Hello, it’s me, Mama of three.


If I don’t write it, I might forget this life, right?
And, for now, just words, then pictures. One step at a time to get back to regular blogging.

Well, I have been writing, just not about me. It’s a play, or, rather theatrical piece, a memory piece about the 1930s Limekiln Lighthouse residents and also it’s a thirteen month project that is coming to stage. (I’d place a link below, but I’ve forgotten how to do that. Man, it’s been a long time.)

I just wrote the prologue; it was the last part; the missing piece. I’ve got a dedicated Director, fine actors, vintage costumes, a great stage manager, a buzz-worthy artistic director and a calm sound/tech guy. The play is staged. It’s now 51 pages. If I don’t make time to think about it, I can’t. Between spilled cereal, a dog barking to come in from the steady rain, fairy tale read alouds, diaper’s wash, and breastfeeding, breastfeeding, breastfeeding, I get a bit overwhelmed. Slowly, however, I am returning to normalcy and picking up the juggling balls with giggles and patience and, more and more, without a pajama uniform.

Sure, I’ve fallen asleep on the take out bench at the Thai restaurant, on the tissue paper-clad pediatrician’s table waiting for the doctor and at the dinner table, but 2 AM black ink scribbles are returning and that’s what matters most. If I don’t write, I’m not quite me.

And if I don’t start each day with a simple, inhale, told in whisper, I just might forget to do that, too.

I began this journey long before Halloween, 2009, wondering what three children would be like, what it would feel like. At first, it was so much easier. Lucy had already shared me with her big sister, and Betty had already been a big sister. Adjustments were easier. Newborn care was steady and slow and, above all else, calm and certain. The pain of a tail bone, coccyx, broken for a third time in labor, was grounding. I’ll write my birth story here, soon. Sure, I used a walker again just as I had in the past after birth, but I knew this time I would heal and I would get strong again. Even knowing that, pain slows you and hides part of your true self, so I went through that, too. But somehow as time unravels and the clock daily skips to 4:40 PM, or as it seems, it’s complicated when it comes to fitting all the puzzle pieces together and sometimes I just don’t like puzzles. So there’s that, too.

I’ve learned it takes both an island and incredible grandparents to bring a child into the world. Grandmas and Grandpas traveling across the country to work behind the scenes at our home: dishes, toddler bike rides, preschool escorts, dance class delivery, grocery getting, granddaughter lovin’ – it happened. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Over three solid weeks of meals happened too. Not just a casserole, no way. Local island folk deliver wild salmon, local greens with neighbor’s goat cheese, venison stew, organic shepherd’s pie, homemade soup after soup, fresh steamy breads, lunch delivery – you name it. As others often say, we were blessed – truly blessed. My favorite parts of meals delivered were the stories that accompanied the tin foil goodness. “I remember,” and “During my birth,” made me know I wasn’t alone and made me see my future self carrying a basket of loaves, months down the road, for friends, postpartum. Those meal delivery stories had me reeling in the moments, appreciating all parts, for it soon would be my past, too, too soon, perhaps.

I know I’m lucky. My girls are healthy, silly and kind-hearted. They’ve always napped, slept at night and never been colicy. I have my beliefs: safe & natural birth, vaccination delays, bed sharing, non-toxic beds, baby wearing (car seats as car seats, not carriers), and slowness in their first weeks.
I read so many books my first time pregnant I can’t even credit where this information came from: a week in the bed, a week on the bed, a week around the bed. Skin snuggling and swaddling and sleeping when you can – sharing this new love with siblings and, above all, Daddy. Our friends and parents made this possible by doing what needed to be done so we could welcome the newness of love’s complete grasp into our family. Betty stayed home from school, Luke stayed home from work – Lucy’s stories were read at bedside, Betty’s crayons mosaiced the quilts. It was like drawing a cloud around our house, welcoming only wishes in. And it worked, and, wow, did it feel great. Olive is a nice baby – a true complete fit into our family.

It’s hard to say things are going to happen and will it and wish it and smile as they do. But I miss coming here: my diary, my showcase for far away friends and family, my new-age baby book. I miss it. Like a bad habit, I’ve forgotten this place, made excuses, lusted after its completeness. I’m no longer a new mom and it’s a new year. I can wake up, weary from the night before, and do what needs to be done. Hello, again.

And now for some shameless promotion. I do have friends & family flying in for my play, ferrying to the stage, sailing to the marina for the production. Dates for future set for DVD viewing for those that can’t make it. I’m proud. I’m amazed I did it, throughout a pregnancy laced with continual morning sickness and bed rest. I’m thankful to those who helped watch my babes so I could write and research and think and attend rehearsals. Please buy a ticket, find a way to attend not just mine, but the other Centennial works of genius.

In closing, I wrote the Prologue for my character, based on an elderly island resident (who’s attending opening night eeeeeeek), but in so many ways it sets my stage for what’s to follow. Enjoy the first bit of poetry I’ve written in a while:

Prologue: I Love & Live in Limekiln’s Afterglow

[as read by Agnes]

Memory speaks to me

whispers in rogue waves

pulls me in directions like Pacific’s current.

Days like fog’s vapor, pass

stories like dew, settle

stories: recede & eddy; stories all tides of memory.

As sailors need their beacon,

Full, I am – gone, my parents are.

Memory plots a course,

stories set anchor.



:carry me atop life’s prevailing seas.

Gone, but not forgotten

:always said.

On each day

:breathe this life & life lived.


:to my story.


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