I play with dolls all day. I also play with large-piece puzzles, coloring books, I run a mean game of chase, and I can throw together an impressive meal from a pink plastic shopping cart filled with wooden food. This is, mostly, my work.
Of course you know. Of course you understand. I expect many of you live here too. But do you respect this? Do you see this as real work? Is this a job that deserves credence, credibility, and admiration?
I ask 'you' but really I mean ME. Today, playing actively with my daughter in front of a woman about to head to her academic job, I felt- embarrassed. I thought, what is she thinking of me right now? No, that's not true. I assumed what she might be thinking. I assumed there was amusement, a little sympathy, pity, perhaps a touch of contempt. This is how she spends her day? This fulfills her?
Gulp.
Well, yes. Of course. This is my child. Spending my time with her is fulfilling, enriching. Mostly.
Of course I have other passions. Doing this- one word after the other, watching a page fill up- in a flow, it thrills me. I love it. I stopped caring if anyone reads it. Currently, I'm not even concerned with content or rhythm, simply the exercise of putting one word after the other, flexing these muscles again after a season of dormancy. This is a passion for me.
I have always said, I could read forever. I could read away most of everyday, probably everyday, and never mind the scenery around me never changing. Look at this book! Look at these words! Look at these thoughts, these ideas. Breathe them in.
What might, in olden days be called domestic work interests me. Not cleaning so much. Ask anyone who's been to my house. Ask my parents. But cooking, knitting, learning about a garden, there are little delights here.
And most of my day is motherhood. And most of my devotion given is playing. Most of my day is on the floor, shifting around, holding some small inanimate object- a doll, a stuffed animal or maybe the flat one-dimensional puzzle piece Dory's given life and personality and breath to by bringing it into her game- and speaking in funny voices. I play 'baby', I play 'mommy,' I play 'Dory,' I play her best friend 'Lily,' I play 'daddy.' She wants them all in there and I mostly oblige.
For reasons I will not go into now, it is important to me that Dory be home, that she's been home with me these last few years. We have worked- oh we have worked- to make that a possibility. I do, actually, work even now, a nanny-for-hire, you might say, taking her with me, as watching another person's child affords me the luxury to spend time with my own.
Yet even as I feel inspired to this, I work to value it. I learn to see this time as worthwhile. I learn to regard our interactions, her play, as important. I write these words as no lecture, no higher ground attained, simply a message of what I hope to one day know. Here is the divine understanding I hope to reach: being with my child is important. Playing with my child is important. So much happens right now, on this subterranean level, bits and pieces of a soul and character and spirit taking shape. I will only know the fruits of this labor, and even then only a fraction of them, after she is grown and gone.
Louise Hay's affirmation today feels fitting: My life is a mirror. The woman, academician from earlier, the one trying to convince herself to head to work, the one openly dreading getting into her office, she is nothing more than a mirror. Her thoughts? Her assumptions? All mine.
I am only reaching, working, trying to remember: my child is important.
Showing posts with label appreciation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label appreciation. Show all posts
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Friday, March 18, 2011
Dream
Woke up on time, awake and ready to go yesterday morning. But somehow couldn’t bring myself to slip out of bed, to leave the warmth of Dory’s little body, not so little now, her slim, long body curled up against mine, her head tucked so perfectly under my chin. Instead, stayed in bed, arms wrapped around her, and for two hours lost myself in family and farm fantasies, imagining a farm, some land and a house for us, imagining our chickens, imagining our dairy cow and our beef cow, imagining our garden, tilled right into the soil, imagining all kinds of things, giving classes in our home on cheesemaking, canning, Dory, a little older, whirling into the kitchen, with Matthew on her heels, the feeling of us being together as a family throughout the day.
We all want this. She loves Matthew as she loves me, she thrives best when we stay together as a family unit. For so long now, forever, Matthew has said, when we three are together,' this is what matters, this is all I want.' And for some time I’ve rolled my eyes and basically thought, enjoy it until real life sets back in.
I have a new idea of what I want real life to look like. Maybe real life isn’t work, cars, bills, with snippets of family love and magic fit in around it. Maybe life could BE family, could be togetherness, could be relationship, with work, cars, and bills fit in around THAT.
There’s no point agonizing over time lost or not knowing these things before. But now that this realization begins to dawn, I wonder what other possibilities are out there? What would it be like to have that, that bit of land, our chickens, our cows, to leave your place only once a week, to find your food there, where you grow it, to find our joy there, being together...
I think, more than ever, the path opens up in front of me... read this book, find this suggestion, get out in the ground, and do this work. Last night, we came together after being gone all day at work and we stayed outside, watering our garden, playing in the grass, sipping cool beverages, feeling the first suggestion of heat and summer on our arms and faces. Matthew said, even as the clock said 6:30, ‘let’s stay outside all day!’ almost giddy with the joy of being with his daughter and wife again. Maybe these times aren’t meant to be fitted in around ‘everything else.’ Maybe THIS is meant to be the time.
I don’t want to rush this or try to make it happen now. I’m a good one for either forcing something to work that isn’t ready yet and so often breaking it, or for staying sick with longing and desire, letting it eat at me until the dream is simply twisted into something that hurts instead of inspires.
I’m not going to do this here. Right now, this is our life. I work as a nanny, I am so fortunate to provide an income to my family, while being with my daughter all day, while taking care of her mostly as I always intended to. Matthew follows this teaching dream, in school on weekends, and working around that. We live in a house we love, in a great neighborhood, we are close to family, we have many dear friends. There is a smoothing to life’s rough edges these days and Matthew and I often marvel that, on a third of the money that he used to make on his own, we live far better now than before. We better understand living within our means, quality over quantity and what, to us, now truly matters, these ties that don’t bind but envelope and hold us together.
We carve out that other life, that life of possibility, in small ways right now. There are three vegetable beds in our backyard, there are little damp seed trays in our windows, there are pots on the front porch that will hopefully become basil, cilantro, dill, and other herbs. Books are scattered through the house with titles like “Radical Homemakers” and “Storey’s Guide to Raising Chickens.” There are bonds we make and strengthen, finding a way to eat locally, to buy quality, humanely tended meat, thoughtfully produced produce, shopping at our local co-op for the needs in between. We drive less and less, the miles on the car Dory and I share racking up maybe a dozen a week. We receive from our family, who offer us a car so we don’t overextend, who slip us $30 here or a pair of shoes for Dory there and we appreciate the generosity, try to return the gift by excepting graciously and with good humor.
All these little steps and yet steps go by fast, they take you where you want to go, so often, more quickly than you expect. That’s what I think. And sometimes its worth giving up all the little to-do’s of the morning, to lay next to a sleeping child, that little body that grows so quickly and seems to stay warm with love, hope, and optimism, just to be close to her and dream for a few minutes of what might someday, a few months or maybe a few short years, come to be. What if...?
We all want this. She loves Matthew as she loves me, she thrives best when we stay together as a family unit. For so long now, forever, Matthew has said, when we three are together,' this is what matters, this is all I want.' And for some time I’ve rolled my eyes and basically thought, enjoy it until real life sets back in.
I have a new idea of what I want real life to look like. Maybe real life isn’t work, cars, bills, with snippets of family love and magic fit in around it. Maybe life could BE family, could be togetherness, could be relationship, with work, cars, and bills fit in around THAT.
There’s no point agonizing over time lost or not knowing these things before. But now that this realization begins to dawn, I wonder what other possibilities are out there? What would it be like to have that, that bit of land, our chickens, our cows, to leave your place only once a week, to find your food there, where you grow it, to find our joy there, being together...
I think, more than ever, the path opens up in front of me... read this book, find this suggestion, get out in the ground, and do this work. Last night, we came together after being gone all day at work and we stayed outside, watering our garden, playing in the grass, sipping cool beverages, feeling the first suggestion of heat and summer on our arms and faces. Matthew said, even as the clock said 6:30, ‘let’s stay outside all day!’ almost giddy with the joy of being with his daughter and wife again. Maybe these times aren’t meant to be fitted in around ‘everything else.’ Maybe THIS is meant to be the time.
I don’t want to rush this or try to make it happen now. I’m a good one for either forcing something to work that isn’t ready yet and so often breaking it, or for staying sick with longing and desire, letting it eat at me until the dream is simply twisted into something that hurts instead of inspires.
I’m not going to do this here. Right now, this is our life. I work as a nanny, I am so fortunate to provide an income to my family, while being with my daughter all day, while taking care of her mostly as I always intended to. Matthew follows this teaching dream, in school on weekends, and working around that. We live in a house we love, in a great neighborhood, we are close to family, we have many dear friends. There is a smoothing to life’s rough edges these days and Matthew and I often marvel that, on a third of the money that he used to make on his own, we live far better now than before. We better understand living within our means, quality over quantity and what, to us, now truly matters, these ties that don’t bind but envelope and hold us together.
We carve out that other life, that life of possibility, in small ways right now. There are three vegetable beds in our backyard, there are little damp seed trays in our windows, there are pots on the front porch that will hopefully become basil, cilantro, dill, and other herbs. Books are scattered through the house with titles like “Radical Homemakers” and “Storey’s Guide to Raising Chickens.” There are bonds we make and strengthen, finding a way to eat locally, to buy quality, humanely tended meat, thoughtfully produced produce, shopping at our local co-op for the needs in between. We drive less and less, the miles on the car Dory and I share racking up maybe a dozen a week. We receive from our family, who offer us a car so we don’t overextend, who slip us $30 here or a pair of shoes for Dory there and we appreciate the generosity, try to return the gift by excepting graciously and with good humor.
All these little steps and yet steps go by fast, they take you where you want to go, so often, more quickly than you expect. That’s what I think. And sometimes its worth giving up all the little to-do’s of the morning, to lay next to a sleeping child, that little body that grows so quickly and seems to stay warm with love, hope, and optimism, just to be close to her and dream for a few minutes of what might someday, a few months or maybe a few short years, come to be. What if...?
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Seed Fever
This morning, Dory, her arms wrapped around my neck, whispered in my ear, "Let's go see my seeds growing."
One of Matthew's dear, thoughtful co-workers picked up a set of these herb plants for her son and a set for Dory too. This is one of the sweetest gifts I think Dory's ever received. She even labeled each little plant and the garden itself.
Dory and Matthew planted them last night. We checked their progress this morning and, well, not much yet. She was not discouraged. And standing in our kitchen, on a rainy Tuesday morning, with her little monkey arms and legs around me, I wasn't either.
After that, we had tea. Dory served.
If a day can start off this well with no visible seed growth, what will a day with a little visible green be like? I cannot wait to find out.
One of Matthew's dear, thoughtful co-workers picked up a set of these herb plants for her son and a set for Dory too. This is one of the sweetest gifts I think Dory's ever received. She even labeled each little plant and the garden itself.
Dory and Matthew planted them last night. We checked their progress this morning and, well, not much yet. She was not discouraged. And standing in our kitchen, on a rainy Tuesday morning, with her little monkey arms and legs around me, I wasn't either.
After that, we had tea. Dory served.
If a day can start off this well with no visible seed growth, what will a day with a little visible green be like? I cannot wait to find out.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Sunday Morning
Ahhhhh.
Would the deliciousness of Sunday morning be lost if all mornings were Sunday morning? Of course it would, at least a little. So I tell myself Monday morning. Today, though, nice to dream, what if this was everyday?
Right now, my Sunday morning looks and sounds a little like... dog sleeping at the bottom of the bed. Husband and daughter thumping through the house, accompanied by sweet, high pitched child's voice bossing daddy about. Birds chirping outside. Some knitting in front of me, Cascade Superwash on the needles, slowly becoming Child's Placket Neck Sweater. Just finished listening to Keeping Chickens on Mother Earth News radio. Rumbling tummy requests hot tea, with some yogurt and granola. Granola was a treat from our local Co-op this week; Dory carried the bag through the store with gritty, three-foot tall determination, and finally I gave in, because, honestly, it looked delicious. Turns out it is. Too pricey for an every week buy. (Add to to-do list: find good granola recipe.)
A little later today, Husband and I have plans for a rare and exciting trip to the movies, maybe even getting lunch beforehand, while Grandpa and Grante (pronounced Gran-T) Mojo look after our little girl. Movies were once an every weekend excursion for us and now I average perhaps three or four a year. Something I thoroughly enjoy regardless of film; the experience is a thrill simply for its uncommon occurence. My Sunday morning lesson; the rarity makes it more precious.
Happy Sunday to you all!
(No worries, Dory is not suddenly regressing, suffering from some kind of Merlin backwards-aging. No new pictures to show, so found one from this time last year. Can you believe the change?)
Would the deliciousness of Sunday morning be lost if all mornings were Sunday morning? Of course it would, at least a little. So I tell myself Monday morning. Today, though, nice to dream, what if this was everyday?
Right now, my Sunday morning looks and sounds a little like... dog sleeping at the bottom of the bed. Husband and daughter thumping through the house, accompanied by sweet, high pitched child's voice bossing daddy about. Birds chirping outside. Some knitting in front of me, Cascade Superwash on the needles, slowly becoming Child's Placket Neck Sweater. Just finished listening to Keeping Chickens on Mother Earth News radio. Rumbling tummy requests hot tea, with some yogurt and granola. Granola was a treat from our local Co-op this week; Dory carried the bag through the store with gritty, three-foot tall determination, and finally I gave in, because, honestly, it looked delicious. Turns out it is. Too pricey for an every week buy. (Add to to-do list: find good granola recipe.)
A little later today, Husband and I have plans for a rare and exciting trip to the movies, maybe even getting lunch beforehand, while Grandpa and Grante (pronounced Gran-T) Mojo look after our little girl. Movies were once an every weekend excursion for us and now I average perhaps three or four a year. Something I thoroughly enjoy regardless of film; the experience is a thrill simply for its uncommon occurence. My Sunday morning lesson; the rarity makes it more precious.
Happy Sunday to you all!
(No worries, Dory is not suddenly regressing, suffering from some kind of Merlin backwards-aging. No new pictures to show, so found one from this time last year. Can you believe the change?)
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
What Will They Say About Us?
Since Dory started enjoying books (really enjoying them, not just wanting to mouth them or rip the pages) we've been reading stories at bedtime. This has been months now, maybe even a year? Hard to recall in fuzzy mama memory.
Occasionally its a quick night; on nights where she's exhausted, she's out in the middle of the first book. Most nights, its anywhere from three to eight stories and lately I've felt impatient. Impatient to finish, for her to fall asleep.
(Dory at eighteen months)
(Dory at two and a half)
(Last week, napping the day after I declared 'She's all done with naps, I think!' Ah, we wise and all-knowing parents...)
(Dory at eighteen months)Last night, on the sofa, I performed my typical feats of nursing and reading simultaneously. Just as thoughts, that mental chatter, started to pop up ("surely it will be soon; she must be tired") and words to follow ("one last story, OK, sweetie? Last one."), an entirely new image popped into my brain. I imagined her, as an adult, relating to me how our ritual of reading at bedtime was a cherished childhood memory. I heard her, really, almost heard the words, saying she treasured that time, she felt special, loved, safe and valued. That she, as an adult, appreciated that we would read "one more story" and then "one more story" after that, that we read them gladly and with pleasure.
(Dory at two and a half)And the words "last one, last time" disappeared. We read until she fell asleep, somewhere near the end of "The Sword and the Stone" from Walt Disney's Classic Storybook, a book she loves though I don't think she's actually seen one movie from the entire collection. And then for another half hour after that, we stayed cuddled there on the sofa, she, this long, slender toddler, sprawled across my arms and I imagined myself, saying back to her, in those later years, "Dory, our bedtime stories are some of my best memories too. Some of my very best."
(Last week, napping the day after I declared 'She's all done with naps, I think!' Ah, we wise and all-knowing parents...)Wednesday, February 9, 2011
My Tribes
There are two groups, since I became a mama, that I joined, two groups that I now can't imagine 'mothering' without their support: the first, Attachment Parenting Int., the second, Holistic Moms Network.
I found one through the other, stumbling onto HMN after finding API. They have both been amazing lifelines to other mothers, family choices, and support.
At the start of last year, Dory turned eighteen months old and I suddenly felt a little lighter, a little freer... like someone who had some extra time. I decided I wanted to lend a hand to these groups that introduced me to women I now consider dear friends, helped sustain and uplift me during difficult times, brought me information and knowledge and empowered me in the, often unusual choices, I made as a mother and we made as a family. Turns out, what our local Holistic Moms group needed was a new chapter leader.
Tah-dah!
So after an OK year last year, I finally feel like I have started to hit my stride, organizing and coordinating this great group of women and mothers. Then February came and I realized knowing my topic for the month was not the same thing as scheduling a speaker for the month... oops.
All of this to say, we had a lovely, quiet, meet-and-greet meeting this last Tuesday, with about eight of us, four regulars and four new mamas and most of our children (a few are now in school) coming up with ideas for our group, getting to know each other, offering suggestions about local pediatricians, diaper rash, eating habits and basically bonding in that hit-the-ground running we mothers seem to do.
I like that about us mamas. I like that so many of us have lost our pretenses and come to the discussion simply, honestly, wanting to help, wanting to learn. I feel so fortunate to know so many lovely, amazing women and their bright and beautiful children.
If you're in the area and would like to catch the next meeting, mark Tuesday, March 8th on your calendar. We'll have a leader from our local Weston A. Price chapter speak about this traditional, thoughtful, healing nutrition. I will post more soon. In the mean time, be well and a lovely Wednesday to you!
I found one through the other, stumbling onto HMN after finding API. They have both been amazing lifelines to other mothers, family choices, and support.
At the start of last year, Dory turned eighteen months old and I suddenly felt a little lighter, a little freer... like someone who had some extra time. I decided I wanted to lend a hand to these groups that introduced me to women I now consider dear friends, helped sustain and uplift me during difficult times, brought me information and knowledge and empowered me in the, often unusual choices, I made as a mother and we made as a family. Turns out, what our local Holistic Moms group needed was a new chapter leader.
Tah-dah!
So after an OK year last year, I finally feel like I have started to hit my stride, organizing and coordinating this great group of women and mothers. Then February came and I realized knowing my topic for the month was not the same thing as scheduling a speaker for the month... oops.
All of this to say, we had a lovely, quiet, meet-and-greet meeting this last Tuesday, with about eight of us, four regulars and four new mamas and most of our children (a few are now in school) coming up with ideas for our group, getting to know each other, offering suggestions about local pediatricians, diaper rash, eating habits and basically bonding in that hit-the-ground running we mothers seem to do.
I like that about us mamas. I like that so many of us have lost our pretenses and come to the discussion simply, honestly, wanting to help, wanting to learn. I feel so fortunate to know so many lovely, amazing women and their bright and beautiful children.
If you're in the area and would like to catch the next meeting, mark Tuesday, March 8th on your calendar. We'll have a leader from our local Weston A. Price chapter speak about this traditional, thoughtful, healing nutrition. I will post more soon. In the mean time, be well and a lovely Wednesday to you!
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
A Surprisingly Ordinary Story
As I mentioned in a recent post, Dory and I bring home stacks of books from the library. These books go many places. Different rooms in our house, our car, to my job, Matthew's car- these are books on the move. And we haven't, yet, lost a single book. Imagine that.
Until last week, when Dory picked a book to bring with her (a book we never actually read) on a trip to the park. I, theory would have it, being better prepared to look after a book than she, took the book from her before I helped her down from her car seat. I then forgot the book in the place where many of us forget things when exiting a car: on top of said vehicle.
I remembered that book about two hours after we came home from the park. I remembered it balanced precariously on the edge of the roof of the car. I remembered, if such a thing is possible, not remembering it when we left. I resigned myself to "buying" our first library book.
During my recent solo trip, the librarian and I went through the list of books and could not find this title anywhere. Not anywhere! And I realized what had happened. Allow me to enlighten you, with this quick preface: I believe (most days, I believe) we live in a kind, benevolent Universe under the influence of an unconditional, loving Spirit (I would say God, but welcome and appreciate any word of awe and magnitude that fills that space for you). I realized, somehow, this magical, almighty Power manufactured a scenario wherein this particular book missed the check-out process, that somehow we walked out of the library with a book never borrowed and it was this very book we subsequently lost. Amazing.
I told Matthew the story and began to explain what must have happened when he interrupted to say, "Someone found it and returned it to the library? That was nice."
Um, yes. Yes. Yes, it was, wasn't it? Some person at the park found our book, identified it as a library book and then took the time to return it to the library.
I like his explanation better. And I can't help but think it still works in harmony, though on a less extraordinary scale, with my story. I think, actually, its the very ordinary niceness of it that makes his story better.
Until last week, when Dory picked a book to bring with her (a book we never actually read) on a trip to the park. I, theory would have it, being better prepared to look after a book than she, took the book from her before I helped her down from her car seat. I then forgot the book in the place where many of us forget things when exiting a car: on top of said vehicle.
I remembered that book about two hours after we came home from the park. I remembered it balanced precariously on the edge of the roof of the car. I remembered, if such a thing is possible, not remembering it when we left. I resigned myself to "buying" our first library book.
During my recent solo trip, the librarian and I went through the list of books and could not find this title anywhere. Not anywhere! And I realized what had happened. Allow me to enlighten you, with this quick preface: I believe (most days, I believe) we live in a kind, benevolent Universe under the influence of an unconditional, loving Spirit (I would say God, but welcome and appreciate any word of awe and magnitude that fills that space for you). I realized, somehow, this magical, almighty Power manufactured a scenario wherein this particular book missed the check-out process, that somehow we walked out of the library with a book never borrowed and it was this very book we subsequently lost. Amazing.
I told Matthew the story and began to explain what must have happened when he interrupted to say, "Someone found it and returned it to the library? That was nice."
Um, yes. Yes. Yes, it was, wasn't it? Some person at the park found our book, identified it as a library book and then took the time to return it to the library.
I like his explanation better. And I can't help but think it still works in harmony, though on a less extraordinary scale, with my story. I think, actually, its the very ordinary niceness of it that makes his story better.
Thank you, to whoever-you-are out there, with your respect for books and libraries and mostly for your simple, kind gesture.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Homeschooling
Today through SouleMama I stumbled across another lovely blog, MommyCoddle. Roaming around her site I came across this thoughtful, gentle explanation as to her family's choice to homeschool. And, if for no other reason than so I might remember it for later years when we are hopefully following the same path, I wanted to link it here. What a soft, tender, and heartfelt discussion for this, I'm realizing, controversial choice. Definitely worth a read and consideration for any other mamas curious on this subject.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
What's Your Word?
Join the caravan of those who have turned their faces to the sun.~ Rumi
What a beautiful quote. Perfect intention for the New Year. I fell asleep last night- drifted, finally, after hours of being awake, buzzing with the understanding we just entered a new phase, a new time, a new what-if, what-could-be, what-will-be- and I thought, "Wife, Mother, Writer, Nanny, Gardener, Homemaker, Leader..." In front of each title, I placed this word: passionate.
That's my word. This is my year of passion, to act from this place. I want to make choices fueled by passion. No perfection needed. Rediscover enthusiasm, burn my energy brightly, let go. Just passion!
I've got a slew of books to read and re-read. I'm firing the blog back up. I've got a set of gardening gloves just waiting to be broken in, a stack of beautifully framed photos to hang around the house and remind me of all that I have, a new stock pot already broken in with the last batch of homemade chicken stock for 2010 (a revelation in and of itself)- that list alone shows what a lucky, lucky lady I am.
I ask you- what's your word, your adjective of the year?
Wishing you a happiest of New Years.
Perhaps, a second intention- to find my own "bangerina" skirt...?
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Littlest Reader
The napping schedule around here is fairly loose. Typically I nurse her down in bed anywhere between one and three and she'll sleep for one to two hours. Dory brings books to naptime, carrying a stack in her short, sturdy arms and saying "booksss, booksss, booksss." We'll read a few different ones, several times over (can you call yourself well read when you read "The Very Hungry Catepillar" and "Night-Night Little Pookie" several dozen times a week?) before she's good and dozy. When she wakes up she gives one short, loud cry that lets us know to come get her. I think she's so accustomed to us responding quickly to her, it doesn't take more than that.
This is the the foundation to what happened yesterday.
Dory and I read a stack of books and she fell asleep. Fast forward to an hour and a half later. Matt and I were in the playroom and heard some noises from the monitor. Dory stirring. Then... quiet. A few minutes later... rustling. Then... quiet. This went on for nearly fifteen minutes before I had to know what was going on. Walked into the bedroom and saw this...
Beautiful.
This is the the foundation to what happened yesterday.
Dory and I read a stack of books and she fell asleep. Fast forward to an hour and a half later. Matt and I were in the playroom and heard some noises from the monitor. Dory stirring. Then... quiet. A few minutes later... rustling. Then... quiet. This went on for nearly fifteen minutes before I had to know what was going on. Walked into the bedroom and saw this...
Beautiful.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
I Get By With a Little Help...
Well, you know the song.
Tonight was our second monthly Mom's Night Out and an even bigger success than the first. A group of us mothers, about six to eight of us, from our local Attachment Parenting Group formed a weekly playgroup a few months ago, to give our little ones more time together and ourselves a chance to visit. That idea took off and it didn't take long (only two months or so- we're a bright group) to decide another off-shoot might be a mother's night out. Our first dinner came together hastily and with great enthusiasm shortly before the holidays and here we are, not even halfway through January, with a second one behind us.
And it is such a good time. We meet at a casual restaurant (they must serve adult beverages- this is a MUST- even if those of us partaking are limited to one or two glasses) and chat, catch up, and talk about everything but our children.
Wait- no- that's some other group. We talk almost exclusively about our children. Our husbands. Our families. And the childcare books we're reading, teachers we're listening to, parenting questions we field, criticisms we handle- we run the gamut of everything child-related and I absolutely love it.
There is, I've discovered, a surprising depth to the relationships I have with these women. I didn't know a one of them before Dory. I couldn't tell you where most of them were born, how they grew up, favorite color or even their ages. Yet our children threw us into this ocean of mothering together and we have gravitated to one another. When we do get together, like tonight, the immediate familiarity is surprising and very, very comforting. We're beyond the early stages, beyond the "how does she sleep?" "when did he start solids?" type of questions. The fast intimacy of motherhood leads us to meaningful and genuine conversation that energizes and strengthens me. We are, I feel so strongly, in this together.
I have had the good fortunate of really good friendships in my life, with Matthew, my parents, people I grew up with, people I've met in other places, people with similar passions and interests. And I'm just so glad parenthood proved no different; I'm so glad I know these other women all with children born within a few months of Dory (a cosmic coincidence? I think not) who are genuine and open and relatable. I feel grounded after a playgroup or a dinner. Of any of these women, I might never learn a favorite movie, first job, or political party, but, in our own way, there are few people I will ever be closer to than this group, this tribe of amazing mothers and women I'm so glad to call friends.
Tonight was our second monthly Mom's Night Out and an even bigger success than the first. A group of us mothers, about six to eight of us, from our local Attachment Parenting Group formed a weekly playgroup a few months ago, to give our little ones more time together and ourselves a chance to visit. That idea took off and it didn't take long (only two months or so- we're a bright group) to decide another off-shoot might be a mother's night out. Our first dinner came together hastily and with great enthusiasm shortly before the holidays and here we are, not even halfway through January, with a second one behind us.
And it is such a good time. We meet at a casual restaurant (they must serve adult beverages- this is a MUST- even if those of us partaking are limited to one or two glasses) and chat, catch up, and talk about everything but our children.
Wait- no- that's some other group. We talk almost exclusively about our children. Our husbands. Our families. And the childcare books we're reading, teachers we're listening to, parenting questions we field, criticisms we handle- we run the gamut of everything child-related and I absolutely love it.
There is, I've discovered, a surprising depth to the relationships I have with these women. I didn't know a one of them before Dory. I couldn't tell you where most of them were born, how they grew up, favorite color or even their ages. Yet our children threw us into this ocean of mothering together and we have gravitated to one another. When we do get together, like tonight, the immediate familiarity is surprising and very, very comforting. We're beyond the early stages, beyond the "how does she sleep?" "when did he start solids?" type of questions. The fast intimacy of motherhood leads us to meaningful and genuine conversation that energizes and strengthens me. We are, I feel so strongly, in this together.
I have had the good fortunate of really good friendships in my life, with Matthew, my parents, people I grew up with, people I've met in other places, people with similar passions and interests. And I'm just so glad parenthood proved no different; I'm so glad I know these other women all with children born within a few months of Dory (a cosmic coincidence? I think not) who are genuine and open and relatable. I feel grounded after a playgroup or a dinner. Of any of these women, I might never learn a favorite movie, first job, or political party, but, in our own way, there are few people I will ever be closer to than this group, this tribe of amazing mothers and women I'm so glad to call friends.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Presenting... Presents!
Pictures I know a lot of people have been waiting for... Christmas shots!
These are highly abbreviated. This girl, between Matthew and I, our family here and our family in Texas, had FOUR Christmases. That's not a joke or the latest Vince Vaughn holiday film.
Dory had a grand day. She loved opening her gifts, they never seemed to overwhelm her and she wasn't even bothered by the constant flash of cameras going off.
(a baby grand piano- in pink)
(a rocking horse)
(a piggy bank- a wise thought in these trying economic times)
(monkey hat- fashionable and warm)
(another piggy bank, this one shaped like a Chicago Bears helmet)
(a pic of the abundance of gifts)
(stacking blocks)
(more blocks)
("Good Night Moon"- the glow-in-the-dark puzzle)
(Dory inside the chute off the side of the indoors tent- that's right a TENT- she got)
So Dory, this is your second Christmas- how do you feel about that haul?
That's what I thought.
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and, I'd like to personally thank all Dory's grandparents and her great-(and cool!) grandmother for doing their part to bolster the economy. It was good work by you all.
These are highly abbreviated. This girl, between Matthew and I, our family here and our family in Texas, had FOUR Christmases. That's not a joke or the latest Vince Vaughn holiday film.
Dory had a grand day. She loved opening her gifts, they never seemed to overwhelm her and she wasn't even bothered by the constant flash of cameras going off.
(a baby grand piano- in pink)
(a rocking horse)
(a piggy bank- a wise thought in these trying economic times)
(monkey hat- fashionable and warm)
(another piggy bank, this one shaped like a Chicago Bears helmet)
(a pic of the abundance of gifts)
(stacking blocks)
(more blocks)
("Good Night Moon"- the glow-in-the-dark puzzle)
(Dory inside the chute off the side of the indoors tent- that's right a TENT- she got)
So Dory, this is your second Christmas- how do you feel about that haul?
That's what I thought.
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and, I'd like to personally thank all Dory's grandparents and her great-(and cool!) grandmother for doing their part to bolster the economy. It was good work by you all.
Monday, December 21, 2009
How Much is that Baby in the Window?
More reasons to stop and think before acting, before speaking, keep rearing their nagging, yet necessary heads. I remember, Before Dory, I did a lot more act and ask questions later, leap then look. Turn ‘em and burn ‘em as people in the restaurant business say. Now, everything merits consideration, everything merits a little thought, a little contemplation.
Money (surprise!) is one of them.
Christmas is almost here- have you heard? I’m thinking about presents, about what to get, wants versus needs, practical or playful, who’s got the sale, one big item or many small? All these questions for a person who will happily play with her shoes for half an hour, if, mister, you'll spare the time to play with her.
That’s the truth of Dory; it’s not about the toys. She is yet to sit with a toy for longer than five minutes and be entirely entertained. She wants interaction. She wants communication. Toys are fun, but if there’s no living, breathing being attached to the other end, there's not much point. Dory enjoys the toys only in as much as they work in the game she and I or she and her dad or she and her grandparents play. Toys are a small part of the experience and toys are certainly not limited to what comes in a brightly colored, shiny cardboard box from Toys ‘R Us. Some of her current favorites are: plastic bowls, a wooden spoon, an empty Christmas tin, and her toothbrush. Christmas could come and go without a single item unwrapped and I suspect she would not miss a thing.
Which, being a great fan of “things," sends me to my thinking chair. How much of the desire for some, for more, for all of it, is the child and how much is what he’s witnessed from older, wiser people? When do things stop being wants and become needs? When do they stop being things and become worth, our own worthiness based on the having or not having? When do they determine who we are and our importance to the world?
There are so many interesting things to get and have. There is joy in picking something out, especially for Dory, and thinking how much fun we could have, the play and imagination this one little item could inspire from each of us. Yet... I see a toy that looks interesting and I say to my daughter: “We need to get you one of those!” But do we? Do we NEED to get her one? Or might it be fun? Would it be interesting? Usually we don’t get the toy I find so fascinating (truthfully I forget it five minutes later), but what kind of seeds have my words sown? My implication she “needs” something, does that tell her she’s not whole in who she is, she's incomplete without that particular item at the sale price of $19.95? Need- such a little word, such big consequences. Just something for me to consider...
I know, I know. I think a little. Maybe a little too much. I do. And if you’re giving your screen a funny look over all these questions, I understand. Yet in these last five years, since having a baby especially, my curiosity knows no bounds. What makes me Me? What makes me better? What makes me who I am? In fact, who am I?
And, as this pertain to the subject of this blog, this person, this whole person, quite small now, but already possessing a great big soul- how do I relate to her on this subject? What do I show her, day-in and day-out? Am I living what I speak? How do I define myself by what I own or don't own, what I have bought, have kept, have thrown away, have left sitting in the store? I have an audience of one and it’s never been more important that I bring my best to the stage. My honest, genuine, real self.
Who, it turns out, has a lot more questions than answers. Son of a gun. But I'm starting to think. And all that thinking leads me to feeling: when in doubt, appreciate. I realize, the more I can appreciate the function and use of money without kneeling at the altar of financial worth and material accumulation, the better service I can be to myself, my daughter, my family, my world. The more I can remember, money comes in and money goes out and we get on with life regardless... the easier my heart, the steadier my hands, the more fun my pocketbook. Money comes in, money goes out, and we go along, mostly merrily, sometimes not, regardless.
And is there benefit for Dory to see these two people, these two parents, who may not always have all the trimmings and yet are happy in the circumstances? To not have access to everything at the moment and yet be peaceful in what-is. To see that money is only as limiting as we choose to make it. Money can be expansive and fun. But it’s not who I am, not who she is. It does not define her self-worth or her well-being. And if I can think a little before I speak, maybe I won't define her either.
Oh- and your daily double answer to the question posed in the title: Absolutely priceless.
Money (surprise!) is one of them.
Christmas is almost here- have you heard? I’m thinking about presents, about what to get, wants versus needs, practical or playful, who’s got the sale, one big item or many small? All these questions for a person who will happily play with her shoes for half an hour, if, mister, you'll spare the time to play with her.
That’s the truth of Dory; it’s not about the toys. She is yet to sit with a toy for longer than five minutes and be entirely entertained. She wants interaction. She wants communication. Toys are fun, but if there’s no living, breathing being attached to the other end, there's not much point. Dory enjoys the toys only in as much as they work in the game she and I or she and her dad or she and her grandparents play. Toys are a small part of the experience and toys are certainly not limited to what comes in a brightly colored, shiny cardboard box from Toys ‘R Us. Some of her current favorites are: plastic bowls, a wooden spoon, an empty Christmas tin, and her toothbrush. Christmas could come and go without a single item unwrapped and I suspect she would not miss a thing.
Which, being a great fan of “things," sends me to my thinking chair. How much of the desire for some, for more, for all of it, is the child and how much is what he’s witnessed from older, wiser people? When do things stop being wants and become needs? When do they stop being things and become worth, our own worthiness based on the having or not having? When do they determine who we are and our importance to the world?
There are so many interesting things to get and have. There is joy in picking something out, especially for Dory, and thinking how much fun we could have, the play and imagination this one little item could inspire from each of us. Yet... I see a toy that looks interesting and I say to my daughter: “We need to get you one of those!” But do we? Do we NEED to get her one? Or might it be fun? Would it be interesting? Usually we don’t get the toy I find so fascinating (truthfully I forget it five minutes later), but what kind of seeds have my words sown? My implication she “needs” something, does that tell her she’s not whole in who she is, she's incomplete without that particular item at the sale price of $19.95? Need- such a little word, such big consequences. Just something for me to consider...
I know, I know. I think a little. Maybe a little too much. I do. And if you’re giving your screen a funny look over all these questions, I understand. Yet in these last five years, since having a baby especially, my curiosity knows no bounds. What makes me Me? What makes me better? What makes me who I am? In fact, who am I?
And, as this pertain to the subject of this blog, this person, this whole person, quite small now, but already possessing a great big soul- how do I relate to her on this subject? What do I show her, day-in and day-out? Am I living what I speak? How do I define myself by what I own or don't own, what I have bought, have kept, have thrown away, have left sitting in the store? I have an audience of one and it’s never been more important that I bring my best to the stage. My honest, genuine, real self.
Who, it turns out, has a lot more questions than answers. Son of a gun. But I'm starting to think. And all that thinking leads me to feeling: when in doubt, appreciate. I realize, the more I can appreciate the function and use of money without kneeling at the altar of financial worth and material accumulation, the better service I can be to myself, my daughter, my family, my world. The more I can remember, money comes in and money goes out and we get on with life regardless... the easier my heart, the steadier my hands, the more fun my pocketbook. Money comes in, money goes out, and we go along, mostly merrily, sometimes not, regardless.
And is there benefit for Dory to see these two people, these two parents, who may not always have all the trimmings and yet are happy in the circumstances? To not have access to everything at the moment and yet be peaceful in what-is. To see that money is only as limiting as we choose to make it. Money can be expansive and fun. But it’s not who I am, not who she is. It does not define her self-worth or her well-being. And if I can think a little before I speak, maybe I won't define her either.
Oh- and your daily double answer to the question posed in the title: Absolutely priceless.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Ode to the Library
I love the public library. I have loved it as long as I can remember. I love the simple idea that one card (once paper, now a thin piece of plastic), freely given, allows me nearly unlimited access to more books than I will ever be able to read in my entire life. I love the way a library feels and the way a library smells and I love the people who work there. I even stepped into the twenty-first century with my library and I am crazy about the fact I can put books on hold, on line, pick them up at the library of my choice and even renew them from the comfort of my living room sofa. It is a brilliant, brilliant design.
I especially love Knoxville's public library. I can safely say, of the five different cities in which I've lived, Knoxville's is my favorite. Since we've been living in Knoxville again, I've made the best use of the library I can, using a borrowed library card (thank you Mom!) and the calendar of events. We've checked out dozens and dozens of different books for Dory already and even a Pecos Bill movie on VHS her Dad insisted she would love. We go, each week, to Baby Bookworms, the two year old and under story time. And this week- this week my library out did itself.
In a matter of incredible timing and divine coordination, we went to the downtown library for Baby Bookworms this past Wednesday. While I love our little group, at our local library, the downtown Bookworms puts on a show. The librarian played songs and did a puppet board story and led dancing and for the children she passed out shakers and musical instruments and even a cut-out paper star that Dory could take home. Matthew and I were both wide-eyed over the display. Afterwards we stepped across the hall into the actual children's library and discovered Santa, that day, was expected.
What a gift to give. Parents and children- under and over two's- piled into the children's library and waited for Santa. The librarians set out juice and cookies on a little table and a chair for him. The woman who led our Bookworms crew passed out special gingerbread men to all her students, and gave Dory special star-stamps on each of her hand. For the rest of the day, Dory would catch sight of these little designs on her skin and marvel over them. She turned her palms up and down, amazed, her expression the same delighted disbelief that her father and I reserve for those dear, tiny hands.
When Santa entered all the children became kind of quiet and breathy, unsure about this tall (and somewhat gangly) gentleman in the red coat, overwhelming the small, child-size chair. The librarian explained we were responsible for taking our own pictures. (Miracle of miracles, we had our digital camera in the diaper bag- don't tell me Someone's not watching over all of us...) She then said something along the lines of (and this sent me over the edge in the love-affair I have for my library): "We just ask everyone to remember: we have all the time in the world. If your child needs to warm up to Santa first, please take your time. We want everyone to have a good time, to ask Santa for what they want and to have good pictures to show for it."
And, as these things tend to go when there's no hurry or pressure, the line went like clock-work, the children were fairly calm and easy (no wild hysterical screaming as I've heard echoing around the mall), we waited hardly any time at all, and suddenly Dory, in this impromptu experience, met real-life Santa Claus. I introduced the two, asked her if she could sit with Santa for a moment, and, when she didn't disagree, set her on Santa's knee and then crouched next to them, just out of the shot. This lasted about five seconds, and, though the librarian waved her puppet above Dory's head and I whispered words of encouragement, and Matt called her name, Dory would have no more of Santa. But, being the adept family photographer he is, Matt, also sitting in a child-size chair, snapped one shot before Dory was back up, in our arms, and ready to go.
And this unexpected, unplanned photo, somehow the more wonderful for her and St. Nick's solemn expressions, is her first Santa picture.
Thank you, from the bottom of my little literary heart, Knox County Library.
I especially love Knoxville's public library. I can safely say, of the five different cities in which I've lived, Knoxville's is my favorite. Since we've been living in Knoxville again, I've made the best use of the library I can, using a borrowed library card (thank you Mom!) and the calendar of events. We've checked out dozens and dozens of different books for Dory already and even a Pecos Bill movie on VHS her Dad insisted she would love. We go, each week, to Baby Bookworms, the two year old and under story time. And this week- this week my library out did itself.
In a matter of incredible timing and divine coordination, we went to the downtown library for Baby Bookworms this past Wednesday. While I love our little group, at our local library, the downtown Bookworms puts on a show. The librarian played songs and did a puppet board story and led dancing and for the children she passed out shakers and musical instruments and even a cut-out paper star that Dory could take home. Matthew and I were both wide-eyed over the display. Afterwards we stepped across the hall into the actual children's library and discovered Santa, that day, was expected.
What a gift to give. Parents and children- under and over two's- piled into the children's library and waited for Santa. The librarians set out juice and cookies on a little table and a chair for him. The woman who led our Bookworms crew passed out special gingerbread men to all her students, and gave Dory special star-stamps on each of her hand. For the rest of the day, Dory would catch sight of these little designs on her skin and marvel over them. She turned her palms up and down, amazed, her expression the same delighted disbelief that her father and I reserve for those dear, tiny hands.
When Santa entered all the children became kind of quiet and breathy, unsure about this tall (and somewhat gangly) gentleman in the red coat, overwhelming the small, child-size chair. The librarian explained we were responsible for taking our own pictures. (Miracle of miracles, we had our digital camera in the diaper bag- don't tell me Someone's not watching over all of us...) She then said something along the lines of (and this sent me over the edge in the love-affair I have for my library): "We just ask everyone to remember: we have all the time in the world. If your child needs to warm up to Santa first, please take your time. We want everyone to have a good time, to ask Santa for what they want and to have good pictures to show for it."
And, as these things tend to go when there's no hurry or pressure, the line went like clock-work, the children were fairly calm and easy (no wild hysterical screaming as I've heard echoing around the mall), we waited hardly any time at all, and suddenly Dory, in this impromptu experience, met real-life Santa Claus. I introduced the two, asked her if she could sit with Santa for a moment, and, when she didn't disagree, set her on Santa's knee and then crouched next to them, just out of the shot. This lasted about five seconds, and, though the librarian waved her puppet above Dory's head and I whispered words of encouragement, and Matt called her name, Dory would have no more of Santa. But, being the adept family photographer he is, Matt, also sitting in a child-size chair, snapped one shot before Dory was back up, in our arms, and ready to go.
And this unexpected, unplanned photo, somehow the more wonderful for her and St. Nick's solemn expressions, is her first Santa picture.
Thank you, from the bottom of my little literary heart, Knox County Library.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Attachment Parenting International- Live!
Before I launch into how truly amazing last Saturday was, I'd like to give a little background information about our AP beginnings (for those only here for pics of the API pioneers, scroll straight down until you see shots of these gurus with yours truly grinning away next to them- feel free to "ooo" and "ahhh").
When I found out I was pregnant, I did not know how I wanted to parent. I wanted to do it well, that was about as clear as I got. I wanted to be kind. I didn't want to shout too much or need hard drink in the middle of the day to get through it. I wanted, more than anything, to basically still be me, to still be Matthew and I plus one. I followed my typical grand plan these days: a vague query to the Universe. God, could you help me sort this one out? Just some clear, simple, easy to follow guidance that will help me be a parent, while still being me, and, in eighteen years or so, have a child with who I'm still on speaking terms. Something in written form- maybe a pamphlet?- would be great.
Many months went by. We found the birth center. We started our childbirth classes. I decided I wanted to breastfeed and so we took a class on that too. I did prenatal yoga. I kept listening to the thoughts of others.
I found The Baby Book by Dr. Bill and Martha Sears. On the surface, this enormous tome looks like a great book for handling a baby's early years, when to start solids, how to take a temperature, how to baby-proof a house. On the surface. Your basic manual. Being the compulsive Virgo I started on page one. Where Dr. Sears and his wonderful wife, herself an RN, totally rocked my world on the methods and possibilities in parenting. Compassionate, respectful, and sensitive parenting- this was their recommendation. As I read about their ideas on birthing naturally, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, baby-wearing, responding to baby's cries, I thought: We are totally doing this. And we're not telling anybody.
I knew enough about current day parenting to realize, this ain't your mama's or your neighbor's or, unless you're like me and start running with other rebellious mothers, your best friend's form of parenting. And hard as it can be for me to fly right in the face of mainstream society, I realized, that was all right. What better time than now to start trusting my instincts?
I say all of that only to give some scope to the experience of being in a room filled with API families and then watching some of the most prominent and outspoken founders walk out onto a stage together- this was a momentous occasion. As the moderator, Lu Hanessian (a former NBC anchor and current AP-practicing mother) pointed out, this was the first time these eight people had ever been on the same stage.
So without further ado, the day in pictures:
Dory and I wrestling before the program began. Of course, API made an effort to make this event as child-friendly as possible, but in the end it's still a small theater, with people who traveled a great distance to hear what the people on stage had to say, and the under-3 crowd can only sit still for so long. Many, many mothers were in and out, giving little ones a chance to crawl around the lobby. Or, better yet, these moms brought reinforcements and took turns.
My mama agreed to be my tag-team partner and she and I, pretty smoothly I think, took turns taking Dory out to play. You'll notice here, Dory couldn't look anymore peaceful, as her Gram calmly reads her program.
Our eight speakers. Starting with the left side of the picture, the woman in the peachy-colored jacket, you have (drum roll please): Ina May Gaskin, internationally known midwife; Barabara Nicholson, co-founder of API; Mary Cahill, one of the seven women to start La Leche League International 53 years ago; Dr. Bill Sears; Dr. James McKenna; Martha Sears, R.N.; Dr. Isabelle Fox; and Lysa Parker, co-founder of API.
Meeting Dr. Sears at the reception afterwards.
And then meeting Martha Sears.
I thought I had calmed down during the program, but as soon as I was standing two feet away I got excited and nervous, a fantastic cocktail for disaster. Luckily, the place was busy, with enough people waiting to speak to them, that I had just enough time to thank them both, several times, express my gratitude over their books, ask for an autograph and then move on. Quite calmly and normally. I wish I had something wittier, a bit more interesting to say, but, even after the fact, nothing came to me. I am simply supremely appreciative of these people.
On a side note, there was a couple standing in front of us, waiting to see Dr. Sears, holding a book. From what I could tell, as the husband introduced his wife, this was a book she had written of natural something (remedies, recipes, I couldn't say exactly) and they wanted to give Dr. Sears a copy. Which he graciously accepted and then pulled a pen from his pocket and asked her to sign it for him. [Insert a girlish sigh of wonder here.]
They were all so wonderfully accessible. I asked for a picture with Barabara and Lysa and they invited me behind their table (where they were signing their book Attached at the Heart- got my copy- it's wonderful) to chat for a few minutes about our local branch of API.
We got a picture with Dr. Fox who insisted Gram Mojo hop into the shot too.
Dr. McKenna was kind and humble and enamored with Dory and her bright blue eyes.
We were able to speak to Ina May and I thanked her for the influence her book, Ina May's Guide to Childbirth had on my birth experience. Unfortunately the camera had frizzled out at this point, so no photo here.
The day was spectacular. In no way is that an exaggeration. I managed, when I was not chasing a 13 month old, to take some notes and hopefully I'll be able to put them into something cohesive to share here.
When I found out I was pregnant, I did not know how I wanted to parent. I wanted to do it well, that was about as clear as I got. I wanted to be kind. I didn't want to shout too much or need hard drink in the middle of the day to get through it. I wanted, more than anything, to basically still be me, to still be Matthew and I plus one. I followed my typical grand plan these days: a vague query to the Universe. God, could you help me sort this one out? Just some clear, simple, easy to follow guidance that will help me be a parent, while still being me, and, in eighteen years or so, have a child with who I'm still on speaking terms. Something in written form- maybe a pamphlet?- would be great.
Many months went by. We found the birth center. We started our childbirth classes. I decided I wanted to breastfeed and so we took a class on that too. I did prenatal yoga. I kept listening to the thoughts of others.
I found The Baby Book by Dr. Bill and Martha Sears. On the surface, this enormous tome looks like a great book for handling a baby's early years, when to start solids, how to take a temperature, how to baby-proof a house. On the surface. Your basic manual. Being the compulsive Virgo I started on page one. Where Dr. Sears and his wonderful wife, herself an RN, totally rocked my world on the methods and possibilities in parenting. Compassionate, respectful, and sensitive parenting- this was their recommendation. As I read about their ideas on birthing naturally, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, baby-wearing, responding to baby's cries, I thought: We are totally doing this. And we're not telling anybody.
I knew enough about current day parenting to realize, this ain't your mama's or your neighbor's or, unless you're like me and start running with other rebellious mothers, your best friend's form of parenting. And hard as it can be for me to fly right in the face of mainstream society, I realized, that was all right. What better time than now to start trusting my instincts?
I say all of that only to give some scope to the experience of being in a room filled with API families and then watching some of the most prominent and outspoken founders walk out onto a stage together- this was a momentous occasion. As the moderator, Lu Hanessian (a former NBC anchor and current AP-practicing mother) pointed out, this was the first time these eight people had ever been on the same stage.
So without further ado, the day in pictures:
Dory and I wrestling before the program began. Of course, API made an effort to make this event as child-friendly as possible, but in the end it's still a small theater, with people who traveled a great distance to hear what the people on stage had to say, and the under-3 crowd can only sit still for so long. Many, many mothers were in and out, giving little ones a chance to crawl around the lobby. Or, better yet, these moms brought reinforcements and took turns.
My mama agreed to be my tag-team partner and she and I, pretty smoothly I think, took turns taking Dory out to play. You'll notice here, Dory couldn't look anymore peaceful, as her Gram calmly reads her program.
Our eight speakers. Starting with the left side of the picture, the woman in the peachy-colored jacket, you have (drum roll please): Ina May Gaskin, internationally known midwife; Barabara Nicholson, co-founder of API; Mary Cahill, one of the seven women to start La Leche League International 53 years ago; Dr. Bill Sears; Dr. James McKenna; Martha Sears, R.N.; Dr. Isabelle Fox; and Lysa Parker, co-founder of API.
Meeting Dr. Sears at the reception afterwards.
And then meeting Martha Sears.
I thought I had calmed down during the program, but as soon as I was standing two feet away I got excited and nervous, a fantastic cocktail for disaster. Luckily, the place was busy, with enough people waiting to speak to them, that I had just enough time to thank them both, several times, express my gratitude over their books, ask for an autograph and then move on. Quite calmly and normally. I wish I had something wittier, a bit more interesting to say, but, even after the fact, nothing came to me. I am simply supremely appreciative of these people.
On a side note, there was a couple standing in front of us, waiting to see Dr. Sears, holding a book. From what I could tell, as the husband introduced his wife, this was a book she had written of natural something (remedies, recipes, I couldn't say exactly) and they wanted to give Dr. Sears a copy. Which he graciously accepted and then pulled a pen from his pocket and asked her to sign it for him. [Insert a girlish sigh of wonder here.]
They were all so wonderfully accessible. I asked for a picture with Barabara and Lysa and they invited me behind their table (where they were signing their book Attached at the Heart- got my copy- it's wonderful) to chat for a few minutes about our local branch of API.
We got a picture with Dr. Fox who insisted Gram Mojo hop into the shot too.
Dr. McKenna was kind and humble and enamored with Dory and her bright blue eyes.
We were able to speak to Ina May and I thanked her for the influence her book, Ina May's Guide to Childbirth had on my birth experience. Unfortunately the camera had frizzled out at this point, so no photo here.
The day was spectacular. In no way is that an exaggeration. I managed, when I was not chasing a 13 month old, to take some notes and hopefully I'll be able to put them into something cohesive to share here.
I'll be first in line at the next celebration be it in a year or ten. I would say this compares to being at Woodstock and meeting Joan Baez, Janis Joplin, the Grateful Dead and Jimi Hendrix, all at once, except, let's be honest, do any of those people, on a day-to-day basis, influence your parenting skills?
Woodstock doesn't have anything on the API Eight...
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
You Never Know...
This time last year...
Matthew and I were sitting in our den, after a home-cooked Mexican dinner, watching something action-packed on television, and he was giving me a great foot massage. I was pregnant and big as all outdoors. Baby (as we called our Gender Unknown Little One) was due August 2nd and, being the confident, well-informed parents-to-be we were, we were both convinced this kid was not showing up before next week, at the earliest. We planned a natural birth, no medical induction, and by leaving our baby's birthday undecided (some said to chance, we said to God), being overdue was normal. Even expected. And I knew, with my new mama instinct, I was having an August baby...
Just that day, I made an appointment for us to meet our new pediatrician the following Friday. It was the first opportunity the doctor had to sit down with us and, as I pointed out to the receptionist, Baby wasn't due until that Saturday, we should be fine to come in on the first. "If Baby comes early, just bring him with you!" She quipped back and we both had a good chuckle...
All the little things we did, all those funny old wives' tales you hear about how to trigger labor, none of which we considered as we cooked our spicy dinner or Matthew rubbed my feet and ankles...
I didn't think about it on the great long walk I took earlier that day. Nor did I think much about the cleaning frenzy that struck me that afternoon. My good friend Emily stopped by, with her eight-week-old, and suggested all this cleaning of mine might be nesting instincts. "Come over tomorrow to knit," she suggested, "unless you're having a baby!" Oh, how we laughed and laughed over that one...
I think I went to bed around midnight or so, leaving Matthew downstairs working on his first-time parent plan. He wanted to prep for Baby and the Sleepless Nights we were told to expect, so each night he stayed up a little later to prepare himself for functioning with less sleep. Thank goodness he had Playstation 3's NCAA College Football '09 to help him along in this endeavor...
I remember getting in bed, reading a little, writing in my journal and watching a re-run of Sex and the City on TV when I couldn't sleep. Around twelve-thirty or quarter of one, I flipped off the light...
And to use that age-old writer's turn of phrase, little did I know...
Matthew and I were sitting in our den, after a home-cooked Mexican dinner, watching something action-packed on television, and he was giving me a great foot massage. I was pregnant and big as all outdoors. Baby (as we called our Gender Unknown Little One) was due August 2nd and, being the confident, well-informed parents-to-be we were, we were both convinced this kid was not showing up before next week, at the earliest. We planned a natural birth, no medical induction, and by leaving our baby's birthday undecided (some said to chance, we said to God), being overdue was normal. Even expected. And I knew, with my new mama instinct, I was having an August baby...
Just that day, I made an appointment for us to meet our new pediatrician the following Friday. It was the first opportunity the doctor had to sit down with us and, as I pointed out to the receptionist, Baby wasn't due until that Saturday, we should be fine to come in on the first. "If Baby comes early, just bring him with you!" She quipped back and we both had a good chuckle...
All the little things we did, all those funny old wives' tales you hear about how to trigger labor, none of which we considered as we cooked our spicy dinner or Matthew rubbed my feet and ankles...
I didn't think about it on the great long walk I took earlier that day. Nor did I think much about the cleaning frenzy that struck me that afternoon. My good friend Emily stopped by, with her eight-week-old, and suggested all this cleaning of mine might be nesting instincts. "Come over tomorrow to knit," she suggested, "unless you're having a baby!" Oh, how we laughed and laughed over that one...
I think I went to bed around midnight or so, leaving Matthew downstairs working on his first-time parent plan. He wanted to prep for Baby and the Sleepless Nights we were told to expect, so each night he stayed up a little later to prepare himself for functioning with less sleep. Thank goodness he had Playstation 3's NCAA College Football '09 to help him along in this endeavor...
I remember getting in bed, reading a little, writing in my journal and watching a re-run of Sex and the City on TV when I couldn't sleep. Around twelve-thirty or quarter of one, I flipped off the light...
And to use that age-old writer's turn of phrase, little did I know...
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Real, Honest-to-Goodness Updates
I've been walking around with potential posts on my mind for almost two weeks now. A wee bit of technical trouble kept me down, however. First, the batteries in our camera died and for the first time in years (possibly) we had no more AA batteries in the house. This, in itself, is shocking. I have random household items that I buy in excess, as in, while at the store, I see a great deal on batteries, shaving cream, Crisco, any kind of spice or seasoning, and think "this is such a great deal! I must get some so we have extra!" Only to bring said item home and discover we already have three to five extra containers of this same product lurking in the cabinet. For once, though, my planning-sense failed me and no batteries meant no picture uploading.
We bought more batteries, but then the second impediment occurred when Matthew, quite kindly, offered to update my computer software. The good old laptop... ran... very... slowly. This was a great offer and one I jumped all over, especially as I didn't have to do anything except hand over my laptop for a night and wait for it to be returned, faster, better and with the ability to transform into a car and get cast in a summer blockbuster. Except when we did said upgrades, saving all my old data, then taking everything off, and uploading the new we skipped a crucial step it would seem- taking the old software off too. At least, that's what we think happened. My laptop now has twice as much memory in use as before, which means, until we get this little... ahem... situation figured out, downloading pictures is impossible. And frankly, what's a post without pictures?
Well, Grandpa Mojo to the rescue tonight! He and Granny S watched little one yesterday, so Matthew and I and my mama, might go see the new Harry Potter. And while watching he took pictures. So run your eyes over these shots, while I update you on the Divine Miss D's progress...
She's crawling everywhere.
And pulling up on everything. Seriously, everything. You can't stand still too long or you'll feel a pair of small, but determined hands climbing up the side of your pants leg.
There's definite conversation going on, particularly on "dada," a little "dog" (which can be the dogs or squirrels) and "hi." The best thing about her "hi" is it's often accompanied with a little wave. Oh, the wave. It melts me. And pretty much anyone who sees it, including Matthew, all grandparents, our friends and random strangers at the store. We almost caused a pile-up in the baby aisle at the grocery store tonight when she and another adorable little one engaged in a wave-off.
Beyond the waving, there's lot of general chatter, but, as she gets older, the chatter is different. Before she entertained herself by making random sounds to us, the walls, the ceiling, her toys. Now she's intentionally conversing, looking intent and thoughtful, with lots of eye contact and smiles, as she yammers. It is amazing to watch and so exciting. Soon we will have another member of the Mojo house competing for talk-time; always a fine, fine thing.
She's definitely into solid foods. How I miss my recent pictures right now! I'll do another food post soon. Pasta is her new fave and frankly deserves a post of its own.
The fact is, as we speed toward her one year birthday, I'm reminded daily that having a child is far, far, far better than I ever expected. And demanding and busy and sometimes exhausting. But those times are so small and insignificant in the face of a talking, standing, wobbling, smiling little person who even, others tell you, bears a slight resemblance to you and your dear significant other.
As my lovely friend Betsy would say, I am kooky about this child.
We bought more batteries, but then the second impediment occurred when Matthew, quite kindly, offered to update my computer software. The good old laptop... ran... very... slowly. This was a great offer and one I jumped all over, especially as I didn't have to do anything except hand over my laptop for a night and wait for it to be returned, faster, better and with the ability to transform into a car and get cast in a summer blockbuster. Except when we did said upgrades, saving all my old data, then taking everything off, and uploading the new we skipped a crucial step it would seem- taking the old software off too. At least, that's what we think happened. My laptop now has twice as much memory in use as before, which means, until we get this little... ahem... situation figured out, downloading pictures is impossible. And frankly, what's a post without pictures?
Well, Grandpa Mojo to the rescue tonight! He and Granny S watched little one yesterday, so Matthew and I and my mama, might go see the new Harry Potter. And while watching he took pictures. So run your eyes over these shots, while I update you on the Divine Miss D's progress...
She's crawling everywhere.
And pulling up on everything. Seriously, everything. You can't stand still too long or you'll feel a pair of small, but determined hands climbing up the side of your pants leg.
There's definite conversation going on, particularly on "dada," a little "dog" (which can be the dogs or squirrels) and "hi." The best thing about her "hi" is it's often accompanied with a little wave. Oh, the wave. It melts me. And pretty much anyone who sees it, including Matthew, all grandparents, our friends and random strangers at the store. We almost caused a pile-up in the baby aisle at the grocery store tonight when she and another adorable little one engaged in a wave-off.
Beyond the waving, there's lot of general chatter, but, as she gets older, the chatter is different. Before she entertained herself by making random sounds to us, the walls, the ceiling, her toys. Now she's intentionally conversing, looking intent and thoughtful, with lots of eye contact and smiles, as she yammers. It is amazing to watch and so exciting. Soon we will have another member of the Mojo house competing for talk-time; always a fine, fine thing.
She's definitely into solid foods. How I miss my recent pictures right now! I'll do another food post soon. Pasta is her new fave and frankly deserves a post of its own.
The fact is, as we speed toward her one year birthday, I'm reminded daily that having a child is far, far, far better than I ever expected. And demanding and busy and sometimes exhausting. But those times are so small and insignificant in the face of a talking, standing, wobbling, smiling little person who even, others tell you, bears a slight resemblance to you and your dear significant other.
As my lovely friend Betsy would say, I am kooky about this child.
Monday, June 22, 2009
These Are a Few of My Favorite Things...
Around here, eating has become a spectator sport. As Dory ventures into fine cuisine like Cheerios, banana and any fruit or vegetable you can puree (which is pretty much any fruit or vegetable), I'm paying a lot more attention at mealtime.
Let me stop here and say, sharing the table with someone whose communication skills involve the words "dada" and "dog" and dropping things on the ground, sometimes I am not as present as I might be. I am not in the moment. Sometimes, I'm thinking about other things, I'm mentally making lists, sometimes I'm physically making lists, sometimes I even bring a book to the table. I read out loud, sure, but this could be a year ago and I could be eating lunch by myself.
Then sometimes I look up and realize I am missing absolute gems. Diamond and emerald moments and they're flying right over my head. More specifically they're falling around my feet...
This was Dory today, at lunch, over a delicious meal of pureed winter squash, plain pasta, and, of course, Cheerios. You will observe she's wearing a Hippo pocket bib and all of her meal.
After watching her refuse any real food offered on a spoon, for some reason that I could not explain, I gave her the lid from the jar. Voilà! A baby who eats, drips, drops, and wears food! Ms. Independence gobbles it down.
Because I am sometimes occasionally a clever mama, I finally gave her the spoon.
Whatever method she uses, our furry sharks always circle the boat...
Here, in all her glory, is the full picture...
To think I might have ever read through this...
what a silly mama I can be.
Let me stop here and say, sharing the table with someone whose communication skills involve the words "dada" and "dog" and dropping things on the ground, sometimes I am not as present as I might be. I am not in the moment. Sometimes, I'm thinking about other things, I'm mentally making lists, sometimes I'm physically making lists, sometimes I even bring a book to the table. I read out loud, sure, but this could be a year ago and I could be eating lunch by myself.
Then sometimes I look up and realize I am missing absolute gems. Diamond and emerald moments and they're flying right over my head. More specifically they're falling around my feet...
This was Dory today, at lunch, over a delicious meal of pureed winter squash, plain pasta, and, of course, Cheerios. You will observe she's wearing a Hippo pocket bib and all of her meal.
After watching her refuse any real food offered on a spoon, for some reason that I could not explain, I gave her the lid from the jar. Voilà! A baby who eats, drips, drops, and wears food! Ms. Independence gobbles it down.
Because I am sometimes occasionally a clever mama, I finally gave her the spoon.
Whatever method she uses, our furry sharks always circle the boat...
Here, in all her glory, is the full picture...
To think I might have ever read through this...
what a silly mama I can be.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Happy Father's Day
I think it's safe to say, few of us ever know how we'll handle a new situation once it's upon us. I know in my experience, I can have great intentions, but the proof doesn't show up until the actual occasion comes.
Parenthood was very much that way. When I was pregnant I had lots of daydreams about Matthew or myself, playing with a baby, bathing a baby, feeding a baby. Always, in these mental vacations, we were laughing, tender, loving- sometimes there might have been a soundtrack from a Hallmark card commercial playing in the background.
Now the baby is here, the reality has manifested itself, and there isn't a soundtrack playing. Besides that one point, most days are not that different from my mental pictures.
I was reminded of this a few nights ago. After Dory's delicious dinner of pureed squash and Cheerios, while I tended to the aftermath of dinner and dishes, Matthew and she played their newest game. Imagine a five foot ten, thirty-two year old man squatting behind a dining room chair while a Little One bobs back and forth, as he asks...
Is she over here...?
Is she over here...?
There she is!
Now picture it over and over and over...
Dory would play this game all night long, but eventually it was bath time. As Matthew hoisted her up into his arms and carried her down the hall, I heard him making up lyrics to his newest baby tune: "We're gonna give you a baby bath/We're gonna give you a baby bath/ Whyyyyy?/ Because you're covered in slime/ Oh, yeah, you're covered in slime." (I think we should trademark that one...)
What a treat for me, when the kitchen looked a little less like the remains of a cereal bomb and a little more like a kitchen, to hurry down the hallway and catch the end of bath time.
What a treat, what a pleasure, when daydreams turn into reality.
Happy Father's Day to that bearded man o' mine.
And Happy Father's Day to my own wonderful Pops, without who I wouldn't know most of the literature I do, feel the need to sketch out a detailed story when I'm explaining it, sing loudly and badly and proudly, or insist on reading funny stories out loud, only to become so overcome with laughter a few sentences in, I have to stop and let someone else finish.
And Happy Father's Day to Aaron, and Dave H, and Dave S, and Brig, and Randy, and Jacob, and John, and Steve, and Bill, and the many, many, many amazing men in this world for whom the title "dada" rests proudly on their shoulders- and sometimes covers their eyes and pulls their hair and shrieks in their ears. I wish a grand day for all you fellas.
Parenthood was very much that way. When I was pregnant I had lots of daydreams about Matthew or myself, playing with a baby, bathing a baby, feeding a baby. Always, in these mental vacations, we were laughing, tender, loving- sometimes there might have been a soundtrack from a Hallmark card commercial playing in the background.
Now the baby is here, the reality has manifested itself, and there isn't a soundtrack playing. Besides that one point, most days are not that different from my mental pictures.
I was reminded of this a few nights ago. After Dory's delicious dinner of pureed squash and Cheerios, while I tended to the aftermath of dinner and dishes, Matthew and she played their newest game. Imagine a five foot ten, thirty-two year old man squatting behind a dining room chair while a Little One bobs back and forth, as he asks...
Is she over here...?
Is she over here...?
There she is!
Now picture it over and over and over...
Dory would play this game all night long, but eventually it was bath time. As Matthew hoisted her up into his arms and carried her down the hall, I heard him making up lyrics to his newest baby tune: "We're gonna give you a baby bath/We're gonna give you a baby bath/ Whyyyyy?/ Because you're covered in slime/ Oh, yeah, you're covered in slime." (I think we should trademark that one...)
What a treat for me, when the kitchen looked a little less like the remains of a cereal bomb and a little more like a kitchen, to hurry down the hallway and catch the end of bath time.
What a treat, what a pleasure, when daydreams turn into reality.
Happy Father's Day to that bearded man o' mine.
And Happy Father's Day to my own wonderful Pops, without who I wouldn't know most of the literature I do, feel the need to sketch out a detailed story when I'm explaining it, sing loudly and badly and proudly, or insist on reading funny stories out loud, only to become so overcome with laughter a few sentences in, I have to stop and let someone else finish.
And Happy Father's Day to Aaron, and Dave H, and Dave S, and Brig, and Randy, and Jacob, and John, and Steve, and Bill, and the many, many, many amazing men in this world for whom the title "dada" rests proudly on their shoulders- and sometimes covers their eyes and pulls their hair and shrieks in their ears. I wish a grand day for all you fellas.
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