Everyday Susa

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 ...

Wanted: tiny, adorable, drunk-acting human with no common sense. Found: my 15 month old. Have you spent time with a 15 month old lately? They're one of the best stages of human. For example, my 15 month old can balance crackers on his head for a really, really long time. Sometimes we just make him walk around with crackers on his head for laughs. He's also freakishly good at ascertaining where I've hidden his shoes and socks and convincing unwitting grandparents to put them on, take them off, put them, take them off--you understand. He's fantastic at understanding things. When he sees a clean diaper coming, he runs in circles squealing and laughing and doesn't stop until he trips on his own feet. If we leave the door open, he will  escape to the outside and run along the sidewalk, only to make an abrupt, desperate dash into traffic. And when I pick him up, he will arch his back at the horror and unfairness of not being allowed to run his chubby self...

(from) You can stop objectifying new mothers now. The Duchess of Cambridge is absolutely gorgeous--she's already proven that a few times. And yes, she looked unnervingly stunning eight hours after delivering eight pounds of princess. (I'm guessing she was also in a good deal of pain, and I admire her sense of duty. I wish her all the sleep and rest a new mother can find.) But can we stop ogling brand new mothers? Can we stop demanding celebrities and ordinary women alike reveal their perfect post baby bodies in five minutes? Can we stop demanding it at all? Some women's bodies go back to the same lines, proportions, and shape they were before they conceived, grew, and carried a child. Some women's bodies grow new lines, change proportions, and shift shape due to their journey. A woman's body isn't done with motherhood once she delivers her child, though.  Some women breastfeed. Their bodies taking on a whole new course of sustaining life, whil...

I don't know when the mommy light clicked on for me. The minute I truly realized that I was someone's mom. In fact, some days that light is so dim I barely notice it. There are days when Lando is happy and there are plenty of people to entertain him, where my maternal duties are just the ordinary ones that I forget to notice. There are also harder days, days where every hour is another reminder of the exhausting responsibility I carry. When they put my burrito of a newborn on my chest, I was terrified. Petrified. If I had been able to run, I just might have. If there had been a put baby back inside for a day button I might have selected it. There was no such button and I couldn't run (downside of a C section), so I went through the motions. And I kept on going through the motions. Feed baby. Change baby. Feed, feed, feed, feed baby.  Let baby sleep on me as I did homework. More feeding, more sleeping, another change. I had the motions down, and the motions were easy. ...