Burnout before and after Baby: How Parenthood changed my resilience.

Performing in Ghosts of Nebula, 2024. 

“Tell me a story Mama?” Hero asks, scooping up Cheerios sprinkled with Trix, whole milk poured to the tippy top of the bowl. I reach for the familiar box set of Curious George books. I wish I could spin a story for him myself, looking directly into his cocoa brown eyes.  I don’t have a shred of brain left for it, I’m incapable of any creative spark. Burnout is back. The early signs are the same, racing thoughts, the urge to do, do, do, regardless my drained energy and stiff body at 6am.  

The reality of Mom’ing in the morning after a late night of rehearsal. 

Later that day, I kiss my husband goodbye. He’s just come home from the restaurant as I’m packing up to depart for my show. “I left early hoping I could see you!” but even as we embrace guilt gnaws at me, as I realize I am counting the seconds – hoping to grab a gas station coffee before my call time.

 For the past month I’ve been performing in an experimental, immersive, site specific production of Ghosts of Nebula at Seattle’s old Georgetown Steam Plant. 5 days a week, I trudge through the muddy grass from my car into the industrial power plant from 1906. It’s cold and I’m bundled in long underwear, a 1920s explorer costume and  a curly bobbed wig that traps the little warmth I have. I insisted on fingerless gloves from the costume designer; I have that condition where my fingers turn blue and lose circulation when I get cold, and I knew it would be trouble for the 5+ hours I would be performing the show for revolving 25-person audience groups.

The Steam Plant has no heat, no running water and we signed a waiver that we were aware we may be hurt or die, climbing around and through the old equipment.

“You did what?” Christian’s face lost color and looked confused. I brushed it off “We’ll be fine.” Because, as always, I was ready to do, do, do - for the art! For the experience!

 In my late twenties, I was a runner. I ran through snow and freezing rain, lungs burning but loving the weather. My body warmed me, and I trusted it. Hacking mucus along the trail, I felt so powerful. Now, climbing 30 steep, not-to-code stairs to act out a dramatic scene and hearing the gasps from the audience was as thrilling as crossing the finish line, 13 miles in the October rain.

 But this time, burnout hit differently. My parents, sister, and a team of “bridge sitters” helped watch Hero while I rested between shows. My husband took over solo dinners and bedtimes five nights a week. Our teen sitter even prepped dinner and tidied the toys so I could transition more slowly in and out of work.

 Despite all this help, I was sick the entire three weeks of the show. I caught the flu right before rehearsals began, and the cold symptoms lingered throughout the performance run. Even now, a week after closing, I still have a hacking cough.

A scene from Ghosts of Nebula on the catwalk, with Lola Rei Fukushima. 

Before motherhood, burnout looked different. Back then, I helped run a year-round dinner theater, Café Nordo, working 60+ hours a week, often fueled by late-night wine to recover from the exhaustion of performing. Hot yoga became a ritual to combat the physical toll, but inside, I felt hollow. I didn’t look forward to the next show; instead, I envied other performers. I dreamed of a family, hoping it would force me to reprioritize.

Now, I’m kind to that past version of myself. She did the work and embraced love and motherhood when it came into her life, in the midst of a global pandemic. She burned to ashes, but the ground beneath was fertile thanks to the flame.

I remember sitting in Nordo’s basement dressing room, steeling myself with straight gin before mustering up the energy to socialize. That old burnout was different; I took the community for granted and knew I could sleep as long as I wanted the next morning. This time, the exhaustion was mostly physical, but I appreciated my community so deeply—especially the shared resilience of a cast who, like me, endured the cold, the lack of running water, and constant sniffles.

As I sit in the ashes of this experience, I realize I’ll carry them forward like a circle of protection. Motherhood hasn’t erased the burnout, but it has changed it. Now, I know where to find support, how to set boundaries, and what it truly means to let others help. Each experience builds a stronger foundation, a reminder that while burnout may come, I am different. I am not alone, and next time, I’ll be even better prepared.

Read about my career with Café Nordo

Read about my struggles with alcohol

Read our conception journey

Sitting with cast mate Jackie Miedema on a break during tech rehearsal at the Steam Plant. 

The impressive turbine room, part of our set for Ghosts of Nebula. 

Things are easier, at age 3: Epiphanies from an Artist Mom.

Hero, age 3, spring in Seattle.

Hero pulls on his black “bouncy shoes” and runs to meet his Dada at the driveway, to help him put out the garbage, recycling and compost bins. This is Seattle. A lot of thought has gone into the sorting of our detritus for our household of three. My Chef’s “Friday” falls on a Tuesday, the unconventional weekend is the hallmark of restaurant and theatrical life, surrounded by the hustle of the 9-5 workweek.

I hold myself tight and watch, in my purple sweater and house slippers, taking a breath to enjoy their love before rushing on to the next thing. Tonight, it is dishes, and organizing notes from a four hour social media consulation (crammed into the three hours I actually had childcare).

It is easier to trust my husband and son to complete the day to day tasks. They’ve got this. It’s so hard for me to admit that this is what is easier: myself. I can acknowledge how anxious and controlling I felt in the first two years of Hero’s life. If you are a follower of mine, you know how tied up it all is. There is a profound impact in the letting go.

Nearly a year since we weaned and potty trained, I find solace in that. Being successful at these two incredibly challenging seperations has made my life easier.

I wave at them, and head inside slowly. My departure used to be met with crying at every turn, not so much anymore. Still, I am slow as I walk the 20 steep steps up into my attic. I jokingly call it “Amsterdam” because the steps are so narrow, my husband’s size 13s rarely make it up, and Hero isn’t allowed. I relish this hard won personal space.

Murmuring a mantra into my hand mirror, I pull an angel card “Your ideas are infinite”, then I light a candle. As a theatre maker who now moonlights in digital marketing and administrative wizardry, there is uncertainty at the start - where is my precious time best spent during a work session? Writing out charts for the new musical Twin Peep Show? Memorizing lines for the Sister Kate dance cabaret? Or researching the singer I just signed on to promote?

Angel cards, crystals and candles. These spiritual rituals give me faith, and trust in myself. “What is your hobby these days?”. An artist friend asked me this between bites of bacon on much anticipated brunch date. We had been discussing how artists don’t generally have hobbies, because our all consuming art fills the time in our lives like water. But we seek balance, like everyone, outside of social media and Netflix and chill. I hesitated because my “hobby”, the one that brings me ease, is my version of spirituality. It’s a new discovery, I’m tender about it! These little rituals bring me faith and trust and help me focus on the love. Having these tools at hand is essential for me, as an artist mom.

“Can I hold Calm?” Hero smiles at me as he looks at the high shelf by our door where I keep my crystals and essential oils. “Calm” is the name of a large, hand sized, raw blue celestite crystal that was present in the room when he was born. I’ve used it many times in his young life, to hold when I was loopy with sleep deprivation, or shaking with repressed rage, triggered by parenting. I recognize the significance of passing down my spirituality to him. Despite uncertainties about the long term impact, witnessing his embrace of these rituals brings me comfort and reassurance. In this moment, I find ease in our shared journey of growth and discovery.

Read More About My Breastfeeding Journey

Stolen Moments: Reconnecting with my Husband and Myself

Content Warning: Disordered eating, body image, weight loss

Christian and I sit in comfortable silence in our blissfully private backyard in the South Park neighborhood of Seattle. The fallen leaves of the two cherry trees blanket the patio, creating a cozy oasis. It might be 50 degrees out, but it’s sunny. So here we are. Mom and Dad, hanging out like co-workers on a break.

We each wear one earbud, the other ear kept free for each other and the baby monitor. He’s playing slots and I am binge listening to episodes of Maintenance Phase. Our 2 year old is asleep in the nursery, nestled with Elly, a large plush elephant.

I kiss my husband.

“I didn’t expect that.” My chef looks at me, lovingly. When we have a chance to reconnect it feels like stolen time. Intoxicating, like so many other things that creep in now that I’ve completed breastfeeding. Alcohol, weed, staying up late despite the 6am start of our day.

The intricacies of parenthood have been woven into the fabric of our lives. Every action, every consequence comes back to the family in a way I haven’t experienced since I was a child myself.

Hero with his hand down my shirt, a habit we are both struggling to break post breastfeeding.

“That’s not okay” is something I say, often, to myself, an incantation against the ever-present stress and anxiety that has been a constant since my son’s birth. Uttering it aloud as if my words alone can dispel the daily swarms of doubt. Doubt about my artistic choices, my spending habits, my ability to show up for myself, for us, and for our child.

I also say it to my son, when he grabs at my body, squeezes me, pinches me, for comfort. He’s still so much a part of me that it feels like our skin fuses together upon contact. But I have new boundaries, and enforcing them is yet another weight on my shoulders.

There is a big payoff though. “I love you so much.” These words punctuate most conversations in our family, passing in the hall, passing food at mealtime, and it is something to live for – a declaration that encapsulates our shared dream, a dream echoed by countless parents before us.

As an artist mom, and an actor and performer specifically, the conclusion of nursing my son unveils other new insights.

At my costume fitting for Titania (The Fairy’s Bottom) I noticed my breasts were the smallest they have been in 3 years. I’m also back to my pre-pandemic, pre-baby weight. The constant dieting and calorie counting from my child-free years has resumed. I notice my compulsive habits more now. The past 2+ years of pregnancy followed by breastfeeding hunger made any notion of opening my dieting app Noom ridiculous.  But now, as I come back to myself, it is obvious that those baby years were not enough to fully break my disordered eating habits, only bury them.

Myself as Titania and Sara Porkalob as Puck in The Fairy’s Bottom. Photo Credit: Truman Buffett, Costumes: Kit Goldsworthy

Once we were in performance, I also noticed that post-show the alcohol cravings had returned. The need to celebrate with the audience and throw caution to the wind no matter the fresh hell of parenting at 6am with a hangover. My alcohol consumption added itself to my weekly tracking and fretting.

Yet in this new chapter my body feels spacious, one step more back to just me, not fused to my son. Room exists here, for both the good and the challenging in my growing family life.

Read More about Weaning a Toddler

Read More about The Fairy’s Bottom

Read More about my sober curious journey

A note on Disordered Eating: Like many of you, I have a deep connection with someone grappling with a life-threatening eating disorder. If you find yourself engulfed in this struggle, I encourage you to please make that consultation with a therapist or call a crisis line. If, like me, your anxiety dips a toe into the disordered territory, well, we should all see a therapist! But if, also like me, you find solace in repeat listening to podcasts, I have found The Maintenance Phase and The Home Podcast enlightening as I continue to explore my own relationship to food and drink.

The most fulfilling aspects of my life involving food include sharing meals with my son, and cooking for him. I am teaching him to eat 3 square a day, lots of veggies, 2 snacks and to enjoy sugar in small amounts (not in front of the TV). Essentially the best things I’ve learned from the Noom wellness App. The experience is so delightful and keeps me rooted in the present moment.

Hero starting solids at 7 months

The Decision to Wean: Pick a start date!

Backstage at Bohemia, a selfie I sent my family before heading home for the night.

January 20th, 2023 11:30pm.

“Mama’s here, you’re safe.” I’ve just washed off my makeup and our almost two year old is crying for me while my husband waits, holding the remote, with an episode of Suits on pause. It’s the crossroads of a breastfeeding artist mom.

I gently open the bedroom door, collapsing onto my young son’s floor bed, three mattresses spanning the room. Nestled in a fuzzy grey blanket, Hero rubs his eyes and finds my nipple to nurse. Mixed feelings accompany the milk. I just performed back to back shows of a demanding musical, why couldn’t Christian handle the wake up? I just got home! Then again, so did he, relieving the sitter after 10 hours at the restaurant.

“No more Nurse at night on February 1st.” I announce, prompted by Bohemia’s final performance. Truth be told, I’ve been ready to start weaning since Thanksgiving, when my bosses at the theater Nordo announced they would be closing both of their venues. My world was falling apart, my career changing, and I couldn’t share myself in the same way with Hero. I was irritable every day as I continued to yield to the demands on my body. But the ease of nursing, and the sleepy sweet connection my son and I shared was very hard to quit.

My dressing table station at Nordo’s Culinarium, ready to move out. My theatrical home from 2016-2022.

Nurse’s final scene played out at 2am (or was it 6am) on Sunday the 23rd of July. Yes, 7 months of weaning! So sweet, so personal. And I was so done.

“It’s like they are mine again!” Christian jokes “They’ve been off limits for so long!”

It’s one of those jokes that could turn serious, until I laugh. “It’s true, though!” WEANING WAS ROUGH ON THE GIRLS! They were bruised and scratched, but they were badges of honor. I did it. Hero did it.

But how did it all go down, you might ask? This is the first of several blog posts that will chronicle our journey. 

I feared that night weaning would mean my son screaming and fully awake for an hour in the middle of the night before collapsing from exhaustion on my body – tight and tense from protecting my chest. I imagined dealing with weaning while rehearsing all evening for my cabaret gig. No thanks, push the impending transition to another bedtime, please.

But his second birthday was on the horizon, in early spring. And this Artist Mama responds well to deadlines. I made the decision to gently wean him before my next production, The Fairy’s Bottom, began that summer.

Back to February 1st, the first night of weaning:

“I need to talk to you about bedtime tonight, Hero.”

“Nursey Nigh’ Nigh!”

Hero’s cocoa brown eyes lock on onto mine, a mix of panic and longing. He throws his thirty pound body in my lap.

“Just Nigh’ Nigh’” my Chef reminds, sitting on the dinosaur beanbag chair, a copy of Little Blue Truck open on his lap.

Hero plunges his right hand down the neckline of my sweater. The t-shirt and sports bra beneath only slow his fingers momentarily before they find my left nipple.

 “Hero want Nursey. Dada no.” In his 23 months alive our verbal child has more words than we can count and is very easy to understand on the basics, wanting to nurse, needing to sleep, he’s thirsty he needs his favorite truck, no not a car, a truck, and not a tractor, a tanker.

I block his fingers with mine and press my cheek against his powder soft forehead as we sway together. He whimpers and thrashes his legs. I move him to meet my eyes.  “Nurse needs sleep tonight, just like Hero and Mama and Dada need sleep tonight. Nurse sleeps too. There will be Nursies in the morning” I quote from the library book we’ve been reading, “You can come to the big bed in the morning, but if you wake before then, just feel your cozy, cozy bed and know that you are safe and Mama and Dada are just in the other room, like when you nap. If you call for me, I will come, but know that there will be no more Nurse at Night. We can snuggle and go back to sleep that way.”

Hero doesn’t look at me. I brush my finger under his chin. As hard as this is for him, It is hard for me. When we have a good night in this weaning process I am on top of the world. I hope he is too.

“What a big boy! You slept in your own bed without Nurse til 5:30am!”

“Yes, but you were in there with him” My Sweetie points out, pragmatically.

“Only from 1-3am, I counter.

Christian and I on a date night out. Nothing fancy, nothing really was during this weaning period.

April 2023. Down to one early morning feed.

It’s 4:30am when I hear “Mama!” on the monitor. I’m laying on my stomach on our King, in all my layers. Like a firefighter, or a surgeon. I snuggle against Christian’s back, my phone tucked under the pillow. Sometimes I fantasize that tumors, like a mycorrhizal network, appear wherever my phone touches my body at night. As motherhood progresses, these intrusive thoughts have developed their own personalities. This is the Night Mama.

I grab the phone and check the time, noting that it’s an hour earlier than the previous morning. Screaming on the inside, I try and keep these thoughts, any thoughts, at bay as I stumble the ten feet between our bedrooms and slowly open the nursery door. Hero holds his arms out to me and I sweep him into my breast. Nurse is ready. Every fiber in my body feels relief to have him tucked into my left arm, over my heart.

“Other one! More Nursey!” As we settle into the big bed, I chuckle at his demands. My other hand rests on Christian’s sleeping back. As Hero drinks and makes little satisfied sounds, I feel as divided as we are close together. I know it’s time for me to be finished breastfeeding, but this is such precious time.

We will drift in and out of sleep as a family for another hour, at which point Hero will ask to watch videos of Hero on my phone and I will scoot us out of the big bed back to the nursery so my chef can get another hour of rest before his long day in the kitchen. I’ve just started an intensive script writing process for The Fairy’s Bottom during the evenings so once again, progressing on weaning is holding in favor of Mama getting the most sleep and putting my theatrical work on top priority.

Myself and my choreographer Katheryn Reed at an early production meeting for The Fairy’s Bottom in April 2023.

Writing a series of blog posts about weaning a toddler is mostly for me. But it’s also my hope that another artist mom may be in a similar situation and benefit from my experience.  

Read about the beginning of my breastfeeding journey

Read My Birth Story

Read How Motherhood Shaped My Theatrical Career

Behind The Curtain: Motherhood and Financial Realities

What’s the toughest thing for me these days?

From the outside it looks cush. Our Thule jogging stroller is stacked. Hero is bundled in a black fleece blanket, surrounded by his choice friends, a sheep named Val, Blue Bunny and Blue Bunny’s baby – a smaller, velveted brown lop. I’m wearing my hat I bought in Berlin and a sleek backpack filled to the brim with sandwiches, organic fruit, and granola bars. Plus? My socks match.

Yet, I can’t afford a car of my own.

We are rich. Showered and doused in wealth. But despite the façade of abundance, my bank balance tells a different story. After years of indulgences pre-baby, the only thing I really spend my money on these days after bills is coffee, the occasional boutique tin of CBD mints and my monthly subscription to Glo – a meditation and yoga app.

“Why do you need $500?” Christian looks up from the CashApp request. I swallowed hard and spoke slowly as I explained. I’m good at justifying my expenses to myself. To my husband? It means the world to me that I get it right. He works 50-hour weeks at the restaurant while I worked about 10 hours a week, give or take, as a freelance marketer. But when you factor in my hours as our son’s primary caregiver? Yeah. Even I don’t want to see those numbers. It’s unpaid. It’s important.

But asking him for money is still incredibly difficult for me.

As our new family buys, spends and invests, my vertigo increases. I have so little coming in, compared to what goes out, charged on the family card.  As I navigate these daunting responsibilities, I find solace in my art. When I have a successful show, once or twice a year, the funds go where I choose, usually a vacation.  Oh, it did before. But now? Everything is on display.

When we decided to have a baby, Christian and I knew our lifestyles would change. Even so, we said time and again, I would not be forced to give up my theatrical career to be a stay-at-home mom. I would go on tour to perform my cabaret shows and when opportunities arose in Seattle I would take them! Christian and Hero would have my back. We would be those cool, artist parents. He would shift his restaurant work around what worked best for my performance schedule.  But yes, obviously. He would work full time as a chef, and I would be the primary caregiver until a big show came around.  Of course, I would still pay my share. Somehow!

Oh, the things we said before Hero was born. Hey, at least we were talking. But two people who love each other can talk til the cow jumps over the moon, and still be surprised on the daily.

Christian and I making all the plans pre-baby, photo: Joe + Jill Studios

“The $500? I need it for the Portland AirBnB”

“Is that all of it?”

“No” I say, a wave of frustration washing over me, “No. It’s 1200 for a week, with an extra room so Peiyi can drive down and babysit Hero when you see the show.”

“I guess I thought the company would play for a place for you to stay”

No. NO. As a producer I rent an apartment for the artists to stay, on couches and sharing beds. Not for me to bring my family. And I won’t be able to pay Christian back til the receipts come in, after the show is complete.

Because this may be my creator/producer/performer career, but we’re all paying for it.

My planned vacations? They are padded around my art, my work. The trade is that Christian comes with and  gets to be the full-time Dad he increasingly wants to be. He’s worked his way up in the kitchen to have two things – the freedom to choose his position, and the opportunity to teach others as he grows. The overtime was a given, #cheflife. Enter that feeling of vertigo – Is that what he really wants? Through his eyes, I see my own determination mirrored back at me.

“What’s up honey” Christian’s face looks down at me from the Facetime, he’s sitting on the curb outside the walk-in cooler of Harry’s Beach House. I’ve called him during the middle of his 10 hour shift.

“I just had to talk to you. We have to cancel the tour. Dismal ticket sales. And it’s not just the company that will be losing money.” I gulp. I have to be honest. “We’ve lost money, the AirBnB only refunds half of what we paid.”

“I’m sorry, my love. There will be more shows.”

Yes, I failed. I bet and lost, with our family’s finances on the line. But Christian’s  not concerned about the money, he’s thinking about me, and my dream. He understands. But the biggest gift he’s given me? He’s passing this faith on to our son, a legacy of creativity and resiliency. Hero always repeats what his magic Daddy says. And with both on my side? I can do anything, even that toughest thing – I can make room in the budget for new dreams.

Hero and I this past summer. New dreams, here we come.

Read about How Theatre and Motherhood Shape My Story

Read our Conception Journey

Read about the ill-fated Portland tour of The Fairy’s Bottom

The Show must go on (or Not) Canceling the Portland Tour

Myself as Titania in “The Fairy’s Bottom” at the Triple Door, July 2023. Photo Credit: Joe Mays

“This is bad. Really bad.” I refreshed the Eventbrite link; Alberta Abbey had just sent us our first report. Zeros. Terrifying goose eggs. Our biggest night had only sold 15 tickets in a 400-seat theater and we were just two weeks from opening night.

“I just don’t understand the disconnect” I muttered as I toggled back to the Facebook Ads Manager screen. A green shooting star badge labeled “TOP PERFORMING” adorned our meticulously crafted 30 second trailer, which had been playing on social media platforms since August. “Over 4,000 clicks on the ticket link and…NO ONE is buying?!” My own face, framed with pink curls and a fairy crown, seemed to mock me from the screen.

As seasoned marketers, Mark and I knew it wasn’t just going to take one ad. It’s the ad, the email, and your friend asking you if you were going to “The Fairy’s Bottom” that weekend. Then,  a Google search, a click on our ad and bing bang bong. Or so we hoped.

More like GONG. Get off the stage, please.

“Berlin numbers were this dismal two weeks out” Mark countered.

I bit my tongue. Our tour of “Bohemia” to Berlin had been a massive undertaking, highly publicized in Seattle and abroad. What we did not disclose on social media was how many times Mark flew there and back, entirely on his own dime, to drum up interest. Or how we  had to adjust our original two week run to just four performances over three days because this wasn’t Seattle.  We couldn’t afford to take the risk. With 11 peformers flying across the world, there was no way we could back out. If we lost money, that’s the risk we took. We sold out the run three days before opening night.

Mark (Center) and myself (Left, behind the stunning Isobella Bloom) Bohemia in Berlin. Photo Credit: Robert M Berlin.

Could we make the same gamble with Portland? Had we learned our lesson?

The Alberta Abbey approached us about touring our show at their theater. This exciting proposal came when we were only months away from premiering our fifth original cabaret musical - a burlesque retelling of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”.

“This is so flattering!” I exclaimed, reading their email during a break in our scriptwriting session. “I guess The Fairy’s Bottom is already a hit!” When creativity flows and tickets sell, It’s an exhilarating feeling – one I couldn’t wait to share with my family.

Chef Rosso and Hero at my mom’s over thanksgiving 2022. Photo credit: moi

“Seems like you have to do it.” My Sweetie the Chef is folding laundry in neat, square stacks on our king size bed. His dedication to this household task makes me sigh, I often joke that it is the reason I married him.

“You’ll come with me, of course.” It had always been my dream to travel and perform my own work, since before I’d met Christian, before I became a mom, before everything. We met at Nordo, the dinner theater, when Mark and I were already planning our tour to Berlin for “Bohemia”.

There’s unsaids in every relationship. Yes, Christian is incredibly proud of me. Yes, we aspire to be that cool family that travels with our two-year-old. But we’d already used up his week of paid vacation for a trip back East to visit the Rossos. And I wouldn’t be paid for the show I’m producing until after the receipts come in, which happens only after the show is complete.

This producer/creator/performer lifestyle, it’s the fun gamble. It’s supposed to take us places, pay for Christmas presents. It’s nothing to fully rely on – yet  I do. I have. I’ve made it my life.

Behind the scenes with Hero for “The Fairy’s Bottom”

I also made the choice to be a mom. An artist mama, who follows her dreams without pretending family hasn’t become her heart and soul…and the real boss.

“We should cancel. It’s not worth it.” The words spilled from my mouth, and before Mark’s agreement even registered I already felt relief and shame flooding through my body. I switched to our contract; The minimum payment was pennies compared to what we had invested in paying Portland’s top talent to perform, not to mention our dedicated and scrappy Seattle crew.

Should we have made the same decision with Bohemia in Berlin? We took our bows to sold out ovations, but we lost money there too.

After hanging up with Mark, I retrieve a yellow sheet of construction paper from my desk. Shaking with grief, I scribbled all my fears and humiliations: Failure. Loss of credibility. Missed opportunities. All the intangibles I had just given up in a matter of seconds. I descended the creaking steps from my attic office, grabbed a lighter from the ceramic dish on the piano and headed outside in my socks standing on the wet pavement of our backyard patio. I lit a match and set fire to those fears, watching the bright paper curl into ashes.

As the smoke cleared, my earbud tinkled “call from Mark Siano. Answer it?”  It was done. The choice was made. And now, there was a week in October where I would, once again, be just a mom staying home to care for her son, with dreams and hopes and humble pie on the menu for dinner.

“Mommy might be sad today honey.”

“Why mama?”

“Because I don’t get to do my show in Portland” my voice quivered and tears welled up. “So, if you see me boo hoo or go like…huh…or stare off like this…that’s what’s going on. I just wanted to tell you in case you noticed me acting differently.”

“It’s gonna be okay, Mama. You’ll do more shows.”

Read my blog post series during the Bohemia in Berlin Shows

Read Hero’s Birth Story

Read our Conception Journey

Enter the Bohemians

Bohemia in Berlin is defined by our Bohemians.  

Meet Gaby. Gabriela Sanchez Samano is Mexican born, with her Seattleite husband Jeff in tow. They’ve been married many years but Gaby’s passport needed a special stamp to assure her re-entry and the always efficient USPS kept us on pins and needles until the day before she got on the plane! Gaby’s gratitude and elegant delight  made her the perfect travel companion, with her husband in the front row seat for every show.

Gaby enjoys some downtime at a bistro on our trip

Isobella, our sultry scene stealer, seemed to have the fast track to the best of everything. “This is a white negroni” she purred into my ear, handing me her glass. It was the one night I stayed out late with everyone to have dinner post-show, and sitting next to Izzy did not disappoint.  She was also very good with Hero, holding his hand and effortlessly connecting with his curiosity.  

Isobella Bloom and Hero in Berlin

“I’ve got to introduce you to the Lebanese Döner. It has peanut sauce!”

Any reticence I had about producing this tour melted away as soon as I saw Mark in Berlin. He had grown his black beard long to play Dvorak and it warmed his face, he seemed always to be smiling. As our host in Germany, Mark was in his element, introducing the Bohemians to his hard-won sister city. One evening while I was waiting for an uber back to my Sweetie and our son, I caught a glimpse of Mark leading a group of fans across Chaussesstrasse to the Titanic Hotel Bar. He was gesturing magnanimously back to the others, mostly women, who trotted to keep up with him. His deep baritone floated over the city sounds. He seemed, to me, to be his best self.  

Mark with the Green Fairies at the Ballhaus Berlin

Katheryn’s girlfriend flew in to meet her before the 2nd show of our tour, her tidy roller bag handed to the Ballhaus coat check. Our dance captain and drunken clown fairy Rusalka was defined by her new love. Their excitement to be traveling abroad together for the first time was contagious.

Katheryn and her sweetie kicking back on tour

Hisam’s desires were a little different than the rest. He was up before 9am each day, eager to hit the gym. Just as he played the artist Mucha onstage, he made us all guffaw in the dressing room with his tales of accidentally working out for free because he didn’t speak German and there was no one manning the front desk.

Our violinist Andy was the most liberated by our proximity to actual Bohemian soil. For the Triple Door shows back in  Seattle, he wore a tuxedo, but at the Ballhaus he donned a fairy costume and left his perch by the piano to mingle with the audience.

Our violinist Andy

“Everyone put your glasses and plates in the dishwasher!” Stage manager Noël turned den mother of the tour, coordinating flight times and counting heads at breakfast.

“Noël knew something was going on with me,” Mark was explaining why he didn’t tell me about a delayed wire-transfer from the states, meant to pay the Berlin technicians at the theater. “I didn’t want to ruin everyone’s tech day with more bad news, but she pulled me aside and made me tell her what was wrong.”

“You could have told me” I assure him, though I respect his choice not to divulge all the stresses of controlling the LLC. Though we may be creative equals, technically I am his employee. “I don’t need to do everything” I murmured to myself as I paced the threadbare red carpets of the Ballhaus balcony. I sniffed the air. Cigarette smoke. I resisted the urge to run down the spiral staircase and bum a cigarette from the bartender, who was leisurely puffing away as they polished the glassware.

I can judge the success of our tour based on the experiences of these artists I’ve surrounded myself with; this colorful group of Green Fairies in Berlin is glorious camouflage for my moody artist’s heart.

Opal as Chopin onstage at the Ballhaus Berlin

Read More about my curiosity surrounding indulgences

Berlin Mama meet Seattle Mama

“Do the playgrounds here seem different than Seattle?” Kyla loosens the knot of the calico wrap that binds her 14-month old to her breast. Little Uli toddles free with assurance to join her four year old blonde brother amidst a swarm of other blonde children. I admire Kyla so much. Her cool gaze somehow manages to keep eye contact with me while not losing sight of her little ones.

As a first time Mama, multiples boggle my mind. I’m fascinated by the routines of parents like Kyla – these are two of her four children, all under 7.

I’ve lost the flow of our conversation as I grin at Christian, who stands holding Hero’s hand at the edge of the sand-filled play area. Hero seems oblivious to the others his age. He’s looking for the nearest ball. Sure enough, a soccer ball – a football – arcs through the air and our son is off. I bring myself back to Kyla.

“There aren’t this many kids with their parents back home. Maybe more nannys? At least, not during the weekday like this. I was often the only mom at our Mount Baker neighborhood park at 2pm.”

Even before her children, a decade ago when we worked together at the University District Trader Joe’s in Seattle, Kyla was self-assured and considerate. She had long red dreadlocks then, and we vibed right away. It was clear from her banter with the customers that she read the same books as I did. That was a long time ago. But our world is so small now, that a quick Facebook message can bring us together again in a park in Germany.

“That’s funny, It’s actually daycare, most of the children you see here, not parents. We have one year maternity or paternity leave and then each child gets a spot in Kinderkrippe.” She nods to a tattooed punk with a half grown out mohawk who soothes a tired child with one arm and hands my son a soccer ball with the other. “I love Berlin. Someone who looks like that can get a job working for a daycare. The government wants people to be working.”

She makes the leap so easily. Of course we all need childcare to go back to work. I think of my own mom, driving two hours from Shelton to watch Hero so I can go to rehearsal when a baby-sitter cancels last minute. I think of the stressful loop that has become paying a professional more money than I make in an hour, just to go to work to pay them. Because I love my art, my job. Because it’s taken me to Berlin where I can witness that parenting doesn’t need to be this hard.

Read about Bohemia - the show that took me to Berlin

Read about my career path as an artist

Read Hero’s Birth Story

Impressionist Berlin

Opal, Hero and Christian on the first travel leg from Seattle to Berlin

Parent Fail.

When I read up on bringing our 19-month old on tour to Berlin for Bohemia, I learned he was still technically an infant, so he could sit on my lap for free. But I was encouraged to buy him a ticket and bring his car seat to clip in to the airplane. “It’s safer! They will sleep better!”.

And you know how I felt about that twelve hour flight with a 30 pound little big boy who can run and jump in my lap “for free”.

So, yes, we were bringing the carseat! I certainly did not want to run into a situation in Berlin where we needed to drive and Hero wasn’t easily able to join.

I didn’t connect the dots – not every car seat fits into an economy seat of an airplane. Christian carried it in a three hour line through security only to check it at the gate. Once we arrived at the Brandenburg airport, we flagged a cabbie down in a large minivan perfect for all our luggage and the Bohemia suitcases - and he pulled a booster seat out of the trunk! Hero had slept most of the flight and was elated to have new clicks and straps to play with on the well-worn seat, while we parents glared at our Gorilla car-seat bag brought across the world for nothing.

“Look at all the Dads.” 

Christian is checking out the group of parents and children mingling through the Kinderspielplatz. Soft hills of packed dirt and sand lead to a smooth, wooden play structure. It’s well-worn and beautifully wrought, with trampoline chambers, weighted water scales, and hobby horses galore.

It’s true, men are everywhere with children, kicking balls, bouncing infants in their carriers, soothing tantrums. Hero and Christian dive right in to their Daddy-Son bonding week, while I relax on the park bench with our backpacks.

After playing to our heart’s content, we collapsed in the spacious Airbnb (completely worth putting it on the credit card).

Across town in Kreuzberg, my fellow Bohemian artists on tour were having a very different experience.

“Are you on the WhatsApp thread?” This simple question was key to my vicarious satisfaction during our Berlin tour. All of the child-free Bohemians were messaging about their tourist escapades, brunches to be had, or photos of pretty cocktails showcasing the bar menu at Katz Orange.

“Help! Is anyone there? I slept in and the courtyard door is locked!”

“Sorry, Andy!”

“It’s alright, I crawled in through the window”

Leaving the Ballhaus each night, I walked on air. I marveled at the graffiti art, the cobblestones, the U-Bahn and S-Bahn. My brain was full of theatre. This was not a surprise considering our plan for a Bohemian cabaret tour in Berlin. What was really blowing my mind though, was how I rushed to leave my fellow artists, bound for bars and arty conversations and connections, the Bohemian life.  It’s easy to extend the joy felt onstage into post-show small talk, and delightful.

My dressing room table at the Ballhaus Berlin

I wanted my time alone after waving my goodbyes backstage. I couldn’t wait to inhale the sulphuric smell of a new, very old, town. I marveled at the street signs outside our Airbnb. Even the frustration of the “opposite lefty loosey righty tighty” door locks made me giddy. I was hell-bent on bringing that magical show energy to snuggle into Christian’s back and hear all about his day exploring the city with our son.

“It’s going to be so hard to be the one going back to work all the time. Being with him is utter bliss.”

Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. It’s so true.

The climax for my character, Frederic Chopin, is playing one of his nocturnes live. In the Ballhaus, the piano was a Weimar era upright. But it faced the wall, so rather than looking at the audience, I got to drift away with the music. Utter bliss. Christian never saw a performance of my show while we were in Berlin. He stayed with Hero.

Opal playing Frederic Chopin at the Ballhaus in Berlin

Best Places to Stay in Berlin for Bohemians

What neighborhood would best suit this group of green fairies?

MAY 2022

“Should we go for the modern industrial style loft over the authentic older building with four flights of stairs?”

 “Everyone is going to have to bunk together, it will be like an artist sleep-away camp. So, keep that in mind.”

 “Sleep-away camp, I like that. Hopefully no one is surprised when they realize the two single beds per room are basically a double bed with a line drawn down the middle.”

 “Two bathrooms for 8 Bohemians. That’s what really matters.”

 “Are you going to be staying there?”

Mark looks down at me from him laptop. He’s sitting at our kitchen table. I’m in the baby’s play area spinning plastic stacking rings to keep Hero entertained so I can carry on this meeting.

“Me? No. Oh no. My boys are coming with me.”

Mark Is a habituel bon vivant. A devoted uncle, but his eyes glaze over when I talk about parent life for more than 30 seconds. To his great credit, he offers no opinion about my choice to bring Hero with us on our Bohemian tour. And so, as a producer I scout one Airbnb for our child-free ensemble. As a Mother, I scout another across the canal in family friendly Freidrichshain for the Peachey Rosso 3.

Five star reviews for both places, if you’re traveling to Berlin anytime soon.

Freidrichshain 2 bedroom Loft, with high chair, one low full size bed great for bedsharing, best park nearby.

Unique Bohemian Loft, yes that was the name of it! for 8 green fairies in Kreuzberg.

JUNE 2022

My finger clicked purchase and the fizzy endorphins rushed to my head. “The three of us are going to Berlin!”, I sigh with relief. 

Yes, it was my dream to travel to Europe and perform. Yes, I had raised the funds, lost them, and earned them again. Yes, we were going on credit, a whisper and a prayer that lucrative gigs would appear for me between now and then to pay it off.  It had all become so much bigger than our original idea for the Berlin tour. But, now I finally had what I needed to make it happen – my family.  

AUGUST 2022

“Did we ever get our money for the deposit back?” It’s early morning and Hero and I are doing the shoes, hat, sweater dance to get him into the backyard. As I register Christian’s question, I feel my face go all performer-ey. Big eyes. Surprised. I told you so. “I used it to pay off the credit card. To pay for Hero’s ticket to Berlin.”

“Oh. I never saw that money.”

“I’m sorry honey. I thought I told you.” I wait. Waiting for Christian to tell me, what? That he wants his half of the deposit back? That we shouldn’t have bought our son his own seat on the plane? His shoulders hunch.

“I was just looking at my savings, that’s all. I thought that might be coming back.”

Our tickets were purchased with vouchers we received from the original, ill-fated 2020 trip. But Hero’s seat was my choice. I did not want to chance 12 hours on an airplane with a thirty pound toddler in my lap. Some things are worth $800, even if it’s $800 you don’t yet have. 

SEPTEMBER 2022

“It feels like 2020 all over again!” I burst into tears and put my face in my hands. As my emotions surge, I hit myself over the head, and pull my hair. A temper tantrum.

I’m sitting in my attic office space. Christian watches me mournfully from the bottom of the staircase. It’s a quirk of our latest rental, attic steps that remind me of trips to Amsterdam, stairs so steep and narrow you could climb them like rocks.

“Just take a deep breath and try calling them again in an hour.”

He doesn’t attempt to scale the steps to give me a hug, which shows foresight on his part. I’ve just been informed that one of the tickets I purchased for our Seattle artists headed to Berlin has changed the reservation to include a 24 hour layover in Dublin. And my calls to try and change it, or receive a refund, are met with denial and fine print. It’s not the end of the world. But today, it’s too much for me. I repeat my complaint of the past two years of pandemic motherhood.” 

“I’m just so tired. I should never have said yes to this. I can’t do it.”

Now, he crosses to me, using the bannisters to heft himself over the broken step that’s laced together with a steel brad.

“You’re already doing it, my love.” 

My sister calls me a ruthless optimist. I have favored the sunny side of the street since our parents divorce when I was seven. When my mom asked how I was feeling, I pressed my nose against the window glass on her station-wagon and said joint custody would be great because I would get two Christmases.

“I’m so tired of finding a way to make it all work out.” 

In Berlin, our acrobat Andreas is easily the most jovial artist on the tour. Raised in Heidelberg, he speaks Deutsch and is constantly rallying the other performers on outings and expressing enthusiasm for the tourist life. He’s the one with the ticket who got stuck in Dublin an extra day. He went to view the book of Kells and bounced right into the Berlin craziness of rehearsals even though it was later than originally planned.

My meltdown about the ticket change? All a part of the Artist Mama process, I suppose.

Christian and I celebrating his birthday in our backyard in 2022

SEPTEMBER 2022

“Could you please change out the Kabarett der Namenlosen photo for one of Der Frecher Salon in Italy, please? And do you think you could find a vintage tuxedo? 1880’s – 1950’s, we’re not too specific.”

My messages with Le Pustra in the days before their 2022 tour to Seattle were business-like yet filled with the excited tremolo of a challenge.

As their flight landed, I turned onto the cobbled First Avenue North of Queen Anne Hill. Mark rents an unassuming basement two bedroom with a view of the Space Needle. It’s one of those rare finds, a 1960’s style building built for the world’s fair and with rents that haven’t gone up in years. Mark has never been one to embrace the traditional, he and his longtime girlfriend live separately, but it’s obvious from the contact solution and neatly collected hair ties in a ceramic dish in his bathroom, that they are together most nights. So, he’s easily able to be generous when Damian, Ulrike and Charly Voodoo need a place to stay for the Seattle leg of our Bohemia Tour. He’ll stay at her place.

I can see Mark’s car pull in behind me, and there they are! I exit my mom-mobile legs first, making sure to flash my knee high boots and pull my vintage powder blue horn rimmed sunglasses down over my eyes. I may be a tired toddler parent but I remember how to make a first impression as a performer.

Damian, out of drag, is wearing all black, with a small, well-groomed mustache and neat tortoiseshell spectacles.

“Opal! Here we are, can you believe it?”

The warmth of his embrace takes my breath away. I’ve brought these successful cabaret artists to Seattle. We’ve never met in-person. This is huge! 

Two days later.

“If you’re not going to run all the acts, what I need from you is to talk me through the whole show. I’m going to be calling it from backstage, so I won’t have the best view.” 

Damian is sweating and obviously tired, the Berliners are nine hours ahead and it’s already 10pm. I’ve heard only two songs of his, that require our American performers to sing and learn choreography and seen one burlesque number – a stunning, spinning butterfly act based on Anita Berber. The outline has two hours of material.  

“It will come together, but only if I know every single cue and standby. Will you play me the last four measures of the medley again?”

The Parisian pianist, Charly Voodoo, has draped one of the fur coats for the flapper’s costume over his shoulders. The chapel we are rehearsing in is chilly, even for Seattle.

Charly is the resident genius, his hands floating, then violently pounding the keys of the baby grand. I’m impressed, but I’m also in my element. I know the Triple Door, the designers, the service staff. I haven’t stage managed in over a decade, but the control and confidence required are an easy fit, surprisingly. As a producer, I’m constantly making things up as I go along. Parenting? That’s the name of the game.

Rehearsal shot of Damian (Le Pustra) directing Justine Stillwell with Charly VooDoo on the keys

“Thank you so much. I didn’t expect anything like this. You made it so easy for me to be here.”

Exiting stage left at the Triple Door after his last curtain call, Le Pustra stopped by my comm. station to give me another hug. Le Pustra’s Naughty Salon was nothing short of a home-run. All the elements were in place for perfect Artist Mama synergy in the first leg of our Cabaret Exchange and I couldn’t be more proud.

OCTOBER 2022

“Mama, Dada, airplane. Hero tie-tie boy” At 19 months old our son can repeat back almost every word we throw at him. He chants the names of his beloved family before he falls asleep “Madam, Dada, Tante, Nana, Pop Pop, Poppy, Gaga…so much”

It’s baby talk, a language only a parent could love, but his verbosity makes everything click for me. The Peacheys love words. My Pennsylvania Dutch side of the family was never very touchy-feely but we tell our love in explanations and stories, long-winded jokes save the day regularly. Hero’s words make it that much easier to bring him into our family.

“Bye Bye Mama! Ruv-oo. Hero look.” That sweet farewell before I leave him with my sister (his Tante) to spend the night at rehearsal is another world from the infant who cried if he saw me leaving, or only gazed at me with trust and confusion.  Words matter.

And so parent life has shifted, as everyone said it would, just as we ready ourselves for the October trip to Berlin.   

Opal and Hero in September, around the time of The Naughty Salon

My view from the booth writing cues at The Triple Door

The Beginnings of Bohemia in Berlin

Yours truly in Paris, summer of 2017

AUGUST 2017

As I crossed the Seine, my ballet flats clicked on the marbled avenues of that well preserved city. I lit another Gauloises and fumbled for my journal, determined to position myself at the perfect cupola of the Pont Neuf bridge to moodily scrawl my musings as the dusk turned to twilight.

I was supposed to be working on a new play, the follow-up after Bohemia’s success - a story about the women who made Champagne. My reason for being an American in France. What I really wanted to write about was my near-death experience, hours after departing the trans-Atlantic flight. A bladder infection turned septic and put me in a Dutch hospital for nearly a week. I’d begged to be released. I’d cheated, chugging cold water before my temperature checks, and neglected to call my family back home and tell them what had happened. And I’d gotten away with it. Stuffed full of foreign antibiotics, I had forced my body to continue drinking and smoking like I had intended. How else would I have a good time in Europe? How would I write? What did I want my life to be, but this? Blowing smoke into that old river, alone and filled with doubt.

In the hospital in Amsterdam 2017, before embarking on 3 weeks abroad

MAY 2019

“Hello?”

“I think I’ve found a place we could actually do Bohemia”

“In Paris?”

“Berlin. I’m here now. It’s called the Ballhaus.”

“What are you doing in Berlin?”

After hanging up, I rolled over onto Christian’s tattooed stomach, taking his hands in mine. The phone call, early in the morning for us, at 10, came from my creative partner, Mark Siano. But my Sweetie the Chef is the one in my bed.

Christian smiled at me with that shiny-in-new-love wonder. He looks at me like everything I say or do is interesting, and he’s excited to give his opinion.

“He’s got another big idea…” I moan. “It’s going to be a huge fundraising effort”. 

“Wouldn’t it be incredible to take a show to Europe? And Bohemia is perfect for that.” Christian and I had one of our first moments (you know, when you know the other person likes you) at Bohemia’s 2019 production, a few months previous.

“I’m all about saying yes these days” I smile back at him.

SEPTEMBER 2019

“If we’re going to do this we need to raise $30,000.”

I shifted my weight on the tall bistro stool of the tables in Urban Yoga Spa’s coffee shop and looked up from my excel doc at Mark.

My wet hair dripped down my back, as I balanced  to better reach my computer screen. Steam clouded the storefront windows on a brisk Seattle fall day. The studio was my safe place between my Capitol hill apartment and Nordo in Pioneer Square. I didn’t have a car and walked the 1 mile commute rain or shine. Today was my volunteer shift cleaning to trade for classes. An hour of twisting and stretching afterward gave my body a pure feeling. It made my mind decisive.

Dear ______. I’m writing to you because your support for my art over the years has been…

Mark and I had made a plan that suited both of us for taking Bohemia to Berlin. Now, I just needed to craft the campaign and raise the funds.”

My approach hasn’t changed much in the past twenty years. What in college was a Kinkos printed letter with a handwritten signature, sealed with saliva’s salvation was now a MailChimp campaign, or a Gmail. No midnight trips to the 24 hour internet café. I could run the fundraiser after Vinyasa sipping a free espresso, my shift drink for volunteering.

It may be easier technically, but every time it’s more money to raise. This was the largest amount I had set out personally to raise.

“And, send!” Mark and I cheered our paper coffee cups and held our breath. We didn’t have to wait very long. “$7,000!”

“It’s one of mine!” I chortle. One letter, one of hundreds I had typed, was worth 7K!

Later that evening

“$18,000 in day one, can you believe it? We’re going to make the goal.” I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Christian’s Scion, he’s parked illegally on the Pike Pine. We share a joint before continuing the parking search around our 3rdfloor walk-up.

“I believe it. Your audience wants a chance to tell you how much they love Bohemia.”

After the pandemic, I’ll remember the nagging stomach flip I felt when Mark proposed taking our successful show abroad. Was it a warning?

APRIL 2022

 “It took two years of pandemic, a shutdown of the theatre, and then the re-opening of the theaters for me to realize how unhappy I am in the theatre! It’s dead for me… Does that sound cynical?”

I sit on the cement steps outside my apartment building and finger the pop-top of my lukewarm Le Croix. I’m listening to my 40-something friend Lacey explain why she’s moving from Seattle to Omaha, giving up on one dream to pursue another.

“I know what you mean.” I adjust the waistband of my fleece leggings to accommodate the extra few pounds gathered thanks to late night cookies eaten to avoid the stress of new parent life. “I feel like I’ve reserved all my hope and energy for Hero and Christian. I don’t trust giving it to the theatre anymore. Like Mark and the Berlin Tour. We’ve already lost so much. I’m done pushing for it to happen. If he wants it so badly, let him come to me. Let him do the work and we’ll see if it happens. I’m done hoping.”

And that is exactly how it goes. Without fail, Mark shows up. He comes to our home at the times that work best for Hero and I. He asks questions and gets excited and holds the baby while I write emails. He also goes to Berlin and back three more times to finalize our rental contract with the contrary owners of the Ballhaus.

During one of the trips he Facetimes me in the afternoon, which means it is very late in Berlin. I can see the ornate bookshelves and framed Weimar era magazine covers, and though I don’t see him in the narrow screen, I recognize Damian’s flat from our Zoom meetings about our theatrical exchange.

“We have to finish what we’ve started!” He chortles. This becomes a theme, in the letters I write our Kickstarter backers, in the post-show tip ask Mark gives for the Naughty Salon that September, at the Triple Door. And now, here we are – 13 Bohemians headed to Berlin.

Read my conception story with Chef Christian Rosso

Read about my work at Nordo

Read about my curiosity surrounding boozy things

Mom Ambition

March 2022

“Thanks for driving me in, you two.”

“Sunday is family day, right? Even if that means going together to work.”

Christian hits reverse and backs our RAV4 smoothly into the angle-in parking on Seattle’s 2ndAvenue extension. Historic Pioneer Square is a colorful mish-mash of street art, graffiti tags and weathered tents sheltering our unhoused neighbors.

Hero is taking it all in. He is due for a nap, but at a year old he’s very happy to be awake with both his parents, out in the world.

“You get the diaper bag, I’ll grab the boy.” As I buckle Hero into our Thule jogging stroller, my heart goes pittter-pat. We’re going to Nordo!

It’s tech weekend at my dinner theater. Our Nordo Artistic directors decided to remount our sell-out cabaret from the previous year Down the Rabbit Hole rather than invent a new show, thanks to the pandemic. It seemed like a solid plan -  our 60 person audience had shrunk to 25 masked thrill seekers with the limited capacity of 2021. Let more people see the show in the more vaccinated and boosted 2022! And avoid the costs of building a new set, costumes, props…everything required to make the magic of an immersive theatrical dining experience. So, after a three month break, the actors and crew were back together to dust off the show for new guests. That included the kitchen.

“I’m supposed to put in my order for Opening Week, and figure out craft services for the tech rehearsal.” My Virgo Chef goes down his to-do list out loud as we walk across Main street, masks off. My to-do list looks a little different.

“I’m going to stroll for his nap.” I yawn, already thinking of the Umbria almond milk latté I’ll treat myself to, coffee is this Mama’s greatest reward.   

We approach the street entrance of Nordo’s Knife Room venue and I’m suddenly shy. Should I go in and say hello. Would the interruption of a Mom with her baby be welcome? Do I want all the feelings that will come with entering my theater during tech week, not as a performer, but as an observer?

Too late! A stunning blonde exits the double doors, she’s wearing a puffy coat over her costume, but her green glitter eyelashes sparkle in the Seattle sunlight. It’s Jackie, understudy for the March Hare. She’s followed by Kate, who plays the Queen of Hearts, with bee-stung lipstick and a gigantic chiffon rose boutonniere, no jacket will disguise Kate’s stage costume.

“It’s Opal! And HERO!!!”

The chortling and fan-girling that comes with accompanying a cute baby is balm for my ego. Christian is already down the stairs into the cabaret theater kitchen and I give precious pandemic outdoor hugs to the sparkly duo.

“You look so good!” Jackie’s ruby lips part in a sweet smile. I finger the bill of my baseball cap and laugh, until I realize she’s sincere. Catching sight of my figure in the plate glass windows of the gallery above the theater, I have to admit, my fleece leggings do show off the thick thighs and butt I’ve developed over the year, squatting to pick up my 25 pound tot.

I may not be performing in Down the Rabbit Hole, but I’m still hot. Check that off the Mom to-do list.

Before I had the baby I spent $300 a month on my beauty upkeep. Aesthetician, manicure, replenishing my actor makeup, the occasional facial or massage or $120 hair trim. Now, my routine is much more simple. Every morning, I close the bathroom door and block my tiny son from lifting the toilet seat, or climbing the glass shelves that house our toiletries. I scoop him into my arms, and we gaze at each other in the mirror. I love how he makes eye contact with my reflection immediately, with the biggest smile.

“We are doing GREAT!! HIGH 5!” I tear my eyes away from his, and force myself to meet my own. I watch the thought bubbles appear… “You look so old, so tired, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE!? So puffy!” I look through these bubbles and see my soul shining back at me. We are doing great. We are awesome. High 5! 

I can’t take credit for this genius routine, It’s a Ted Talk I heard, by Mel Robbins, and it works! Christian watches us from the doorway.

“I never look in the mirror” he admits, “I think it’s because my Dad was a Marine and being interested in appearances wasn’t something he approved of.”

“It’s helping me be confident when I feel so lost, like I’m making this shit up as I go along.”

I glance at Hero in my arms. I swore. Does he pick up on it yet?

“Mama. Baba. Up.” Hero says Up for Down right now. I settle him on his feet and he drops to his butt to scoot into our hallway, looking for his red sippy water bottle.

Christian drapes his long arms over my shoulders and hangs, like a sock monkey. Hero’s molars are coming in and he spent the better part of last night screaming and thrashing in our bed.

My Chef works until 11, during show nights and it always takes him a while to wind down after Hero and I are in bed. But, no matter the sleeplessness, he always greets our little son with the same enthusiasm

“Good morning my son my moon my stars! It’s a new day!”

With me, however, he’s a sock monkey.

“Why didn’t anyone tell us about teething?” He moans into my shoulder.

My response to sleep deprivation is a little different, I run hot, my mind moving a million miles a minute. The crash to depression is inevitable, but the getting is good for the first few hours of the day.

“I think I’ve figured it all out, my Honey.”

“What, my Heart?”

“Childcare! I know how everyone else does it. We’ve been going about this all wrong.”

Christian follows Hero into his fenced-in play corral, diligently placing colored wooden blocks into an Amazon delivery box. Gifts from family and friends meets trash.  He’s very content.

“We’ve spent this whole year wondering how other families of artists do it. How do they have a baby and keep their careers moving forward?”

“Especially when we work at the same dinner theater and keep the same hours.”

Sometimes we don’t speak much in the morning, and the three of us cuddle in Hero’s play corral, keeping our coffee cups out of his reach. Me kneading Christian’s shoulders, he rubbing the arch of my foot. We are constantly massaging each other.

But today is a discussion day, in the bleary hours of 6-9am, before he leaves for work.

“Think about my Wednesday” I pace, from our galley style kitchen to the piano and back.

“I’ve been wracking my brain how to work an eight hour day of marketing, with two zoom meetings. But here’s how other people do it! I have to work while you are here and while he is asleep. I love our family time together, but it’s the only way I’m going to make the part-time thing work without just giving it all back to a sitter.  I’ll start work at 7am-9am and then 7pm-10pm. I’ll have to have the zoom meetings caring for Hero. It will be hard. But I have to learn to do it. Other people do it. We aren’t the only ones.”

Those lazy mornings with our new family bring so much joy. Enjoying our baby. Loving each other quietly. Relishing the quickly passing time.

But I’m the same person I was before the baby. Ambitious. Driven. Neurotic. Creative. And Christian is the same.

“Oh, and that extra money we’ll save cutting out our sitter on Wednesdays? We’re having a Date Night once a week.”

Check that off the Mom to-do list.

Date Night is actually Date Day. Bedtime makes me anxious with a sitter, I have a hard time leaving Hero with anyone other than family. Christian and I hire our caregiver for three hours of sunny park time for Hero, while we snuggle and watch an uninterrupted episode of Ozark. Or fold laundry. That’s what we’re doing, of course.

“Once a WEEK!!??” my best friend scoffed, when I told her about Date Day. “Oh, Peachey, it’s gotten bad for you, huh?” I just shrugged, though it stung. I had felt very proud of myself for pushing for Date Day. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t have a toddler. I’m judgmental, yes, but too tired to try and think differently.

As Christian kisses me and Hero goodbye and rushes down our block to catch the lightrail from Mount Baker Station to Nordo, I lay on my yoga mat and turn the speaker on my phone to voice memo.

“Mama is going to work on her lines. Stop. Stop. Dirty. I can’t let you do that.” 

Hero has scooted to the garbage can to pull up to standing.” I swiftly block him, while listening to my own voice reciting lines for an upcoming voiceover gig. It may be hectic, and the opposite of focused, but it’s working. I’m working.

And another item, off the list.

The months as a parent are sliding into years. I may not recognize myself in the mirror, but the mother who looks back at me is forged of stronger stuff. And her passion, heartache, joy and desperation fuels my ambition to make more vibrant, truthful art. 

Christian came into my life out of a dream and our son wasn’t far behind (read our conception journey here). 

Friends have often asked “what made you decide to get pregnant? You never talked about wanting kids before.” And as I move money between accounts to pay for our quickly growing needs, I often judge myself. “You’re a fool for not seeing this coming” for not thinking it through. How are a Chef and and Artist in Seattle supposed to DO this?!”

But what was the other option? Say no to the dream? Push against the tide? I can’t live or create in a world where my dreams aren’t possible. 

Possibility is right in front of me, through the mirror, through the screens, inside the theater and kitchen doors, in my friend’s hugs and kind, glittery smiles. I just have to use my mom ambition to pop those destructive thought bubbles and see what’s right in front of me. 

Opal and Hero, age 14 months.

COVID Mom Rage

“I want to curl up beside you and snuggle. This is so hard.”

“I know, My Heart. But everything matters or nothing matters.”

This is a mantra Christian and I have been repeating throughout the pandemic. It’s our armor in a fight against an enemy we can’t see, bargain with, or even gamble against.

February 1st, 2022 

My throat felt scratchy the day after Bohemia closed. I’d broken my loose sobriety and celebrated with a glass of rose champagne and a couple of sips of absinthe when the curtain dropped on the final performance.  My gravelly voice made sense. Six shows in 3 days, on top of the fractured sleep of a new mom, plus alcohol? Of course I felt like shit. 

 12am that night

I drop the toilet lid with a shudder, my booty still quaking from the frigid seat. I don’t flush, (DON’T WAKE THE BABY) and quietly wait for the water to warm my freezing, shaking hands. I’m chilled, feverish, but maybe, please god, let it be just a cold?

The bottle of Nyquil winks at me from behind the baby oil and dry shampoo. Just a tablespoon, to release my pounding head and give me a few hours of relief. 

I do all of this in the dark, mind you (DON’T WAKE THE BABY).

I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow, hoping the Nyquil will cancel out the suspicious symptoms. Hoping my baby will sleep a few hour more.

1AM

“Maaaamaaaaaa!!!” 

I gasp, my tongue like sandpaper. Hero is fully awake and thrashing in the king size bed where the three of us sleep. The dreaded split night. As I strain to grab him and scoot us both off the edge and into the nursery so we don’t wake Christian, I knock my glasses from the pillow stuffed in the crack by the wall to the floor, under the bed. 

Have you ever tried to stay awake after a dose of Nyquil, half blind? I could barely keep my cloudy eyes open as Hero begged to be let down on the carpeted floor of his room. 

“Gool, bah bah!” As soon as he’s released, Hero scoots towards the nest of black wires emitting from the surge protector. Guilt, plus my symptoms, doubles me over. Why haven’t I tacked those up out of his reach? In the two weeks I’ve been gone nightly for Bohemia performances, he’s moving at double speed. 

I pull him onto my lap and he starts head butting my chest to nurse, grabbing at my nipples under my nightshirt. His nails need a trim and their tiny, sharp edges are cutting into my feverish flesh. This, plus the added stress about the Nyquil (what effect will it have on my breastmilk?) AND the now hard to ignore “cold”, it’s all too much. I see red. I literally gnash my teeth. I close my long fingers around his baby hands…

“It’s very important to be gentle with him now.” I hear this whispered in my left ear. From whose voice, I cannot say. I start to cry. 

 Exhaling, I carefully place my struggling boy in his crib. I put my head between my knees on the day bed opposite him and we both wail.

 “I want to hold you so badly, but I can’t have you touching me that way right now. I have to keep you safe.”

The Next Morning

I’ve been COVID testing at home for a month now, thanks to the Omicron surge, I know the drill. The skyrocketing positives in the past four weeks directly coincided with my big return to live theater as a performer, after having a baby, after the pandemic shutdowns. This time, though, there were no shuttered venues. We masked up, tested daily, and prayed for an audience that was doing the same. 

When I saw the double line of the at home test, I knew it wasn’t a mistake. I felt tears of gratitude that this was all happening after the show had closed. Then, the pounding wave of guilt.

“It’s a positive.”

“We’re totally fucked!”

Two years ago our lives were determined by ovulation strips and pregnancy tests as Christian and I attempted to conceive. 

Now, as the pandemic rolls through another variant, a nasal swab determines whether we are out of work for five days, or ten more with a new family of three. For another type career, maybe that’s a blip, or working from home. But for Christian, a chef, it means a loss of income and his small kitchen staff scrambling to cover his many duties.  

I’m lucky, in that I can do my administrative work for Nordo from home. But a positive test means no childcare. Yes, I do need childcare to do my computer work effectively. One of my many rude awakenings as a new parent.

Christian takes the baby and I sequester myself in our bedroom, falling gratefully into the big bed. Alone. But I don’t sleep. I wear grooves in my brain, remembering that flash of red hot rage at Hero’s grasping need for me.

“You did good, Mama.” I murmur into my pillow as the fever swells to a breaking point. As much as I want to hate myself for feeling that way, I know that hearing the voice, slowing down, stepping away from him was a good thing. I did not hurt or scare him. I kept him safe.

Of course, I did expose Hero to COVID. But those are bad feelings for tomorrow. 

The Next Day

“How can I help?” 

Mark’s text is like a drink of cool water. I sigh and nestle Hero’s feverish body into the crook of my elbow so I can type a response to my co-producer without waking my little one. 

“Text the Bohemia cast and tell them I’m positive and they should get tested. Tell them the baby has it too but it’s a mild case for both of us. Christian is testing negative. If you can handle the responses and questions I would be grateful.”

“It’s ironic, you have to admit.”

“What’s that?”

“You were our safety officer! You never hung out without your mask! And you’re the one who got sick! It’s the definition of irony!” 

I feel the rage bubble. It’s Mark, so I let him have it. I sit on my response and let the DOT DOT DOT speak loudly

“My sick baby is not ironic.” Seething face.

“Sorry Peachey.”

This is Hero’s second fever, the first – a run of the mill virus while I was in tech for the show -  was worse. His temperature never breaks 100 with COVID and though he’s got some unpleasant congestion, we’re beside ourselves with relief.

A Week Later

“Another negative.” Christian has a makeshift bed made up on the sofa, separate from Hero and I. Surgical masks and dirty dishes litter the coffee table. 

“Dada! Dada!” Hero is squeezing my sidewaist with his chunky thighs, and bouncing. I’m trying to keep his hands from the KN95 I’m sporting. He thinks it’s a novelty, like my glasses. A toy to play with. He’s so innocent.

When I’m overwhelmed by frustration, remembering this and hearing his giggle is my way out of the bad feelings. Be like a baby! Be happy to spend all day inside with the ones you love! That mask on your face is FUNNY, woman! 

“This is ridiculous. We’re twelve days past my positive test and you haven’t caught it? Why are we still sleeping apart? Why are you still distancing from us?”

“Everything matters or nothing matters, my Honey.”

As I turn on my heel and head back to the other room, I let the misplaced anger at our messy apartment, rise off my skin like steam.

Despite our mantra, 14 days past my positive test, Christian falls ill with COVID and we’re isolated again. Stressed and guilty and scared again.

Another week goes by

“Thank you for practicing with me! Namasté little baby!” 

Hero looks up from his fenced in corral. I’ve dumped wooden blocks out in swirls to entertain him. Every three minutes or so he scoots to the edge to pull up and check in on my yoga practice. My sticky mat laid out beside him. Sometimes I stop to hold him. Sometimes I keep going and he settles on his own.

I fantasize about the Urban Yoga Spa I used to visit daily. Twisting out grief, alcohol, jealousy, in a room with fifty foot ceilings perfectly heated to 98 degrees…what exactly were my concerns  before the pandemic and my son? Now, as we move through our Peachey Rosso quarantine that extends three weeks into February, I go through the motions with daily sun salutations in my living room at dawn.

I am frustrated, filled with rage, angry and exhausted. But I’m okay. I am acutely aware of how much I have to be grateful for. And despite it all, I know how to have fun – like a little baby. It’s getting better, we are healing, one day at a time. 

You did good, Mama. 

Opal and Hero, day 5 of quarantine.

Performing Bohemia successfully during the Omicron surge of 2022.

Safety Officer tests positive! Yes, I can laugh about it now.

One Year Ago, almost.

A year ago I walked to the house of my friend Bruce to cat sit.

“Oh yes!” I said “I’ll help! I’m not too pregnant to do that bit.”

I moved with my son inside me, stretched out in front, like a basketball. Feeling ambitious and so special, planning everything, large and small.

I heard the words of other moms, recounted years before. About their baby’s birthing day, I wondered what WE had in store.

As the winter turned to spring I watched snowdrops and bluebells peep. I rolled my eyes at the advice to rest, stock up on sleep.

Practicing pre-natal yoga in Bruce’s living room, I listened for your baby name, was it Dom, Hero, or Moon?

I fed the little kitty cat, walked miles, and watched the flowers grow. I dreamed of having a sweet child with blossom’s bright to show.

We are so close to that time last March, the hour of your birth. But what I think of is the girl I was, swollen in girth.

Of course, I am excited for the marking of your year. But it’s me that I remember, as I raise a glass to cheer.

Eleven moons have passed, I’m here again to feed the kitty. Not much has changed, the world’s still masked and fearful, more’s the pity.

But every visit made to scoop the poop and help another, I’m reminded of that time when I was pregnant, not yet a mother.

Much has remained the same, how is that possible, you ask? When our world has turned full circle, it is difficult to grasp.

Reading the nursery story books to my tiny son each night, I want to write this poem to remind me what felt right.

From thirty-seven weeks expecting to my eleven month old boy, that mother-to-be waiting is the container of my joy.

As words now flow around me, I think on those days of silence. And how she longed to break them, in this conflict lies my guidance.

I hope a year from now when he’s a month away from two, I’ll be thinking fondly of this brand new mom who wrote these thoughts to you.

Bruce’s cat, Tulip.

Indulgence

December 2021

 “You’re doing great. You’re slaying.”

 I make eye contact with myself in our bathroom mirror. My greasy hair is slicked back into a ponytail and I’m wearing the same leggings and sweatshirt I slept in, even though it’s three in the afternoon. A disposable mask hangs off of one ear. 

Nine month old Hero is in our tula front pack, fast asleep on my chest. I’m standing on one leg like a flamingo struggling to balance as I aim to push off my leggings that are now covered with pee. 

 Not the baby’s pee. 

I’d decided that I would wear Hero for his second nap of the day, while I stood at my laptop and got in an hour of computer work. Hard crib mattress versus my soft chest? Wearing him was a more reliable chunk of me time. But I’d made a Rookie mistake.  I’d put his needs before my own, strapping in my tired and fussing infant before checking my bladder.

Wake him? Not an option. I’d already pushed his naptime further that day by insisting that he stay awake in his car seat as we turned onto our street, back home from Christmas shopping.

“Hero! Stay awake, big boy! Mommy will be there in two seconds!”

“Wah-hah-ha!” His eyes blink open for me and his sleepy face screws into a curl of despair in my rearview mirror. 

Why didn’t I want him to fall asleep in his carseat? 

Because I had to pee, of course!  And now you are fully onboard with the clown act my life has become.

So, I lift our toilet seat like a man and try to get my yoga pants down far enough, while staying upright enough to release my bladder without waking him.

It works! He stays asleep. But the pants are soaked. I peel them off, high five myself in the mirror, and walk into my office. Naked from the waist down, I open the online box office for our theater company. Then, I switch hats to producer, and answer emails from actors eager to be cast in our January cabaret, Bohemia. All the while drinking cold coffee and eating an entire chocolate bar.

I’m a hedonist, can you tell?

Before our son’s conception I smoked weed everyday. Never before performances or rehearsals was my one condition. The pot kept my thought train on track, then I relied on a good côte de rhone to relax afterwards. I spent easily $300 a month on bars, boutique weed shops and restaurants.

Now, all of that decadence has compressed itself into 3oz of dark chocolate a day, and two cups of coffee. 

I took the wine and weed for granted. I even grew to despise them as much as I craved them. But I don’t have those feelings about My Chocolate.

“Did you find your treat?” 

Christian peeks around the wall of our galley style apartment kitchen with glee. I’m washing the dishes by hand, my morning chore. (Not at night! Don’t wake the baby!) 

I freeze and spin: My eyes, even without contacts, spot the foil wrapped bar. 

“86%!! My Sweetie!!”

Coffee is a more delicate subject. Everything I eat and drink effects my breastmilk. 

“Maybe you should drink less coffee?”

No one says this to me, but I remember the tiff Christian and I had over my precious cuppa after the first trimester of pregnancy. 

One year earlier…

“200 mg and under is fine!”

“But how do you know how much caffeine is in that cup you brew at home?”

“The risk of caffeine during pregnancy is low birth weight or miscarriage. I’m 30 weeks pregnant and the perfect size. It’s only an 8oz cup that I measure meticulously. LET ME HAVE THIS ONE THING!!!”

“All I know is that every woman I know says no caffeine during pregnancy.”

“Who is this every woman? Who? Your mom? TV?”

Some things are worth fighting for in a relationship, and apparently coffee is the grounds I will die on.

December 2021

“’I really wish I could smoke a joint with you right now.”

Christian and I are alone together in the car which is a rare occurance these days. We are headed to Sea Tac Disc Golf Course, our go-to date location if we splurge on a babysitter for a couple of hours.

As an artist and a chef, my paycheck goes straight to childcare and his is stretched thin. Taking time for each other is a luxury. 

Before the baby, Christian and I would get stoned all the time. It was romantic, a way to connect, to unwind, to get in the mood, to enjoy dinner together, and the great outdoors. 

“Aw, baby. I wish we could too.” He holds my hand. It’s enough to be together, but I still miss it. The grass is definitely greener when it comes to ganja. 

January 2022

“I had an interesting moment during the show last night.”

My Sister tucks her legs underneath her on our blue couch.

“Ooh, tell tell tell”

Three years my junior and now well into her thirties, my sister has had her own crosses to bear. She’s an excellent ear for my newfound awareness regarding my former commiserators- weed and booze.

“I had a really strong urge to have a drink at the show last night. It was at the end of our first week. I wanted to celebrate…this is my first time onstage as a new mom and it was such a push to get to opening night.”

 “That’s worth celebrating. What did you decide to do?”

 “I realized what I was craving was my routine from before Hero. It was, do the first show, have a shot of whiskey in a glass of coke, feel the buzz, and get through the second show of the night with a glass of wine at the bar after and a puff when I got home in the bath. I knew that routine as well as the songs we sing onstage.”

Sister warmed her hands on the mug of peppermint tea that I had poured for her. The cup reads, “Best Tante Ever” a present for Hero’s first Christmas.

“I think it’s awesome that you noticed the routine in the moment. Just thinking about that old pattern caused a dopamine hit in your brain. It had nothing to do with actual substances.”

 “I want what theater was before the baby, before the pandemic, in so many ways. But I don’t need the alcohol anymore, you’re right. I had some cold coffee between shows. I did raise half a glass of bubbles afterwards, to celebrate. And then raced home.”

 “And felt really proud of yourself, I hope.”

 And ate two squares of Ghirardelli caramel filled chocolate in the car, on the way there. Winning!

 As evidence by the bathroom antics, and the self-analysis, the coffee and the chocolate, the mourning of weed, and the struggles with tasty beverages, my life has changed since my baby.but I haven’t. I’ve just grown with the reflection in the mirror, and slaying the game…when it happens, deserves celebrating in whatever way feels best for me and my family. 

Hero and I in our tula front pack, nap place of champions.

Christian and I before the baby.

Read Me, please.

“Let me take the stroller for you.” 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Daryle move between me and the bundled and bassinetted Hero. I had been bent over the passenger seat of my car, eyeing the contents of the diaper bag, muttering.  “Onesies, butt wipes, dirty bag…”

“NO!” I surprised myself as I leaped in front of her. She’d been pushing the stroller with the brake still on, so she hadn’t gotten very far. I squeaked out an laugh, realizing in the moment how ridiculous I was acting. I tried to downplay.

 “It’s my first time going anywhere with him alone in the car. I’d like to make sure I do everything right.”

 My best friend smiled gently and patted my shoulder. “Okay, Peachey.” I released the stroller brake and followed Daryle up the path to the garden entrance of her Wallingford loft apartment. To my credit, I did let her carry the diaper bag.

Hero was six weeks old, and my postpartum life was sifting into a somewhat recognizable routine. My Sweetie the Chef would leave for work at 8am, and I’d handle the first and second nap of the day. Then, I’d venture out into the Seattle late spring, usually to stroll Mount Baker Park, for his third nap, back home for his fourth and then Christian would be home in time to help with the baby bedtime routine. 

 Today, I had decided the “out” part of the day would take us across town to Auntie Daryle. 

 “I’m so excited for you to meet my friend Anne! She’s finally able to visit her son, who studied design at UW. You remember me telling you about Anne, of course…”

 I didn’t remember Anne. I was remembering the Covid shuffle, which was: to mask, or not? Do I ask about vaccinations, or not? This was not only my first visit with the baby, it was my official “Hug Date” after receiving my second dose of the Pfizer vaccine. As per the May 2021 guidelines, I was safe to chill, unmasked, with other vaccinated friends.

 “It’s Opal! And her baby!”

 “Uhhhhhkkk!!!”

 Two angelic children peered at my from the open doorway Daryle shares with her neighbors. Attila was sporting a tiny animal mask, obviously homemade, and Olek, who was 14 months, was newly walking on his still fat baby feet.

I first met Attila as a newborn wail from the other side of the wall as Daryle and I listened to Michael Jackson and popped our second bottle of bubbly for the evening’s hangout. And I had cuddled baby Olek when he was firstborn, against my pregnant belly. 

 Now they both looked so…mature! Olek toddled past me wearing a seemingly giant version of Hero’s cloth diaper covers. He was intent on picking up and handing me the small rocks that resided in the patio potted plants. Attila beelined for me and Hero. 

 “You can touch his little hand, if you want. See how his fingers are like a lizard?”

 “Don’t touch the baby.” 

Michelle glided out of her apartment, deftly scooping up her toddler and picking up four errant toys at the same time. I caught my breath. The boys’ mother had always been soft-spoken and elegant, but never had I felt her true power. 

I shrugged at Attila. Of course he shouldn’t touch Hero. What kind of a mother was I?!

 Hero’s coos turn to fussing, and I hoisted his carseat on my hip and entered Daryle’s loft. 

 The focal point of Daryle’s home is a large projection screen. She’s a film maker, and video game designer and a dedicated hedonist. When the screen is pulled up, which it is today, a monochromatic art piece is revealed, a pictogram of an eyeball, a can of soup + t, a bear and a pocket watch. 

 I can’t bear to watch. 

I slip my mask under my chin and smile cautiously at Anne. She’s sitting cross legged between Daryle’s coffee table and the white leather couch. It seems like yesterday and a million years ago since I sat in the same spot, using a bobby pin as a roach clip watching Frances Ha for the third time.

“Look at him! Six weeks old! How are you doing, Mama?”

Anne’s smile when I lift Hero from his seat says everything. We are instantly bonded. It’s something I’ve noticed as a new mother. Women who are child free ask about the baby. Mothers, they ask about me.

“I’ve been doing a lot of reading while he naps on me. Thank god for my Kindle! I’ve read a different parenting book each week.”

We talked a little more about her visit, I ask about her son, she tells me he’s twenty-three and the pandemic is the longest she’s every gone without seeing him. Daryle excuses herself to make a phone call, and Anne smiles while I change Hero’s diaper. 

“May I give you some advice?”

Her warm Texan accent disarms the loaded question. Besides, I’m so freshly a mom. No one has yet given me any advice! I am thirsty for it. 

“I’m sure the books are great. But when it comes to the important decisions you’ll make, trust your gut. You know what’s best for your baby.”

Did I even have a gut before my baby? Before this moment, this kind and gentle instruction from a more experienced mother? I don’t think I was really aware of the intuition that attaches me to my son. 

Since then, I’ve been keenly attuned to the difference between knowing a fact and knowing what is right for Hero. And I’ve gone back to enjoying juicy  novels rather than parenting books. Which I highly recommend.

Parenting Books that Spoke to my Gut

Baby Knows Best 

Ina May’s Guide to Breastfeeding

How to Talk so Little Kids will Listen

Juicy Novels 

Mexican Gothic

American Dirt

The Bestseller *caveat, just AWFUL ‘90s badness. Couldn’t put it down.

The Nightingale *caveat, a tough read as a new mom. I didn’t realize how I would respond to stories about children that go badly. Still, worth it, so good!

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

#1 Must Have for New Parents

“You can do it, my Honey.” 

Christian smiled at me, knowing how nervous I was about the prospect of driving with our infant son. Hero’s head perfectly fit into the palm of my shaking hand, as I squatted on the hospital floor, listening to Christian remind me how to buckle him into the carseat . As primary caregiver, I would eventually be chauffeuring Hero around town.

“Oh no! I’m stuck!” Christian grabbed my hands to help me up from my poorly chosen hunkering.

 I pointed my phone’s video camera at the dusty shelves and overflowing laundry bin in our small, postpartum hospital room.

 “We’re saying goodbye to the room that contained us for the first 29 hours of Hero Enrico’s life. Now, we are headed into the wild!” 

Christian bent to double check Hero’s belts, but chuckled at the broad Aussie accent I was using. It’s my own private joke, I like to narrate our life like Crocodile Dundee meets Animal Planet. 

(Here’s an example)

Thanks to Covid safety protocol at Swedish First Hill, we were not allowed to leave that tiny room during our stay, not even to step into the hallway. While the birthing suite where Hero was born was spacious with a great view, postpartum felt like a walk-in closet. Christian and I clung to eachother, sharing my hospital bed, while I dozed off and on, my outstretched hand on Hero’s stomach. I didn’t know then about how much babies need to be close. I didn’t know that it extends far beyond the golden hour after birth.

What I did know was that I could feel myself changing rapidly. I could hear a sharp static in my ears, and it would bark out sudden warnings.

In having a baby I was rerouted. Instead of nearing forty in a calm, zen-like state, my wheels spun and I found myself facing the same fears I had had as a little girl. 

Would this love go away and leave me?

Am I good enough?

How can I prove myself worthy? 

***

WHOOSH! The sliding doors of the Lytle Birth Center opened, as I followed Christian’s back, my eyes glued to Hero’s tiny face, peeking over the swinging lip of his carseat.

 “Thank you!” I shouted with my always-too-loud theatre person voice as the staff waved goodbye. A healthy new family – the happiest reason to be at a hospital. 

 “Good luck!” I almost gave myself whiplash grinning at the young couple who entered just as we exited, she round and slow, he balancing the carseat and bags. That was us, just…yesterday?

 We stood in the parking garage elevator, leaning on eachother and staring at our perfect little Hero. The tide of adrenalin that had propelled me out of the hospital bed began to ebb and as we exited and walked to the car, my strides shrank to a shuffle. The ring of fire was returning! That’s the name of the excruciating pain a birthing mother experiences when the baby’s head pushes fully into the birth canal. I used my yoga breath, and fell behind Christian and Hero. 

This was going to be way harder than I had thought. 

 As I rounded the curve of the parking deck, I was surprised to see Christian with the baby, standing outside of our car, in the midst of a friendly chat with a young man in a Honda CRV. His curly hair was wild, and he had rolled the window half down to speak to my Honey, his mask around his chin. Christian looked up,

“My Honey, this is Jarron! We worked together at Palisade!”

“Congratulations, Opal.”

“Jarron’s wife is pregnant too.”

“Yes, we just checked her in. She started chemo this week and her doctor thinks they might need to deliver our daughter early because of it.”

***

 Driving home, I sat in the backseat next to our son, one hand holding his, the other pointing my FaceTime camera at Hero so Christian could watch him on his phone, clipped to the dash. Neither of us wanted to take our eyes off of the baby for one single second.

 *I know, you’d like actual products that would make your life easier. Well, if you’re driving with babe, I highly recommend this carseat mirror. 

It was a short walk from the hospital doors to our car, but in that time I traveled a great distance as a human being. I felt Jarron’s joy at the upcoming birth of his daughter and I could empathize with his fear in a way I never could have imagined before Hero’s birth. 

As a child-free adult, I was dubious when I heard new parents speak of the love they felt for their offspring “I never knew what love was before I had my baby!”. But after meeting Jarron and hearing his family’s story, I knew.

It wasn’t that the love was bigger with more sparkle. It was the almost nauseating combination of joy, fear, and gratitude, in a split second.

Motherhood didn’t give me a bigger heart, but it did make me more aware of what I had to lose. 

I’m so grateful he’s healthy. I’m so grateful I’m healthy. I’m so grateful we have Christian to love us.

Gratitude isn’t something you can purchase on Amazon. You have it. You must have it. As soon as the baby is born, you’ll feel it’s pressure on your skin.

Our carseat mirror that makes me feel much more confident driving with my son. I’d also recommend this sun shade. Hero also enjoys flapping it at his reflection on cloudy Seattle days when entertainment in the carseat is needed.

Back to Work

June 2021

 “Safari, imail, Slack, Chrome, Stickies app, Word, Excel…”

 I pop open my laptop and toggle through the open windows. It’s 7:30am and the grey morning light is streaming through the break between the blackout curtains. I’m alone in our apartment. Christian has left for work and the baby is already onto his first nap of the day.

All I need to work from home while he sleeps is my laptop, iphone and Wifi. I take a breath and tear my eyes away from my son to focus on my inbox.

 “We were wondering if you’d be available…”

My eyes grab the preview line of an email from my boss at the theater and instantly my heart is in my throat. 

 “One of the actors we’ve cast for our fall production has a conflict with three performances and we were wondering if you’d be available to understudy her role…”

Snapping my laptop shut, I listen to the blood rushing through my ears. 

So much has changed for this Artist Mama.

Twelve years ago

I push back on the pedal of my purple fixed gear bicycle, slowing to a stop with a bounce in front of the Fremont Coffee Company. I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead. I can see the back of Erin’s curly head on the patio, and I can hear Max’s laugh as I jog up the steps to join them. 

They invited me for coffee to discuss the second Nordo show, we’re going to do it again! The first “dining experience” called The Modern American Chicken was well received. And, more importantly, it was fun!

I was acting professionally for the first time since my college internship at Seattle Shakespeare Company. In 2009, Café Nordo was much, much more exciting than anything art school had prepared me for. 

“This show will take place on a ship heading through Deception Pass, on the Salish Sea. The menu will tell the story of the Big Bang, and how it affected the ocean.” 

 Erin pauses, dramatically.

 “The story will be told with pop rocks in squid ink!”

I swallow my black coffee with a gulp. It sounds so fancy. I’m sweating more now, as Terry begins to tell the script story, of a sea captain, played by Max, who runs aground and shipwrecks, taking his ship and his crew to the Deep. There would be a stowaway, played by Becky Poole, and the rest of the cast would be acrobats, paying homage to Nordo’s circus background. 

 “And Opal, we thought you would play a widow of the Sea. Named Isabella. The character is based on the song of the same name, by Drew Keriakedes. Isabella knows the ship is cursed and tells the audience, but no one listens to her. She is the lone survivor. ”

“A song and The Monologues” I whisper, not wanting to jinx my good luck. 

The Monologues are what Max called my role in the Nordo show. I spoke to the audience, and gave avant garde exposition on the food they were about to enjoy. I had no service experience at the time, and sat backstage, sipping a glass of red wine and going over my monologues reciting the secret life of an egg again and again. It was incredibly luxurious. 

 And now I would do it again, this time with oysters. Incredible!

 As I rode my bicycle home on the Burke Gilman trail, I passed the chocolate factory in Fremont where Nordo was born. I blew the building a kiss. 

August 2021

“I’m apoplectic.”

Terry’s gentle face contradicts the fierce word choice, though he shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose with some violence. The Governor of Washington has just announced the return of mandatory masks in indoor spaces as a response to the Delta Variant sweeping through the end of our summer.  

The role of an actor in our immersive dinner theater company is to greet the audience in character and tell a story while serving a beautiful culinary creation that acts as a scene partner. Often our artists break into song mere inches from the faces of our guests. 

It doesn’t exactly work with a cloth mask covering your nose and mouth. And while the current edict offers an exemption for performers, we know the virus makes no exception. That much is clear. 

There’s no way Terry will sacrifice the safety of our audience or actors. So the art must adjust. Either that, or we roll the dice and hope the mandate is revoked as the vaccination rate goes up and the case count lowers, before our October opening night. This gamble is causing the aforementioned apoplexy. 

“We must re-invent ourselves and take big risks. As a new mother, how do I fit in?”

 I don’t say these words in our staff meeting, I scrawl them in my notebook. 

It took me twelve years to belong to a theater company where I felt comfortable enough to take a maternity leave, knowing that my artistic contribution would be secure. 

 But what is secure these days?

Six Years Ago, 2014

I put out my cigarette and enter the bar. Beneath the black painted façade on Capital Hill’s 15th avenue, Smith is a sure thing, perpetually cool. I gaze hungrily at the bartender, smoking always makes me want whisky. And the other way around. I place my order before looking at the tables.

There’s Erin and Terry, sitting with their backs against the wall, a taxidermized elk carcass hanging above their heads. Max’s back is to me, but I can see he’s well dressed in a linen blazer, excitedly gesturing with his wine glass as I walk over and slip my messenger bag and bike helmet under the seat next to him. 

Erin loops me into the conversation.

“We’ve toured a couple properties and there’s one with a lot of potential. It’s the old Elliot Bay Book Company Café.”

I down my whiskey ginger, rolling two ice cubes with my tongue. 

“I have so many memories there.” I can see eighteen-year old Opal vividly, beelining for the theatre section of the bookstore, and before her, Opal age twelve, eyeing the moleskine journal display as she trails behind Momma at the cash register. 

“It’s so Nordo, it’s perfect.”

Max cheers my empty glass. Bad luck. I try and catch the bartender’s eye for a second round. “I know.” It’s Max who has made Nordo an adjective of choice, five years into our dinner theater adventure. It is his style that gives us our edge. It was also his suggestion after rehearsal over wine and a cheese plate that I be made a Nordo company member, alongside our composer and stage manager. 

A company member. A lease on a theatrical space. A group of real artists. 

April 2021

“Happy Birthday Nordo’s Culinarium! I’ve been kidnapped by an adorable baby, but I love you all and I am thinking of that toast after you signed the lease six years ago!”

I snap the requisite nap trapped selfie of a new mom peeking over her newborn’s swaddled head and hit send on the text message. 

Max left the company shortly after we moved into our 4,000 square foot venue. So, my text goes out to Erin and Terry, now producers and creators, our stage manager, who has now been promoted to General Manger, and our composer who has become like another sister to me. 

No one responds to my text, but I understand. The pandemic has made everything surrounding live theater a bittersweet pill to swallow. 

At least we still have the venue. 

Late night, at the Peachey Rosso Apartment, Hero is 6 weeks old.

“Don’t make me feel guilty. I feel guilty enough leaving you two.”

Tears are leaking out of my sweetheart’s blue eyes as he stares at a point above our tv screen. When he gets upset, he has a hard time making eye contact with me. 

“You know I support you working. We talked about this.”

I bow my head and breathe in the scent of our sleeping newborn, willing the spikes of post-partum anxiety to dull their edge on my already frayed psyche. 

“We said that I would work full time while you took time off from performing to take care of the baby, since theaters are closed anyway. But now that he’s here, how does it feel? It’s so much time away for me, and my job isn’t satisfying, I don’t know if I want to keep working at Nordstrom Grill.  What happens if I want to go forward with a cottage farm license and start my own business? What happens if I switch restaurants and my schedule changes?”

“I want you to do those things! I don’t want you to blame me and Hero for holding you back!”

Christian sighs, looking up at the shooting star LED lights that shoot a pink aurora borealis on our apartment ceiling. I can feel him sorting his emotions, settled by my widely thrown barb. My Virgo is a righter of wrongs, and a truth-bearer.  He cannot suffer exaggerations. 

“I never said that. I never would.”

He gazes at our son, running his large finger lightly across Hero’s pulsing fontanelle. 

“If I start my own business on top of working full time, It will be a lot of time you’re alone with him. And I want you to be able to do your shows.”

“I don’t know if theater will return this year, or what that will look like for Nordo. If you want to experiment with your career, this is the time to do it. I’ll be Hero’s primary caregiver and if we’re both working, I’ll arrange childcare.”

What we didn’t know six months ago is a blog post I will write another time. But during this messy conversation, Christian and I chose our roles for the first act of Hero’s life.

And is it any wonder we chose the way we did?

1982, Ellensburg Washington

My Momma jammed the wooden toe of her clog sandal into the clutch pedal of the 1970 VW Camper and careened into the Central Washington University’s parking lot, aiming for a spot far behind the other vehicles. She was going to take her time.

She leaned over the gear shift to touch my face, while Baby Opal stares gamely back at her. I’m four months old, and this is our first real road trip. 

My twenty-two year old mother shakes out her feathered brown hair in the rearview mirror and swings open the heavy van door, filling one shoulder bag with three ring binders of sheet music and another with the cloth diapers and pins. She adjusts the two bags on one shoulder and then moves to the passenger seat where I am strapped in. She unsnaps her shirt and pulls up her bra so I’ll have unrestricted access to nurse and carefully folds me into a homemade brown calico front carrier, a pouch with a zipper down the middle. 

As we walk towards the auditorium we join a crowd of other students her age. She avoids noticing that she’s the only one packing an infant, hiding behind the music she studies while walking, humming in my small, shell-like ear. 

“I’d been home by myself while your father worked, and I was convinced I was wasting my education. So I joined a three day choir teaching seminar, and I brought you with me. You were so quiet, except when we sang. You cooed and chortled. Everyone commented that you would be a singer.”

1989, Jacksonville North Carolina

Matt Rosso hits the brakes and slows to take the exit, onto Piney Green Road. He decided at work on the base a few hours before that he would surprise Ava, Corey, and the new baby with burgers and shakes. It’s out of the way, the nearest fast food is miles from their front door. 

The sweltering humidity makes his forearms bead with sweat as he rolls down the window to carefully accept the Styrofoam cups of frosty malted milk, waxed paper bags of cheeseburgers. The milkshakes were for Ava and Corey. For him, the right to open and eat one deluxe, no onions, on the rest of the ride home. 

The potholes as he leaves the parking lot make him think that it’s time to trade in the truck for a larger van, something stroller friendly for his second baby boy. 

It’s the little things that matter, he thinks. After five years of infertility, little Christian Matthew is a miracle and Matt renews his vow to do whatever it takes to make his family comfortable and safe. 

This is where we come from, and here we are. Our son is six months old and carries with him the hope of all the little babies who came before.

September 2021

Here we are. Restaurants have posted new signs in the window “Vaxx card required upon entry” and In-Person theater is rousing itself to re-open this October. 

Chefs like Christian are in high demand and he finds work at a new restaurant easily. But for me, mostly at home with Hero and like my mother before me, I’m restless.

Going back to work means so much more to me than returning to performing after my pregnancy. It is returning to my theater job, when the job of theater doesn’t really exist. 

Since the pandemic hit, I’ve relied on my other skills at Nordo, gluing together several tasks to muster enough hours to pay a share of our bills. I write copy for marketing. I respond to emails answering questions about when we are re-opening for live shows. I find ways of saying, again and again “Who is Nordo?” and letting you know why you should care about our company’s future.

I exit the Lightrail at the International District stop and turn down the volume of the Online Marketing Made Easy podcast. Plastic tarp structures and tents line 2ndAvenue, where the train station under the clock tower advertises free hot showers with a priority for those experiencing homelessness. 

It’s our weekly in-person staff meeting at Nordo. As we push the bistro tables together in the Knife Room, setting up laptop computers and extension cords, No one hugs, eyes are kept mostly downcast, there are only short bursts of small talk. 

“Front Desk, Room Service, Facilities, Admin” as our Managing Director runs down her agenda, I munch on carrot sticks, wiping my damp hands on my short velvet skirt before continuing to adjust the numbers on our weekly marketing report. 

For this new mother, the shift from Zoom meetings in my apartment from the neck up to in-person is a sloppy one. I’m not my best self, and I no longer have the alter ego of my performance to hide behind. 

As of this fall, it will be two years since I will have opened a show at Nordo as a performer. So, you see, “Back to Work” was already loaded, even before I decided to have a baby.

“An actor has dropped out because their family member is high risk, now we’ve got two roles to fill…” 

You’d think I would jump at the chance to reclaim my crown as a Nordo company member. Clearly I miss my art, I’m broken hearted over it. But I’ve got a new vocation, these days. 

I keep my mouth shut. I breathe. And I wait.

 ~

“Do you want the part?” 

Christian gazes at me, then at our large whiteboard wall calendar as I tell him about my hesitancy to grab the available role, and the potential show dates, four nights a week, from 6-11pm, not including rehearsals. 

“We could make it work, couldn’t we?” 

At the staff meeting, I may have been quiet but with Christian, my son’s father, I’m top volume.

 “There’s no WAY!” I run into the kitchen, while talking, and open the freezer to look at the bag of frozen grapes, the pint of ice cream. I’ve always been a nervous eater. “You work nights too. Who would watch him? If it’s not you or me, who would we trust?! It won’t work!” 

I grab a grape, and stuff it in my mouth. Then, he’s behind me, and I melt into his chest.

“I’m not ready. I put him to bed every night and I can’t stand the thought of him crying for me, and not being there. I’m not ready. It’s too soon.”

~

Over the past twelve years in the theater, I have worked with very few mothers of young children. The ones I have known stand out: 

I see Yasmine, carrying her two year old back to the sitter waiting in the greenroom because rehearsal is running over time, her child’s downy head whipping around, taking in the pistols on the prop table and my high heeled rehearsal shoes. 

And Tori, who drove an hour each way to attend Bohemia rehearsals that were scheduled until ten pm to accommodate those with nine to five day jobs. She confided in me that she wouldn’t have been able to return to her theater job at all had it not been for her partner, who took an equal role in parenting their infant son. 

During another production, I complimented an actor on her recent role, a lead at one of the few union repertory houses in Seattle. I asked how it went for her.

“It was very, very hard.” She said, flatly. “My son was three months old. I accepted the role before I gave birth.”

What could be better than a lead in a sold out run, I thought.

At the time, I merely shrugged back at myself in the dressing room mirror, and applied my lipstick. Now, I understand her dilemma.

To go back to work means so many things. It means staying quiet, knowing that my Hero missing me when he wakes and needs resettling at midnight is worth stepping away from applause and fictional connections. 

It means having faith that there will be a place for me onstage when the pandemic ends, and my son and I are both ready. It’s been six months since his birth, but eighteen months since theaters shutdown. 

It means hoping that my audience and my company will welcome my return.

But until then, I’m keeping quiet and breathing. I’m learning the lessons of the past, and the stories of the parents who have come before me. 

My Momma, Deanna playing Mary Warren in an opera version of the Crucible at Central Washington University. She went on as an understudy when I was four months old, and another actor held me backstage when she was performing.

Ava and Matt Rosso with baby Christian.

Erin, Kelly Morgan (Stage Manager), myself and our former managing director toasting our new brick and mortar theater on 109 South Main Street.

The nap trapped selfie of a new mom. Hero is 5 weeks old here.

Our son Hero at 6 months old. Worth it all!

Conception

The dream begins the same way every time.

“Ticket for one” I tell the usher. He’s wearing an old-fashioned uniform with gold epaulets. He points down the hall to a dark theater. I enter and take my seat. The cushions squeak, their tarnished blue-green velvet crunching against my thighs. 

It’s a movie theater, old Hollywood, an art deco proscenium speaks to a bygone era of in-person preview announcements. More velvet, a dark red curtain hides the screen. I’m waiting for something, someone.

Just as I stand to leave, a small boy in an ill-fitting wizard’s robe appears stage left. His face is cherubic, with black eyes shining beneath the ill-fitting pointed cap. He balances on tip-toe to pull the curtain’s heavy golden cord, his strength belying his stature.

The curtain swings open to reveal a spinning, glowing, yellow orb.

Winter, 2018

 I sit bolt upright on my platform bed, surveying the small studio apartment with a practiced eye. My clothes from the night before lay in a crumpled heap, next to them my keys and purse.

My hand fumbles next for my phone, which is easy to find, the chimes of my alarm are ringing their third round. Three glasses of wine the night before, three stabs at the snooze icon. And there’s my laptop computer, propped open on a chair pulled to the side of my queen size bed. The screen is frozen, I’ve fallen asleep watching Sex and the City season two, yet again.

The dream of the little sorcerer boy must have been strong this time because those three glasses of wine? They were more like five. 

 “Good morning, Andrew! I’ll take the noon Hatha. Slow flow feels like the right speed for me today.” 

In 2018 I was averaging five sweat sessions a week at Urban Yoga Spa, enough to balance out my twelve-hour work day; rehearsing in the afternoon, performing all night and then drinking to unwind. Yoga gave me structured space to think about the dream I was having with increasing frequency.

“Arch your back, open your heart” I move into camel pose on the hottest side of the spacious studio. Wine and stress drip out of my pores as I think about the dream. I know the sorcerer boy is my child. I know the golden orb is the egg, waiting in my body. This deep knowledge is the same feeling that made me go off of my hormonal birth control the year before. I’d been on the pill since I was 18. It was a quiet decision. There was no conversation, no opinions, no one to judge me when I signed up for the Natural Cycles app to track my ovulation. I sleepwalked through the decision to ready my body to conceive. 

 I would practice safe sex, but deep down I knew that there was a child in my future.

 “Come out of the pose and sit with that feeling. Hands palm down on your thighs” 

 Why hadn’t I shared my decision with my close friends, or even my Sister? If I’m honest, I feared judgement. I was a working actor, dating a few people, nothing special. I was the furthest thing from child-ready. I didn’t want to talk about it. 

The moment Christian and I decided we wanted to try for a baby, that was when the talking really started. But it all began with that little boy from my dreams who magicked himself into being in the most human way possible.

 June 8th, 2020

“Black lives matter! Thank you, health care workers!” 

I let the bellows of my accordion exhale and click the snap shut, hefting the twenty-pound instrument onto our bed. I leave the window open. It’s a warm summer day and small fan propped between the panes blows the twilight air into our studio apartment. 

I started taking accordion lessons the week before the Covid-19 pandemic forced us into quarantine. Now, my lessons are on a Zoom video call. The silver lining of no theater, no restaurants and fear sequestering us in our 500 square foot apartment is that there is more time to practice. If you’ve ever played accordion, you know they multiply quickly! I have two and I’m teaching Christian a few beginner songs. His fingers, trained with a chef knife, are nimble and a quick study.

Our repertoire is up to three songs. A little waltz called ‘Skating’, ‘La Vie en Rose’ and we’ve recently added ‘For they are jolly good fellows’. This nightly concert is in response to the citywide Make A Joyful Noise campaign, encouraging we citizens to throw open our windows at 8pm to honor the essential workers who do not have the luxury of shelter-in-place, rather taking the front lines against the virus. 

“I biffed the chord change to Dminor, but it’s feeling more memorized!”

I cross past our bed into the ships galley style kitchen to pop us both keylime LeCroixs. Christian puts his hands on my hips as I return, spinning me towards him. I lean into the hug and run my hand down his shoulder to the small of his back, relishing the embrace. 

We’ve spent every day of the lockdown together, going on sixty now, but it’s hardly a honeymoon. The stress and fear of the pandemic has depressed us both. Spontaneous affection is rarer than you’d think, and treasured.

More shouting and car honking breaks us apart. A man without shoes, matted curls streaming behind him, is leading a group holding signs down Pine Street. I recognize him, he’s been camped out in the doorway of the congregational church that neighbors our 1920’s apartment building. Around 2pm, he’ll yell strangled profanities at the sky. Tonight, his eyes are bright, his words easy to understand as the crowd chants with him. 

 “Defund the Police! George Floyd! Say his name!” 

 The ritual of the evening protest since the Black Lives Matter movement exploded after the murder of George Floyd has its own somber metronome. 

 “I still can’t believe it when I see so many people together. In masks.”

 Christian is shirtless, holding the remote. We’ve ran out and joined the protests a few times, but the fear of the virus has frozen us both. It’s not a good feeling. We’re not alone. We notice our neighbors across Bellevue avenue, also observing. 

 In Seattle, the sky at 8:30pm in June is a handsome pink. The abandoned skyscrapers shine like a Ridley Scott feature film. I finish my Le Croix and open another. Our small fridge is stacked with veggies, sparkling water, four different kinds of cheese, ice cream and grapes fill out the freezer. Even though our jobs have been frozen, we’ve made an unspoken pact not to scrimp on groceries. It’s the small comforts that really count these days.

 The opening credits of “Do the Right Thing” are paused, as Christian follows me into the walk-in closet as I clear the freshly folded laundry from our loveseat. I know there’s something on his mind. He touches my back again as I organize my summer dresses to the front of the closet. The rod sags with the weight of both our wardrobes. We never meant to stay in such a small space after moving in together last fall. It was supposed to be a trial run, to see how we fit together, and to save a little money.

 “My love, are you ovulating this week?”

 I look up into his blue eyes, that wasn’t what I expected!

 “My LH test was negative today, but it should happen in the next few days, yes.” 

 “I was thinking that we should just go for it. It’s been two months now. Things don’t seem to be getting any better out there” he nods to the open window “but how long are we going to put our dreams on hold?”

 I think of the little sorcerer boy in my dream, and then of the tidal wave of rushing color that swept me off my feet when Christian and I fell in love in the cold beginnings of 2019.

 He had put his hand on my knee as I sat on the table after a late rehearsal at the dinner theater where we both worked, waiting for my car ride home alone.

 “I want you to know I think you are amazing. I see how hard you work. You are so special”

 Part of what makes me an Artist Mama is seeing art in every aspect of my life. This has led to some questionable behavior in the name of drama! That said, I pride myself on trusting my instinct. When Christian locked onto me and said exactly what I needed to hear, I could feel it, my dream coming true. And though the romance moved quickly, it was a conscious choice. We worked together, after all. 

The tidal wave of color that consumed me was also water under the bridge. From messy exes to demanding careers, Christian and I had a lot in common. 

 April 2019

 “There’s something we need to talk about”

 I fiddled with the rock collection Christian kept on the passenger dashboard of his well loved Scion. Queen played on the radio as we idled outside Uwajimaya in Seattle’s International District.

 “I know you want to have children. I knew that going into this.  I think you should know that I’ve dreamed of having a child, and I would be open to trying with you. If it’s meant to happen, it will.”

 Christian’s heart was in his eyes as he leaned across the console to kiss me. 

 “It’s like I’m finally hearing everything I’ve wanted to hear. In all my other relationships it’s been so hard. I would tell myself, things might change, I would wait. But with you, it’s so easy. I love you.” 

 When we tell this story, Christian relishes pointing out that I was “shwastey”, having downed two gin martinis before beginning this conversation. Perhaps that explains what I said next!

 “I do want to get started soon, if we are going to try. I wish I had met you ten years ago. I’ve never been pregnant before and a doctor once told me I have a tilted cervix and it might be difficult to conceive. I want to be honest, because if kids are a deal breaker for you…”

 “Opal, I want you. You saying this makes me love you even more. If it’s between you and a baby, I choose you.”

 We shopped for wild skate and fresh noodles and promptly left the store forgetting the grocery bag on the checkout stand, so eager and in love, and excited for our future.

 But for an actor the idea of pregnancy was a scheduling nightmare. In 2019 I performed in Bohemia, Jitterbug Perfume, The Champagne Widow and Violet’s Attic – thirty weeks of 4-5 shows a week onstage. I was also planning a European tour for Bohemia in 2020. Yes, I dreamed of having a child, but these dreams were important too!

 So when I looked at my Natural Cycles app and tried to predict which ovulation would begin the conception roulette, it felt like a thousand cards were precariously stacked on this one lovely act.

 Like so many things in life, I learned what to expect from my friends.

Wanda always wanted children. A Montessori teacher, she and her husband tried 13 times before they conceived their son, Jerome, shortly after her 28th birthday.

Kelsey had three children between her 18th and 35th years. Hoping for a fourth, she became pregnant on the second try, but suffered a false pregnancy, an unviable fetus that miscarried early, but failed to exit her womb, requiring surgery in her third month. 

My best friend from high school, with much handwringing, agreed to her husband’s wish to try for a baby before she turned 35. She got pregnant the first time, mere days after flushing her trusty ortho-tri-cyclen. 

So I was mentally preparing myself for the whole spectrum of emotional outcomes. Pregnant first go? This show canceled, that one – the costume would support a big belly (assuming I wasn’t horribly sick). Miscarriage…I tried to be realistic, it seemed like every other woman I knew had had at least one. How do you prepare yourself for that horror?

 June 2019

“The likelihood that we’ll conceive the first time we try is very low, so we should try a lot, but it’s anxiety provoking!”

 “If it’s not something you really want, just tell me. I want you. I’m happy.”

 Christian pulled my foot out from under the black Egyptian cotton comforter and playfully caressed his cheek with my toes. I sighed, rolling my shoulders. 

 “Let’s make the first time we try special. July, after I finish performances for The Champagne Widow, let’s go to Mexico. You can practice your Spanish, and we can relax, without the stress of the show schedule. I’ll be ovulating that week.”

 Christian fished my phone out from under the pillow and held it to my face, to unlock the combination, before opening my calendar app. 

 “I’m not sure how relaxing that will be for me. I’ll only be able to take off four days, and I should be working on the new menu for 7th and Jackson.”

 My Libra won out over his Virgo this round! With a few clicks through Expedia and Airbnb and we were checking in to an oversized condo in off-season Cabo for four fertile days. 

Christian wrapped his arms around me on the white sand beach, as we watched the waves crash against the coral, talking about our deepest fears. 

 “If you were to guess the reason our love would die, what would it be?”

 “I’m scared I will ruin everything that is good in my life.”

 Later that month, alone in my bathroom, before telling him the pregnancy test is negative, I look at myself in the mirror above the sink and check my heart: Ambivalence. Relief? It’s one thing to dream, another to live the dream.

 We try again in August, and September. Negative. Negative. We take a break over the holiday season because of my show schedule. That fall I ask Christian to move in with me. 

 “I’m month to month on the studio, we can see how we like living together before signing a lease on something bigger.”

 Yes, it did occur to me that I had more trepidation about signing a lease than trying to conceive a child. But if I had any doubts, they were easily overshadowed by Christian. 

 “I love you, I want to be with you. I trust you.”

 Christian. As we cheer In 2020, with every passing day he’s more interesting to me, more fun. Even the mundane task of choosing a film to watch is turned into a game. And he looks so hopeful when I tell him I’m ovulating. We decide to try again in February, as my fertile window falls over Valentine’s Day. 

 We both work through terrible colds, me preparing for a show tour abroad, he during the holiday season at his downtown Seattle restaurant – his job change prompted by a considerable pay jump from the dinner theater. “It’s the responsible thing, if we’re going to start a family.” 

 Despite the fevers and congestion, we book a suite at The Edgewater the Monday after Valentine’s Day. Propped up on a stack of King size pillows, I flick through the channels.

 “There’s a Godfather marathon”

 “The Godfather, again?”

 “It’s good background sound”

 “I see. Come here.”

 We selfie wearing monogrammed bathrobes with towels on our heads and joke that this might be the photo we remember forever, if we conceived a child. 

 A week later, murmurs of a killer virus shutting down travel to Italy and Asia make their way to Seattle. When my test result shows negative again, my face in the mirror is fearful, drained of color. I feel the little sorcerer boy fading away, a silly dream there is no point in believing. I’m distracted by a text alert on my phone, another actor is breaking contract on our European tour, convinced that this oddly named “coronavirus” is something actually serious. 

 “No baby. I was disappointed this time.” I fall into Christian’s arms, he’s been waiting for me, on our bed. It’s morning, so he’s wearing his chef’s whites and I’m careful not to hug his sharp creases too tight. 

 A month later, the whites are hanging in the closet and we’re both unemployed.

 “I always wished we would have more time together. I didn’t mean to cause a pandemic” Christian jokes, as we lay together on the cozy section of carpet between the bed skirts and the back of the couch. He begins kissing my shoulders and there’s a pause, the kind that could go on forever, for two people in love. I break it.

 “I want to stop trying for a baby. For a little bit. I’m sad. We’re not working. The world is on fire. Is this anything to bring a child into?”

 Christian holds me as we grieve our imagined future.

 60 days and 2 cycles later

 “If we got pregnant now, we’d have to be very, very careful. Doesn’t the virus transfer to a fetus? And what If Trump is reelected?”

 “I think we should try. We’re not going to go back to normal this year, maybe not even next year. And then - ”

 “I’ll be forty.” 

 I cover my eyes and pace out of the closet, into the small bathroom. My fancy thong underwear is hanging from the doorknob to dry, the laundry chore forgotten.

 Christian follows me. His shirtless abs sport a tattoo, in Olde English “Live Life. No Regrets” I look from him, to the mirror. Instead of my reflection, my eyes catch a pink post-it note. “I choose to see love instead of fear” is scrawled in my handwriting. 

 Could my decision be more obvious?

 “Let’s do it!”

 We kiss, we cry, and three weeks later in the same bathroom I hold my breath and let go at the same time. The double blue lines on the error proof test are so strong. I jump up and down. I look into the mirror and see a mother’s love blinking back at me. 

 The dream begins the same way every time. The old Hollywood theater, the sorcerer boy controlling what I see on the screen. That young woman waking blind, but listening to a voice she could barely hear, reading fortunes on post-it notes and trusting faithfully. I’m so grateful for her. 

Christian and I with our accordions for “Make a Joyful Noise” in May 2020

 A Note:

 Let’s go back to that pink post it note, when the path to my son Hero became crystal clear. That was the final stepping stone before conceiving, but it was quite the journey and I felt like I was fumbling through most of it. Here’s some contact tracing for you!

•  “I choose to see love instead of fear” is one of the daily mantras that are a part of spiritual guru Gabby Bernstein’s “May Cause Miracles” course (a  21stcentury riff on the fusty metaphysical  tome, “A Course in Miracles”).

• After watching Covid-19 splinter the most successful year of my artistic life, I was in need of a spiritual reset. I downloaded Gabby’s book from Audible and started her daily 10 minute meditations, reciting mantras and searching for a path back to hope and faith. 

•  It’s no accident that I found this particular book. “May Cause Miracles” was vociferously recommended by Holly Whitikar on the Home Podcast. I binge listened to the some hundred episodes in January of 2020 after Christian and I set Valentine’s Day as our Make-A-Baby goal. 

•  In the winter of 2019  I took a long, hard look at my life and turned up the volume on the voice that said my nightly glass (or five) of wine wasn’t going to help my baby dreams come true. 

•  “The drinking can go. Make space for the little sorcerer boy.” The voice said. So, I listened. I followed the sparks of advice, the murmurs that said, “If you want to be a mother, become the mother you want to be.”

•  I did a Dry January with Georgia from My Favorite Murder, which led me to a book she recommended “This Naked Mind”. I then scrolled down, perusing the other “quit-lit” available. I found the Home Podcast -  two gals in their late thirties who spoke about having a “sobriety toolbox”, and parenting that made sense to me.

•  When the pandemic rolled in, I had new coping mechanisms besides my wine glass. I wasn’t as afraid to slow down and listen to my body and spirit.  This curiosity was inspired by spiritual activists like Sah D’Simone who managed to find joy despite the gloom and Sara Clark who practiced yoga with a sober curious lens.

Seeing this path gives me faith. Faith and listening are both skills I call upon daily, as an artist and as a mother. I call them skills because I had to learn them, and I’m hardly a natural. Does this feel like it rings a bell to you? I hope the mechanics of my education may serve, if so.  

Ending on a sober note? Not really. I don’t identify as Sober, but I don’t drink in the same way I once did and the conception of my son is absolutely why. This path I’ve devised is simply what worked for me.

This is/was me! Love her. Baby was just a glimmer in the eye at this point. A dreamy future.

Street art by Kreau in our neighborhood, June 2020

And here is some of the on-site reporting (through comics) I followed from my friend and artist/activist Tessa Hulls that beautifully and simply explains what the Seattle Capitol Hill Occupied Protest (CHOP) was all about.

CHOP in our neighborhood, at a nightly protest. June 2020.

If you’d like to support fighting for equity and a fairer criminal justice system for all people let me direct you here.

This photo was taken around the time I proposed a baby.

The Show Mama

 “I love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” I murmur sing the lullaby as I press my belly into the side of the crib to lift my whimpering son without waking him further. It’s been ten weeks and three days since his birth at 5:42am and here we are, same time, same Opal and Hero, but in a whole new world.

“Nyuhgahhh…wah!!” His arms flail, he’s busted out of his swaddle and the new power of his punching fists is my guess as to what woke him. I marvel at his strength despite the wave of frustration that fills my throat. As I lift him, his arms make their way around my neck and the hot anxiety dissolves into a surge of love so strong I know we’re both going to be okay.

This is wake number five since 10pm, but the grey light peeking through his nursery blinds tells me it’s officially morning.  Today marks my first performance since his birth, and since my vaccination against Covid-19. It’s a big day but as of now, I’m wondering how in the hell we’re going to pull it off. 

9:30pm the night before

“Is this normal?” my Sweetie is fiddling with the heating vents in our 2015 Rav-4 as we cross the ship canal bridge. Hot wind blows in our faces, even though it’s an unseasonably warm May night for Seattle, in the seventies. My teeth are chattering so loud I’m wondering if it will wake Hero. Not likely, Christian and I had laughed as we strapped him into his car seat, his nightgown pulled up so we could get to his little legs, limp with sleep. I sip air and focus on the pain radiating from the hardening milk duct in my right breast.

“Fever is a symptom. Thank god for my Mommy group, otherwise I’d be scared. Two other women have had mastitis already.”

“Should I take the night feedings so you can rest?”

“I only pulled milk for one bottle, you could take the first one? But if he sleeps longer I’ll have to pump anyway so I might as well nurse. And you have work tomorrow.”

“My Heart, you have a SHOW tomorrow.”

We pull into the parking space behind our apartment building. I go up first, with diaper bag and leftovers from the day spent with Christian’s family, visiting Seattle from North Carolina. Each strained step brings me closer to soaking Hero’s sore food source in the tub and then collapsing into bed.

After putting our sweet boy in his nursery crib, Christian is parked on the couch with the monitor, warmed bottle, and America’s Test Kitchen on low volume. I play a meditation for sleep off of the Yoga Glo app on my phone and run the bath water, knocking down the anxious thoughts like whack-a-mole. Will my breast become infected? Will I be able to feed him? WHAT DID I DO WRONG?

Notice there is no stress about my upcoming performance. I have found this to be the happy side-effect of new motherhood plus my artistic career. Stage fright ain’t got nothing on mommy guilt. 

This concert is perfect, actually. I’m the guest singer, with four songs in the line-up. There’s one Nancy Sinatra cover, but the rest are originals that have all been performed before, crowd pleasers. It’s an outdoor venue, which appeases the current guidelines that mandate no singing in enclosed spaces for fear of spreading the virus, even if you are vaccinated. Which I am, but that security is all so recent, as newborn as my Hero. 

It’s a sold out show, but tickets didn’t sell till the very last minute. Was it because of pandemic fears, or the weather forecast? In Seattle, it’s a solid bet both! The producer, my longtime performing partner, Mark Siano, was willing to risk it for the chance to get back in business after this devastating year.

6 months earlier

“I have to admit, I’m scared you’ll change. I’ve seen it happen before.”

Mark is sitting on my piano bench, holding the photo of our 2nd ultrasound. You can already see that Hero has my nose. I’ve just told him I’ve got big news, and right away he quips “You’re getting married, or pregnant or both.” He does the pandemic elbow tap in lieu of a hug, and does seem genuinely excited for Christian and I. But, as partners in show who’ve planned tours and raised hundreds of thousands of dollars to pay our artists and make award winning cabarets, I’d rather cut to the chase and get talking about the real thoughts that come up when a performing artist says she’s going to become a mother.

Will she be able to commit to night rehearsals? Will she put effort into the social networking required? Will she keep it tight?

“I’m still me, Mark. You know me. So, let’s keep up the work.”

I’m hoping to god Past Peachey is right when Mark calls me up and, in a haze of sleep deprivation I pencil the May concert dates into my calendar and move the sequined costume dresses out from the back of the closet.

6:00am, day of the show

“Gloog!”

I grin down at my baby. He is impossibly cute in his transitional swaddle. At two months old and around 15 pounds Hero is inching his way out of the newborn sausage casing wrapper and into this big boy nightgown that covers his hands but lets his elbows free, like a cartoon chick. He still hasn’t quite figured out his hands while sleeping, and this keeps him from scratching his face and waking himself up while he tries to self-sooth by sucking his fingers.

*Are you, or a friend, expecting? Add this item to the registry. None of these were on any of the Top 10 lists that I saw. And – believe me, when you start obsessing about infant sleep you’ll be suddenly surrounded by five different brands of $20-$60 nighties that are NOT getting you laid. Actually, I take that back. The better your baby sleeps, the more sex you will have. Design a swaddle, Victoria Secret. 

“I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream…”  I switch my lullaby to tried and true Disney and pet his head, willing his eyes to close from the touch to his eyebrows, a hack I learned surfing the mommy blogs on Instagram during the precious few moments to myself.

If you’ve read my birthing story you know I had a damn near perfect pregnancy and a birth experience that felt successful in many ways.

But since he’s been born I feel like those anxious thoughts that were suspiciously absent the past nine months have all ganged up to nibble on this new Mama, like so many invisible germs:

There’s the pink crawly one that surrounds my nipples – is he getting enough? Why didn’t I read the back of my vitamin bottles before nursing?! Why is my left breast so lazy? WHERE IS THE LET DOWN?

The slowly growing black spot of resentment – Why am I working so hard? Why can’t I just go with the flow? Why do I do everything wrong the first time?

And the sparkly one, inhaled and exhaled with every breath –What if I can’t do it? This whole Artist Mama thing? 

8:30pm the night before the show

“Can you turn down the volume? At least during the fight scenes?” Christian hisses across the couch.

“Why don’t you control the remote, my Love?” I interject, an unwanted opinion, but Christian’s mother looks a little lost in the dark of the flickering screen. Hero is camped out in the bassinet his Poppie set up for him so we could hangout together as much as possible during their visit from North Carolina.

Christian grabs the controller with a huge sigh that might seem over-dramatic if you didn’t know he Chef’d a 10 hour day on three hours of sleep. 

The volume on the big screen is so low we might as well move to closes captions. Hero snoozes away. When he was firstborn he would sleep anywhere through anything but at 2 months we are watching him whip his little head around when we close his closet door or lean too hard on the edge of his crib. He’s growing so fast.

I made arrangements with my best friend for Christian’s family to stay in her spacious loft while they were in town, she graciously spending the week with her mother in Redmond, so they could be close to our 2 bedroom apartment, but have their own space. 

Earlier that afternoon:

“We want to fit him into our life, don’t we, not the other way around?” I step out of the loft to call Christian, fresh off of work, before our (unintended!) silent movie watching. 

This was the debate – To spend time doing the things we want, versus rushing home to get our tiny son to bed in his wake window, keeping his routine. We wanted to use this last full day with his folks to the nth degree, and to take advantage of my friend’s 8 foot projection screen! So we chose to put Hero to sleep in the open studio and hope he could make it through the film for us. He did fine, despite the fight scenes. But as we all strained to hear the dialogue, my right breast started throbbing.

3:00am, day of the show

“I’m so tired! I need my mom! I’m trying to perform today and between the baby, mastitis, and in-laws in town, it’s kind of a joke.” I insert the face-palm emoji, then pause and add a squinty smiley face so my mother won’t read the text and panic. 

Needing my mom feels good, is it okay to say that? As a member of the 35+ new mommy club, I did not expect to need my mother, I was in charge of myself and my life, thank you very much. But surprise, surprise, Past Peachey! Out popped my Hero and there she was, morphing from Momma to Grammie in a single bound. 

Grammie packed her baby blue Prius to the brim with groceries, violently refusing our offers of payment and stayed a week after his birth to fetch my water bottle, change diapers and sing the many nursery songs in her repertoire after 12 years as a music teacher. 

“I always told myself if either you or your sister had a baby, I would be there for you. I feel like I treated you girls as accessories to my ambition. So now I’m here to help.”

I sit in silence as she tells me this, newborn Hero nuzzling my breast. My mother was a single mom through most of my childhood. She is a musician, an artist mama. Like I hope to be. I will defend her choices, despite her guilt. But I am also a watchful defender of my son’s future. Will I see him the same way as she sees me?

But, I said yes to the concert gig. And here we are. Grammie driving the two hours from Shelton to babysit while I put on my makeup for the show.

1:00pm, 2 hours before the show

Concealer. Base. 3 layers of eyeshadow, brown, cream and pink. A midnight cat eye and charcoal brow. Dip the tweezers in eyelash glue and with a flick of the wrist I’m my old self again. I bring my liner, lipstick, powder and glitter in a small pouch to apply at the show. I’ll be wearing a mask, and I’ve learned this past pandemic year to be satisfied with a half face, most of the time.

“Lah! Lah lah!!”

In the bathroom, I  turn up the volume of my true crime podcast and will my eyes not to water at his tears, ruining the painstakingly applied liner. “Everything will be okay” I recite, he’s in his nursery with his Grammie who loves him and I must be on time for soundcheck.

The silver sequin minidress ripples and winks as I slid it over my milk engorged breasts and corset (I’m sporting a healthy extra ten pounds of baby weight these days). It looks good. I feel good. Hero makes googly eyes at the shiny dress and gives me a toothless grin as I kiss his powder soft head goodbye. I’m glad I waited on that lipstick.

2:30pm, Saturday

“Every man is just a bump in the road or a stepping stone..” I sing full voice, using the fifteen minute commute to warm up and switch gears into performance mode. My hands in their white satin gloves are shaking with the effort it takes to focus on the present, rather than wondering how Hero will react to my absence. As I carefully accelerate up over Beacon Hill and onto Spokane street, the sun streams over the Olympics. It’s a beautiful day. 

“Where you at. Green Room tent in the back” Mark’s text appears on my phone screen just as I park, marveling at the towering stage meant to mimic an outdoor church revival tent. The lot is filled with cars, turned inside out and laced with coolers and makeshift barbecue grills. Seattleites cluster in small groups, eyeing the stage where the band warms ups. I imagine for many, like myself, this is the first time to a music event since the quarantine began in 2020.

I exchange my slip-on Vans for black velvet stiletto heels and remove my mask, applying red lipstick, then a layer of ruby glitter. I look at the band, doing soundcheck on the stage. Maskless. Reminding myself that the CDC has deemed it safe to drop your mask if you are outdoors and fully vaccinated, I loop the ear straps of my black mask around my wrist and stride across the lot to the stage. Opal Peachey, performer, is back in full effect. 

“This girl is leaving you behind…” I growl sing into the microphone and gyrate to the bass guitar and cow-bell. This Nancy Sinatra cover always brings a crowd to the dance floor and as  the vaccines have become widespread in Washington, this concert is no exception. For the first time in over a year, I witness an audience dancing as I sing. It is a powerful feeling. Together, we are aware of what we lost in 2020. This tune from the swinging sixties resonates in a new way, for us all. 

Tensing my abdomen to support my breath through the next verse, I feel the separation caused when I birthed my son. It’s not healed, and I’m thinking the space will always be there. That’s fine by me. I love anything that reminds me of what I have to come home to, after the last bars of the song come to a close.