It’s March in San Francisco. The skies are clear, the sun is shining, and Eli has rediscovered his Halloween costume (with the extra, and quite fetching, addition of his UConn Huskies hat).

He alternated between the tiger suit and, when he got too warm, just a diaper, all day long.

I’m not used to having a boy who expresses an opinion about his clothes, let alone likes changing them occasionally . Ben would keep the same clothes on for a week if I’d let him..

Deborah Bacharach is your average doting mother. Of her baby girl, she writes, “Rose is gorgeous, courageous, and clever, and she can say “uh oh” with great aplomb…”

As a writer, Bacharach not only finds material in her darling daughter, but she finds a way to harness her sleep deprivation, the bane of every new parent: “Sleep deprivation makes me miserable, but it’s had two unforeseen advantages for my writing life: aphasia and visions.”

Read more about the inspirational power of sleep deprivation in this month’s Literary Reflections essay, “Fire, Aphasia and the Spirit World.”

OK, technically only my parents were on vacation, but what with Ben’s birthday and all, it began to feel like we were all on break. Which is really not so bad (except that I need to be writing my next column right now…)

So this is what we did:

Read many different books, including The Gypsy Madonna; Special Topics in Calamity Physics; What is the What; Fiasco: The American Military Adventure in Iraq; slave narratives; and Cold Mountain (all of us, though mostly my parents);

Read one book, The Bunnies Are Not in Their Beds, over and over (Eli, with his patient granddad);

Read one other book, The Daylight Limited, over and over (Ben, with Tony and me);

Bake (me! Cooks Illustrated’s Best Chocolate Layer Cake, which is more complicated and less delicious than Chocolate Carrot Cake and therefore won’t be made around here again; the fabulous and easy Apricot Crumbles; my new favorite lemon dessert, Meyer Lemon Cake; and brownies);

Add words to our vocabulary (Eli: “cake” and “dessert”);

Add lines to our epic poem, even at the playground (Dad, who is working on a paraquel to Beyond Beowulf);

Learn to play catch (Eli, with his granddad);

Build with his new lego sets (Ben);

Look at old family photos;

Take more family photos;

Make plans for the next visit.

“Ben, what do you think Eli will learn when he’s two?”

“I think Eli will learn how to say ‘placemat.'”

“Oh. And what do you think you’ll learn, now that you’re five?”

“I think I’ll learn how to drink wine!”

Alright then.

Five Things Ben Likes To Do
Read
Draw
Build with Lincoln logs, tinker toys, and blocks
Play with his friends
Pretend to be Dan Zanes and play a concert

Five Favorite Things
Trains
Musical instruments
Books
Tinker Toys
His brother

Five Favorite Foods
Pasta puttanesca
Chard with lemon and garlic
Penne pesto
Dried mango
Chocolate anything

Five Foods He Doesn’t Much Care For
A glass of milk
Tomatoes
Potatoes
Beans
Butter (acceptable only as an invisible ingredient)

Five Reasons I Love Ben
He says “actually”
He’s (mostly) kind to his brother
He always asks to be excused from the table (even when he happens to be the only one sitting there)
At bedtime, he wants me to cuddle and tell him the story of the day he was born

And extra bonus reason: this morning, he said to me, “At night, I decided I should sneak into your room and gently put this picture on your pillow!” The picture, of a house with some flowers growing in front of it, and a bright sun in the corner, is captioned “Picture of the World, for Mama, from Ben!”

Happy birthday, sweet Ben!!

It’s always a good day when you get to visit two bookstores and eat a nice dinner out.

My parents have visited San Francisco often enough that they don’t need to travel the tourist circuit at all. Instead, there are a couple bookstores that always require a stop, and since we are celebrating a big birthday soon, we even had a legitimate excuse to spend money.

In the evening, the boys’ beloved caregiver came over and the adults went out for a fine meal at the lovely Woodward’s Garden. This restaurant has been on my radar since I first moved to San Francisco, and I’d never eaten there before! It was worth the wait. Nothing fancy, nothing stacked or foamed (and thank goodness, really), but all of it — from the seared scallops with celery and jerusalem artichoke puree, to the truffled mushroom risotto, to the chocolate ganache-bosc pear tart–was creative and delicious.

Today, we’re off to the farmer’s market to find today’s dinner, and then, tonight, the birthday feast cooking begins in earnest!

After dinner (mushroom ravioli with brown butter; chard from the yard; and ice cream for the boys who figured that since we had dessert last night we should have it again tonight. No point in trying to break this habit before Ben’s birthday, really), Ben asked for some alone time in his bedroom. Dad offered to accompany him, and Ben realized that Granddad time would be way better than alone time. Up they went.

It took Eli half a second to realize that the fun was going upstairs, and to insist on following them, so I escorted him up. Then I closed the gate and headed back down, leaving Dad to relive long-past days with young children.

Mom and I puttered around the kitchen, cleaning up and visiting. I kept an ear tuned to the upstairs. I could hear happy boy voices and the clatter of tinker toys. Then it got pretty quiet. Then it got LOUD! Crazy, giggling and running loud. I took my time finishing up, then went to check out the scene.

I found my Dad at the door of Ben’s bedroom, simply opening and closing the door while the boys ran down the hallway and back. Occasionally he would say “Boo!” Then the tickling began, both boys flushed, their hair curling with sweat, laughing so hard they couldn’t stand up.

Dad headed back downstairs, his work done, and the boys were asleep within half an hour.

And they didn’t even stir, an hour later, when the house was rocked by an earthquake.

The grandparents (my parents) arrived today and everybody is very happy.

Ben made a sign (spelling all the words himself!) that said “Welcome to California! I love you! Love Ben!” and has a picture of a train with a heart on it. After dinner, he lured his granddad up to his bedroom to talk trains and build Lincoln Log structures.

Eli clutched his picture of the six of us (from my parents’ last visit here) and ran back and forth from his Grandma to his Granddad, pointing out everyone in the photograph to them very carefully. He’s added two new words to his vocabulary: Gu-guh and Guh-gah. Context is all with Eli, because those same words also refer to granola, Grover, and Gordo’s Taqueria. We’ll try not to get confused.

And I made dinner! Which I do often enough, but my parents give me an excuse to try breaking out of the “pasta with …” rut. Tonight it was risotto with balsamic glazed mushrooms, a green salad, and braised pears with caramel sauce. Mmmm.

What’s the satisfaction in a sad story? My two greatest reading pleasures recently were Audrey Niffenegger’s novel, The Time Traveler’s Wife and Lorrie Moore’s short story, “People Like That Are The Only People Here,” beautiful stories that made we weep. The very first story that made me cry might have been Where the Red Fern Grows; I remember reading it in my bedroom, hiding on the far side of my bed, hoping I wouldn’t be interrupted by a call to dinner.

Libby’s new column is “Sad Stories and Why We Read Them;” here’s a taste:

SuperBowl Sunday. We’re sitting on the couch, nine-year-old Nick between Mark and me. I’m knitting, Nick is reading; only Mark is giving his full attention to the game. At some point, I look over Nick’s shoulder and see the arresting illustration from Bridge to Terabithia: a silhouette of Jess’s father holding his shattered son, who has just learned of his best friend’s death. I put my arm around Nick.

“It’s sad there, isn’t it?”

“It is. But you can’t really cry when you’re reading it to yourself — it’s not like when someone’s reading it to you — you need both your hands. So I can’t really cry.”

So he said, but the tears started a moment later. Released by my recognition, I think, they trickled — one, two — slowly out and down his cheeks. I kept my arm around him.

“It gets better,” I said. “I promise, it gets better at the end.”

Click on over to Literary Mama to read the rest, and let us know, what’s the last good book that made you cry?

When I first read about Momsrising.org and learned that they’d produced a film version of their book, The Motherhood Manifesto, I knew I wanted to write a column about the documentary. What better movie, after all, for a mama at the movies, than one expressly focused on the situation of mothers in this country today? I ordered the film via momsrising.org and drafted my column. But something was missing. This is a consciousness-raising movie, an organizing tool. Watching it by myself, I was missing a critical component of the film’s intent.

Before I could make plans to host a house party screening myself, I found an invitation in my inbox from a woman on my prenatal yoga teacher’s email list; my youngest child is almost two but I’ve stayed on the list for the supportive community it offers. I rsvp’d, interested in meeting the other mothers.

I arrived with a pan of brownies just as the other women arrived with snacks and drinks. Our hostess’ toddler was roaming around in his pj’s, happily greeting the other mamas, an entertaining reminder of why we’d come. We quickly fell into the kind of easy playground talk common to mothers everywhere. We could have gone on for hours, though, because this time we weren’t being interrupted by our children, only slightly distracted by our hostess’ sweet boy, who roamed from one of us to the next, clambering up on the couch for a cuddle, or lolling on the floor with his dog.

When we finally sat down to introduce ourselves properly (playground chat rarely involves the background basics of name, number of children, work, etc), the conversation quickly turned more significant. We have six children between us (ranging from 20 months to 5 years), and two more on the way; one of us is pregnant with her first child, and we admired her activism and foresight in attending this screening before even becoming a mom! All of us work in some capacity, all of us are struggling to find the right balance between our jobs and our children. One of us felt she’d lost out on a job opportunity because, interviewing when she was pregnant, she was seen by the employer as an unreliable prospect. Two of us have first-hand knowledge of the better family benefits offered to working mothers in other countries (in this case, England and Canada), and have no good answer for friends and family members who ask why the US makes it so hard on working moms. One of us actually concealed her motherhood while she worked on a graduate degree in order to maintain her status in the competitive, family-hostile program (another of us has heard so many of these difficult stories about women in higher education that she is co-editing a book on the subject.) We looked forward to seeing what the movie would say to us, how much of our own stories we would recognize in the stories on film. Our hostess, having already watched the first half of the movie in preparation for this moment, started the dvd, and took her son off to bed while we settled into watch.

I won’t go into the details of the movie here, in favor of describing our reaction. I am not exaggerating when I say that the film made us laugh, and it made us cry. We all appreciated the movie’s busy mom-friendly length (just an hour), and its clarity: organized around the six-point motherhood manifesto, each section of the film presents an entertaining mix of personal stories and statistics to dramatize and elucidate the difficulties working mothers face. We sat very quietly for a moment or two after the film ended, then our hostess got out some ice cream and as we dished it up and passed the brownies around, we started to talk again, but this time with more urgency, more focus.

As we discussed what aspects of the film hit most closely home, we focused particularly on healthcare, moved by the mother in the film whose child’s medical costs bankrupted her family. It is shocking that this country doesn’t offer universal healthcare for kids: it’s a truly affordable (since kids tend to be healthy), even money-saving government expenditure (universal child healthcare would result in healthier adults.)

We discussed the vulnerability we feel as women who have altered career plans to care for our children and then wind up financially dependent on our husbands. It puts a burden of stress on us and on our marriages. We all want to work, to offer role models to our children, to contribute to our family’s financial stability, and to maintain our sense of self. Yet we continue to struggle with combining work and family in a way that gives us time for both, and we weren’t at all surprised when the film tells us that lack of family time is the main reason mothers leave the workforce.

We shared how legislation really can affect us. One of us related how a change in California’s family leave between her pregnancies means that now her husband is also considering the logistics of when to take parental leave; “he has an empathetic understanding” of the challenges she faces, she said, and it has brought a new sense of balance to their marriage.

And finally, we discussed the tricky navigation we all face between public and private life, how protective we are of the time we give as volunteers and activists because of our desire for family time, and our sadness about feeling less generous “out there,” for society, because of the powerful claims on our private time. Meanwhile, we often feel so isolated, as mothers, we’re looking for a connection beyond the connection with our children, a way to extend our nurturing beyond the boundaries of family in order to improve the world for our children and our neighbors’ children.

Momsrising.org is savvy. They know they’re trying to organize about the most exhausted, overworked segment of the population, so the film suggests quick, strategic ways to help: send an email; sign a petition; write a letter. For those of us wanting a middle ground between internet activism and street demonstrations, the website suggests tips for organizing your own local activist group. Our small group quickly wrote up a wish list of three improvements we’d like to see for families in our city, exchanged email addresses, and promised to meet again. The Motherhood Manifesto inspired the activists in us.

cross-posted at Momsrising.org