Cold and Quiet But Bright.

This winter has been mild, but today was cold. We haven't left the apartment. I was up in the night with nightmares--the first about decomposing bodies in a theater and the other a kind of dystopian sci-fi mess. Josh played with Oliver in the morning so I could get a little more sleep after fighting corpse arms and robot mannequin guards all night.

The rest of the day has been peaceful. Josh brought me a leftover pumpkin muffin from the batch he made yesterday. He pinned a blue blanket with white snowflakes over the window, and Oliver slept in his swing. The snowflakes glowed with the cold sunlight behind them, and a purple ink stain darkened the center of the blanket. Josh and I got showered and dressed slowly. I wore the Revlon Diamond Lust Plum Galaxy (!) sparkle eyeshadow I bought at Ulta last week. I felt skinny in my new olive green top and jeans. I wore my favorite glittery purple striped socks. I wore them the day Oliver was born, so those glimmering purple stripes may have been what he saw first.

Josh lit a fire, and we opened the balcony door blinds to let in the sun and the view of the duck pond and the spindly, leafless willow. My dad came to visit, bringing Panera (still Josh and my favorite restaurant). Josh had half a Mediterranean Veggie sandwich and macaroni and cheese. I had broccoli cheddar soup and a Caesar salad. I'd been craving the salad. The croutons were soft, and the Parmesan was in thin, broken sheets. Dad ate a little souffle that came in a black paper cup. We also had Panera's new carrot cake--big cupcakes with cream cheese frosting cores.

Dad had brought us a card with funky turtles on it and Valentine's Day/anniversary gifts: Ralph Lauren candles, flowery Cottage and spicy Estate in Tiffany blue and forest green boxes and Paris Was Ours, a book of writers' reflections on Paris. I'm surprised I didn't know about the book since I've been interested in travel memoirs, especially about France. I'll probably read it soon.

This weekend, I've been enjoying Pink Smog, Francesca Lia Block's newest book and another part of the Weetzie Bat story. Just the crazy pink book jacket cheers me. I may finish it today. I'm also trying to finish my Bronte journal today. Next, I'll write in a flexible red faux leather journal with a silver heart and Dickinson's "Love is immortality."

I was craving popcorn this afternoon, so Josh and I watched an episode of Up All Night with a white bowl of popcorn and an upright baby between us.

Last Friday, I wrote the first poem I've written since Oliver was born (maybe the first since last spring). Over the weekend, I did our taxes, graded fifteen essays, and submitted two stories to journals--something else I haven't done in far too long. Josh patiently took care of Oliver while I reformatted and edited the stories. On Tuesday, I found out that one of those stories will appear in the next issue of a journal to which I've been sending stories for a couple of years. The editor's encouragement in the past kept me writing stories when I felt like mine must not be good, so I should stick to writing poems. I'll also be getting a check--a small one, but the largest I've had. This Friday, I wrote another poem--one for Oliver. I didn't think I could write a baby poem that wasn't trite. Josh read it and said, "The most magical part of you wrote that." He says he thinks I'm becoming more myself again. That comes from more than just the poem and from my wearing the bead choker I wore constantly at the time we began.

Just before Christmas, I was sitting in the car in the Chili's parking lot with Oliver while Josh ran in to get a gift card for his brother and his brother's girlfriend. I texted my closest friend, who had her first baby before I did. I asked, "When did you start to feel like yourself again?"

She said that happened as soon as she left the hospital. I knew that was fast, faster than most people. But even so, I said, "I still feel very fragile...physically, mentally, emotionally." I hadn't really acknowledged that directly to anyone, though Josh knew. My friend asked if I thought it could be postpartum depression.

I'd never thought of that. Though I've always been melancholy and have had a few major battles with depression, my knowledge of PPD didn't extend beyond something about Brooke Shields and something about Tom Cruise being rude. I looked it up and found a list of something like eight symptoms. I had something like six of them.

But for more than a month, I did nothing except tell Josh and my mom about it. It got worse. I didn't care about reading or writing, and the job I usually feel good about made me feel panicked and insanely lonely. I had to remind and push myself to eat. A couple weeks ago, I suddenly knew that waiting anymore was stupid and wrong. Keeping myself healthy is my responsibility, and that's even more vital now that I'm a parent. Obviously, I wasn't able to keep myself healthy alone. I had to find someone who could help.

I called my OB and hesitantly said, "Dr. W delivered my son four months ago. I think I'm dealing with postpartum depression. Is that something she can help me with?"
"Oh, yes," the voice assured me, immediately making me an appointment for the next morning despite a packed schedule.

I nearly cancelled the appointment when I realized I would have to miss a meeting. Mom and Josh told me that it was worth missing a meeting. I knew that, of course, but I felt so unsure about everything.

I texted my friend again, telling her that I'd made an appointment to get help for PPD.
"I'm so glad you called," she answered. I felt so relieved and validated when I read that. She told me that if this doctor wouldn't help me, I should keep going to doctors until someone did help.

The OB helped. She asked dozens of questions in the process but never questioned me. Matthews 7:7 ("Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.") kept playing in a Sunday school song form in my mind.

Josh has been keeping a log about the changes he sees. Oliver's complicated birth, my being sick and stuck at the hospital, my inability to work exactly as I used to, and my trying to deal with the sludge of hopeless sadness I couldn't reason away have made me feel so frustrated with and reluctant to admit my need for help. But suddenly, I write in my journal and read almost every day. I don't worry or even really think about the dishes or laundry or vacuuming--I let Josh do that. I'm cherishing the evening cuddles Oliver and I have even after my long days. I'm noticing how lovely my husband's hands are. I'm writing this. I don't feel the oppressive Sunday evening gloom.

Oliver sat up by himself this afternoon. Josh told me that this morning while I slept, Oliver held Josh's finger in one hand and stretched out the other hand to touch my shoulder. Oliver has been gazing at me and then at Josh, staring pensively until we each make eye contact and smile. Then he grins and turns to gaze at the other. This is the first day he seems to be aware of us as his two parents, the two people who are his very own.

Josh is holding him up right now next to me. Oliver is a little buttermilk elf in a diaper, grabbing his daddy's sideburns and gazing at me with wide blue eyes and brushstroke eyelashes. I am enjoying this day.

Dreamy Journals: Papaya.

I love reading, but I also love books as objects. This is one reason that Oliver's sudden interest in touching books--ruffling the pages, closing the cover--is so thrilling. As you may have realized, I love writing in a journal. But journals are glorious for their own sakes. They are (or should be) beautiful objects. They also represent endless possibility, and they can inspire people to chase those possibilities and record their journeys and wonders.

I've purchased and scribbling in a great many journals from a great many shops and companies. So I'd like to write about some of them. I'm starting with Papaya. This company's journals truly are dreamy. They seem to spring from a certain kind of wonderland--striking (like cracked ink bottles and tossed glitter on pavement) rather than whimsical and sweet.

 I didn't discover this company until a few years ago. I was at Joseph-Beth booksellers (the location has since closed), looking for a gift for my fellow bookseller friend who was moving to Scotland. I found this, and it seemed perfect. I would probably not be brash enough to write in a book with any form of nudity on the cover (even the most inoffensive and artistic, like this), but she would. I think she liked the gift. I wonder if she's written in the journal or if she's saving it. I can't find the journal online anymore, but this is the design.

I didn't buy myself one of these books until much later. The first was a small green journal (ah, shouldn't more journals be green?) with a conch and Listen from Within. The color was so rich, and the gold detail so fancy. On my birthday, I bought another: Bliss, pinkest pink with roses. I'm glad I bought it then as I can't find it on the website.

The real obsession began when Josh and I went on a bed and breakfast trip to Pittsboro, North Carolina. We went into a magical little shop full of handmade jewelry and other treasures. We recognized the young man working there; he was the night clerk at the bed and breakfast, and he was working at his friend's shop after the local library laid him off. I bought a hand-carved honey dipper for my dad, who had at some point lamented the lack of one when his brother and his sister-in-law sent a jar of their handmade honey. I was arrested, though, at an armoire spilling over with Papaya journals and cards. I bought a card with a tiny white rabbit on a mushroom for my mother. I couldn't decide between four gorgeous journals: Fearless, Trust Yourself, Future Beauty, and Dream Catcher. They seemed to embody courage and wild creativity--qualities I wanted. Josh told me to buy them all, and I did. This sparkles in my memory as a most magical indulgence.

Today, a package came for me. I was late beginning my quest for a perfect calendar. Choosing a calendar is no small task; those images will be with me all year. For other years, I've chosen Amy Brown fairies, black and white photos of Audrey, original Disney movie posters, and fine Barbie drawings (I'm not a Barbie person, but these are lovely). I wasn't sure where to start, and January was almost over. I went to the Papaya website. I was a little reluctant to pay shipping fees, but Amazon didn't sell the products directly.

The shipping was far beyond worthwhile. The package that came today held the Muses calendar. I'd also ordered a plum and gold Shine journal (at a moment when I needed someone or something to remind me to shine), and almost edible blue Starlight sticky notes in an envelop (the ones large enough to write on will grace my desk calendar at work, and the little flags will mark textbooks...little glimmers in my office).

Some Papaya fairy had wrapped these purchases: gifts from me to me. The fairy had also included glittery gift tags and greeting cards--no explanation. I'll be pasting one or two into the composition book in which Josh and I write our love letters to each other. One may also fly across the country to a kindred spirit, much-neglected pen pal. I really can't wait to order something else. This afternoon felt like a little birthday.

The journal covers are sturdy and entrancing, also with a bit of gold foil. The spines will illuminate any bookcase. The pages are smooth and heavy enough to handle most writing utensils. The journals don't lie flat, but turning back to the endpapers is no tragedy.

 I'm a bit ashamed to admit that I haven't actually written in one yet. This is an example of that terrible habit: saving something wonderful for later. I would have liked to write in the Listen from Within journal while I was pregnant with Oliver. If I could only write in one kind of journal for the rest of my life, I would probably choose Papaya. I don't know which one I'll buy next, but it may be Eiffel Tower, Giraffe Notes (the spiral notebooks have colorful, embellished pages!), Owl Dreamer (though owls can be a bit scary, this one reminds me of the tiny owl in Out of Africa), Wishing Bird (look at those pages!), or Invisible (what a shade of blue!). I also wish I could send myself every one of Papaya's funky valentines. What would I write in them? What would you write in a valentine to yourself? And if someone else sent you thirteen Valentines, what words would you wish to read?

The Day after Christmas.

The day after Christmas, I woke up and nursed Oliver. Then, something wonderful happened. Josh said he was going to take Oliver downstairs so that I could sleep a little more. And I slept for two hours.

I had a late breakfast--crazy square pancakes--and then went for my first walk since Oliver was born. We put him in the stroller, and Josh; Mom; Shane; Shane's pup, Lana; and I went out in the crisp air of the neighborhood. The walk was hard. My hips, which had started to quiet their constant howling, ached, and my legs didn't seem to know themselves. My throat also constricted, no longer used to that kind of breathing (outside of the experience that makes Josh and I afraid of deep breathing). But I was thinking, This is my first walk. 

When we got back to the house, Mom and I got ready. I wore the Tinkerbell shirt I'd bought recently at the Disney Store in my new city (yes, we have a mall. And it's not the kind of mall that has a Dollar Tree). I'd bought it because it was cute and because Josh had mentioned that I should try to get more in touch with my whimsical side again. I wore my jeans, which I'm still grateful every day to be able to wear.

Mama had been waiting to take me to a magical land called Versona. My Christmas earrings, necklace, and headbands had come from there. We had barely gotten inside the door, and already, I wanted to fill a basket. The store has color sections--pink jewelry, scarves, shoes, and clutches are together and so on with purple, turquoise, green, black, silver, red.... Mom and I worked our way through the colors, trying not to miss anything, sometimes parting and sometimes spotting each other. I tried on a ruffled coat I didn't need and a cafe au lait crinkly dress I couldn't afford. I commanded my mother to buy the striking gray top that made her look like an Art Deco goddess.

My basket held a pair of deep green rhinestone bracelets; tights in moss and plum; a multi-layered bracelet in pink, purple, and green with flowers and ribbons; understated but queenly purple rhinestone earrings; and a necklace that is a tumble of metallic navy and cut clear beads. I would space these bright bits out through the coming work weeks.

Josh has always had a thing for Dana Scully. He never said anything, but I had a thought. I was planning to dye my hair anyway (post-pregnancy), probably black. I mentioned my idea to Mom, and she said, "Every woman has to go red at least once." My grandmother, my mother's mother, had auburn hair. I have pale skin and green eyes. It could work.

We went to the drugstore and stared at so many boxes, faces, and fancy color names. We picked two that were the same brand and looked like the same color, but one was a dollar more. Mom said, "Whatever is making this a dollar more, I'd go ahead and pay the dollar."

We went to coffee and the bookstore where I worked for six months after I finished my MFA and before I began teaching.

At the house, Josh was holding a sleeping Oliver. Mom and I closed off the master bathroom, which is partly carpeted and a pretty good hang out spot. We manage to play beauty shop every year or two. She's always the beautician, though. I can barely put my hair in a ponytail when it's long enough.

She opened the box and said, "Well, everything has a gold label. I think that's what your dollar paid for." When we had to go to the kitchen sink for a rinse-out, we kept the towel over my hair so that Josh wouldn't see. My hair didn't look red to me, but Mom said, "Ooh. It's going to be red-red."
"How do you mean?"
"Like Jessica Rabbit."
I could live with that.

Like me, if my mom starts something, she usually has to go all out. She dried, curled, teased, and Big Sexy Hair-sprayed my hair. She threw in some lip gloss and a concealer touch-up. I still couldn't see it, so Mom handed me a mirror and told me to stand under an overhead light. Whoa.

During the big reveal, Josh was fairly subdued, admiring and pleased, but he's almost always that way. I didn't really see that he understood I'd made my hair a present to him until he took pictures of me...and kept taking them. I told him that at least until the dye faded, I'd be his Scully.

Waiting for Her Bus.

Every day on my way to work, I see a girl standing at the end of a long dirt road. She is probably a sophomore or junior. She has dark brown hair, usually in a ponytail, and stylish glasses. She wears jeans, sneakers, and a jacket or sweatshirt. Most recently, she was wearing a pink pullover. She stands with her hands in her pockets, backpack on her back, toes pointing forward (no hip-thrown-out attitude), and watches the highway. Nothing in her posture indicates worry or reluctance. She just looks ready to go to school.

This is all I catch as I pass her at 55 mph. I have no idea who she is or what school she attends. I don't know if she has read any of the books I've read. But I think that if I didn't see her one morning, I'd worry about her. I've sometimes made up names for people I don't know but see often. I think I'll call her Merrin (That's the name of an ex-boyfriend's sister. The stigma is his and not his sister's, and it's a pretty name). Whatever is on my mind as I pass, whatever little secret shard of hurt has suddenly pierced me, whatever nameless fear or caving loneliness might grip my neck, I see Merrin waiting, quiet and ready, for her bus, and I know that I can go on and do what I have to do.

Mini Sequins Again.

*Along with the groceries, Josh brought home four ballpoint pens--green, blue, pink, and purple--for me for no reason.

*We found our current love letter notebook and have begun writing in it again.

*Oliver's musical fish toy lulled him to sleep for half an hour.

*Oliver's feet, which are sometimes red and sometimes white.

*Josh has been working hard to let me nap or sleep in.

*Josh likes pushing Oliver's stroller and looks good doing it.

*Johnson's head-to-toe baby wash in tiny travel bottles.

*Green leafy Puff tissue boxes with hummingbirds.

*Eight packs of Puffs.

*Giving into that sleepy, warm, fluffy feeling, even if only for five minutes.

*Italian/Mexican wedding cookies.

*Finding out that my grandmother (who is largely a mystery to me) also loved those wedding cookies.

*Being cold at night and remembering that Josh already set up the electric blanket.

*Finding a fleece duck outfit for Oliver. It reminds me of the preemie duck outfit he wore (I'm keeping that one in my top dresser drawer).

*Green nail polish that's actually pretty.

*My hair finally being long enough to wear down without it covering my face.

*Rediscovering a great pair of earrings I'd forgotten.

*A husband who will untangle new necklaces.

*Wearing something new, clothing or accessory.

*Oliver's sleep smiles.

*Remembering that blogs don't have to be long and then finishing one.

*The scent of wood burning.

*Oliver's sapphire eyes in buttermilk skin.

*Oliver's sweet contentment when he has a bath.

*Josh calling Oliver Gorgeous. 

*Seeing Oliver grasp a plastic ring or a toy.


*My mom's style.

*Anything sparkly anyone wears.

*Josh using the Doctor Who pocket watch I gave him for Christmas in 2010.

*Hearing Josh say, "Will you kick a monkey or slap a lion?" when he puts Oliver on his toy-dangling playmat.

*Remembering James's (my brother's) "puppy mat"--a red nap mat with Disney Dalmatians on it.

*Designer Disney princesses.

*Going to Barnes after a long time and seeing journals I've never seen.

*Buying a journal even though I have plenty waiting.

*Noticing a theme in gifts.

*Chocolate peanut butter cookies (Girl Scout-style, but cheap).

*Freezing a Dr. Pepper until just a little ice forms near the top.

*Oliver's ability to raise one eyebrow.

*Our impressive supply of size 2 diapers (we'll see if we use them all).

*Seeing Oliver get chubby and knowing that I put the chub there.

*The special moments when Oliver wants to play.

*Picking up a journal and reading something happy from it at random.

*The way Oliver smiles at the photo of me over Josh's nightstand.

*Josh's Facebook PDAs.

*Unpacking presents.

*Getting late presents that took forever to ship.

*Seeing Josh carry an empty laundry basket out of the bedroom.

*Having a stack of unread magazines and thinking that someday, I might read them in fast succession.

*Seeing a great movie, wishing it weren't over, and finding out that it's based on a book. Books give more!

*Hearing Josh speak fondly of a movie we've watched together.

*Seeing Josh's look of surprise when I compliment him.

*Listening to Josh read a story to Oliver and watching as Oliver listens quietly and gazes at the illustrations.

*Remembering to read while nursing.

*Oliver's yellow and blue star pajamas.

*Changing the background on my work E-mail from generic, medical blue to silvery green.

*The Bic "For Her" (weird) pens Josh got for me when he was grocery shopping. They're pink and purple and pearly white and have smooth colored ink, white swirly designs, and jewel clicky tops.

*Remembering "clicky tops and twisty bottoms" from Scrubs.

*Oliver grasping one of his colorful rings.

*Oliver gazing at or touching his musical seahorse. I love that he's beginning to notice toys.

*Having more than enough milk in the fridge.

*Francesca Lia Block's new book, Pink Smog, especially since I pre-ordered it and forgot, so it just arrived like a surprise.

*The way Oliver spreads out his fingers when he sucks his thumb.

*Hearing Josh talking to Oliver over the monitor.

*The possibilities of so many books to read.

*Getting into the pace and habit of reading, so it flows.

*Baked cheddar and sour cream Ruffles.

*Josh putting tiny love notes in my lunchbox.

*The way Oliver now grasps his hands like he's thinking, praying, or hoping.

*$1 Mary Engelbreit stationery at Michaels. I have so many more cards than I'll ever use.

*Letters in colored envelopes.

*Picking up Panera on the weekends.

*Remembering I have half a Panera sandwich leftover.

*Opening a pack I haven't unpacked and seeing so many colorful bits I like and remember.

*The tiny, dark purple glass bottle on my desk.

*A catered box lunch with a sandwich, brownies, and tiny cups of fruit and pasta salad.

*Brown eyeliner with gold glitter.

What I've Learned as a New Mother (About Nursing).

*Nursing bras matter. I started with a regular bra, and pulling my arm out of one strap worked okay. But a regular bra also isn't very comfortable, and since I need nursing pads, I need to wear a bra all the time. I now have a sleep bra to wear at home and an underwire bra that I hope will be good for work and other outings. Note from later: the underwire doesn't get much mileage.

*Nursing bras don't have to cost much. I like my two $9 ones from Wal-mart, and I may buy extras to wear while those are drying from hand-washing. If they wear out, or I need more, it's no big deal. Note from later: Um, yeah. I have six or seven of these now. Even my patient, Woolite-brandishing husband can barely keep up with the rate of spit-up and leakage. 

*Nursing pads aren't all the same. I went straight for Medela since I have an M pump, but I like Lansinoh better. They are softer, and they have two sticky parts instead of one, so they don't just fall right out of the nursing bra.

*A double electric pump is worthwhile. My mom bought me the Medela Pump In Style. I'm so glad I specifically asked her for this big-ticket item. It's a contraption, and the first round was very painful and ineffective. But after a few tries, I was able to fill two 2.5-ounce tubes (one on each side) in under ten minutes. Note from later: ha! This dream didn't last. I'm not sure what magic I was using to make my milk come out that fast.

*The bustier for the pump isn't just awesome; it's essential. I tried once to pump while just holding the shields, and keeping a good seal was not working out for me. The bustier does that for me, and I don't have to hold anything. The whole mess is awkward enough as it is.

*Get the right shield size! My friend Melissa helped me figure this out. The pumping started to be more uncomfortable and didn't seem to working as well. I noticed serious suction rings, too. All this got better when I got bigger shields, which Medela sells (and I didn't really need to get bigger connectors). Note from later: And just make peace with the fact that you might have to get bigger ones again. And again.

*Lanolin isn't miraculous, but it is nice. It's a little soothing, but it mostly provides some lubrication. This seems to help especially with pumping. Note from later: meh. Hope for the placebo effect. But it does help prevent a true horror--scabs sticking to the nursing pad. I know.

*Engorgement isn't forever. On the fifth day, the day I left the hospital, I had boulders up to my collarbone. Ow. I thought, great, this is the next (hopefully) year or more of my life. I was back to relative normal after a few days, though, and milder engorgement only happens occasionally.

*The football hold and the going to the revival may be essential. Early on, Oliver could barely nurse because he would fall fast asleep almost as soon as I held him close. Mom helped me figure out the football hold (which is less snuggly), and what I call going to the revival, which is holding him flat and lifting him up and down. Yes, he startled a little, but he woke up long enough to get some sustenance. Note from later: This got better once he was a little bigger and more used to being with me.

*Nursing pain from hell isn't forever. We had a few good weeks. Then, suddenly, the first moments of nursing became excruciating. As my grandmother described it, it was like razor blades. I could barely keep myself from yelling or making sudden movements. Sometimes, I cried during or even in anticipation of nursing. Josh was mortified, and I felt terrified (more pain? regularly??) and inadequate. We considered exclusive pumping. I would exclusively pump for twelve hours or so. Then, I'd feed Oliver a little milk from a bottle before nursing him so that he would be less hungry and vigorous. Finally, I'd get back to nursing. I did this cycle two or three times. I bought a nipple shield, which helped somewhat. I had blisters, cracks, bleeding, and oozing. Yep. It was horrific. But then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the nursing pain from hell was gone. I'm glad I didn't give up (I was close!). For some women, it doesn't get better. But one to two weeks seems typical (from what I've read and the women I've talked to). It's awful, but it's not forever. Mothers dealing with it shouldn't feel bad about pumping or doing whatever they need to do to survive it. Note from later: it still hurts sometimes, but not like that.

*Pumping is hard. I expected to fill bottles like it ain't no thang. This has never happened (okay, maybe it's happened a couple of times). The first time I tried to pump, I painfully eeked out about an ounce in over half an hour. This still happens to me. Occasionally, if I've been at work for hours, I'll get eight or nine ounces. But I pump four times a day to get enough milk for Oliver to have while I'm at work, and even that's a stretch. That's with the best available pump and all the breast compression and yadayada I can muster. My body knows that yippy thing isn't my baby. And if I take a break from pumping, my body seems to have no interest whatsoever in cooperating. It's like a part-time job. Pumping plus nursing is probably a full-time job. I think it's worth it, but it's a B word. Note from later: I have good times and awful times. I try not to count too much on either.

Sixteen.

Today is New Year's Day, the beginning of 2012, the beginning of the first full year of Oliver, and the beginning of the eighth year in which Josh and I have existed as a couple (such an insufficient word). But what first comes to mind is that today is my brother's sixteenth birthday.

I was ten and a half when my brother was born a few weeks early. I remember New Year's Eve, preparing to go a party with church friends at the home of a boy I'd had a crush on for a long while. I was probably pondering how I could look especially pretty and be particularly charming. I went into my parents' room and saw my mother sitting on the edge of the bed, looking strange.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"We're going to go ahead to the hospital."
I remember very little about my mom's pregnancy--only the bizarre panel on her jeans (something I got to experience myself recently). I don't remember being worried about the earliness apart from realizing that I had a great deal of work to do on the little pillow I had been sewing for my brother (light blue, stuffed with cotton balls. The rush led me to move from cross-stitch to regular stitches for the words "Sweet Dreams James.").

I went to my party and spent the night at a friend's house. The next day, or maybe two days later, my dad came and brought a Polaroid Captiva (the little ones) shot of my brother, dark-haired and weepy-eyed, in a diaper and T-shirt. Maybe my dad explained that the wetness was eye drops rather than tears. My uncle Ross arrived and stayed with me at our house. I ate a TV dinner, and he ate a whole box-worth of mac and cheese straight out of the pot. We watched tapes of The Simpsons. I guess he was only eighteen or nineteen at the time. My mother was then twenty-six, like I am now.

So much, James's birth informed my understanding of babies and my approach to my son, especially initially. I remember my husband and father bringing me photos of Oliver in the NICU just after my surgery and hours before I would see or hold my son. I reminded myself that the terrible tears were only eye drops, and I remembered seeing that first photo of my brother. My knowledge of how to change a diaper, hold a baby, and other little things of which I'm probably not aware came from my helping care for my brother. Because my mother had been eight years older than her brother and had cared for him, she let me do (as I remember) quite a bit to help. Though I had been an only child for a decade and wasn't particularly thrilled about sharing my parents' attention, I loved my brother instantly.

But I didn't mean for this to be about my brother's birth. I can't believe he's sixteen. I remember sixteen so well. For me, it wasn't about driving, since I didn't get my license until I was starting college. I did get my first job. I began attending public school (the same school James now attends). At first, I wanted to try to be cool. I spent quite a bit of money ordering clothes from Alloy and Delia's. I do miss the sparkly jeans.

But during the course of that first semester, I delved into my first serious creative writing class, and my teachers began to encourage me and make me believe I was intelligent, bright, and creative. I took a theater class and portrayed Anne Frank in a scene with one of my first gay friends. I felt a shift. I don't remember what I wore the rest of the year, but I remember a thin blue bag with gold fringe--Funky People brand. In it, I carried SARK books, journals, Gelly Rolls, and sometimes loose glitter. I began spending my lunch periods reading in the library, working my way through a shelf. I remember reading Winesburg, Ohio (poor Oliver was almost Sherwood, partly in honor of that year of my life); and Rose in Bloom (Alcott's sequel to Eight Cousins). I read ahead in my honors English class, devouring Gatsby and Catcher. I had read The Bluest Eye for summer reading for that class, and the book terrified, shocked, and opened me. I wrote poems that didn't rhyme. I entered and placed in contests. I won a character award (I still don't know who nominated me). I filled journals madly, sometimes with less than two weeks to a volume. "Your mind will settle," my English teacher told me, "and you will slow down." I didn't want to. I decided to be creative, a writer, a reader.

Sixteen was the age at which I became myself and was very, very happy. The next year was hard, and every year since has had its pains. But I always remember sixteen as a sparkling sort of year. I hope James's sixteen will be that way too.