Working mom myths be damned

power of my love beams is still quite potent

This is the Kos newsletter: warm email notes from your friend in Berkeley. Finding the simple joy in parenthood, bodies, spirituality, creativity, and beauty. Sound like your jam? Subscribe below for weekly notes.

Last night I watched my littlest fall asleep. He’d crawled into crisp white sheets still wearing his dusty playclothes. His hair smelled like dirt and grass and autumn leaves. I “tuck tucked” my way around his sleepy toddler body, pushing his blanket under his sides just the way he likes it. Just the way we’ve practiced for four years and two months.

He stares straight ahead, past my face, at the square nightlight on the wall. When we moved into this house the first few days were a wreck because we didn’t have enough nightlights. He’d wake up and cry for us: It’s too dark, It’s too dark, Dada. He’d call for my husband first. This was new. I’d only just returned to work and already he was calling for my husband first.

I nudge my head into his sightline, blocking his nighttime night light trance, and smile at him. He sighs and snuggles deeper. Ah good, the power of my love beams is still quite potent. (Working mom myths be damned.) I lay my chest on his side and sniff his neck. I kiss his right ear, then his eye. Yes, right on his closed eye. I whisper, “Kiss the eyeball” as I do it feeling satisfied at continuing this eye kissing tradition for 11 years and 4 kids. That gets a smile.

I sit back and watch him in his big boy bottom bunk. His eye flutter. They slowly close, then open a bit, teeter-tottering between here with me and Never Never Land. He looks like a frog. An almost irresistible urge to bite his cheek bubbles up in me but I hold it in between us, smiling super love beams at his tiny frame.

I imagine seeing him now, for the first time. Who is he, really? This little boy I’ve just met. That somebody or something said I could and should watch over, and feed, and trim his nails, and carry over my head when he’s tired and screamy. My finger traces each side of his eyebrows. His eyes stay closed. Who will he love? How will he spend his Friday nights? What will he worry about when he’s alone for the first time?

Yesterday I woke up early and went to the local market. A signature Berkeley guy (older hippie, beardy, chatty) saw the mini pumpkins filling my basket and asked if I had kids at home. We chatted about pluots and plum pie and arriving early to get the discounted bags of produce. Then he looked wistful and said his kids were 35 and 22. He just went to a concert in Europe with his 35-year-old. “So they’re still fun.” But he worried about his 22-year-old. About her being “too serious, getting stuck in a shitty job, having kids, and falling into a mediocre marriage like mine”. I felt around the navel oranges and picked out a few, nodding to signal I was listening. But it made me sad.

I worried about that guy’s worries as I picked a head of butter lettuce and five pounds of yellow nectarines. I mulled over his marriage over mixed greens and sprouts and swiftly defended mine by the rows of tart green apples crisp Red Delicious. Once in line, I changed my mind and went back for another speckled yellow heirloom tomato and a loaf of fresh bread. Toast, we’ll have butter on toast with sliced tomato and Malden sea salt and pepper. And maybe bacon. And a vinegary salad.

Tonight I toasted that wheat loaf, then buttered it with too much butter. My husband cooked thick slices of salty bacon. I slapped tomatoes on top and we all stood in the kitchen munching and chatting about Halloween movies, interrupted by cries for more bacon, more toast, cups of milk, and a different dinner. The boys cleared their plates, I pinched Keenan’s bum, and everyone left for baths and reading time.

Let’s do this again sometime, these messy sandwich dinners and crumby counters and sticky pitter-patter feet. Let’s do this again. Maybe, tomorrow at six? No, six in the morning. For four messy bedheads and lopsided backpacks and forgotten multivitamins and morning breath. It’ll be good, maybe great. But it may just be. Is that okay? How does that sound.

Okay, I’ll be there.

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Why I moved back to the USA from South Korea

A very good Saturday morning (a recipe)

Whatever you loved at eight (me realizing I’m kind of doing a mish mash of stuff I hoped I would when I was a little girl)

Audiobook recs (scroll to the bottom)

Fun Links, Fun Links We are FUN

Erotic stories for women.

Femstreet is great for keeping up with the other side of tech.

Reminder that content is hard and complicated

I wrote all about how I became a UX writer on my personal blog.

I love the new categories on Airbnb. OMG! A frames! Desert! Beachfront! Whoever worked on this knows what’s up. I just want to exploreeee.

Rings of Powerrrrr

Best campground for families in Big Sur

DBT sounds fascinating. Have you heard of it?

I ordered the PMS vitamin from Flo. Will report back.

Five Worlds making bedtime fun around here.

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