sparkled and fluttered across the stage.

“Star Wars,” Kai sighed, obviously wishing he was elsewhere. Sadly, I admitted to myself that he might have been happier with a trip to the park.

At intermission, I fulfilled my promise to “read” the Star Wars catalog to Kai. For the next ten minutes, we discussed light sabers, Jedi star fighters and transformers. There was no mention of nutcrackers or the Sugar Plum fairy.

“I want the Darth Vader Death Star for my birthday,” he said.

“That’s a really big present,” I whispered as the lights dimmed.

Then a miracle happened. Kai watched quietly in my lap as the Spanish, Chinese and Arabian dancers performed for Clara and the Prince. “Finally,” I thought, “he’s enjoying this.”

Kai smiled up at me in the dark. He reached his arms up around my neck and gave me a big kiss. This was what I imagined.

“Mom,” he said trying really hard to whisper, “I think you can find a big enough box for the Death Star.”

By Maya Creedman

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It happened the first time I ventured out alone with my firstborn.

“What’s your husband?” the lactation consultant asked as she scrutinized my two-week old’s face. “Huh? Oh, um… Chinese,” I stammered, wondering what this had to do with breastfeeding.

“Oh, mixed babies are so beautiful!” She went on to tell me how her cousin married a Japanese woman and they have the most exotic-looking children. Sleep deprived, I just sat there, nipples burning, with no idea how to respond.

As I left the appointment, the woman at the front desk took a peek. “Oh, he looks just like his father,” she commented. Since she’d never meet my husband, I was a little confused. By the time I got home, my initial confusion had been replaced with sadness. Would navigating insensitive comments become as much a part of my new mothering experience as sleepless nights and painful nipples?

The comments happen everywhere -- the park, vacation, at preschool, restaurants, the pediatrician’s office, and waiting in line at Starbucks. There are the well-meaning strangers, who without even saying hello, ask, “Where did you get him?” like my child is a miniature horse in a 4-H exhibit.

Other questions I’ve been asked include, “Is he Oriental?” like he’s a rug. And, “What’s his nationality?”

Then there are the comments about the supposed special beauty that “mixed” children share. If I was to approach a random Swedish mother and gush about how beautiful Swedish children are, she’d round up her kids faster than you can say “creepy.”

I have become proficient in the smile-politely-and-change-the-subject routine. However, there is one question that always gives me pause.

“What is he?”

Yes, I really have been asked this question. It happens infrequently enough that I never remember to answer, “A hyper Labradoodle.”

Strangers don’t see the ways my son is like me. His toothy smile curves to the right just like mine. The similarity of our hair color and texture amazes our hairdresser. We gross out Daddy by wiggling our double-jointed thumbs. We share a passion for books with interesting characters, dark green treasures and baking (and eating) “yummy stuff.”

It doesn’t matter that strangers don’t see these things. What’s important is that I navigate the inevitable questions confidently and help my son build a healthy self-identity. But, I think it will be awhile before ethnicity becomes an issue.

For now, I’m just trying to convince him that boys can play with pink toys.

By Maya Creedman

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I didn’t want to do it. I had plenty of excuses. We’re in the midst of a kitchen remodel. The baby won’t take a bottle. I was leaving on a trip the next day. We wanted to take the kids to the Goblin Jamboree. But, most of all, I hate asking for money.

If I was going to participate in the Juvenile Diabetes Walk, I would need to ask for donations. I had to. My sister lived with Type I diabetes for over twenty years. Now she’s gone. This was an opportunity to do something productive in Nina’s honor.

So, I signed up. That took three minutes online. Then it was time to e-mail out the dreaded donation letter. I reminded myself that the money goes towards finding a cure for the disease that had forced Nina to stick her finger and give herself injections multiple times each day, almost killed her when she ran out of insulin in the Amazon and had been an unwelcome consideration that she could never escape – not even for an afternoon.

But, asking for money was still hard. I e-mailed new friends, old friends, Nina’s friends, family friends… basically anyone with an e-mail address. I reassured myself that I never mind being asked for donations for a charity walk. My husband reminded me that the money was for charity. It wasn’t like we were asking friends to fund our kitchen remodel. Still, I felt embarrassed and apologetic.

Until, I thought about Nina.

Even as a kid, Nina never hid her disease. She didn’t retreat to a restroom to give herself injections. She would just pull up her shirt and plunge in the syringe in an airport, classroom or restaurant ignoring the stares. One of her graduate school friends recalls the first moment he met Nina. She sat down next to him in class, pulled out her insulin supplies and gave herself a shot. When she caught him gaping, she just smiled and asked “What? Do you think that’s kinky?”

Nina never made apologies for her illness and she didn’t let it stop her from traveling to third-world countries, backpacking in remote locations, playing on a men’s soccer team, or doing anything else she desired. The only thing that she couldn’t do was make her Diabetes disappear. Even though she tried to make Diabetes seem “cool,” as her big sister, I know that she wished for a cure over every set of birthday candles.

In the end, I received over $1,000 in donations for the Juvenile Diabetes Foundation along with encouragement and support from people I barely knew. I also learned something from Nina. Don’t make apologies for the way things are. Just live it.

By Maya Creedman

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It happened the first time I ventured out alone with my first baby. “What’s your husband?” the lactation consultant asked as she scrutinized my two-week old’s face. “Huh? Oh, um. . . Chinese,” I stammered, wondering what this had to do with breastfeeding.

“Oh, mixed babies are so beautiful!” She went on to tell me how her cousin married a Japanese woman and they have the most exotic-looking children. Sleep deprived, I just sat there, nipples burning, with no idea how to respond.

As I left the appointment, the woman at the front desk took a peek. “Oh, he looks just like his father,” she commented. Since she’d never meet my husband, I was a little confused. By the time I got home, my initial confusion had been replaced with sadness. Would navigating insensitive comments become as much a part of my new mothering experience as sleepless nights and painful nipples?

The comments happen everywhere – the park, vacation, at preschool, restaurants, the pediatrician’s office, and waiting in line at Starbucks. There are the well-meaning strangers, who without even saying hello, ask, “Where did you get him?” like my child is a miniature horse in a 4-H exhibit. Other questions I’ve been asked include, “Is he Oriental?” like he’s a rug, and “What’s his nationality?”

Then there are the comments about the supposed special beauty that “mixed” children share. If I was to approach a random Swedish mother and gush about how beautiful Swedish children are, she’d round up her kids faster than you can say “creepy.”

I have become proficient in the smile-politely-and-change-the-subject routine. However, there is one question that always gives me pause.

“What is he?”

Yes, I really have been asked this question. It happens infrequently enough that I never remember to answer, “A hyper Labradoodle.”

Strangers don’t see the ways my son is like me. His toothy smile curves to the right just like mine. The similarity of our hair color and texture amazes our hairdresser. We gross out Daddy by wiggling our double-jointed thumbs. We share a passion for books with interesting characters, dark green treasures and baking (and eating) “yummy stuff.”

It doesn’t matter that strangers don’t see these things. What’s important is that I navigate the inevitable questions confidently and help my son build a healthy self-identity. But, I think it will be awhile before ethnicity becomes an issue. For now, I’m just trying to convince him that boys can play with pink toys.

By Maya Creedman

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My ultimate fantasy features a hotel room. Let me clarify. In my fantasy, I am alone in said hotel room. I understand this isn’t the usual image conjured up when a hotel fantasy is mentioned, so let me fill out the details for you.

This is just your regular, clean hotel room. A fluffy white comforter, extra pillows and high thread count sheets is a plus, but not mandatory. Heavy drapes and a humming fan are a must to ensure uninterrupted sleep. Nearby rooms should be empty to avoid listening to someone else’s creaking mattress or late-night movie.

This hotel room, in case you haven’t figured this out by now, is for sleeping. In my fantasy, I wake up only to turn over and snuggle into the covers before drifting off again. There is no baby wanting milk, no screaming child or snoring husband. There is also no phone ringing, door knocking or distant gardener going wild with the leaf blower. If I’m feeling particularly indulgent, I might imagine taking a hot bubble bath, maybe even with candles and a good novel that I can read in one sitting between naps.

I suspect that I’m not the only mom who has entertained the thought of vanishing into the night. I refuse to believe that most mothers adapt well to the cruel torture of long-term sleep deprivation.

My oldest son was a terrible sleeper. He was colicky and up nursing every couple hours for months. When he did sleep, I couldn’t sleep for fear that he would wake up again. One night, I didn’t think I could make it. It was only 3 a.m. and it was obvious that baby had no intention of sleeping. My head throbbed and I was starting to hallucinate. I knew I couldn’t make it to dawn. I woke my husband with car keys in hand.

“I’m going to a hotel,” I said handing him the baby.

“You can’t do that,” he said. And I cried because I knew I couldn’t.

Now I have a second baby that doesn’t sleep well. With ear plugs, sound machines and more help from my husband, I can handle that part. However, lately my older son has regressed after sleeping through the night for years. Apparently the two boys are in a secret competition to see who can steal more of mommy’s sleep time.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve often fantasized about grabbing my car keys and heading to a hotel. At least I have an escape plan, even if it is a selfish one.

Last night was particularly bad. It was 5 a.m. and my longest sleep stretch had been one hour.

“I’m about five minutes away from going to a motel,” I told my husband.

“Sure,” he said. “Take the kids.”

By Maya Creedman

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“It smells like Mill Valley,” Nina said and I knew exactly what she meant: autumn leaves, trickling creek beds, redwood bark, and just a dash of distant fog. Like expert wine tasters, we could identify the precise scents that filled the early evening air in our hometown.

On her annual visit from New Zealand, my sister reserved three precious days to “hang” with me, my husband and my two-year old son. I had recently moved back to Mill Valley and now Nina was finally here to help me reclaim the town we grew up in.

We roamed the streets of our childhood, our voices like ping pongs bouncing back and forth. Each block brought more stories until our sides cramped from laughter, our skins tingling with memories of blackberry picking, tree houses and high school parties. Mill Valley was our town.

As the redwoods transformed into towering shadows, we walked down the middle of the streets, so close that our fingers touched. Even though it was dark, I could picture her short, stubborn fingers that could serenade piano concertos and her muscular legs that could kick ass on a soccer field as well as under a sundress.

While our memories spilled around us, we planned for her next visit. She promised to come back the next September. I was newly pregnant and Nina hoped this baby would share her May birthday. She’d cook us gourmet meals with farmer’s market produce, cuddle the baby, teach my son how to play soccer, and help me burn off my baby weight with hikes on Mt. Tam. Maybe she’d even move home for good.

A year is a long time, but I thought we had the rest of our lives. It never occurred to me that it would be the last time I’d share Mill Valley with my little sister. Nina died six months later - just six weeks before the baby was born on her birthday. She would have been thirty years old.

Now it is September again and she isn’t here to kiss the baby or tickle Kai. She isn’t here to help me remember the Mill Valley we shared.

On good days, I feel Nina with me. She urges me to pick the blackberries, plums and other underappreciated fruit on our street. She laughs when my son bounces off the furniture in his Superman costume – the one she gave him for Christmas. She smirks when I put milk in the cupboard and car keys in the fridge. And on warm September evenings, she walks silently beside me as we inhale the smell of Mill Valley together.


By Maya Creedman

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My husband has been hiding something from me.

While watering the garden, I watch the sun graze the top tier of my garden with its early morning rays. The fog is retreating to the bay, turning the sky blue in its wake. This is the kind of morning when almost anything seems possible.

Inside the house, several loads of baby laundry and sticky handprints are waiting. Desperately, I look around for a reason to stay here for just a few more minutes. There is nothing left to water. In fact, if I don’t stop watering the flowers will drown.

As I drag the hose back across the lawn, I notice that the grass is too long. Apparently, James, too busy chopping and hauling braches off innocent bushes to fill the “green” bin, forgot to mow the lawn.

Hmm…maybe I should mow the grass!

I’m not exactly sure what the lawnmower even looks like, but I finally find the heavy push mower in the back corner of the garage. Dragging it out of the garage is a chore and I’m thinking that this is another one of my not-so-great ideas that end up complicating my life.

Once I get the mower to the grass, I have to figure out how to use the thing. The grass is too long for me to cut without major effort. I’m about to give up when I discover that I can pull the mower backwards. Soon I’m thinking that the sounds of the blades whirling and sputtering out grass clippings are almost as sweet as Colby’s baby coos. And better yet, I’m accomplishing something concrete! Even though I can feel the sweat dripping down my back, I’m proud that my baby-hauling muscles are capable of doing a “man’s job.”

And, it’s fun!

Suddenly, my husband appears on the lawn with the kids in tow. The baby’s wearing orange pants, a blue and red striped shirt and green monkey socks. Our three-year-old is wearing fleece pants (on backwards) and a tank top with a giant orange macaw on it.

”Hey,” he says, looking worried, “that’s my job.”

“I’ll trade you for something else,” I say.

Well, except for dressing the kids.

By Maya Creedman

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