After an extremely speedy, but otherwise smooth delivery our daughter Femke (say: femkuh) was born yesterday evening April 18th at 11:19 PM CEST (that's 6 hrs ahead of Eastern, 9 ahead of Pacific summer time). Both Femke and I are doing very well.

I'll check in again in a couple of days with some more details and perhaps a picture or two.

Good book! Nothing to be ashamed of, One Crazy Mother. -Elisa

A few weeks ago I saw Elizabeth Gilbert sitting across from Oprah's throne speaking about her new book Eat, Pray, Love. I like Oprah, but have never purchased a book due to her urgings.

This time was different.

Moving is always a stressful venture. But throw children into the equation, and the potential for stress grows exponentially.

Last March, we moved for the first time since becoming parents. On top of landing a new job, selling our old house and finding a new place to live, we had to deal with securing child care for my then 2-year-old daughter, who was happily ensconced at a daycare center adjacent to my office. Did I mention it was subsidized by my employer and she'd been there since she was 5 months old? Uprooting her was brutal, but this was a move we'd long wanted to make, and I knew it would only get harder as she got older.

Luckily, everything fell into place. I got a great new job. We sold our house in 9 days. We found a great place to rent. And the perfect temporary child care situation fell into our laps when our friends agreed to share their nanny with us.

I like to think the good karma I've worked hard to put out there came back to me when Georgina came into our lives. She is affectionate, patient, gentle and unfailingly cheerful. We dropped Maya off at our friends' home three days per week, where she spent her days playing with their son, Clay, and being chased around by Georgina, who adores her two grandsons but always longed for a little girl to dote on. It wasn't long before Maya was asking to go to Casa Clay and stalling when it was time to go home. Knowing that our little girl was safe and loved made our transition to a new city, home and job so much easier.

Six months have flown by and Clay's baby brother is arriving any day. Georgina will have a new baby to help care for and Clay is starting preschool, so it's time for Maya to move on, as well. After our annual trip back east, she will start a full-day preschool program three days per week. So today we said goodbye to Georgina.

It was surprisingly emotional-- more so for the grown-ups, of course; Maya  hasn't processed the change yet. But Georgina choked up as she told me she's praying that wherever Maya goes, she will be loved and cared for, and she's so grateful for the opportunity to take care of her. I made her promise to stay in touch and come to Maya's birthday parties, and thanked her for giving me something priceless: peace of mind during my work hours.

Being a working mom is not without moments of nagging doubt and heart-wrenching guilt. So people like Georgina are a godsend. I know she genuinely loves my daughter and wants her to be healthy and happy, and that is humbling.

We moved down here to be near family, as I'm a strong believer in the whole "it takes a village" ethos. Never did I think that six months later, our village would have such an important new member. I believe a child can never have too much love. Thank you, Georgina, for taking care of her like she was your own. That's a gift I could never possibly repay.

Cross-posted at Fussbucket

Of all the topics I thought blogging parents would hash out, the one thing I never thought we'd be discussing is whether or not to tell your kids you love them. I assumed that was a given. But last Sunday I read this essay in the NY Times' Modern Love column, which I love, (there I said it!) by a mother who willingly declares her love for her one-year old son in the newspaper, but doesn't want to tell him directly.

"I never say it because it never comes up," she says in the essay. "I can’t even imagine when I would say it.” It seems part of her discomfort is not finding the right moment to tell her son she loves him. She doesn't want to say it when he does something well, because she doesn't want him to think that her love is conditional. Other times, when he's just doing regular kid-stuff, it feels awkward to her to burst out with an "I love you," she says.

Instead she relies on the assumption that her child knows he is loved because of the way she treats him. "If there is one thing my child knows, this total center of my universe, this toddler who practically gets applause when he passes gas, it’s that he is loved."

The essay was prompted by a question from an acquaintance. The writer was asked if her son had said I love you to her. She realized then that it wasn't likely her son would say it to her, since she never says it to him. And neither does her husband.

I know this was proposed as a book-club read, but I don't remember seeing any decision.  Did anyone else read this during the summer?  I am about 80% finished (thank goodness for vacation!) and I am loving it.  I'd love to chat with others who are reading or have read it.

I really enjoyed this passage from Eat Pray Love, but was not sure where to fit it in our discussion. It is so insightful to the human condition and I am a hopeless Piscean romantic so I want to share it with you all.

In this section of the book, author Elizabeth Gilbert is at the Ashram trying to meditate. She finds this nearly impossible because of all the thoughts crammed in her mind. And she is embarrassed because, once again, on her trip -- the one in which she is supposed to forget her worries in America -- she begins obsessing over her ex-boyfriend (again).

What am I, in eighth grade?

And then I remember a story my friend Deborah the psychologist told me once. Back in the 1980s, she was asked by the city of Philadelphia if she could volunteer to offer psychological counseling to a group of Cambodian refugees—boat people—who had recently arrived in the city. Deborah is an exceptional psychologist, but she was terribly daunted by this task. These Cambodians suffered the worst of what humans can inflict on each other—genocide, rape, torture, starvation, the murder of their relatives before their eyes, then long years in refugee camps and dangerous boat trips to the West where people died and corpses were fed to sharks—what could Deborah offer these people in terms of help? How could she possibly relate to their suffering?

“But don’t you know,” Deborah reported to me, “what all these people wanted to talk about, once they could see a counselor?”

It was all: I met this guy when I was living in the refugee camp, and we fell in love. I thought he really loved me, but then we were separted on different boats, and he took up with my cousin. Now he’s married to her, but he says he really loves me, and he keeps calling me, and I know I should tell him to go away, but I still love him and I can’t stop thinking about him. And I don’t know what to do…

This is what we are like. Collectively, as a species, this is our emotional landscape. I met an old lady once, almost one hundred years old, and she told me, “There are only two questions that human beings have ever fought over, all through history. How much do you love me? And Who’s in charge? Everything else is somehow manageable.

For lack of better wording due to my sleep deprivation, I thought this book was smart.

A while ago, I had a huge argument with my boyfriend. I knew I had overreacted and I also knew that I needed to defuse it by saying, "I'm sorry." The truth was that HE was wrong and HE needed to apologize. But in order for us to get to that point, I felt that I had to say that I was sorry first. My apology did defuse the situation, and we were able to get past the issue and...I got my apology. The thing is, I was still upset that I had to apologize. So I said, "I'm still upset." He said, "But I apologized." I said, "That's not the reason I'm upset. I'm upset because I had to apologize in order for us to get to that point..."

I didn't realize until that conversation just how important it is for me to hear "I'm sorry" when I've been wronged. Which is why I found this article entitled Always Apologize, Always Explain so interesting.

It discusses the importance of an apology, and provides pointers on what makes an effective apology.

The apology must possess:

1. Full acknowledgement of the offense

2. An explanation

3. Genuine expression of remorse

4. Reparations for damage

Personally, I don't need all that, unless of course I have been seriously wronged. All I need is to hear sincerity in the voice. Which is probably why it bugs me so much when I have to make my kids apologize to each other, to hear them almost scream the words, "I SAID I'M SORRY!!!" with an eye roll thrown in for good measure. It just doesn't tug at the heart strings, you know?

The article goes on to say that an effective apology is an act of honesty, an act of humility, an act of commitment, an act of generosity, and an act of courage.

So, how important are those words to you? Have you ever had to say "I'm sorry" when you didn't mean it? Did the wrong "I'm sorry" make things worse? Please share!

Years ago I was involved with a man who was a guru-phile. He was always looking for God in human form, someone to worship and stand in the presence of. Someone to set up little altars for. I didn't share his psychology; my cynicism is like a mothball around the neck, keeping me guru-free. For awhile my boyfriend glommed onto Sai Baba, a goofy orange-robed guru with a 'fro who performed miracles. His miracles--like making great quantities of ash billow out of an empty urn--didn't seem useful to me. If God were to manifest as a human, surely he wouldn't waste his time performing lame magic tricks. Like, who needs ash?

Later, my boyfriend moved on to Amma, a superstar Indian guru who gives power hugs. People wait in line for hours to get hugged by this roly poly smiling woman who sits on a stage. An Amma camp was set up in the hills outside of Santa Fe, NM. We sat with hundreds of other people who were singing kirtan, a religious tradition of repetitively singing the same line from a Sikh hymn over and over and over again. I figured that it was supposed to be transcendant, but I was restless and bored, a tag-along non-believer who didn't know the words. I went wandering in the woods while the people formed a giant queue to get huggy with Amma. Strangely, I don't remember whether I got a hug. I only remember the white tents, the circular music, and the crowd of weeping or beaming mostly middle-aged white people. She definitely had something they needed. Or thought they needed.

Today I came across an article about Amma at Salon. The author was granted a brief interview with the guru and she explained her work, the heavy work of doling out over 26 million hugs and counting:

"I'm trying to awaken true motherhood in people, in men and women, because that is lacking in today's world. Today there are two types of poverty. The first is a lack of basic necessities. The second is a lack of love and compassion. As far as I am concerned, the second is more important because if there is love and compassion then the first kind can be taken care of."

I'd like to introduce you to my mom and dad.

On Sunday, May 13, 2007, they celebrated their 44th wedding anniversary, and dare I say it? They are still in love. I'm not talking about the we're-used-to-each-other kind of love either. They have PASSION and HEAT. Don't get me wrong, they've had their share of problems, but they've always managed to pull through and prove their complete love and devotion for each other.

Growing up, I confused their passion for a troubled marriage. They always fought, then there were days of silence. For years my parents worked a block away from each other. Everyday, they drove to work together, had lunch together, then drove home together. When they were mad at each other their schedule remained unchanged, with the exception that they did it all in silence.

After my divorce, I would silently witness and admire their marriage and commitment. For example, every night my mother would lay out my father's vitamins and/or medicine in a straight line on the kitchen counter. My father would take exactly what my mother laid out for him, in the order they were laid out. Then, before leaving for work he would squeeze grapefruits so that my mother could have her fresh juice every morning.

They cuddle, they flirt, they get jealous, and even accuse each other of cheating! Now I see that it's part of their game to keep things exciting.

The other day, my father asked me if I had ever heard my mother snore. I was confused and so I asked him why he was asking, to which he responded, "oh, no reason...it's just that she has the cutest little snore." This, after 44 years together and seven children.

So, I'm wondering...what do you do to keep your relationship exciting? Do you still find your mate attractive? What little thing does your mate do to make your heart skip a beat?