In the past 10 years or so, I've gotten really into baking bread. I love kneading the dough, smelling the warm, yeasty smell as it rises, and most of all eating the finished product. There's nothing better than a good loaf of home-made bread.

I also have learned how to make jam; how to raise my own vegetables; how to preserve them; and even how to sew a few quilts.

These are old-fashioned kinds of hobbies, I admit, but I enjoy them. And, because they are old-fashioned, I assume, people sometimes ask me, "Oh, did you learn how to do that from your mom?"

The simple answer is no. The bigger answer is yes.

You see, my mom was not into any of those things. We sat down to a home-cooked meal every night of my childhood. But it was not usually anything elaborate. My mom worked hard, every day, as an elementary school teacher. Dinner was something she threw together after she came home from work, and as soon as we'd cleared the table she was sitting down to grade a stack of papers. Spending hours in the kitchen fussing over bread or adjusting the seasoning in the soup was not a part of her daily routine.

She did try to teach me to sew, a time or two, but I wasn't that interested and it didn't really take.

As a kid, my mom--like many other children of her generation--didn't get summers off to play in the sprinkler and read books, like I did. She and her brothers went out to local farmers' fields and spent hours picking berries or beans. I think that as an adult, she enjoyed NOT spending her summers working out in the vegetable garden. During my childhood summers I remember her taking us to the lake or the river to swim a lot, or catching up on projects around the house that she never had time for during the school year. So I didn't learn to grow vegetables from my mom, either.

Here's what she did teach me: how to figure things out for myself.

My mom is a teacher. And the best kind of teacher is not the one who feeds you information, but the one who teaches you how to learn. She took me to the library more times than I can remember. She filled our house with books and gave me time to read them. If I had a question about something, she would show me how to look it up and find the answer myself. If I had a question I couldn't solve on my homework, she or my dad would help me with it until I could figure it out. She showed me every day what it was to be a smart, hard-working, productive person. Giving up or not completing a task were not options.

And so, in my 20s, when I suddenly found myself wondering how one goes about canning applesauce or sewing a quilt, it didn't occur to me that these were the kind of domestic mysteries that could only be passed down in a sacred fashion from one generation to another. I bought a book on canning and studied quilting websites online until I had a pretty good idea of what to do--and then I went ahead and did it. After all, I knew how to read, I knew how to study, and I knew how to keep trying until I'd mastered something. What else could I possibly need to know?

Confidence in my own ability to learn. How to find information when I need it. Perseverance when things get frustrating. A strong sense in the value of working hard at something. She gave me all these things--and, in turn, all the knowledge, skills, and hobbies I've picked up along the way because of them. That's what I learned from my mother.

We are right in the thick of it now. My oldest daughter is almost 8. I am almost 32. Motherhood is, as always, a mind-bending role reversal. Because I remember--remember quite clearly--being and doing and thinking things at her age.

I remember first really being aware of the concept of ages, and what ages different adults were, and thinking that 34 (the age my parents were at the time) was just the right age for parents. This made particular sense to me because my dad wore size 34 pants. 34 years old, size 34 Levis...this was right and acceptable for a parent. And now Eric and I are perilously close to that just-right parent age of 34.

I remember my family's blue couch, with the little white flowers on it. I spent long, long, afternoons on the couch, a stack of books beside me...and yesterday evening I watched my girl spend hours curled like a cat in the armchair, reading and reading. When she grows up, will she remember that brown chair and its blue leafy pattern and comfy seat cushion?

I remember getting to the age where I was suddenly interested by adult conversation. I remember sitting wide-eyed as my mother visited with a friend who had a new baby, awestruck by the casual way these women discussed birth and babies and breasts, astounded as my mother's friend cuddled her newborn underneath a blanket slung over her shoulder and fed it, right there in the living room. And last week we visited my new nephew and Beth was right there on the couch, intrigued by the baby, staying next to us as the little kids ran off to play. Eyes wide as we discussed the birth, asking what "water breaking" meant and making faces when she found out.

In these moments from my memory, I am always the child, and my mother--capable, strong, and knowledgable--is the parent.

Now it's flipped, and 100 times a day we play out these little scenes, only someone switched things on me, and now I am playing the mother role.

You'd think I'd be used to it by now. But somehow, I never am.

Yesterday Evie tripped and fell at the park. She banged her chin on the play structure, cut it open, and ended up having to get four stitches at our local urgent care clinic.

It was a completely typical, no-big-deal childhood incident. Someday she might have a little scar on her chin and she can show it off to people and say, "Yep, I had to get stitches there when I was three."

And, at the same time, it was one my hardest afternoons as a mother yet.

I do things that are unpleasant for my children all the time. I force them to fold laundry and sweep the floor. I discipline them when they need it. And I even hold them down and let nurses inject useful but painful vaccines into their bodies. But I felt like I really hit a new low on the causing-pain-to-my-children scale yesterday.

At first I thought it was nothing. It was bleeding, but not too profusely. Then we got her home and took a close look at the cut, and began to wonder. It didn't look good. It didn't look like something a glittery bandaid would be sufficient for. We called our pediatrician's "advice nurse" line. And she said it sounded like we should take her in. Maybe a butterfly bandage would hold it together...or maybe the urgent care doc would close it up with some surgical glue.

Surgical glue. I liked that idea. Just putting a little glue on it at the urgent care sounded great to me. And so I told Evie that we were going to take her to the doctor and get her chin fixed up. She gave me the big sad eyes and said, "Is she going to shot it?'

"No!" I answered right away. "No shots for you!"

Oh, the lies we tell our children. Unknowingly, in my case, but still. I hope she doesn't remember that I said that.

Because they DID give her a shot, people. And not just any shot. The doctor informed me that the edges of the cut were too far apart to work well with surgical glue, and that he needed to put a stitch in it. That meant they wanted me to strap her into a little baby straightjacket so she would be still while he worked. That meant they had to numb her chin. That meant repeated jabbing with a syringe of anesthetic, working it all around, stabbing right on top of her poor tiny little jawbone. It was the most horrible thing I've had to watch happen to one of my children yet.

Evie and her poor little chin.

They gave her a topical numbing gel on her chin first. It still hurt like the dickens, judging from her shrieks and the way I could feel her heart pounding. It was almost worse when the doctor got to work putting the sutures in. I've never seen that procedure up close and personal before, and it was not pretty. She didn't scream any more, but she got very still, and very silent, and her lips went almost white. The doctor apparently changed his mind once he got going, because the "one quick little stitch" turned into four stitches, and he took his time, and changed out needles during the procedure not once but twice.

Now, if a doctor is going to be putting stitches in my child's face, I truly do want him to take as much time as is necessary and do the best job that is humanly possible. But. My baby was hurting, and helpless, and afraid, and it felt like it took forever.

Here is the worst part. When it was all done, I picked her up and held her close and kissed her flushed pink cheeks, and within minutes she was tear-free, and smiling, and pointing out rainbows in the picture on the wall.

It almost would have been easier if she had been a screaming wreck. I know what to do with that. You pull out your tough-mother game face, and grit your teeth and get things done. Instead, she was so sweet and so cheerful and so brave, that knowing I'd been complicit in this painful procedure--that I was the one who lied to her and then strapped her in and held her down--broke my heart all the more. It left me a mushy, guilty mess, buying her not one but two kinds of ice cream bars afterward. She pointed at a bright pink bouncy ball at the store and I was saying "Yes! Yes, you can have a new ball!" almost before the request was out of her mouth.

I'm just lucky she didn't ask for a puppy, because there is a strong possibility I would have said yes to that too.

And now we are at home, and she is tired but fine, and I am struck by just how much this kid loves me, and what a precious gift her heart is. Being a parent is like having a sudden superpower; your mere presence is medicine, your touch soothing, your voice the sound she wants most to hear. Once I picked her up from the table, as long as I didn't put her down, she was fine. As though she'd never been hurt at all.

It was humbling. Who am I to be making medical decisions for another human being, to decide how in and in what way doctors may hurt her and heal her, and then to pick her up and take away her sadness with nothing but a hug? How can me simply being there suddenly make everything all right?

I'm not anyone special. The doctor and nurses didn't even know my name. "Good job, mom," the nurse told me as we left the room.

I was just Evie's mom. And that, in itself, was enough.

So I'm at the gym, and I'm not feeling very good about myself. Although I went to Portland and participated in the Shamrock Run this weekend, any health benefits that may have accrued me were pretty much ruined by the delicious brunch, and artisan pizza, and gourmet ice cream that I followed it up with. Now it's Monday, and I'm trying to atone for my sins.

At the gym are these two girls. They are at least 10 years younger than I am. They are extremely slender. They are wearing cute work-out clothes. I feel self-conscious just being near them, and I curse my weekend meal choices once again.

But it's a small gym, so I have no option other than being next to them, and as I go through my exercise routine I cannot help but listen to their conversation. The brunette is giving the blonde fitness tips. Now she's talking about the Hello Kitty watch she bought on Saturday and the shellac manicure she got on Sunday. Now they're discussing how bad the powdered fitness supplement they both take tastes. And now, after a series of lunges, the brunette sits down on a bench and gives a huge sigh.

"Only six more days until I can have food again...I wonder if this not-eating thing is really healthy?"

...

...

...

Those ellipses, in case you were wondering, represent envy leaving my body.

I almost turned around and said something. Did that girl seriously just question whether starving herself for a week was healthy or not? But I didn't say anything, because I don't think she would have appreciated getting nutrition advice from the not-in-ideal-shape mom next to her. Also, I don't think she really wonders whether what she's doing is healthy or not.

Anyone with a brain knows that not eating for a week (while continuing to exercise vigorously) is the opposite of healthy. And if she doesn't have a brain, then I should have been running for my life, because ambulatory humanoid creatures with no brains are generally known as zombies, and if that's the case, then she probably wanted to eat mine.

I don't think she was really "asking" her friend, either. I don't think it was a question at all. I think it was a back-handed way of one-upping her in the who-can-be-the-skinniest competition they had going on.

But whatever was going on in those two skinny girls' heads, it didn't matter. I looked at my own body with renewed affection. Those extra pounds? I earned every single one of them. I earned them from long dinners with friends, and wine and laughter around the table. From making cookies with my daughters. From hot bacon and eggs and coffee, cooked just for me by my loving husband. Because food is not just food. Food is about companionship, and ritual, and sharing. And sipping on a powered substitute doesn't cut it.

If giving up food--and all the richness of life that goes with it--is what it takes to look like those girls at the gym, then I'll say no thank you.

And if you ever hear me wondering aloud whether or not starving myself is a good idea, turn around and run. It means the zombies have got me.

So we're out on a "run," my daughters and I, half-walking/half-jogging around the neighborhood one Saturday morning, and our loop past the high school athletic fields brings up a discussion of sports. We start talking about the various games and activities the girls have, so far in their short lives, participated in: soccer, ballet, gymnastics.

"I like soccer, but I'm not very good at it," my daughter says to me. "I just like being on the team."

I'm stunned, and a little sad. The last time we talked about sports, she still believed, with full-blown confidence, that she was GREAT at soccer. Frankly, I don't care if she's ever the star of any team--if she likes it, she should play. But I used to love the fact that she believed in herself so fully. Where did that belief go? When did she realize this?

But she's not done with her honest self-assessment yet.

"Ballet's not really my thing either," she says. "It's really your thing," she says, nodding to her sister, who grins back smugly. She really is quite good at ballet. "And gymnastics wasn't my thing."

"Really?" I say. "I thought you liked gymnastics."

She shrugs. "It's more Taylor's thing," she says, naming a kid from school. "She's just really, really good at gymnastics."

She sighs. "I just don't know what my thing is."

As we round the corner, we talk about different sports she might like to try someday. I tell her how some families focus on one activity beginning at a young age, and that kids will play a single sport year-round from the age of 4 or 5 on, but how I think it's actually really healthy that her own interests are varied, that she's dabbled in this and that. How it's normal and good to try new things and be a well-rounded person.

I hope she hears. I hope I'm just overthinking this, projecting my own angst and making more of her search for identity than she actually feels.

But it kills me that she wants so badly to have a "thing." I mean, I get it. I totally get it. We tell our kids all the time, over and over, to shoot for the stars. To dream big. To work hard, because if they do, they can become a star.

Gold medals? Most of us aren't ever going to get one. Photo from wikimedia commons

And some kids do find, even at an early age, some particular thing that they are really good at. There was a kid on the soccer team last year who was stunning, for an 8-year-old. Fast, coordinated, smart and agile--she could run circles around the other girls and score left-footed anytime she felt like it. It is clear that this girl was the Athletic One.

Because we do that--label ourselves. Kids' books and TV shows--especially for girls--do it all the time, pigeonholing their characters based on what they do: the sporty one, the smart one, the artsy one. It's natural that my daughter is asking herself: which one am I?

It's dangerous to stuff yourself in a box, though. When I came to the humiliating realization as a kid that sports were really, really not my thing, I gave up on them altogether. "I'm just not athletic," I said. I cut  myself from the team--books were my thing. And making small talk with people? That was hard too, and I had a friend who was really good at it, so I left social things up to her. I was the smart one--not the popular one, not the sporty one, definitely not the bold one. And I gave up trying to be anything except that one thing.

The problem is, you suffocate if you live in a box. Eventually I learned that it's not very much fun to limit yourself to one tiny swatch of the whole wide rainbow of possibilities out there. That refusing to try things unless they come to you naturally is a small and fearful way to live.

Plus, here's what I told her on Saturday--what I hope she understands: not everyone has a thing. In fact, most people don't. I think she feels like if she just tries enough stuff, eventually she'll find her talent--this one perfect thing that she's a natural star at. But you know what? Most people are never going to be a star at anything.

Some lucky people are really good at stuff. The rest of us, we're just ourselves. We work hard, we do reasonably well in life, and hopefully we give and receive some love along the way. And we never get a moment in the spotlight.

And that's okay.

It's okay to play sports just because you like to be on the team. It's okay to love singing in the choir even if you just have "a good filler voice" (as a choir teacher once told me). It's okay to ignore organized activities altogether.

I want her to know that she's wonderful, valuable and worthy just because she's herself. No more, no less. No "thing" required.

Every winter, I forget.

At first, I am pleased with the cold weather, happy for my cozy sweaters and hot teas and frozen mornings.

But crisp fall turns to grey and soggy winter, and the refreshment of snow comes far too rarely, and then, just when all the color has been washed out of our days and we're and waterlogged to the core, it comes. This gift of spring.



How do you live in this valley for three decades and still forget? When the seasons turn (and they always do) it's not just that suddenly the sun is back. It's that suddenly life is back. We're all born-again together: the robins, whose song I haven't heard in months; the little newborn leaves, scarlet, shooting up from the rose bushes; and we the people, coming out of our houses and blinking like babies in the sun.

If I could turn cartwheels, I would.

It's a bright and sunny day, and I'm in the office, doing something on the computer, when Evie runs in from outside, fist full of a big, bright, boldly yellow dandelion.

(Dandelions and daisies, just like crayon art, are items that I find myself inundated with as the mother of three girls)

"Here, Mama!" she says cheerfully. "This flower is for you to put in some water."

"Thanks, sweetie," I say. "That's a really nice flower."

 I give it an obligatory sniff, then set it down on my desk next to a stack of papers. And I turn back to my computer.

Unfortunately, Evie seems to have been born with a built-in BS detector. She does not turn away. She stares back, and her clear, beautiful blue eyes see straight through me.

"I gave it to you for you to put in SOME WATER," she repeats. "So it will stay tall."

(Evie is not about to let her gift be doomed to an unnoticed death, wrinkling away to a faded shadow in the clutter on my desk. )

I am chastened, and finally I turn away from the computer. "Okay, sweetie," I say. "I'll put your flower in some water."

And I do.

I put it in some water, and it does stay tall.