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.