Highs and Lows

Sorry for the radio silence. It’s been a topsy-turvy week, starting with an epic sleep-training session on Sunday night. (The baby jinx is real, by the way, so henceforth I am entering the cone of silence about M’s sleeping.) I made the most of my marathon, middle-of-the-night shift by inhaling the first 80 pages of Poser: My Life in 23 Yoga Poses, the clever new memoir by Claire Dederer, a book critic and mother of two (who also happens to be married to my former Outside colleague, Bruce Barcott). The book perfectly captures that misguided drive toward perfection that so many of us (i.e. me) seem to have when it comes to parenthood, writing, and well, all of life. Claire manages to avoid annoying yoga-speak and dishes instead about her zany, you-think-your-family-was-weird childhood in Seattle and her two very tormented births. It was so unexpectedly gripping that I almost didn’t want M. to fall asleep. Almost.

We awoke on Tuesday to an out-of-the-blue powder day: 19 inches of new snow at the Santa Fe Ski Basin, so Steve and I hustled P to nursery school and drove M up the mountain with us, where we did the baby hand-off in the lodge. I plowed through waist-deep powder pillows with a ridiculous grin plastered all over my face for an hour or so while M napped in her nifty canvas baby cocoon on the floor of the cafeteria. Later, while Steve skied, it seemed like half of Santa Fe was taking a powder day, catching up on emails in the lodge—the modern, mobile office. Love that. Looking out of the window at the snow still falling, fine as ash, with M making eyes at a bunch of 60-something badass retirees, I felt giddy with good fortune—especially when Steve let me ski the bonus round before it was time to go home.

Is it any wonder, then, the letdown that followed? Wednesday ushered in a mini Ice Age; my car thermometer topped out at two. We hunkered down en masse, a grouchy case of cabin fever setting in by noon. Some days trying to find balance between motherhood and writing feels like riding the seesaw with the mean kid who decides to get off when you’re at the top. Crash.

It’s partly logistics: The nanny’s out of town; the toddler refuses to nap/swats baby like a fly; and you can’t for the life of you locate five minutes of peace and quiet in your own home. Yesterday I was convinced the world was ending, or at least my writing career. Payments were late coming in and going out, I hadn’t pitched a story since before my father got sick, my bank account was in crisis mode, etc, etc. In my former life as a childless freelance writer, I used to be able to put in a solid seven hours at my desk on a good day. Now, I feel heroic if I can sneak in three; 90 minutes is more like it. How can you possibly make a living like that? Guess it’s time to dust off The Four Hour Work Week.

But it’s also perspective, and I know of no better cure for a bad attitude than going straight up a mountain, even when it’s zero degrees outside—maybe especially when it’s zero degrees outside. So I rousted myself for a frostbite hike with Steph, who listened to me rant, my self-pity sending little cloudbursts of steam from my mouth like an ornery old uncle smoking a pipe. It was stupidly cold, so we chugged uphill as fast as we could, following a lone set of footprints that about-faced at the grey ledge and left us to break trail. Soon we were above the mist and into patchy blue sky, Santa Fe disappearing and reappearing below us through the clouds. The piñons were clumpy with new snow, and the sun glittered off the pine needles. I knew then that this would be a day we would remember all year, maybe longer—not because it was so bad, but because it turned out to be so good. By the time we reached the top, I’d forgotten what I’d been bitching about, my nose was tingly, and Steph’s hands had gone numb like they always do, but life felt just about right again.


Just to make sure, I drove down Canyon Road, snow-packed and empty, and pulled into Downtown Subscription for a cup of tea before I had to go home. I only had one ratty dollar in my pocket, but the place was nearly deserted so I sat down with my notebook and wrote for 15 minutes on whatever came to mind. And you know what? I felt all brand new again. Next time you're feeling stuck or whiney, try it. A good walk with a good friend and 15 minutes of writing is all it takes, I swear.