A celebration of my children and a reflection on what “work” means

And a new installment of links this week!

A few weekends ago, I was parenting solo while my husband was out of town. Usually, he makes Saturday morning breakfasts so that I can sleep in or read undisturbed in bed.

Thankfully, after a few nighttime adventures with both kids, we all slept in. Upon waking, my son requested we all have peanut butter & jelly sandwiches for breakfast, and I was happy to oblige. Bananas, orange juice, and PB&Js in hand, we sat down to eat together and plan the day—including our outfits (and coordinating shoes).

My son likes it when we match, and not just our clothes. He loves it when we’re all eating the same food or all wearing brown shoes or sitting on the floor with our legs to the side in the same way. He’s beyond tickled when we laugh at the same thing at the same time with near-identical levels of delight. (Just ask my husband about our reaction to his robot voice.)

Most days, my son chooses and coordinates outfits for his sister and himself. They both love it, and I diligently document their experiences as The Rainboot Pals, The Yellow Pals, The Dinosaur Pals, etc.

So often I am shocked and overwhelmed by these displays of tenderness in the midst of his overwhelming need for safety and control. They both require a significant amount of control.

A rare nervous system (or two)

You see, my son’s nervous system isn’t built like most humans. And while we emphasize how special and sensitive that makes him, we also know he requires support in ways that other kids simply don’t.

Small things can feel like massive threats, and his brain sends signals accordingly. ALERT! ALERT! DANGER! DANGER! I imagine these messages traveling his nervous system as though they’re shooting through pneumatic tubes like the ones at the bank drive through or old timey post offices.

His body springs into action before we have even noticed the message is firing, and we do our best to offer support, provide safety, and be a calm presence to help ground him as he reassesses and regulates.

My daughter might have her own unique nervous system, too. We’re in the process of figuring that out—including identifying the right accommodations and supports to help her thrive. And while she doesn’t experience the same level of sensitivity and vigilance, she is most certainly what I believe experts would call a sensory seeker.

She also needs to be in control, and she absolutely cannot be stopped when she’s trying to understand something or meet a need she’s identified. The only time she willingly surrenders control is to her brother, and vice versa. They love to offer little bits of joy to each other, and I’m so grateful to witness these tiny exchanges every day.

This isn’t an easy season (especially given recent sleep struggles), but it’s my children’s closeness and delight in each other that makes me want to have more. At the same time, I wonder if adding another child to the mix would alter the dynamic between these two. Then I remember how tenderly and enthusiastically they regard every baby they meet.

My own body might be a complication

I wonder if my body can handle another baby at this point. I am uncertain the sleep deprivation in which we’re currently existing could expand to include another small body desperate for coregulation and nourishment with no awareness of time. I worry about how much louder it will get. I love the noise. I hate the noise. I lament my own sensory limitations.

To be clear, I am not pregnant. I’m just fantasizing at this point.

I am honestly not sure I can get pregnant or stay pregnant again. But my husband and I agree we are going to try at some point, because our family feels both complete and incomplete.

This life we’ve built in pursuit of freedom and flexibility is so good and has been worth all the upheaval. It’s a life spent emphasizing regulation, safety, and peace while making it a priority to truly see and hear each other.

And yet, I would love to have another tiny little buddy in my arms—to look into eyes that might look like mine or my husband’s, with idiosyncrasies that match the rest of ours, too. And I’d love to add another Rainboot Pal in the mix.

Then I think about how we define success and productivity. That so many around us think we’re successful parents, because we’ve already brought one boy and one girl into this world. I’ve been cautioned that my life will be more stressful with another child because my children are already a handful (!!!), and after all, don’t I want to go back to work?

What is work, really?

But to go back to work, I’d need to be doing something other than work. And if I’m not presently working, then what it is that I do every day? Caring for and educating my children, meeting an assortment of client needs every day, and still carving out little moments like this to write and edit—surely these count as work.

I think about the juxtaposition of my work and my husband’s work. That as he sits in a suit in an office downtown, his work is WORK, and my work is… Play? A hobby? Insignificant because of where it takes place? A whim that he must cater to because happy-wife-happy-life was the rule we were “jokingly” encouraged to abide?

I am grateful he finds the entire premise ridiculous, that he values my work in all its forms and introduces me as a poet and a mother before I begin to ramble about the marketing work I do. It’s a tiny act of resistance in a world that only rewards one kind of success, that defines productivity only in economic terms—as tangible outputs that can be exchanged for the outputs of others.

Because our outputs are almost never so tangible. The sense of peace and safety that we try to cultivate in our home can’t be exchanged for goods and services, but my prayer is that it will be offered to and augmented in the lives of generations to come.

I think again about that morning—the word lazy hovers over my head, and I try to set it aside. Rest is productive. Snuggles are productive. Reading fifteen Pete the Cat books is productive.

Preparing a simple meal so enthusiastically chosen by a sweet, soulful child? The most productive thing I could do all day.

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Bits & Bobs

I’m happy to report that in last week’s poll, no one said this section was the worst, so here’s another installment of assorted links.

• This column from Anita Gill this morning has stuck with me all day. I have been trying to pitch more essays lately, and I especially have been pondering her final point about more than one essay. I sent a pitch recently that in hindsight was way too ambitious. It was unreasonable to try to say all of the things I wanted to say in the span of such a short essay. I shared the pitch with a friend after I’d sent it to the editor, and my friend said, “So this isn’t an article, this is a book.” I’ll share here if the piece gets accepted in any form.

• I’ve continued to be obsessed with Spotify’s “daylist” feature. I know it’s been around for a few months, and I think I’m not supposed to trust AI (??), but machine learning is just so weird and so interesting to me. Some recent favorite playlists include: “warm fuzzy feeling soppy friday afternoon,” “mountain music alternative country monday afternoon,” “hip hop college friday evening,” “national anthem pumpkin spice thursday night,” “guilty pleasure karaoke evening,” and “angst mallgoth thursday afternoon.” (I think this also means I’m allowed to assert that I contain multitudes.)

• I’ve been reading and rereading Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo. I’m sitting at our kitchen table as I type this, ignoring my to-do list and fidgeting with a tiny heart-shaped crayon we made by melting other broken crayons to give in our class valentines. As today’s update indicates, I’ve been thinking a lot about making room and family—about making spaces that are nourishing, even (especially) as we’re navigating difficulty.

• I recently finished Good Talk by Mira Jacob on audiobook. It was truly a compelling audio experience. I know it’s a graphic memoir, and that’s an incredible experience, as well, but the audio was so well executed. At some point, I’d like to do my own exercise in remembering and considering the conversations I’ve had and am still having and observing. I’m sure we’d all be well-served to do this from time to time.

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading! 👋