Everyday Susa

There are a few [read: many] characteristics that I don't want my son to inherit from me. In fact, it's usually difficult to name more than one characteristic that I hope to pass on. (Tenacity is the one. I have it in spades.) But I discovered a new one the other day: empathy. "Empathy: the ability to understand and share the feelings of another." (Thanks Google for the definition!) It's a difficult skill if it's not natural, and a heavy weight when it is. I can look someone in the eye, hear their words, and feel their pain filling my heart. It's why people believed me at Starbucks when I said, "I'm so sorry this went wrong," because I could lace my words with genuine empathy. It feels like betrayal to be handed something you don't want. It can be nauseating to lose money--especially when you had such high hopes for money spent.  The other day, I posted a PSA for my Facebook friends. In case they didn't know, certain restau...

*Deep breath* Writing about PPD is....difficult. It's scary because it leaves you vulnerable. Not the mild, cute sort of vulnerable, but naked-in-a-crowd vulnerable. It's telling your friends, relatives, and strangers that all was not as it appeared. It's admitting to and describing the agonizing thought process of a PPD sufferer. It's hoping and praying that your audience will understand that your illness was just that--an illness. That your illness was not your fault, and that you are not a bad mom. It's reliving those dark, crushing days so that others can comprehend that it's real. It's retelling those agonizing, silent moments so that others will know they are not alone. It's baring your soul to a world that will never fully understand. Writing and talking about PPD? It's terrifying stuff. Every time we tell a tragic story, it's the first time someone else has heard it. And when it's someone's first time, they process it. The...

The Quotable Landon.  One of the best parts of having a small child is listening to them discover language. At his three year check up, his pediatrician flattered my mommy ego by complimenting his vocabulary and outgoing nature.  He talks as quickly as his mother, but loves color and design like his father. Seriously, this child cuts better paper than I can.   He's not a performer, so in lieu of letting Lando corral everyone into his chatterbox corner, here are a few of his maxims. *While chatting with his reflection in the mirror.* "My name is Wando. You are Wandon. Wando.  Wandon." "Who am I?" "You're Susie. Mommy. Babe." "Mommy, you are soooo pretty. You're pretty, just like Carol." "I'll take it, son." *Hugs me tightly, whilst beaming angelically.* "Mommy went potty all by herself! Good job, Mommy!" "No, you watched me the whole time."  "You should shut the door, Momm...

Ten years ago today, my father died. He fell over, dead, mere feet away from where I sat with my history book in my lap. My mom found him a few minutes later. I remember her screams, my siblings' cries, and the pure denial that filled me. I didn't believe my dad could die until someone grabbed my hands, stared into my eyes, and forced me to hear the truth. It was five days before my 16th birthday. My seven younger siblings and I buried our father a week later. In the last ten years, we've become strong, independent humans, capable of our dreams.    What follows is a raw, candid letter to my dad on the tenth anniversary of his death.  Hey, Dad. It's me, your firstborn. It's been ten years since you left. Ten years since you died. Ten years since I last heard your voice, saw your smile, and felt your hugs. We say "passed away" because it's gentler on the listener, but there's nothing gentle about death. The world is a sad place, filled ...

(And pregnancy thoughts, too!) Bonus giant toddler head and spilled milk I grew up listening to birth stories. My mom would recount the labor and delivery of each child, and my dad would follow with the cost and payment of each birth. This typically happened on birthdays--and there were many in our household--but these discussions could pop up at any time.  I remember listening intently to clusters of women chatting about the labors and surgeries that had brought them their children. These stories, often retold, never grew old. They were the tales of life breaking into the world, of pain, suffering, but ultimately joy.  As a 20 year old, I discovered an entire realm of birth stories just under my fingertips, care of the world wide web. I read them voraciously, over and over again. In my world of great literary works, peer reviewed articles, and countless essays, these women's labor stories stood out as inspiring and beautiful.  I wrote out Landon's bir...

One of the axioms of good writing is writing what you know. Know thy strengths and write about them. When I was pregnant with Landon, I was excited to write about motherhood. I LOVED writing my bumpdates . Chronicling Landon's gestation and birth remains one of the best decisions of my life, and I hope to do that again if I have another child. I wrote authentically (as best a first time mom can) about pregnancy and birth, and I wanted to write authentically about life as a mother.  But what I didn't know, what I couldn't have known, was that I wouldn't be able to be authentic. Know thyself? I couldn't. I didn't know who I was or what I was feeling. For the first time in my life, I didn't have the words to express what was going on in my head.  What was wrong with my brain? "A depression suffered by a mother following childbirth, typically arising from the combination of hormonal changes, psychological adjustment to motherhood, and fatigue." (...

(source) Lando is almost two years old. TWO! It makes the most  nauseating  of maternal  figures to repeat that as oft as I do, but two  years! How!  Does this make me a real mom now? I'm still sort through all of that--this real mom  gig. But suffice it to say, I've loved year two so much more than the first year. Infants are...terrifying, exhausting, and needy.  Oh so needy.  They can't walk, talk, or grab snacks out of the fridge. (They also can't raid your wallet for dollar bills. Thanks, child.) Happening live!  I've come to grips with mama anxiety, that gripping worry that reminds a mother that the world is the most dangerous oyster ever. Properly installed carseats, an eagle eye, and accepting that billions of children have survived toddlerhood  keeps the worry at a relatively sane level. But it's still there, and always will be. There are many poignant tomes written about a mother's love and dedication, so I won't ...