Oh, Bebe!

I've been humbled.  I checked out Brinigng Up Bebe at the library, I read exactly one article about it (which happened to be rather unbalanced), and immediately dismissed the book.  I planned to return it the next day. 

Then, a friend - who happens to be a wonderful, loving mama - said she actually likes a lot of what the book says, though some of it is a bit harsh.  What she says about the book, and about parenting, makes me want to give it a go.  After all, this is the same friend who changed my life by casually mentioning to me when I was 9 weeks pregnant that I should consider a home birth.  She was right about that, and she's right about this. 

I think it's important as parents to know who we are, and who we are not.  The approach to parenting that resonates with me and works for our family is Attachment Parenting, so that's what we do.  (I don't know, maybe we're frauds because we use Huggies and don't grow our own food, but we try.)

So then I read this article about Bringing Up Bebe that, in a grand dismissive gesture, sums up French parenting as the polar opposite of everything I believe in and practice.  Basically, the article left me assuming the following:

• Birth in France is highly medicalized, and anyway what's the point of a natural birth?  
• French babies are left to cry-it-out from day one
• French parents interact with their children more like we expect people to interact with their dogs - barking orders, administering a kick here and there, and merely "observing" them as they play, but never truly engaging with them.  Smacking a bit of the "to be seen and not heard" era that my parents grew up in.
• French mothers are selfish, vain, snooty bitches
• Breastfeeding is pointless.  And if you nurse a toddler, you're a "crazed hippie."

So I'm listening to the book on CD while I commute to and from work each day this week.  As it turns out, birth in France is indeed highly medicalized.  It sounds like the ideal birth starts with a narcotic drip when you arrive at the hospital.  You doze off, and when it's time, you get an epidural.  Then you do what the doctor tells you - you lay on your back with your legs up, and you push your baby out "like everybody else."  (Read with harsh French accent for full effect.)  The New York Times was not exaggerating this point when talking about the book.  4 days in the hospital includes wine service in your room (okay, that part sounds awesome), and lots of handing your baby over to the nursing staff so you can chill.  Birth plans are scoffed at.  Dad is to stay away from the "business end" during the birth, and he is not to cut the umbilical cord, lest his wife lose her "feminine mystique."  A step up from Don Draper smoking a cigarette in the waiting room while Betty birthed their third child in a drugged stupor, I suppose.

I am utterly mystified by the French prescription for baby sleep, referred to as "Le Pause" throughout the book.  I am in no position to offer sleep advice to anyone - I got kicked in the face so hard by my 2-year-old this morning as I woke up that I was momentarily certain I had either a concussion or a broken nose.   So it goes like this: from birth, French parents don't rush to a crying baby instantly, they give them a moment to "sort it out on their own."  Sounds ridiculous to me, but I guess they really are talking about a max of a few minutes.  The book claims that it obviates the need for Ferberization and such later.  I dunno.  That ship has sailed for us.  But I will say, it's not nearly as severe as I thought. 

My impression is that everyone who does not live under a rock knows that "Breast is Best."  Right?  Not in France.  It seems that most mothers view it as a nuisance that is hard on their bodies and puts them on a leash.  There was zero talk in that chapter about how nursing bonds mother and child, and all of the social-emotional benefits.  "Formula is just fine" seems to be the prevailing attitude - and if a woman nurses, she doesn't very frequently do it past 3 months.  Alien concept to me, obviously.  A large part of the reason is that French society doesn't want to reduce breasts to a merely utilitarian function.  Even though, biologically, that is clearly why they exist.  But okay.  To each his or her own.

So there are some pretty significant points of disagreement between myself and your average French mother.  What surprised me, however, are the many ways in which I'm already doing a lot of what the book talks about, and how my mother did it before me.  The heart of the French approach to parenting seems to be in raising confidently independent, respectful, considerate little humans.  Oh, and mom's that aren't losing their shit.  Amen to that.  So here's where I totally resonate with French parenting. 

Children should be taught patience, and that they are not the center of the universe.  I am surrounded daily by people with a sense of entitlement and self-absorption.  And not just in my high school classroom, but everywhere in society.  We will teach Hannah that she matters, but so does everyone else. 

Children should have clear, reliable boundaries about non-negotiable things that parents decide on, and lots of freedom within those boundaries to discover their world.  Sort of like not micro-managing, I suppose.  I have noticed lately that if I present something to Hannah as a choice, I immediately prevent a power struggle.  "Do you want to take your shirt off, or do you want mommy to do it?"  So, the shirt is coming off, because we're getting ready for bed.  But there are multiple ways to get there. 

Children do not need a bunch of blinking plastic shit, flashcards and other baby-genius gadgets to learn.  My new favorite thing to do with Hannah is bake.  It's amazing - she can crack eggs, measure flour, WAIT, stir, preheat the oven, and listen on pins and needles to directions.  Everything we create, even if it flops, she is so proud of.  Another benefit is that I am my most tuned in to her when we bake together, out of necessity.  I am forced to be present, which is good for me, and for her.  At the risk of melodrama, it feels as if we are making memories that will shape her life.  No toys needed.  Embedded in this is the idea that children are rational, smart, and capable.  We should treat them as such. 

Children are happier and calmer (read: better behaved, but I hate the word "behave" - I guess that's part of the crazed hippie side of my parenting style) when their caregivers are tuned in to them and can more accurately understand what they need.  Something we in America seem to getting worse and worse at is paying attention.  We are pathetically distracted and overstimulated.  I constantly see parents pretty much ignoring their kids, and then they are mystified when the kid goes agro on them. 

The mom formerly known as ______________ is still a person.   Say, WHAT?!  I will give mad props to the French on this front, from what I've learned in this book.  It is expected that women will return to their careers when they have children because a) daycare is free AND of exceptional quality and b) women, too, enjoy the careers they built before they became mothers and c) relying on the income of your spouse might backfire.  (I realize c is a loaded statement - don't shoot the messenger.)  Society is set up to support women and families, so both spouses working and shelling out a grand or more every month for daycare isn't an issue.  Aside from that, French mothers are encouraged, albeit largely by societal pressure to look sexy, to take care of themselves.  And yes, get their bodies back.  But I prefer to set the focus on taking care of ourselves without feeling guilty for it.  I'm paraphrasing, but as the book puts it, a woman should be able to continue as an important member of society, and she deserves to feel good.  I've groaned on here before about how I feel mothers in the U.S. have no real place in society.  What each mom and each family chooses is a decision they should make without judgement.  Wouldn't it be nice if we lived in society where we were supported for having children, though?  For real.

This post is a bit premature, as I haven't actually finished the book (okay, CD).  If it already bears reflecting on, I'm sure there will be a part deux.

And for your viewing pleasure, we documented our making of the Gateau Yaourt, "yogurt cake" that is included in the book.  
 

Cracking Eggs

 Mixing the wet ingredients

 Putting the batter into the pan!

 Holy $#!% she's cleaning up!

 Et voila!  Gateau Yaourt!

 And just for fun...Daddy on the 6-string, Hannah on the Uke. 

 

So It Really DOES Take a Village!

We are a society that is obsessed with independence.  On the parenting front, we wean our babies, on average at only 6 months old (one quarter of the minimum suggested by the World Health Organization).  If we co-sleep with our children, we sort of apologize for it and talk up how we're working on a "solution."  In so many ways, we are so very stubborn about doing things on our own, with the help of family or friends.   

I've read numerous articles lately about the impossible demands the current generation of parents puts on themselves.  We daily face a dizzying list of contradictions and shoulds, and there are approximately a million opportunities daily for failure.  And independence?  I'm not sure it really works when you're raising children.  For generation after generation before us, it took a village.  Silly of us to think we're different, but it seems like maybe we do.

I am not suggesting we lower our standards.  I am suddenly realizing that I - and I imagine I am not alone - CANNOT do this without a village.  Today, it suddenly hit me that I have been trying to do exactly that for much of my parenting journey so far, and it's not doing anyone any favors. 

Enter the massive, very non-American (not un- or anti-, just non-) lifestyle overhaul, which began with us moving in with my in-laws last spring.  We could no longer bear to live hand-to-mouth only to come home to 600 square feet of rented living space.  As Hannah began creating murals down the hallway, we were like "SOS."   

This morning, we very quickly made the decision to pull Hannah out of full time daycare.  It's just simply too early for a 2-year-old to leave the house.  She's been sick since September.  How many times can I take seeing her face fall when I open the front door on a cold, foggy and pitch black morning as she says "stay home" and heads back inside?  Toddler wrangling bookends my full day of teaching (read: teenager wrangling), and I get home exhausted.  And maybe a little mean, mostly to myself.  Hannah spends 8 hours a day at daycare, and a full hour of her day in her carseat, commuting with me along 405.  Her childhood, and life in general, is too short for this.  Thoreau's words in Walden Pond echo (somewhat menacingly) in my mind.  "Simply, simplify, simplify." 

Last year, we were stubbornly independent in our parenting.  Grad school?  Full time teaching?  Child-rearing?  Making ends meet in an economy gasping for air?  WE CAN DO THIS ON OUR OWN, DAMNIT!!  WE'RE GROWN UPS!!  WE DON'T NEED HELP!!  (We needed help.)  Now, my parents live a mile away - literally.  His parents live...um...100 feet away?  All 4 are madly in love with Hannah and can't get enough of her.  And I'm still waking Hannah up pre-dawn to commute to Seatac to go to daycare? Seriously?

Our new plan involves a little help from everyone, rather than our previous lame-ass plan of no help from anyone.  Both of our parents will be all up in the parenting mix, an idea we stiffened at a year ago.  Today, she had the opportunity to, so she stayed home with daddy.  I got to simply go to work, do my job, and then come home.  And when I did, we decorated Christmas ornaments, made cranberry sauce and chopped vegetables for dinner.  We played with puzzles and had a tea party.  We looked at her baby book and read board books.  I still had half a tank at the end of my day, so my time with my child was quality and it nourished us both.

Oh, and I didn't fall asleep, drooling, at 7:30!

To hell with independence.  I'll take a village. 

Ah, Failure.

Taking of 3 1/2, possibly 4 1/2 days out of 5 in a week is not as relaxing as it sounds.  Not when the cause is a sick toddler and you spend the whole time feeling guilty for:

1) Wishing you were at work and she were at daycare because it's stressful to have your routine interrupted (and you know you're walking back into chaos when you DO get back to work)

2) Exposing her, via daycare, to the germs that have made her sick

3) Doing whatever you did or failed to do, which resulted in her being sick

4) Feeling inexplicably stir-crazy because you haven't left the house in DAYS, and even though she is amazing, it's not actually all that stimulating to be stuck inside with a headstrong toddler for days on end

5) Being a bad teacher who has subs all week

6) Pretty much choosing the wrong path through life

So, you know, damned if you do and damned if you don't.  It takes me back to a post I wrote as I anticipated the end of summer, in which I reflected on feeling like there's no real place for women in society who are mothers and who still have careers.  You sort of always feel like a mild failure as a parent AND a professional.  And while I know I am not actually a failure in either domain, it's just HARD.

But, every cloud has a silver lining!  I have taken a long nap on each of these days I've been home.  We have made pancakes on multiple mornings.  I have gotten to hear Hannah's vocabulary expand in several directions.  My pretend play skills are reaching new heights.  We took a walk on Monday, Hannah back in her Ergo which has been gathering dust as she grows heavier and more independent, and the fall colors were indescribably beautiful.

And as usual, my little Zen master has so much to teach me.  I am quite possibly obsessed with always going somewhere and doing something.  Lazy days at home are a struggle for me.  When my daughter clearly asks for what she needs, and I know it's what is best for her - "stay home, mommy" - I must surrender.  I must slow down.  I must stop doing.

Of course, life will return to it's normal pace, which is usually too fast.  So tomorrow, I'm hoping to set aside my stupid guilt, let go of my need to do, and just let myself - and my little darling - BE.

I am reminded of a favorite quote (which I've probably used before, but oh well).  "The days are long, but the years are short." 

The Nap Gnome

I am convinced that on the days you most need/want your little one to have a nice, long, predictable nap, there is a sneaky little being I will call the Nap Gnome.  And I hate him (or her, to be fair). 

Here's how the Nap Gnome struck today.  We were driving back from a lovely outing to the Children's Museum.  Hannah was clearly tired, but also very involved with her PB&J, so I was confident we could make it home in time.  Torrey and I were planning to go see a movie together, a rare pleasure, so a good nap was essential to keeping the grandparents willing to babysit so we can spend some time alone together.

So then, I made a fatal error, and set out to take 99 to I-90, rather than I-5 to I-90.  Thus, I got caught in HempFest traffic.  My fault?  No, it was the Nap Gnome.  Do not be deceived. 

So I lost a precious fifteen minutes to traffic, then heard the kiss of death: Hannah's sudden and total silence.  I convinced myself she would transfer just fine, in spite of the story that history tells.  So we peaceably drive home and pull into the driveway, a minefield of nap-thwarting obstacles. 

Obstacle # 1 - my father in law was meeting with a plumber about doing some work on the house.  Where?  In the driveway, of course.  I pulled right up to the tips of their toes, practically, and into the middle of their conversation.

Obstacle # 2 - our screechy miniature poodle sees us come home and, as usual, goes completely batshit crazy.  I couldn't sleep through his dramatics if I were on sedatives.

Okay, so by now, Hannah is awake, but I'm just certain I can pull her back into sleep if I scurry inside past any more excitement.  But then she sees grandma, and she wants to play with grandma.  Grandma gets it, though, having been a sleep-worshipping mother, and clears our path to the bedroom as though we were fleeing a mob.

We're on the bed, and Hannah is sleepily asking for "beebie", which I'm certain will lull her back to sleep.  Just as I feel her body start to slacken and ease toward sleep, the damn dog starts whining to get back out of the bedroom that he was whining to get into just seconds before.  Hannah's blue eyes pop open, and she performs her amazing flip-twist, in which she quickly and with near superhuman strength flips from a side-lying position to her knees before I can even hope to convince her otherwise.

Eventually, I lure her back to lying down, having her beebie.  Then grandpa and the plumber walk along the side of the house, right by the window above our bed, which is open.  Repeat above scenario.  Except now she wants to go play, because grandpa is synonymous with play around here.

Round three.  I swear she's almost there, then daddy busts in singing "There's a Dog in School", much to Hannah's delight.  Seriously?  Seriously?!  

Eventually I gave up.  What is it about a missed nap that makes me feel like an abject failure as a parent?  Our plans worked out just fine and she was easy on the grandparents.  At bedtime she basically dove in.  But there is something about that two-hour break in the middle of the day that is so essential for parental sanity, necessary for a child's health and well-being, and yet at times, utterly elusive.

Nap Gnome, you will be defeated tomorrow.  Watch me.  

NOW I Know What Fear Feels Like

I went shopping today with Hannah while having my car serviced, and emerged a new kind of mother: one who thought, for a brief and terrifying moment, that she may have lost her child.

I don't want to be melodramatic here, because the truth is, I knew deep down in my mommy gut that she was somewhere in that store.  But the thought crossed my mind, for a fraction of a second, that maybe I was wrong and she wasn't.  It entered into my consciousness that I could lose my child.

So Hannah is in the dressing room with me while I try on clothes.  Things are going well.  This particular dressing room has curtains instead of doors, and naturally, Hannah chooses the moment I have become topless to make a break for it.  "Hannah, stop please.  Listen to your mama.  Come back here," I say calmly as I hurry to make myself decent.  Then I emerge from the dressing room, confident that I will find her within 10 feet or so.

Instead, I see a store full of people who definitely did NOT see a toddler dashing by, unattended.  I called her name.  Nothing.  She has never hidden from me, and there's really nowhere to hide in this store.  I look back at our dressing room to see her beloved monkey and the doll my mom bought her for Christmas laying on the floor, and I have my moment.  It was a completely internalized moment of indescribable dread.  Did some creep come in off the street and snatch her as I was pulling a shirt on?  Was she so fast that she made it out the front door without anyone noticing?  Oh my god, I think my whole life just changed forever.  This all happened in approximately one half of one second, and only another parent knows just how keenly one can feel something in such a short period of time.

Then, knowing Hannah as I do, I spot the most clearly off-limits part of the store, will myself to keep breathing, and find her quietly heading down the back staircase.  I hurried down to meet her, crouched down in front of her and told her "Hannah, honey, don't ever run away like that again.  Mommy was so scared.  I thought I lost you, and I love you more than anything in the world."  She must have sensed the truth of my fear, because then she made a sad face, said "Mommy" and gave me a bear hug.  Sorry for the melodrama, but I swear my love for her grew exponentially in that moment, when both of us understood that we cannot take each other for granted.  (At least, I assume that's what she understood - it was likely much less profound!)

In the spirit of Bill Maher, I have 3 "New Rules."
1.  New Rule - Unless I can immediately break into a dead sprint after my child, I will strap her down in some fashion.  Monkey backpack/leash/harness thingy, stroller, Ergo, carseat or highchair. 
2.  New Rule - I will call my mom and dad and tell them, again, how sorry I am for doing things like not coming home at night when I was in high school.  I guess that's not really a rule, but still. 
3.  New Rule - I will eliminate distractions when I am with my child, because clearly everything can change in a nanosecond. 

And in case anyone reading this plans to open a retail clothing store, may I suggest childproof dressing room doors?  Please and thank you.

Pretend life

Last time I wrote, I was just about to step out of the whirlwind of my first year as a full-time working mom.  I made it through approximately 170 5am wake ups, and nearly as many dark and rainy commutes to Seatac with my toddler.  I was running mile 26.  I used up all of my sick days and then some, on actually being sick.  (A side effect of only stopping to sleep.)  I had just been cussed out by a student, which seemed so important then, and now seems like it happened in another life.

That is the miracle of summer.  Teaching is one of the only professions in which you get to have a pretend life for several months out of the year, for which you continue to get paid.  I would argue that teaching is also one of only a handful of professions in which this is absolutely necessary to avoid complete and total burnout.  Teaching is, after all, the 2nd most stressful job in the world, I hear.  Second only to air traffic controllers.  (I didn't make that up, but I'm not saying it's gospel.)

But this is not a post about teaching.  It is a post about getting to play the part of a stay-at-home mom for a few months, and how the grass is always greener.  It is also about ice cream melting on sticky toddler hands, my naked daughter running through the sprinkler, sleeping in, and basically having a two-month weekend.

I love being a mom.  I love reading board books, playing silly games, taking classes with Hannah and learning how to appreciate a life that is simpler, slower and a whole lot less sexy than a life without children.  I don't love being hit in the face repeatedly at nap time, and I don't love grocery store tantrums.  But at the end of the day, being a mom is the absolute best part of my life.  So it's hard to face going back to work eight hours a day, even if it is to a job I truly love.  It is fulfilling, and absolutely necessary, so I strive to be the best mom I can be and be as present as I can for my child the other 16 hours of the day that I am physically in her presence.  But it's hard.

See, there's not really a place for working moms in society.  You're not able to be nearly as dedicated and ambitious as your colleagues.  Suddenly all their dedication and ambition seem kind of stupid to you.  You also don't get to connect with other moms in the way you would if you were at every play group and every enriching toddler class.  Right now, today, I feel like a stay at home mom.  I'm tired and could really use some intellectual stimulation, but knowing that will come, I am loving every minute of this.  But come August 23rd, I fear I'll be back to feeling like I live in no-woman's land.  Because, you see, other full-time working moms absolutely do not have time to form working moms play groups.  Grocery shopping and is a bit of a stretch (thank you for existing, Amazon Fresh).

So I try to just embrace that this is my path.  I love my work, I love parenting, and I have a very full and a little bit crazy life.  Right now I get to enjoy a short season of undivided devotion to my role as mother, so I suppose the only thing to do is just enjoy. 

And now for a little taste of our sticky, silly, wonderful summer so far.  =)

 Facing down the fountain at Crossroads Park

 Morning snuggle time with her dollies

 Taking off down the Portland riverfront

 Scheming

 Hannah's personal heaven - a pile of soccer balls

 Missing her friends at school?  Maybe just a little?

 About to be blissed out

 Riding the Lala

 Popsicles!

 A reminder for mom

 Snuggling during the thunderstorm

 Family fun at the Ziggy Marley zoo concert

 Off on an adventure!

 Scary strong!

 Block party fun time

 Is there anything more summer than kids running through the sprinkler?

 Story time

 Mommy-Hannah silly time.  The hoods were her idea. 

 Kindermusik!

 At a concert on the farm

 Goin' crazy at the zoo

 Wearing last year's Halloween costume in the middle of summer at the Farmers Market.  Because you only live once.

 After splashing in the fountain at UVillage.

 G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S

Letting Go

A website called "Tiny Buddha" listed blogging as an example of a creative outlet that can help one let go of stress, anger, and the like.  So here I am.  Poised and ready to let go.

I am feeling rather wrung out at present.  The harsh reality is, I have direct responsibility for my feeling wrung out.  Not total responsibility, but responsibility just the same.  I want resolution, and sometimes there isn't any.  Sometimes there is just the lesson.

So all school year, I have worked with a student who is the single most challenging student of my career.  I won't bore you with specifics.  To quote Jerry Maguire, I would love to say to this girl "you don't know what it's like to be me, out here for you.  It is an up at dawn, pride swallowing seige that I will never fully tell you about!"  I have spent hours of non-contracted, unpaid time in meetings with her and her family, developing behavior plans for her, thinking about how to help her, communicating with all her teachers to try - against all odds, it seemed - to find a way to help her start passing some classes.  You could say I'm not exactly objective when it comes to this girl.

Part of this pride swallowing seige, though, has been a trust and a rapport that developed between us.  When she started to make impressive strides as a student, I felt so proud of her.  I felt as if my work was not in vain.  I should add that this kind of stuff is why I became a teacher.  Not my insatiable love of literature, or a masochistic desire to grade essays.  I am a teacher because I love watching teenagers transform themselves.

Last week she clearly gave up.  Worse, I could see her dragging her best friend, a girl who had a 0.7 first semester and now has a 3.5, down with her.  She became disrespectful as all hell, in an assortment of charming ways.  I was angry.  Scratch that - I was FURIOUS.

But naturally, as teachers (oh, and as mothers!  So for me, all the f-ing time) we're supposed to be the model of patient, empathic communication.  We are expected to respond and never to react.  Well, twice last week, I full on reacted to this student, and I own it.  She reacted back by screaming at me and cussing me out.  It was so dramatic that you could say she went out in a blaze of glory.

Now, she's no longer my student, I have heard nothing from her mother (except that my initial email to tell her about the incident was "one sided"), and I have a lingering dark cloud of guilt for not responding to it all with the smiling face of the Dalai Lama. I feel maligned, deeply disrespected and completely discounted.  Did I make some mistakes here?  Sure.  But the fact is, the same personality that allows me to connect with and truly love my students has an underbelly - and it's called a temper.

I can discuss all this with my principal, and maybe (but probably not) with her, but ultimately the letting go - and the learning - is on me.  Right now, I feel really sad (though significantly less so than at the start of writing this!), but hope that this will become another milepost in my journey, one at which I learned something that actually did inch me closer to responding to hate with love, to sadness with joy, and to anger with peace.

3 more days, and then onto summer!  And with it, blog posts about long, lazy summer days with my busy, brilliant little toddler. 

Are you mom enough? Why yes, yes I am.

So I read the Time article "Are You Mom Enough?" and I don't see what all the fuss is about.  The magazine cover is totally sensationalist and not at all an accurate picture of what breastfeeding looks like at any age, but I wouldn't expect anything else from a magazine.  Isn't that their job?  To sensationlize things so they can sell magazines?  Maybe our job is to take them less seriously. 

I've read countless blogs since about how the cover sets full-term breastfeeders up to be gawked at like freaks.  I had a moment, nursing my 20-month-old on the floor of Target in hopes of off-setting a brewing tantrum, in which I wondered how many of my fellow Target shoppers were indeed gawking at me like a freak.  Then I realized that it's probably a little self-indulgent to assume anyone is that interested in me or my nursling.  As it turns out, they seemed much more interested in choosing just the right socks or freezer bags. 

The article itself was just not that shocking to me.  Dare I say it even came off as objective?  Attachment parenting is a beautiful, complicated and very challenging way of raising children, and is treated as such by the article.  Big whoop.

What I want more of is articles and books that are honest about what a crazy ride parenting is.  I hope we can put down the stupid baby books and start talking more openly about what a walking contradiction we all are.  I'm totally on board with all things attachment parenting, yet I work full time and my daughter goes to daycare.  Half the time I feel guilty about not being a stay-at-home mom, the other half I feel guilty for not keeping up professionally with my colleagues.  But more and more these days, I don't feel guilty at all.  I feel like someone who is doing a hell of a hard job and loving it for the exhausting, joyful mess that it is.

2 hours and 52 minutes until I can justify a glass of wine, but who's counting?

Mommy Purgatory

Hannah is just on the heels of turning 18 months, which is almost impossible to believe.  I hear that milestone is a game changer.  MY mom still remembers how hard it was with me between then and about 2 1/2, and that was nearly 30 years ago.  Other sentiments include "the first time it got harder instead of easier" and "oooh, just wait."  Yipee.

First the positives.  We were out and about the other day, and Hannah galloped with excitement about where we were going.  She squealed with enthusiasm and delight at the playground this morning, in a way totally unlike baby squealing.  This was real, built up, genuine thrill.  She is learning how to jump, and she's got some sick dance moves.  Her vocabulary expands daily, and she repeats song lyrics.  She reaches up to hold hands, leans back into me to read books on the couch, and can clearly communicate simple preferences.  Watching her grow is the adventure of a lifetime.

And then there are tantrums.  Holy shit.

I'm pretty sure today was our first official, full blown, toddler tantrum.  We were grocery shopping, and I knew trouble was brewing when Hannah wanted to get out of the cart and push.  Trader Joes was just stupidly crowded - which is, naturally, when they always do their restocking - and staying near me and walking wasn't enough.  She needed to run, and run fast.  So I put her back in the cart.  Sounds simple, right? 

The meltdown came, then the aftershocks.  (Which lasted for about an hour, including all the way home.)  I can handle Hannah freaking out.  I'm her mom, and would gladly throw myself into oncoming traffic for her benefit.  What could potentially put me over the edge one day is the disapproving glances from John Q Public, which suggest I should be somehow able to magically control the situation.  Surely they don't expect me to just abandon a full grocery cart and book it out the door so that they don't have to hear her cry.  Surely they have considered that we have no food in the house and the work week starts for us, too, tomorrow.  Surely they have spent a cumulative five minutes in the presence of toddlers throughout their lifetime and know that tantrums don't mean that the kid is spoiled, doing something "bad", or that the parent of said toddler is a total failure.

Staying serenely calm, soothing and gentle during all this is a spiritual discipline.   I love my little girl, but let's call a spade a spade.  Bedtime was sweet tonight.  Looking at her angelic sleeping face, it's hard to imagine it tear streaked, dramatically contorted and snotty just hours before.  Well, toddlerhood, let's do this. 

Mastitis and Other Motherly Musings

A friend said I probably needed to post about my boobies, so here we are. 

I have been thinking about my boobs probably as often as most men think of sex since I was in grade school.  I lusted after training bras years before they were necessary.  (Are training bras ever actually  necessary?)  I waited in anxiety through 5th and 6th grades for my boobs to come, and was sure they never would.  When they came in my 7th grade year, as I was assured by a family of well endowed women all around me that they surely would (and that I would hate them - right again), I got called fat by jealous, flat chested 8th graders.  So, logically, I started starving myself, got rid of the boobs I had so desperately longed for, and started fretting about whether it was possible to be rail thin and have big boobs. 

When I let go of my need for rail thinness, my boobs came back in spades, and have remained my faithful companions ever since. Actually, I've rather liked them ever since. 

And now I have a 17-month old who points at my boobs, giggles, and says either "nuh nuh" or "mine."  In the past year and a half, my boobies have finally found their purpose, and what a trip it continues to be. 

I'll never forget Hannah's first latch, shortly after her birth.  In the coziness of our bed, after a solid hour of skin-to-skin eye gazing, her cord was clamped and she was placed at my breast.  Our midwives and our doula coached me on how it should feel, how it shouldn't feel, what her mouth should look like, etc.  None of this had I considered for even a second while pregnant.  The moment of her first latch, I realized the amazing journey Hannah and I were about to take together, the journey of nursing. 

That journey has included five bouts of mastitis.  Five!  WTF?  Who gets mastitis FIVE times with the same baby?  The girl who has had her boobies on her mind since she was 6, that's who. 

The first time, I thought death was imminent.  Hannah was a week old, my body was broken open from birth and had a lot of healing to do, so I couldn't fight off a thing.  Bout # 2 came when Hannah was 3 weeks old, and this time I knew what was happening to me, and while I cognitively knew I wouldn't die from it, it sure felt possible. When it happened again at 7 months, it tested my will to live.

But seriously, after that, I was just sure I was in the clear.  The stats, even for well-endowed women with abundant milk supplies like mine, were in my favor.  Not so soon, sister.  Bout # 4 came just before Christmas.  No flu symptoms, not nearly as much pain during nursing.  I just got my antibiotics and got on with my life.  Got on with my life until this week, when bout # 5 came.

Now it's personal.  I think this monster we call mastitis is personally out to get me.

This time, it amounted to three days off with the slight inconvenience of remembering to take my antibiotics.  No pain, no sickness, just an infected boobie.  Wierd?  I'll say.  My doctor is stumped - I'm like a mastitis circus freak.  So, they tested for anemia and thyroid issues which could be contributing to repeated infection - no dice.  My milk culture will come back in a few days, and who knows what we'll find. 

Being who I am, of course, I have to find a deep, spiritual significance for everything.  Nursing has been a meditative practice for me, a time when I am forced to be utterly present and still.  I am overcome with love when I look down at Hannah's big doe eyes gazing at me while she reaches a chubby, sticky hand up to play with my face or my hair.  I physically feel myself relax and slow down into the present moment with my babe at my breast.  I am proud to be a nursing mom, because I know I am doing something so beneficial for my girl, something that nourishes her body, yes, but also her soul. 

If there could be a test to my will to breastfeed, 5 bouts of mastitis would be it.  I'm just waiting to be asked "why don't you just stop nursing?  She's almost 1 1/2."  To that, I will answer, "it's not time yet."  This journey of ours is so not done.  Hannah still needs it, and frankly, so do I.  It's soul food for us both.  It's been a challenge to my body, a challenge that reminds me to find out how to take exceptional care of myself.  (Obviously I'm still learning.) 

How often do we want to give up on a million different things?  But we don't, not if they matter to us.  Two things will remind me never to give up on anything, and that I can do anything: birthing Hannah at home, naturally, and nursing her when it was hella hard. 

I bow to your power, mastitis.  Now please leave me alone. 

Snow Days

Ah, snow days.

We've read every board book in our house.  We've pushed shapes through the shape sorter approximately 174 times.  We've made multiple pots of homemade chicken soup.  We made playdough.  We fingerpainted, and have the carpet stains to prove it.  We have run through the "Baby Music" playlist to the point that Hannah is beginning to know songs by heart.  I took naps.  A walk around the block was the outing for the day for several days in a row.

As a working mom, I delight in extra time with my babe.  If I had my way, though, our extra time would be spent out with friends, at the park, at the Zoo, or using our new membership to the Children's Museum.  We would not be stuck in our one bedroom apartment the whole time.

But I'm glad we were.  I believe boredom, stir-craziness, cabin fever or whatever name you give it is a spiritual challenge, a purgatory of sorts.  Hannah caught me on several occasions sneaking computer time, or making a phone call, or in some way taking my attention off of her.  She is a toddler, and she let me know exactly how she felt about it.  Her leg pulling and protests were like an alarm bell, warning me of two things: 1) I'm letting something I long for - more time with Hannah - pass me by and 2) I can do those things later. 

The antsy-ness I feel when cooped up for days is a testament to my usually frantic nature.  I multitask at a frequency that far exceeds anything that could be considered normal throughout each moment of each day of my normal week.  On the weekends, when the weather is not making national news, I'm out and about doing something every second that I can.  There is always a shape to the day, somewhere to be, something to do.

The shapelessness of the past week has helped me to see how addicted I am to doing, ironic when my ongoing goal is to focus on being.  When I'm really crawling out of my skin to get out and do something, and yet I'm held down in a shapeless day, I see something about my nature that I don't particularly like.  It's the same thing I see when I'm in savasana at the end of yoga class and my thoughts get frantic and racing.  It's a horns-locked struggle against the present moment, that elusive place I both yearn for and run from.

Today I went to yoga, sweet relief from cabin fever.  Hannah and I went to the library, the grocery store and to get a copy of her birth certificate.  It was nice to be out of the house, yes, but I found myself quickly yearning for the warmth and comfort of home as an antidote to the busyness - and currently, the knee deep slush - of the city.



I've had a few moments this week when I've given into "boredom" and brought myself fully into the present, to the delight of my little one.  Having my face painted with flour, or singing Ring Around the Rosie with a tambourine on my hip, falling into a giggling heap with Hannah at the end of the song, I saw something in myself that I do like.  I believe we can make each moment, no matter where we are or what is happening, as peaceful, rich and joyful as we choose to.

Monday morning will come, and with it, a return to a challenging, rewarding and tiring routine.  I hope that I can find the shapelessness, presence and stillness of a snow day when it feels like life is moving way too fast.

Truth

Disclaimer: Not a lot of humor and brevity to be found in this post.  I'm venting.

I had a good day, at the end of a good week.  I even took it in stride when, on Tuesday, I had 25 superintendents parade through my classroom to gather fodder for discussion about the "problem of practice" of 9th grade engagement.  They spent about 20 minutes in my classroom in two groups of 12-13, outnumbering the 11 students that were there that day.  Super authentic.  NOW they can claim to understand my students, our school, my teaching, me.

These suits visited a class that has grown tremendously since September.  A group of students who I couldn't seem to get more than 15 minutes of meaningful academic work out of has slowly transformed into a group of still imperfect young people who are learning how to talk academically, be serious about school, and collaborate with each other to enhance their learning.  The original group has lost three students - one to jail, one to a group home transfer, one to getting shipped home to Texas, and grown by 3 - one of whom was missing that day because he's recently become homeless.  These students' ethnic backgrounds bring the corners of the earth together.  Some are learning English or coping with learning disabilities.  All are navigating adolescence.  Then there's their teacher - I'm in my 6th year of teaching and have learned a few tricks by now.  I'm raising a one-year-old and working full-time.  Despite my dedication to my students, my being highly qualified and proven effective, I have been surplused twice.  Nothing to make you feel appreciated like being stamped as "overflow."  What I'm trying to say is, it's complicated.

They managed to make the sweeping judgment that my teaching "isn't rigorous enough" because I didn't explicitly say in the time they were in the room WHY we were reading the book we were discussing.  Nevermind that it was printed in plain ink on the unit plan they had in their hands.  One student had his hood up, prior to sharing a personal connection with the novel about his experience of racism as a black male.  That was part of their evidence of "lack of rigor."  As was my allowing a student who is going to be receiving special ed services due to his speech impediment to pass on contributing to the discussion.  He finally feels safe speaking in front of our class - I thought 13 old, white strangers with clipboards might be a little bit of a jump. 

Here's the thing - I love my work.  I love interacting with young adults during their transition to adulthood.  I love it when it's clear they are learning, and I love seeing their ability to produce really good work.  I love working with smart, funny, creative colleagues.  I love getting to talk about literature and words, teaching kids to write.  I work in a progressive school with a wonderfully supportive principal, but no place in the public school system is completely immune to bureaucratic bullshit.  I got my dose this week, it took the wind out of my sails, and now I think I'll just go crawl in bed.

Maybe someday I'll start my own school.  No superintendents allowed.

The deep soul needs only chocolate can fill...

I ended today by giving up.  In a most calm and measured way, I consumed a third of my daily caloric intake in chocolate, without guilt.

A major focus in all aspects of life for me right now is mindfulness, but I know when to say when.

Let me start by saying that I cannot imagine why a mother would willingly give up nursing just as her baby ventures into toddlerhood.   Nursing a toddler is, in so many ways, helping me keep my sanity.  Hannah is a happy, sweet little girl, but she's still a toddler.  And a strong-willed, curious one at that.  By virture of her age, she is highly emotional and mostly irrational.  Her wonderful little body is suddenly capable of so much, and she has discovered that she can move about in the world and discover it for herself.  She now has preferences and has figured out how to make them known.  In other words, she is discovering - and guarding - her power.

In everything, I am trying to be mindful of giving her the gift of her own sovereignty, letting her be autonomous and independent.  This does not mean total permissiveness, but it does mean that my convenience and my notion of how things "should" be in the current moment don't come first.  Letting her be a child comes first.

But to everything there is a limit.  We have to get in the car in the morning to make it to work and daycare on time.  After a half hour of waving at people in the parking lot from the backseat of our car, we come dangerously close to a) hitting rush hour and b) being forced once again to get expensive takeout for dinner.  It's time to go home.

Oh, the sounds she can now make in protest!  I am in awe of her strength, and her ability to buck and wriggle out of my grasp as I try to put her in her carseat.  I can't help but feel a little awful when I literally have to wrestle and then pin her in for the journey.  

So now we're home, dinner is in progress, and rather than play happily with the myriad toys available to her, my curious little explorer prefers the spice cabinet and will not stop whining and pulling on my leg until she is up on the counter sorting out bottles of thyme, oregano and basil, handing them to me like a dutiful little sous chef.  During a brief interlude on the floor, she dumps out the dog's water all over the floor.  Content only to play with her sippy cups if they're full of water AND uncovered, she drenches herself and the counter. 

This after 34 miles of commuting in the rain, with 8 hours of fun with teenagers, otherwise known as hormones and clothes.

So in these moments when Hannah is taking a turn for the mischevious, it is a type of salvation to be able drop what I'm doing, freeze time, and nurse her for a few moments.  These moments get sweeter the older she gets.  What used to be a physical necessity now is not.  I believe nursing now meets a need in her soul, a need to feel nurtured and comforted and held.  Of course there are other ways to do this, and when a mom stops nursing is a choice only she can make.  But it is like hitting an invisible reset button in the moments when I am most at risk of losing my sanity.

So once the little one is in bed and I have a few moments to myself, like an idiot I start cleaning, which somehow led to a private little temper tantrum in which I hurled my makeshift sewing basket off of it's shelf as if it were the source of all my stress.  Shortly after the sewing basket incident, in a moment of kindness to myself, I said "I need chocolate and to write."

Out came the creme de menthe fudge and the laptop.  A fringe benefit of nursing?  Losing weight while eating fudge.  Hard to argue with the awesomeness of that! 

Maybe tomorrow mindfulness will look a little more yogic -- maybe I'll do some pranayama in the bathtub by candlelight or something.  For tonight, that fudge was just right.