Oh goodness, it has been almost three weeks since my last post. I anticipated this would happen with the onset of the new semester. Sadly, my blogging time has been eaten up by another online time consumer- my classes. Native American Lit, and Maine in the Revolutionary War. Two classes that I wouldnt have chosen had I been free to enroll in whatever sparked my fancy (and fulfilled requirments, of course.) Alas, my options were seriously limited due to the fact that I wasnt ready to schlep back up to the University quite yet, as I'd need to find a place, or person for my littlest one. So, although I've lost the time in the evenings where I could sit and ponder life as a young mom trying to pursue her educational and occupational dreams, and muse about it on my own personal platform, now I'm spending most of that time (should be doing it as now,) actually doing the aforementioned. Thanks to the advent of online classes, I'm creeeeping a little closer to that elusive degree.
Here's to all the non trad moms out there, I know a couple of you that read this blog from time to time. I hope you can still find time to do so now that the semester has commenced once again. I want to tell you a few things that I want to hear myself. First, whether you're working on your first degree, or doing graduate work, or changing careers, or learning a new trade- YOU ARE WORTH IT. You're worth the money it costs, worth the time you're spending- yes, away from your kids. Going to school after having children, even if they're in school, or out of the house altogether, can never be quite the same as your first post secondary go-round was becuase back then, there was only number one to consider. Finding time to take classes and do the homework as a mom is one hundred times harder, and comes complete with guilt, which leads me to my next point:
Has someone, your mom, the elderly lady in the grocery store perhaps, told you, "they're only little once, just enjoy it," or something to that effect. We know this, don't we? Our children are gifts from God, precious, amazing, fun, hilarious, little miracles that we know inside and out, would dive in front of a UPS truck for. We can feel how they slip a bit futher away from us each day they get older. Are we then, supposed to do nothing but care for them, stare at them, follow them around relentlessly soaking up their littleness? No, it makes no sense to forsake our identities as people, women becuase we love our kids. Many of us stay home with them and devote the majority of our waking moments to them, and sacrifice many of what would otherwise have been non waking moments for their care. We all know that maternal sanity is a good thing for children. I'd like to go a little further and suggest that all moms have something of their "own" going at all times even during pregnancy and their children's babyhood. Maybe that means a beloved career. Maybe it's yoga. For some of us, it's going back to school. It's not self centered, and it CAN'T wait until "the kids are in school." Even if it's one stinkin' class at a stinkin' time. It's our own, and it's important. Our babies will learn that they are worth striving for their goals by our examples.
Finally, fellow non trad Mommas, cut yourself a break on the A complex. Going to school on one's own terms is such a different experience than being forced into it. We're making huge sacrifices, right? We want engaging classes, caring and dedicated professors. This crap's not cheap! It IS okay, however, to maintain less than a 4.0 from time to time. It's a one of those priority juggling games, just like a day at home with the kids. If the housework slips a little, bah, your dust will keep. If you fudge a few assignments in order to keep up with the workload, and momload, don't feel discouraged. Keep the big picture in mind. If your baby wakes and cries while you're doing homework, go to her if you can, and if you must send your husband, don't beat yourself up.
Week by week, class by class, year by year. Don't give up. Be gentle with yourself. Your educational goals are no less important than the perpetual goal of being the best mother you can be. Thanks for reading.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
You Are What You Say You Are
I've been thinking about labels lately. Clicking my way farther into this rabbit hole that is blogging, I've been joining blogging or writing networking sites like Blogher, and Shewrites, and WOW Women on Writing. To become a part of these sites, as with everything else associated with the internet, one must first create a user profile. They want pictures, links to Facebook pages and twitter feeds and blog websites. Date of birth, gender, shoe size, bra size, anything relevant, or completely irrelevant to the website's context. These profiles are just a bare bones outline of a person, cold and statistical, so to personalize it a bit, there's usually a text box at the bottom for any other information a person feels they'd like to share with the masses. Here's where people get philosophical and simply enter a good one liner quote, or perhaps ramble aimlessly, using poor grammar, about their six goldendoodles. Those approaches are both lost on me. I can't stand my cats and I don't know any good quotes. I keep wanting to share with the potential millions all about myself, my real self. I'm not sure why I've been so honest, and frankly, not very creative in those little text boxes about who I am- aspiring writer, closet hairstylist, pregnant when I got married- but for some reason, boiling my whole life, and self down to a few words, a few labels, has helped me to solidify who I feel I am, who I want to be, and how I wish others to perceive me. It is not unlike creating or updating a resume. We want to present our best, most accomplished and focused selves to potential employers, so we write down only the things (presumably true) which serve that purpose. Only, I'm not hoping to be hired or paid by anyone, just hoping to be liked, to sound interesting, and real and relatable and genuine. For some people pinpointing interests is difficult, choosing a career path is ambiguous, and finding a sense of self is ever elusive. When you feel like the plastic bag blowing in the wind, it is hard to commit to only a few words to encapsulate yourself. But words are funny, and can be as empowering as they are limiting.
Motherhood was the first real thing, other than being human, American, female etc., that offered me a solid foothold in any particular category. This label is one I'm most proud of, most terrified by, most embroiled in and most changed by. But what makes me a mother? The fact that I gave birth to my daughters? Any woman who has adopted children would say no. Then, am I a mother because I care for my children all day long instead of working? Or is it because I understand the type of love that says I must put another's needs ahead of my own hopes and desires? Becoming a mom was the first thing that grounded me, gave me an identity, and a purpose. It is the first thing that I enter into that little text box.
The next thing I write is non-traditional student. I guess this is because I want people to surmise that I am older than age nineteen, as a mother of two, and therefore, a person who bears more credibility and writes things worth reading. And it's tough to admit, but I think I want people to know that I am pursuing (still) my college degree because I am smart enough, and motivated enough to do so. Those are the reasons I'm less than proud of, but I also put my non trad status near the top because I am proud to be prioritizing my education amongst raising children, providing an example thusly.
After these two, lately, I've been writing aspiring writer. This one is interesting, in our age of social media promotion and networking, and viral web videos. There are slews of people calling themselves photographers who may not have any formal training or education, but have an amazing talent for taking captivating photographs. They are making money doing sessions, taking pictures-therefore, I suppose, they are photographers. So why am I an aspiring writer? No, I am a writer. And someone who loves to sing? Well, then, they are a singer. What about someone who says they are an artist? A Runner? A teacher? Is money the piece that determines one's authenticity within a given label? Or do labels more often originate from how a person is perceived by the rest of the world? Perhaps is it the belief a person holds about herself that makes the label authentic. What if the the world label, and the self label do not match- which one is true?
The power of words is immeasurable on many levels. Words that we say to others and to ourselves, can hurt us, or build us up. Words can be heavy with layers of meaning, or empty and superficial. Labels we give ourselves help us to define ourselves and present an image to the world. Labels we give others, or that others give to us are often judgmental and inaccurate based on first impressions, appearances and lack of information. The exact meaning of a label is slippery and depends entirely on perspective as to whether it is a phony, or authentic one. Although, for example, I do not wish to present a falsehood to the world that I am a published, six (or even five, or four,) figure earning author, when I choose to put "writer" in my list of labels, I do feel it is important to identify myself as such if I am going to be pursuing a writing career. Who is to say the woman who went to a fancy art school is any more artist than her stay at home mom counterpart who's paintings can take your breath away?
So let's be careful and kind with the labels we all hand out, in our heads, or aloud, but let's all be as bold as we dare when we begin to label ourselves. Call it out to the world what ever it is you want to be. If you did not give birth, but raise(d) children- you are a mother! If it takes you 13 minutes to run a mile, but you're consistent, then, dammit, you're a runner! Let's remember to be proud of who we know we are, and who we hope to become, and in doing so, empower others to do the same.
Motherhood was the first real thing, other than being human, American, female etc., that offered me a solid foothold in any particular category. This label is one I'm most proud of, most terrified by, most embroiled in and most changed by. But what makes me a mother? The fact that I gave birth to my daughters? Any woman who has adopted children would say no. Then, am I a mother because I care for my children all day long instead of working? Or is it because I understand the type of love that says I must put another's needs ahead of my own hopes and desires? Becoming a mom was the first thing that grounded me, gave me an identity, and a purpose. It is the first thing that I enter into that little text box.
The next thing I write is non-traditional student. I guess this is because I want people to surmise that I am older than age nineteen, as a mother of two, and therefore, a person who bears more credibility and writes things worth reading. And it's tough to admit, but I think I want people to know that I am pursuing (still) my college degree because I am smart enough, and motivated enough to do so. Those are the reasons I'm less than proud of, but I also put my non trad status near the top because I am proud to be prioritizing my education amongst raising children, providing an example thusly.
After these two, lately, I've been writing aspiring writer. This one is interesting, in our age of social media promotion and networking, and viral web videos. There are slews of people calling themselves photographers who may not have any formal training or education, but have an amazing talent for taking captivating photographs. They are making money doing sessions, taking pictures-therefore, I suppose, they are photographers. So why am I an aspiring writer? No, I am a writer. And someone who loves to sing? Well, then, they are a singer. What about someone who says they are an artist? A Runner? A teacher? Is money the piece that determines one's authenticity within a given label? Or do labels more often originate from how a person is perceived by the rest of the world? Perhaps is it the belief a person holds about herself that makes the label authentic. What if the the world label, and the self label do not match- which one is true?
The power of words is immeasurable on many levels. Words that we say to others and to ourselves, can hurt us, or build us up. Words can be heavy with layers of meaning, or empty and superficial. Labels we give ourselves help us to define ourselves and present an image to the world. Labels we give others, or that others give to us are often judgmental and inaccurate based on first impressions, appearances and lack of information. The exact meaning of a label is slippery and depends entirely on perspective as to whether it is a phony, or authentic one. Although, for example, I do not wish to present a falsehood to the world that I am a published, six (or even five, or four,) figure earning author, when I choose to put "writer" in my list of labels, I do feel it is important to identify myself as such if I am going to be pursuing a writing career. Who is to say the woman who went to a fancy art school is any more artist than her stay at home mom counterpart who's paintings can take your breath away?
So let's be careful and kind with the labels we all hand out, in our heads, or aloud, but let's all be as bold as we dare when we begin to label ourselves. Call it out to the world what ever it is you want to be. If you did not give birth, but raise(d) children- you are a mother! If it takes you 13 minutes to run a mile, but you're consistent, then, dammit, you're a runner! Let's remember to be proud of who we know we are, and who we hope to become, and in doing so, empower others to do the same.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Girl Meets Yoga
Who can fall off the couch potato wagon? I can. Actually, I jumped off. "Couch potato to 5k" is a popular beginner running schedule that guides running novices from a level zero fitness level to being able to jog about three miles, over the span of nine weeks. It is an easy program that alternates running and walking, gradually increasing the length of the running intervals, until a three mile jog can be completed continuously. I posted a facebook status that I was embarking on my own personal couch potato-no more journey, that was met with enthusiasm and encouragement from all sorts of random acquaintances and friends alike. I began researching 5ks to sign up for at the end of the summer. I located my running sneakers and sports bras. I downloaded the couch potato app. There was never any doubt in my mind that I would lose the last 15-ish pounds of pregnancy weight through jogging, just as I had after the first pregnancy. Training for a 10k, outside of breastfeeding, had been the most effective, not to mention emotionally beneficial, method of finding my way back into those skinny jeans. Running was, after I broke through the "I'm going to die" threshold, so amazing for my body, mind and spirit- as any runner would tell you. This time around, I was looking forward to finding my stride again (yes, pun,) starting slowly with the couch potato schedule.
For a few weeks I made it out consistently, following the instructions carefully, checking off the days until I'd be running three effortless miles. From there, the world of running would again open up to me and take me in as one of it's own, and I'd be off to the half marathons. But, it didn't work out like I had fantasized. I found it harder to find motivation to get my ass (not off the couch, because it's only there for a few minutes during the morning coffee grogs, and perhaps again at night if I watch a little TV, or tool around online for an hour or so,) but simply out the door to go walk/jogging. I wasn't finding any of the relief or release that my new life as mom of two demanded. I was, instead, finding that I was out of breath, side-pained, poorly under garmented, and feeling altogether inadequate. Where was the head clearing, high inducing, body sculpting, calorie burning, wonder woman, running experience that I remembered from two years earlier? Turns out, it wasn't on the path from the couch to the 5k. I quit the running program, didn't excercise at all for a couple of months, and felt crappy about it.
One day, seemingly spontaneously, I picked up my phone and found the webpage to our lovely local yoga studio. I can't tell you how many times I've thought about checking the place out, or how many people I've heard testify to its zen-nes. Yoga isn't something that I had ever really delved in to, only dabbling a bit here and there with the likes of Denise Austin et al. I'm not sure why I didn't try to find a yoga class previously. Maybe I'd thought little of trying to become a yoga "type," a yogi, whatever that means. Or maybe we were just broke enough that I couldn't justify spending money to exercise. In any event, for some reason, I decided to call the studio to inquire and ended up at my first class a couple days later. The place was beautiful with tons of plants, and flowing draperies, and gleaming hardwood floors. Patchouli incense burned, and people sat quietly with far off looks waiting for class to begin. I of course, stumbled in, all apologies for not being "yoga enough" to participate in the challenging Ashtanga class I'd chosen, and trying to explain about my two little ones, pointing out the baby slobber on my shoulder, and how I needed something just for myself, that running hadn't worked out. I must have looked like a crazy woman. The teacher was kind and welcomed me right in, not an ounce of yoga snobbery lurking in her face. It was a phenomenal experience. I was pushed to the very limits of my body's ability-yet I never felt tomato faced, or like I could collapse for lack of breath. My heart rate came up, and my muscles shook with work as we shifted from pose to pose in rapid sequence, all the while maintaining a calming, breathing, lengthening flow. I left the building smitten. It was like kissing a crush for the very first time. When and how can I get more of that? Smiling, walking to my car, knowing I would ache like crazy in the morning, yet feeling so revitalized and centered, I vowed to begin a yoga practice.
So it's been a few weeks, I purchased a membership to the studio and have been able to go to classes about twice a week in the evenings. As soon as I feel confident, I'll incorporate the practice at home, but I really think the classes are essential for two reasons. First, a class requires leaving the house and doing something alone. Second, in a class, someone else is in charge, making all the decisions, telling me exactly what to do right down to when to breath, where to look, and even what thoughts to think. After spending most days with a toddler and a baby, having someone else boss me around for a bit is refreshing. Breathing, flow of breath, is integral to yoga. Inhales and exhales dictate when to move, and how to move. This emphasis on breathing has translated into my daily SAHM life during all the many moments where I must shut my eyes, breath deeply, and carry on to the next thing. Anyone else ever had a moment where they realize they haven't been breathing for 10 seconds or so?
The other thing I realized was that yoga provides a complete physical experience. The more vigorous classes elevate my heart rate. They all incorporate total body strength and stretching. Doing plank and chaturanga are keeping my chest and shoulders strong enough to schlep that 100 pound car seat over my elbow, a 30 pound toddler on my hip, my enormous purse over my shoulder, and then do a squat to retrieve a fallen binky. All of which I could previously do, but now, I take note of where my shoulders are, and press them firmly down. I keep my spine long when bent over to do the thousand things mothers spend all day bending over to do. I breath, breath and breath some more.
I've often heard of yoga described as a personal journey. There are "yoga memoirs" written by people who've had transformative experiences through their practice. Even if you're not looking for enlightenment, there is a long physical journey in finding the strength and flexibility to accomplish many poses. I was certainly not an ace walking in there to my first class. I took the modifications of many of the more advanced poses, and there were others that I could do more fully than most of the other people in the class. It was something I could enter, a complete novice, without having to get through an excruciating "break in" period, as in running, and feel that I'd worked my body and replenished my spirit at the same time. If that sounds a little too cheesy, just try it. If you're a mom, stay at home or otherwise, or just someone who tends to feel harried, pulled in opposite directions much of the time, give yoga a good college try. I may eventually, attempt to get back into jogging a bit, or I may not. That you must enjoy your exercise is an unshakable truism and right now, after having lost the motivation to run, it feels utterly wonderful to have found yoga so completely appropriate.
Namaste. :)
For a few weeks I made it out consistently, following the instructions carefully, checking off the days until I'd be running three effortless miles. From there, the world of running would again open up to me and take me in as one of it's own, and I'd be off to the half marathons. But, it didn't work out like I had fantasized. I found it harder to find motivation to get my ass (not off the couch, because it's only there for a few minutes during the morning coffee grogs, and perhaps again at night if I watch a little TV, or tool around online for an hour or so,) but simply out the door to go walk/jogging. I wasn't finding any of the relief or release that my new life as mom of two demanded. I was, instead, finding that I was out of breath, side-pained, poorly under garmented, and feeling altogether inadequate. Where was the head clearing, high inducing, body sculpting, calorie burning, wonder woman, running experience that I remembered from two years earlier? Turns out, it wasn't on the path from the couch to the 5k. I quit the running program, didn't excercise at all for a couple of months, and felt crappy about it.
One day, seemingly spontaneously, I picked up my phone and found the webpage to our lovely local yoga studio. I can't tell you how many times I've thought about checking the place out, or how many people I've heard testify to its zen-nes. Yoga isn't something that I had ever really delved in to, only dabbling a bit here and there with the likes of Denise Austin et al. I'm not sure why I didn't try to find a yoga class previously. Maybe I'd thought little of trying to become a yoga "type," a yogi, whatever that means. Or maybe we were just broke enough that I couldn't justify spending money to exercise. In any event, for some reason, I decided to call the studio to inquire and ended up at my first class a couple days later. The place was beautiful with tons of plants, and flowing draperies, and gleaming hardwood floors. Patchouli incense burned, and people sat quietly with far off looks waiting for class to begin. I of course, stumbled in, all apologies for not being "yoga enough" to participate in the challenging Ashtanga class I'd chosen, and trying to explain about my two little ones, pointing out the baby slobber on my shoulder, and how I needed something just for myself, that running hadn't worked out. I must have looked like a crazy woman. The teacher was kind and welcomed me right in, not an ounce of yoga snobbery lurking in her face. It was a phenomenal experience. I was pushed to the very limits of my body's ability-yet I never felt tomato faced, or like I could collapse for lack of breath. My heart rate came up, and my muscles shook with work as we shifted from pose to pose in rapid sequence, all the while maintaining a calming, breathing, lengthening flow. I left the building smitten. It was like kissing a crush for the very first time. When and how can I get more of that? Smiling, walking to my car, knowing I would ache like crazy in the morning, yet feeling so revitalized and centered, I vowed to begin a yoga practice.
So it's been a few weeks, I purchased a membership to the studio and have been able to go to classes about twice a week in the evenings. As soon as I feel confident, I'll incorporate the practice at home, but I really think the classes are essential for two reasons. First, a class requires leaving the house and doing something alone. Second, in a class, someone else is in charge, making all the decisions, telling me exactly what to do right down to when to breath, where to look, and even what thoughts to think. After spending most days with a toddler and a baby, having someone else boss me around for a bit is refreshing. Breathing, flow of breath, is integral to yoga. Inhales and exhales dictate when to move, and how to move. This emphasis on breathing has translated into my daily SAHM life during all the many moments where I must shut my eyes, breath deeply, and carry on to the next thing. Anyone else ever had a moment where they realize they haven't been breathing for 10 seconds or so?
The other thing I realized was that yoga provides a complete physical experience. The more vigorous classes elevate my heart rate. They all incorporate total body strength and stretching. Doing plank and chaturanga are keeping my chest and shoulders strong enough to schlep that 100 pound car seat over my elbow, a 30 pound toddler on my hip, my enormous purse over my shoulder, and then do a squat to retrieve a fallen binky. All of which I could previously do, but now, I take note of where my shoulders are, and press them firmly down. I keep my spine long when bent over to do the thousand things mothers spend all day bending over to do. I breath, breath and breath some more.
I've often heard of yoga described as a personal journey. There are "yoga memoirs" written by people who've had transformative experiences through their practice. Even if you're not looking for enlightenment, there is a long physical journey in finding the strength and flexibility to accomplish many poses. I was certainly not an ace walking in there to my first class. I took the modifications of many of the more advanced poses, and there were others that I could do more fully than most of the other people in the class. It was something I could enter, a complete novice, without having to get through an excruciating "break in" period, as in running, and feel that I'd worked my body and replenished my spirit at the same time. If that sounds a little too cheesy, just try it. If you're a mom, stay at home or otherwise, or just someone who tends to feel harried, pulled in opposite directions much of the time, give yoga a good college try. I may eventually, attempt to get back into jogging a bit, or I may not. That you must enjoy your exercise is an unshakable truism and right now, after having lost the motivation to run, it feels utterly wonderful to have found yoga so completely appropriate.
Namaste. :)
Sunday, August 21, 2011
This week's Grateful-fors
In no particular order...
1.Beautiful sunny warm summer weather
2.My husband's tolerance of my unending urges to rearrange our furniture. And buy furniture.
3.My older Daughter's hair finally being long enough to just barely eek out a couple of pigtails.
4.Sanity (yoga) classes at Central Street Yoga. Wed., Fri., and Sat. Sore!
5.My friend Mo who talked me through a tough mama moment.
6.My younger daughter sleeping through the night four nights in a row. Knock on wood for five.
7.My parents and in-laws who continue to offer childcare on Thursdays while I am at work at Balance Hair and Body.
8.Listening to Big D "read" herself to sleep. (Mostly at the top of her lungs.) Funny.
9.The time, energy, motivation, interest, and creativity to do this blog.
10. My readers!!!!! Yes, thank you! Follow lifebythebeans and like my facebook page. If you want to :)
Hmm, can I add to this list? Yes, please do!
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Mama Mash-up
First off, I'd like to extend a big, big Thank You to everyone who has taken the time to check out this humble little blog. Lifebythebeans has gotten well over 1,000 page views since its launch in June. I'm not sure what significance that has, if any, but it makes me feel cool! Thanks, also, for all your comment love on lifebythebean's facebook page. I 'like' you too!
Next bit of business is an update for those of you who've read "Little Home, Little Sleep." I got several pieces of advise as to how to negotiate the musical beds situation I was grappling with. Here's a chronological account of what happened: Little D graduated from family cradle, to pack n play at the foot of our bed. Family cradle goes into the attic. Feel sentimental. The "Cherry Red Bed" (an antique hospital bed painted this color,) returns from its hiatus at Grammy's, and goes into Big D's room. Crib gets broken down, and moved into the attic. I feel sentimental. I go shopping for new bedding and feel better. Big D sleeps successfully, and falls out of, cherry red bed. Little D gets crib trained one spontaneous night last week. Feeling hysterically sentimental, I call a friend for cry it out support. After 25 minutes, Little D sleeps 12 hours straight for the first time in seven months. Consequently, I too sleep for more than three hours uninterrupted for the first time in seven months. Next night, repeat. So, that's how it all played out. We've still got to move the baby into the crib, and get the two girls sharing a sleeping space, but, I think, I 'll hang out it this place we're in for a little while and enjoy it!
I was late posting this week because I've been doing two things that have taken a considerable amount of the little non-baby, non-work time that I have. Sleeping, and yoga. As mentioned above, the baby is sleeping (at least for now,) through the night. We've waited seven months for this. So has she, I suppose. I like to do a gentler modification of the Ferber method sleep training. Actually, I don't like it at all. It sucks. It is the most uncomfortable, counter-intuitive thing I've had to do as mother yet. Basically, you allow your baby to learn to self-sooth and cry herself to sleep. The idea is to offer reassurance to the baby every few minutes, with out picking her up, until she simply falls asleep. Each "check in" is extended a few more minutes from the last. I wrestled with much inner tumult when researching this method for Big D when she was about nine months old. I'd sworn to myself privately, and probably to anyone else who'd listen that I would never employ any version of the cry it out technique with my own children. I often found myself more closely aligned with attachment parenting philosophies and methods. I let both babies sleep in our bed for the sake of facilitating collective family sleeping. With both girls though, there came a point where nobody was sleeping. My husband and I taking turns bouncing the baby frantically, groping for the binky to stuff back into her mouth, readjusting her swaddle to pin her spastic arms to her sides, me attempting to nurse her back to sleep at all hours of the night, several times some nights. Even next to us, in the comfort of the "Big Bed," the baby wasn't sleeping anymore. She resisted being rocked to sleep, arching her back fiercely. "Put me the hell down," she must have been thinking. "Of course I'm going to cry when you do, I'm pissed I'm not asleep because you won't stop messing with me."
A random, particularly chaotic Wednesday night, with no advance discussion or planning, I decided to sleep train the baby the same way I'd done with her sister. My mother's intuition called an audible, and all of a sudden I was Ferbering the baby. I grabbed a beer, sat at the foot of the steps so I could torture myself listening to every last wail, noted the time, and blubbered. Every bone in my body ached to go get her, to quiet her cries, even as my mind told me that it wouldn't do any good. I called a friend who's had similar successful cry it out experiences (minus the intense guilt,) so she could reassure me of my worthiness as a human, deserving of sleep, and confirm the validity of my decision. By the time we got off the phone about twenty minutes later, the baby was asleep. The three of us that hadn't been sleeping soundly for seven months finally got a restful night's sleep. Twenty five minutes of crying was the price we all paid.
I know that sleep training works. I believe in the merits of teaching your baby how to self sooth. Making the decision to actually do it though, each time has left me incredibly conflicted. How can I be an attentive and nurturing mother if I ignore my child's cries? Will she remember that she can trust me to be there for her when she needs me? Does she think I don't love her anymore because I've thrown her to the pack n play wolves? The conclusions I've come to on this issue is that, all persons being rested, calm and happy is the number one priority of my household. All persons includes me. Not sleeping is the number one way to avoid being rested, calm and happy. Secondarily, all a baby knows is what you teach her. Like rolling over, crawling, feeding herself and potty training, she must figure out how to fall asleep, eventually, on her own. If it sounds like I'm still trying to convince myself, well, that's probably the case. I'll never be completely comfortable with the decision to let my baby cry as she falls asleep, but I believe strongly in mother's intuition, and after three nights of solid family sleep, I think it was the right decision, at the right time for all of us.
Well, I've elaborated enough I think, for one posting. I'm excited to share my thoughts on beginning a yoga practice, too, but all this parenting stuff keeps crowding my brain. Also, watch for my weekly "Grateful-for's" post, and do not be shy in participating with your own!!
Thank you, as always, for taking the time to read. Be Beansie!
Next bit of business is an update for those of you who've read "Little Home, Little Sleep." I got several pieces of advise as to how to negotiate the musical beds situation I was grappling with. Here's a chronological account of what happened: Little D graduated from family cradle, to pack n play at the foot of our bed. Family cradle goes into the attic. Feel sentimental. The "Cherry Red Bed" (an antique hospital bed painted this color,) returns from its hiatus at Grammy's, and goes into Big D's room. Crib gets broken down, and moved into the attic. I feel sentimental. I go shopping for new bedding and feel better. Big D sleeps successfully, and falls out of, cherry red bed. Little D gets crib trained one spontaneous night last week. Feeling hysterically sentimental, I call a friend for cry it out support. After 25 minutes, Little D sleeps 12 hours straight for the first time in seven months. Consequently, I too sleep for more than three hours uninterrupted for the first time in seven months. Next night, repeat. So, that's how it all played out. We've still got to move the baby into the crib, and get the two girls sharing a sleeping space, but, I think, I 'll hang out it this place we're in for a little while and enjoy it!
I was late posting this week because I've been doing two things that have taken a considerable amount of the little non-baby, non-work time that I have. Sleeping, and yoga. As mentioned above, the baby is sleeping (at least for now,) through the night. We've waited seven months for this. So has she, I suppose. I like to do a gentler modification of the Ferber method sleep training. Actually, I don't like it at all. It sucks. It is the most uncomfortable, counter-intuitive thing I've had to do as mother yet. Basically, you allow your baby to learn to self-sooth and cry herself to sleep. The idea is to offer reassurance to the baby every few minutes, with out picking her up, until she simply falls asleep. Each "check in" is extended a few more minutes from the last. I wrestled with much inner tumult when researching this method for Big D when she was about nine months old. I'd sworn to myself privately, and probably to anyone else who'd listen that I would never employ any version of the cry it out technique with my own children. I often found myself more closely aligned with attachment parenting philosophies and methods. I let both babies sleep in our bed for the sake of facilitating collective family sleeping. With both girls though, there came a point where nobody was sleeping. My husband and I taking turns bouncing the baby frantically, groping for the binky to stuff back into her mouth, readjusting her swaddle to pin her spastic arms to her sides, me attempting to nurse her back to sleep at all hours of the night, several times some nights. Even next to us, in the comfort of the "Big Bed," the baby wasn't sleeping anymore. She resisted being rocked to sleep, arching her back fiercely. "Put me the hell down," she must have been thinking. "Of course I'm going to cry when you do, I'm pissed I'm not asleep because you won't stop messing with me."
A random, particularly chaotic Wednesday night, with no advance discussion or planning, I decided to sleep train the baby the same way I'd done with her sister. My mother's intuition called an audible, and all of a sudden I was Ferbering the baby. I grabbed a beer, sat at the foot of the steps so I could torture myself listening to every last wail, noted the time, and blubbered. Every bone in my body ached to go get her, to quiet her cries, even as my mind told me that it wouldn't do any good. I called a friend who's had similar successful cry it out experiences (minus the intense guilt,) so she could reassure me of my worthiness as a human, deserving of sleep, and confirm the validity of my decision. By the time we got off the phone about twenty minutes later, the baby was asleep. The three of us that hadn't been sleeping soundly for seven months finally got a restful night's sleep. Twenty five minutes of crying was the price we all paid.
I know that sleep training works. I believe in the merits of teaching your baby how to self sooth. Making the decision to actually do it though, each time has left me incredibly conflicted. How can I be an attentive and nurturing mother if I ignore my child's cries? Will she remember that she can trust me to be there for her when she needs me? Does she think I don't love her anymore because I've thrown her to the pack n play wolves? The conclusions I've come to on this issue is that, all persons being rested, calm and happy is the number one priority of my household. All persons includes me. Not sleeping is the number one way to avoid being rested, calm and happy. Secondarily, all a baby knows is what you teach her. Like rolling over, crawling, feeding herself and potty training, she must figure out how to fall asleep, eventually, on her own. If it sounds like I'm still trying to convince myself, well, that's probably the case. I'll never be completely comfortable with the decision to let my baby cry as she falls asleep, but I believe strongly in mother's intuition, and after three nights of solid family sleep, I think it was the right decision, at the right time for all of us.
Well, I've elaborated enough I think, for one posting. I'm excited to share my thoughts on beginning a yoga practice, too, but all this parenting stuff keeps crowding my brain. Also, watch for my weekly "Grateful-for's" post, and do not be shy in participating with your own!!
Thank you, as always, for taking the time to read. Be Beansie!
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Live Life By the Beans... and Be Grateful
Greetings!
I'm adding another regular posting to lifebythebeans. It's a list of things I'm grateful for, or a gratitude list. You've probably heard of it, or done it already, in your own life. At the risk of being corny and cliched, I'm going to go ahead and do it anyway because it's such a great practice, and I want to get reacquainted with it. Taking a moment to find perspective is part of the lifebythebeans mentality. I'm hoping that these posts will become interactive. I'd like to invite you all to comment with your grateful-for's. Anything goes. It doesn't have to be profound, just sincere! Let's see how much warmth and fuzziness we can generate.
So here's today's top ten:
Big D sleeping in "big girl bed" like a little champ.
Little D's cuteness in johnny jump up
pork tenderloin
corn on the cob
chilled pinot grigio
drop in visit from my mom
my job at Balance
Homegoods/TJ Maxx
King size bed
Dishwasher
What are you grateful for today?
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
The Light Bulb is On
Have you ever had one of those moments where you realize that the solution you've been seeking for a particular predicament, for days, months or even years has been there, right in front of you the whole time? I've had several of these smack-my-forehead-with-the-palm-of-my-hand moments lately. I'm not talking about running into three different discount clothing stores looking for something to wear to my husband's 10 year high school reunion, and then settling on a sundress that's been hanging in my closet for at least five years, before deciding we couldn't go at all. (Ah, but that's a different post...) My light bulb moments of late have not been of the wardrobe variety, they've been far more gratifying, and long awaited.
Most of you know I've been a hairstylist for almost a decade. I attended beauty school directly after high school and have had a viable means of supporting myself and/or contributing to the household income for as many years. Cutting hair was something I happened to excel at. The basic geometry of it, lines and angles, thinking in spacial contexts all came naturally to me. Thankfully so, because at age 17, upon graduation, one could rightly say I didn't have much of a plan for myself or my education, or much motivation, ambition, clarity or confidence for that matter. I've been so thankful over the years for my skill and my trade, and for the people I've met along the way doing this work of making people feel better about their appearances. (Dramatic pause here) However, I've always known that I wanted something more. Something else.
Not having any remote idea what that something else was plagued me for years. I went back to school at 21 looking for some direction. I took all kinds of different liberal studies courses hoping something would light a fire in me. I waffled back and forth between pursuing a degree in something that would utilize my creative abilities, and conversely, something that was safe and dependable. (Hence my brief stint in a medical assisting program.) This vacillation seemed to parallel another trend that was occurring also, my emotional well being. Feeling good meant following my creative bliss with utter abandon. Feeling bad meant finding something safe and unnoticeable; creativity was far too vulnerable.
Finishing up a vague two year liberal studies degree, left me with no answers. Then I had my daughter, and the thick fog of new motherhood descended upon me and lingered for a long time. Don't misunderstand me, I was the happiest I'd been in years, and surprisingly, suffered no postpartum depression. I was however, struck by the trappings of isolation and lost personal identity that many new mothers encounter. Figuring out "what to do with my life" became more elusive all the time. Retrospectively, I know that simply caring for my daughter was both grounding my purpose and focus, as well as lifting my spirits out of the swamp of my self pity.
Finally, I got my act together and found a great part time job at a sweet salon and got into UMaine. I hemmed and hawed about what to declare as a major. Communications...business...psychology...nah, nah, nah. I finally settled on English because, I figured, I had always been good at writing about things I'd read. It seemed too simple, or maybe, not good enough. It seemed far fetched to think I could unearth a long lost bit of raw talent some eighth grade teacher had told me I had. And then, (I'd insert a cute light bulb drawing here, if I could figure out how,) revelation came to me. Almost suddenly, deciding to become a writer made perfect sense. Why had I been so reluctant to accept the fact that majoring in English with a writing concentration was the right answer, the answer I'd longed and searched and waited for. It was something I already possessed, a part of me. Why do we refuse to see what is right there in front of us. What's that saying about the nose on your face?
The moral of this admittedly self indulgent manifesto is that sometimes the most difficult situations have the most common sense solutions. It just takes being humble enough to accept them. Making the decision to start writing and subsequently, pouring my heart out in these blog postings definitely feels vulnerable. I'm not yet sure what avenue my writing career will take or how I'll do it, and that's a little scary. Life is full of uncertainty; we all have to make critical decisions based on faith sometimes, and follow through to see how it unfolds.
Also, in a related lightbulb moment story, I've quit trying to be a runner, and have taken up yoga with a fierce new found passion. More to come on that.
Go forth and grab your life by the beans everyone, and thanks for reading.
Most of you know I've been a hairstylist for almost a decade. I attended beauty school directly after high school and have had a viable means of supporting myself and/or contributing to the household income for as many years. Cutting hair was something I happened to excel at. The basic geometry of it, lines and angles, thinking in spacial contexts all came naturally to me. Thankfully so, because at age 17, upon graduation, one could rightly say I didn't have much of a plan for myself or my education, or much motivation, ambition, clarity or confidence for that matter. I've been so thankful over the years for my skill and my trade, and for the people I've met along the way doing this work of making people feel better about their appearances. (Dramatic pause here) However, I've always known that I wanted something more. Something else.
Not having any remote idea what that something else was plagued me for years. I went back to school at 21 looking for some direction. I took all kinds of different liberal studies courses hoping something would light a fire in me. I waffled back and forth between pursuing a degree in something that would utilize my creative abilities, and conversely, something that was safe and dependable. (Hence my brief stint in a medical assisting program.) This vacillation seemed to parallel another trend that was occurring also, my emotional well being. Feeling good meant following my creative bliss with utter abandon. Feeling bad meant finding something safe and unnoticeable; creativity was far too vulnerable.
Finishing up a vague two year liberal studies degree, left me with no answers. Then I had my daughter, and the thick fog of new motherhood descended upon me and lingered for a long time. Don't misunderstand me, I was the happiest I'd been in years, and surprisingly, suffered no postpartum depression. I was however, struck by the trappings of isolation and lost personal identity that many new mothers encounter. Figuring out "what to do with my life" became more elusive all the time. Retrospectively, I know that simply caring for my daughter was both grounding my purpose and focus, as well as lifting my spirits out of the swamp of my self pity.
Finally, I got my act together and found a great part time job at a sweet salon and got into UMaine. I hemmed and hawed about what to declare as a major. Communications...business...psychology...nah, nah, nah. I finally settled on English because, I figured, I had always been good at writing about things I'd read. It seemed too simple, or maybe, not good enough. It seemed far fetched to think I could unearth a long lost bit of raw talent some eighth grade teacher had told me I had. And then, (I'd insert a cute light bulb drawing here, if I could figure out how,) revelation came to me. Almost suddenly, deciding to become a writer made perfect sense. Why had I been so reluctant to accept the fact that majoring in English with a writing concentration was the right answer, the answer I'd longed and searched and waited for. It was something I already possessed, a part of me. Why do we refuse to see what is right there in front of us. What's that saying about the nose on your face?
The moral of this admittedly self indulgent manifesto is that sometimes the most difficult situations have the most common sense solutions. It just takes being humble enough to accept them. Making the decision to start writing and subsequently, pouring my heart out in these blog postings definitely feels vulnerable. I'm not yet sure what avenue my writing career will take or how I'll do it, and that's a little scary. Life is full of uncertainty; we all have to make critical decisions based on faith sometimes, and follow through to see how it unfolds.
Also, in a related lightbulb moment story, I've quit trying to be a runner, and have taken up yoga with a fierce new found passion. More to come on that.
Go forth and grab your life by the beans everyone, and thanks for reading.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Little Home, Little Sleep
I am seriously wondering how people, a couple of generations ago, lived in small homes and had several children, or even just two. Let me be a bit more specific: I am wondering how parents got their children to fall asleep and stay asleep when faced with challenges like common sleeping spaces, varying bed times and thin walls. For my generation, the American dream home now includes three to four bedrooms, two baths, a fully applianced kitchen, a double bay garage with a car nestled in each one, and enough square footage to spread out comfortably. Three years ago when my husband and I purchased our first home, we were baffled at how a young couple could possibly afford a home with these features. We didn't want to make a short-sighted decision, but were essentially forced, due to our budget, to buy a hundred year old, 1100 square foot, two bed, one bath, fixer. The home was small, old, and ugly, but, had no structural issues, a new furnace and windows, and I thought the cosmetic work it needed would be "fun." I was eight months pregnant, nesting instinct raging, and wanted to be in a house- even this house.
We've made our ugly little house into a sweet, comfortable home since we bought it, and other than it's hundred year history of DIY quirkiness, it's really quite endearing, and suitable for us for the time being. Except for... the tiny little matter of sleeping. When we planned to have a second child, we discussed the issue of the girls sharing a bedroom. My husband shared a bedroom with one of his brothers for years. I didn't for a moment question the feasibility of two little girls sharing a cute little periwinkle-polka-dot room for a few years until we were in a position to upgrade.
When my oldest daughter was learning to sleep through the night in her own crib, in her own room, my husband and I were the only ones who had to endure the terrible (although short lived) cries of her sleep training. In a few months, it will be time for our second daughter to start working on actually sleeping through the night, and we'll have to figure out a way to allow that to happen with out disturbing our older daughter's slumber. The baby has already out grown her newborn cradle and is ready for her crib, which her sister, who is ready for her big girl bed, is still using because I am not sure how to strategically place everyone in our tiny house for minimum sleep interruption!
Last night I came home from work around 7:45. Both girls asleep. Number one upstairs in her crib, number two in her car seat in the corner of the dark kitchen. Nodding approvingly at my husband's bedtime wizardry, I began to fix myself something to eat. Before I could take a bite, a typical series of events began to unfold. Big D "called down" as we say, for some milk, I went up with some. When I came back down, Little D, who had awakenend at her sister's bellow, was being swung vigorously by my husband in her car seat. She fell back asleep. This repeated two more times, as the master staller practiced her craft from her crib, each time waking up her sister. Finally Big D was truly asleep, and I took the baby upstairs and placed her gingerly into her cradle in our bedroom. I turned in around 10, my husband around 11, and the baby woke up for her first night time visit at 12:08. Then again at 3:24. Each time her grunts and moans sending us into a half asleep panicked scramble to get to her before she woke up her sister. That doesn't usually happen, but the anxiety is always there given that she is about five feet away on the other side of a very thin wall. This morning I woke up to a little voice at 5:52. Somehow Big D was in the bed, chipper as could be, persistently trying to get her father to "hide" under the covers with her. Little D, who had been in her cradle sleeping soundly, of course, woke up and wanted to eat. And like that, morning had broken! Each evening, night and morning is a variation of the preceding blue-print.
I called the realtor who helped us by this home to see what she thought we could list it for now, in today's market. She got back to me with a number that was 20 percent lower than the appraised value was three years ago, even with the cosmetic overhaul we'd done. After fuming for a while, then moping for a bit, my husband and I decided to just make peace with the fact that we'll be here in this small home for while longer. It's very easy to focus on what isn't right, and what we don't have. There are millions of people in the very same real estate boat right now, and the truth is that we should be grateful to have a home and jobs to pay the mortgage. As much as I genuinely feel this way, somehow, in the middle of the night, when one kid wakes up the other, I lose sight of it pretty quickly and curse my small house.
So for now, I'm waiting for that familiar dose of mother's intuition as to how to best handle the cradle-to-crib-to-big-girl-bed dilemma. Inevitably, eventually, the baby will sleep through the night which will simplify the matter. This too shall pass, my mother reminds me frequently. I know she is right, and I'll look back on this time in the not so distant future and smile nostalgically. I'm praying for patience and creativity in overcoming this parenting challenge. I'm confident that in time we will have a bigger home, but fin the mean time, I'm focusing on appreciating all that I do have, and cherishing the home we've created- even if sleep is in short supply.
We've made our ugly little house into a sweet, comfortable home since we bought it, and other than it's hundred year history of DIY quirkiness, it's really quite endearing, and suitable for us for the time being. Except for... the tiny little matter of sleeping. When we planned to have a second child, we discussed the issue of the girls sharing a bedroom. My husband shared a bedroom with one of his brothers for years. I didn't for a moment question the feasibility of two little girls sharing a cute little periwinkle-polka-dot room for a few years until we were in a position to upgrade.
When my oldest daughter was learning to sleep through the night in her own crib, in her own room, my husband and I were the only ones who had to endure the terrible (although short lived) cries of her sleep training. In a few months, it will be time for our second daughter to start working on actually sleeping through the night, and we'll have to figure out a way to allow that to happen with out disturbing our older daughter's slumber. The baby has already out grown her newborn cradle and is ready for her crib, which her sister, who is ready for her big girl bed, is still using because I am not sure how to strategically place everyone in our tiny house for minimum sleep interruption!
Last night I came home from work around 7:45. Both girls asleep. Number one upstairs in her crib, number two in her car seat in the corner of the dark kitchen. Nodding approvingly at my husband's bedtime wizardry, I began to fix myself something to eat. Before I could take a bite, a typical series of events began to unfold. Big D "called down" as we say, for some milk, I went up with some. When I came back down, Little D, who had awakenend at her sister's bellow, was being swung vigorously by my husband in her car seat. She fell back asleep. This repeated two more times, as the master staller practiced her craft from her crib, each time waking up her sister. Finally Big D was truly asleep, and I took the baby upstairs and placed her gingerly into her cradle in our bedroom. I turned in around 10, my husband around 11, and the baby woke up for her first night time visit at 12:08. Then again at 3:24. Each time her grunts and moans sending us into a half asleep panicked scramble to get to her before she woke up her sister. That doesn't usually happen, but the anxiety is always there given that she is about five feet away on the other side of a very thin wall. This morning I woke up to a little voice at 5:52. Somehow Big D was in the bed, chipper as could be, persistently trying to get her father to "hide" under the covers with her. Little D, who had been in her cradle sleeping soundly, of course, woke up and wanted to eat. And like that, morning had broken! Each evening, night and morning is a variation of the preceding blue-print.
I called the realtor who helped us by this home to see what she thought we could list it for now, in today's market. She got back to me with a number that was 20 percent lower than the appraised value was three years ago, even with the cosmetic overhaul we'd done. After fuming for a while, then moping for a bit, my husband and I decided to just make peace with the fact that we'll be here in this small home for while longer. It's very easy to focus on what isn't right, and what we don't have. There are millions of people in the very same real estate boat right now, and the truth is that we should be grateful to have a home and jobs to pay the mortgage. As much as I genuinely feel this way, somehow, in the middle of the night, when one kid wakes up the other, I lose sight of it pretty quickly and curse my small house.
So for now, I'm waiting for that familiar dose of mother's intuition as to how to best handle the cradle-to-crib-to-big-girl-bed dilemma. Inevitably, eventually, the baby will sleep through the night which will simplify the matter. This too shall pass, my mother reminds me frequently. I know she is right, and I'll look back on this time in the not so distant future and smile nostalgically. I'm praying for patience and creativity in overcoming this parenting challenge. I'm confident that in time we will have a bigger home, but fin the mean time, I'm focusing on appreciating all that I do have, and cherishing the home we've created- even if sleep is in short supply.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Purists Pooh-Pooh: Pack Up the Pump
This past week there was a decision to be made about how to feed my baby going forward. Up to this point, I've been breastfeeding, and within the last six weeks have started the gradual process of introducing solids. When I am at work, which is about 20 hours a week, the baby drinks my milk from a bottle which has been previously pumped and frozen in one of the cute little clear and purple bags that says "My Mommy's Milk" on it. Most people who have children or work with someone who has an infant are familiar with "pump and freeze." At first, I wondered about my co workers who do not have children, and what they would think of the little pouch of pale liquid sitting in the mini fridge. I was a bit embarrassed at the thought of putting evidence in plain sight that my breasts had been hooked to a ridiculous looking machine and milked like a cow. 'Can they hear it hissing over the bathroom fan?' I worried. 'Are they grossed out by how the fat separates and rises to the top like salad dressing?' I got over my modesty soon enough- having babies, it seems, tends to diminish ones modesty rather effectively- and was grateful to the inventor of the double breast pump, and to Lansinoh for their ingenious little freezer system.
Fast forward a few months and my baby is now rolling over, sitting up, laughing, babbling, and eating a variety of liquefied fruits and veggies. In a mere instant, this time has elapsed. The days and weeks are blurred together, the details already fuzzy. One thing that's crystal clear, however, is the ongoing chore of pumping. At the risk of sounding like a complainer, I'll just come out and say, I really hate to pump, and I don't want to do it any more. But it's not that simple. If I stop, then I will have to give the baby formula when I'm working, for the next six months until she can have cow's milk. Looking at my dwindling supply in the freezer I have felt pressure to continue pumping so that I don't have to change over to formula. I'll take a brief moment to explain something here: I mean to place no judgement on those who choose to give their babies formula. Period. Breastfeeding for 12 months is something that I chose to commit to with my first daughter, and now my second. The first time around, I made it the whole year with bags o' milk to spare in the freezer, never having to utilize formula for the gap between my pumped milk, and cow's milk. Having set this MOY standard for myself (yes, mother of the year,) with the first one, I now feel as though anything different is less than. I'm a purist, what can I say? I move furniture to vacuum underneath it, I spend forever chopping up teeny tiny pieces of garlic to cook with instead of buying the jar of minced garlic. I'm not trying to toot my over achieving horn here, because truthfully, It's a more burdensome quality than anything, and it doesn't always kick in either, (take my attention starved garden for example.)
What I've been forced to come to terms with is this: my frozen milk will be gone in a couple of weeks, and I simply cannot stand the thought of pumping my breasts one more time. I will have no other choice than to give my baby formula. I asked her doctor at her 6 month well-child-check how to go about it. She said matter of fact-ly, "Just introduce it like any other new food." I could have kissed her. It occurred to me then, that formula was not the enemy, and neither had been, apples, bananas, pears, sweet potatoes, carrots, peas or rice cereal, all foods that the baby had had, all foods that were not breast milk. 'Just because I give her formula doesn't mean that I'm going to stop nursing, or that the next six months of nursing don't count' I reasoned internally, 'and La Leche League isn't going to hunt me down and bang on my door in the middle of the night.' My own unreasonably high expectations for myself are the actual enemy. I'd be willing to bet most moms do this very same thing with one issue or another. I'm learning that finding balance between giving your children everything you possibly can, and maintaining your own sense of self and sanity is essential. I'll have to let some things go, plain and simple, and I have a feeling I'd better get used to prioritizing my perfectionist tendencies because real life with a growing family will demand it. Honestly, I felt nothing short of utter relief purchasing Similac and jubilation as I packed up my tired pump. So long purist! I think next, I'll buy some minced garlic.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Love Is the Sponge
Last week someone in my family got into a lot of trouble. I do not view it inappropriate to write about it because it made the front page of our local news paper. Surely my readership of a handful does not compare to the number of relatives, friends, and acquaintances who saw the story in the paper. I don't think it would be appropriate to write about anything else this week, although I am sickened by what has taken place, and I feel an oppressive sense of disgrace and sadness. I am not going to go into the details of what happened. It is not my intention to rehash what the BDN has already reported.
I got a call from my Dad early Tuesday that we had some sad family news. He gave some information and suggested that I check out the article online, which I did a few hours later when my girls were napping. As I was searching for the article, scanning the headlines, I noticed two other stories that caused me to feel intensely disturbed. One was about an infant who had been mauled by a dog, as its mother lay passed out, and the other about a mother who had been intentionally breaking the bones of her 20 day old baby. I can barely stand to type the words out as I sit here tonight. I chose not to read those articles in full, partly because there was another I needed to find first, and partly because I simply do not have the emotional disconnection necessary to read a story about child abuse and neglect so severe since becoming a mother myself.
Merely reading those two headlines had nauseated my stomach and darkened my heart. By the time I found the article I was searching for, the tears came easily.What I found out was that a family member, who has been teetering on the edge of stability for many years, had finally stumbled and fallen hard into a very dangerous abyss. Her face was pictured beneath the article. The image was at once, familiar and frightening. I saw eyes that were once a lively green, blank. The complexity and tragedy of the situation is largely lost in my vagueness here, and there is much that I am choosing to leave out. This picture is painted well enough in broad strokes- it is an incredibly painful one for many people.
I closed the laptop and went upstairs to where my six month old was sleeping, not frightened, not in pain, but sleeping peacefully. I scooped her up from her cradle and held her to my chest as I laid down on my bed and curled into a ball. She smelled milky and made little noises as she slept which comforted my queasy stomach and I felt thankful that she was not awake to witness that she was taking care of me in that moment.
Sometimes the pain of the world seems so overwhelming- mothers who abuse and neglect their helpless babies, loved ones who waste and disgrace their lives. I feel as though I need to hide from it, to close my eyes and hold my hands over my ears. Sometimes pain finds the cracks of our lives and seeps in slowly, pooling in the depressions of our hearts. Other times tragedy is a flood that plows through our weakest levies. Laying there holding my own precious child, I realized that love is the sponge that soaks up the sadness. Loving my children, my fellow human beings, and even the disgraced among us is the only way we can, as individuals confront the suffering we encounter all around us. We must find ways to love, small and grand, each day, so that the sponge never gets too full to absorb the hurt of the world.
It may sound trite, but it helps me in times of despair to hold on to the notion that our own loving actions toward others will somehow make a difference in the vast interconnectedness of humanity. I am not sure how I can act lovingly toward my family member right now in the midst of my feelings of fury, disbelief, and sadness towards her. But, as I called her mother, later that same day to offer a few words of support, on my way to work, a woman flagged me to the side of the road. She was missing front teeth, smoking a cigarette, her hair, greasy. "It's so hot today. Do you have some money for a drink?" She asked me. I decided not to question how she bought the cigarette in her hand, and fished out a couple bucks and gave them to her saying, "Go get some water, it's really hot today," just as a voice said hello on the other end of the line. My spirit was elevated just a bit from having put a small token of love back out into the world. Maybe it will grow and grow into something that will one day truly help those people I read about in the paper that day.
I got a call from my Dad early Tuesday that we had some sad family news. He gave some information and suggested that I check out the article online, which I did a few hours later when my girls were napping. As I was searching for the article, scanning the headlines, I noticed two other stories that caused me to feel intensely disturbed. One was about an infant who had been mauled by a dog, as its mother lay passed out, and the other about a mother who had been intentionally breaking the bones of her 20 day old baby. I can barely stand to type the words out as I sit here tonight. I chose not to read those articles in full, partly because there was another I needed to find first, and partly because I simply do not have the emotional disconnection necessary to read a story about child abuse and neglect so severe since becoming a mother myself.
Merely reading those two headlines had nauseated my stomach and darkened my heart. By the time I found the article I was searching for, the tears came easily.What I found out was that a family member, who has been teetering on the edge of stability for many years, had finally stumbled and fallen hard into a very dangerous abyss. Her face was pictured beneath the article. The image was at once, familiar and frightening. I saw eyes that were once a lively green, blank. The complexity and tragedy of the situation is largely lost in my vagueness here, and there is much that I am choosing to leave out. This picture is painted well enough in broad strokes- it is an incredibly painful one for many people.
I closed the laptop and went upstairs to where my six month old was sleeping, not frightened, not in pain, but sleeping peacefully. I scooped her up from her cradle and held her to my chest as I laid down on my bed and curled into a ball. She smelled milky and made little noises as she slept which comforted my queasy stomach and I felt thankful that she was not awake to witness that she was taking care of me in that moment.
Sometimes the pain of the world seems so overwhelming- mothers who abuse and neglect their helpless babies, loved ones who waste and disgrace their lives. I feel as though I need to hide from it, to close my eyes and hold my hands over my ears. Sometimes pain finds the cracks of our lives and seeps in slowly, pooling in the depressions of our hearts. Other times tragedy is a flood that plows through our weakest levies. Laying there holding my own precious child, I realized that love is the sponge that soaks up the sadness. Loving my children, my fellow human beings, and even the disgraced among us is the only way we can, as individuals confront the suffering we encounter all around us. We must find ways to love, small and grand, each day, so that the sponge never gets too full to absorb the hurt of the world.
It may sound trite, but it helps me in times of despair to hold on to the notion that our own loving actions toward others will somehow make a difference in the vast interconnectedness of humanity. I am not sure how I can act lovingly toward my family member right now in the midst of my feelings of fury, disbelief, and sadness towards her. But, as I called her mother, later that same day to offer a few words of support, on my way to work, a woman flagged me to the side of the road. She was missing front teeth, smoking a cigarette, her hair, greasy. "It's so hot today. Do you have some money for a drink?" She asked me. I decided not to question how she bought the cigarette in her hand, and fished out a couple bucks and gave them to her saying, "Go get some water, it's really hot today," just as a voice said hello on the other end of the line. My spirit was elevated just a bit from having put a small token of love back out into the world. Maybe it will grow and grow into something that will one day truly help those people I read about in the paper that day.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
New Normal
A couple of months ago I took a trip to the park with my girls. A common occurance in my world, but this trip was special. I desperately needed to escape the confines of my tiny house that day, and I chose a particular park, that is more suitable for toddlers, thinking that mine could enjoy some independence while I carried her three month old baby sister around in the bjorn. Easy enough...right?
I had prepared for the mini outing by stuffing my over sized purse with extra undies, a diaper, wipes, sippie cups, snacks, a rattle, a burp cloth, sunscreen, a quilt, my water bottle, two sunhats and my travel mug of coffee. This assembly took somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 minutes as it was interrupted by a respectable blow out. 'Is the sound of being buckled in to your car seat some sort of signal that it's a convenient time to poop?' I wondered out loud to my three month old. Having developed some sort of supermom complex, I had decided to cloth diaper, as I had done with my first, resulting in the need to climb the stairs to our only bathroom and rinse the poop into the toilet.
"Plan twice as long as you think you'll need to go anywhere or do anything," a girlfriend of mine wisely told me when I asked her advice on taking both of the kids out alone for the first time. Her words rang in my ears as I put a clean diaper on the baby and strapped her into her car seat for the second time. I made it out to the car first with my two year old after a brief battle of wills concerning whether or not to put shoes on which was resolved by the promise of an underdog at the park. Going back in to the house to retrieve the baby, I could hear her wailing as she'd been left alone staring at the wall for ten minutes while her sister and I were in negotiations. I soothed her with a binky and a smile and slung her car seat handle over my arm. The suitcase that is my purse slash diaper bag went on the other arm, and my travel mug in one hand, keys in the other. By the time I was pulling out of the driveway, I was enjoying a sense of accomplishment on having gotten out by 9:15- in one piece. Yes, I had forgotten to brush my teeth, but so are the sacrifices of mothers, I told myself, and my children would be the only victims of my serious coffee breath. As I accellerated up my street I saw something fly by the window. My travel mug! In my rear view I watched as it rolled on the ground. "Fart knockers!" I exclaimed. "Darn it!" I tried again. I pulled over, and ran over to my sweet brown life blood that was dribbling out of the cup mumbling something that made me feel a little better. Slugging down what was left of it, I walked back to the car and drove to the park feeling scrambled, ungraceful, and fuzzy toothed.
During the relative calm of the car ride, I regrouped. Pulling up to the sunny park I tried to remember to appreciate the beautiful day and opportunity to spend it with my sweet girls. I spread out the quilt and laid the baby down as I strapped on the bjorn. Then I heard a little voice from the car, "Mama, I peed." I pretended not to hear. "Maamaaa.......I peeeeed!" Chanting the serenity prayer in my head I went over to the car and found my daughter smiling sweetly at me as she sat in urine. "Mama I peed." She repeated. 'No shit' I said in my head. "I see that honey, lets clean you up. Mama brought extra undies." I said aloud to her. What had motivated me to potty train at this particular juncture again? At that point the thought of changing her monstrous poops and spending hundreds on disposable diapers didn't seem all that bad. After more negotiations regarding changing wet undies, I sheepishly put her back into her wet shorts, not having brought extras. 'Their not that wet.' I told myself. Sure. Suddenly, a shiver went down my spine as I spun around to look for my baby who was still on the blanket where I'd left her ten minutes ago twenty yards away. I grabbed the older one and ran to the baby, who only looked at me blankly. She was fine. I looked around to see if anyone had been watching me. My heart thumped. I felt a lump growing in my throat. 'You can't cry at the park, Johanna.' I scolded myself. But I did a little anyway behind my big plastic sunglasses. I was horrified at having forgotten about the baby.
My children seemed unphased and generally in good spirits despite my own sense of disgrace, so I persevered and proceeded to nurse the little one, flashing boob to anyone who might have cared to look. Having forgotten breast pads in my packing frenzy I was forced to stuff the burp cloth into my bra to catch the letdown from the breast that the baby wasn't using. 'It's this or walk around with a giant wet circle on my boob,' I reasoned. 'Enjoy the show folks,' I thought as my attitude shifted from exasperated discouragement towards determined survival mode. After that, the outing was fairly uneventful. The baby slept on me in the bjorn as I followed her sister around each apparatus, and gave her underdogs on the kiddie swings, taking care to use correct posture and even did a few lunges while my toddler entertained herself on the bouncy bridge. I began to feel better. A young woman with long hair pulled into a french braid, wearing an ankle length denim skirt holding an infant on her hip, and pushing two little girls who also wore braids and skirts on the tire swing caught my eye. I guess she'd been there the whole time I had, though I hadn't noticed. We engaged in the standard park small talk, "How old?" "What are their names?" Her children were four, two and a half, and 9 months. We talked superficially about having babies. She smiled and said, "yeah, it always takes me about six months to find my new normal."
We made it back home around 11, and I sat for a moment in the driveway as my baby, newly aware of her distaste for car rides, bleated, and her older sister yelled, "I want Daddy, where's Daddy?" I fantasized about sprinting away from my car and home. I pondered with sleepless disproportion the daunting tasks of getting everyone inside, fed, and put down for their naps. I fretted that perhaps I would be denied my own nap if the baby was fussy, or the toddler, reluctant. I thought back to the girl at the park who had been friendly to me. She looked so much more graceful than I had felt. 'When will I get this?' I thought, as my chin trembled and I began to cry again. 'You baby. Get a hold of your hormones. Get these kids inside and feed them and love them, and do the best you can and be proud of it,' I resolved. So that's what I did. And that's what I've done everyday since. It's never perfection, rarely graceful, but it's getting easier as each day passes. My baby is less fragile, and my toddler no longer has pee accidents. Most days, I manage to brush my teeth, and I no longer care who sees my breasts at any given point. I've settled in the new normal that is having two kids who are 25 months apart. Both uniquely and substantially in need of my time, attention and love. I'm watching in awe as they begin to play together by making each other laugh. I've learned to let anything go that is not essential to maintaining safety or peace. I know there will be challenges every step of the way, and I have days where I feel like crawling in a hole, but I think I've come to terms with the fact that doing the best I can as a mother means being imperfect.
Every mistake is an opportunity to learn. Needless to say, I've learned a lot since we transitioned from a family of three to a family of four. I also realize now that every other mother out there who gives a damn has many of the same feelings and experiences that I have. The girl at the park with her three probably felt just as discombobulated as I did when her baby was born. She was probably trying to offer me some encouragement by telling me that it had taken her several months to settle in to routine again. Even though it sometimes feels like I'm the only one who has ever had a day this ridiculous, guaranteed, there's a mom out there somewhere enduring an even more ridiculous one, and that's strangely comforting. New normal is messy, unexpected, exhausting, and....perfect.
I had prepared for the mini outing by stuffing my over sized purse with extra undies, a diaper, wipes, sippie cups, snacks, a rattle, a burp cloth, sunscreen, a quilt, my water bottle, two sunhats and my travel mug of coffee. This assembly took somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 minutes as it was interrupted by a respectable blow out. 'Is the sound of being buckled in to your car seat some sort of signal that it's a convenient time to poop?' I wondered out loud to my three month old. Having developed some sort of supermom complex, I had decided to cloth diaper, as I had done with my first, resulting in the need to climb the stairs to our only bathroom and rinse the poop into the toilet.
"Plan twice as long as you think you'll need to go anywhere or do anything," a girlfriend of mine wisely told me when I asked her advice on taking both of the kids out alone for the first time. Her words rang in my ears as I put a clean diaper on the baby and strapped her into her car seat for the second time. I made it out to the car first with my two year old after a brief battle of wills concerning whether or not to put shoes on which was resolved by the promise of an underdog at the park. Going back in to the house to retrieve the baby, I could hear her wailing as she'd been left alone staring at the wall for ten minutes while her sister and I were in negotiations. I soothed her with a binky and a smile and slung her car seat handle over my arm. The suitcase that is my purse slash diaper bag went on the other arm, and my travel mug in one hand, keys in the other. By the time I was pulling out of the driveway, I was enjoying a sense of accomplishment on having gotten out by 9:15- in one piece. Yes, I had forgotten to brush my teeth, but so are the sacrifices of mothers, I told myself, and my children would be the only victims of my serious coffee breath. As I accellerated up my street I saw something fly by the window. My travel mug! In my rear view I watched as it rolled on the ground. "Fart knockers!" I exclaimed. "Darn it!" I tried again. I pulled over, and ran over to my sweet brown life blood that was dribbling out of the cup mumbling something that made me feel a little better. Slugging down what was left of it, I walked back to the car and drove to the park feeling scrambled, ungraceful, and fuzzy toothed.
During the relative calm of the car ride, I regrouped. Pulling up to the sunny park I tried to remember to appreciate the beautiful day and opportunity to spend it with my sweet girls. I spread out the quilt and laid the baby down as I strapped on the bjorn. Then I heard a little voice from the car, "Mama, I peed." I pretended not to hear. "Maamaaa.......I peeeeed!" Chanting the serenity prayer in my head I went over to the car and found my daughter smiling sweetly at me as she sat in urine. "Mama I peed." She repeated. 'No shit' I said in my head. "I see that honey, lets clean you up. Mama brought extra undies." I said aloud to her. What had motivated me to potty train at this particular juncture again? At that point the thought of changing her monstrous poops and spending hundreds on disposable diapers didn't seem all that bad. After more negotiations regarding changing wet undies, I sheepishly put her back into her wet shorts, not having brought extras. 'Their not that wet.' I told myself. Sure. Suddenly, a shiver went down my spine as I spun around to look for my baby who was still on the blanket where I'd left her ten minutes ago twenty yards away. I grabbed the older one and ran to the baby, who only looked at me blankly. She was fine. I looked around to see if anyone had been watching me. My heart thumped. I felt a lump growing in my throat. 'You can't cry at the park, Johanna.' I scolded myself. But I did a little anyway behind my big plastic sunglasses. I was horrified at having forgotten about the baby.
My children seemed unphased and generally in good spirits despite my own sense of disgrace, so I persevered and proceeded to nurse the little one, flashing boob to anyone who might have cared to look. Having forgotten breast pads in my packing frenzy I was forced to stuff the burp cloth into my bra to catch the letdown from the breast that the baby wasn't using. 'It's this or walk around with a giant wet circle on my boob,' I reasoned. 'Enjoy the show folks,' I thought as my attitude shifted from exasperated discouragement towards determined survival mode. After that, the outing was fairly uneventful. The baby slept on me in the bjorn as I followed her sister around each apparatus, and gave her underdogs on the kiddie swings, taking care to use correct posture and even did a few lunges while my toddler entertained herself on the bouncy bridge. I began to feel better. A young woman with long hair pulled into a french braid, wearing an ankle length denim skirt holding an infant on her hip, and pushing two little girls who also wore braids and skirts on the tire swing caught my eye. I guess she'd been there the whole time I had, though I hadn't noticed. We engaged in the standard park small talk, "How old?" "What are their names?" Her children were four, two and a half, and 9 months. We talked superficially about having babies. She smiled and said, "yeah, it always takes me about six months to find my new normal."
We made it back home around 11, and I sat for a moment in the driveway as my baby, newly aware of her distaste for car rides, bleated, and her older sister yelled, "I want Daddy, where's Daddy?" I fantasized about sprinting away from my car and home. I pondered with sleepless disproportion the daunting tasks of getting everyone inside, fed, and put down for their naps. I fretted that perhaps I would be denied my own nap if the baby was fussy, or the toddler, reluctant. I thought back to the girl at the park who had been friendly to me. She looked so much more graceful than I had felt. 'When will I get this?' I thought, as my chin trembled and I began to cry again. 'You baby. Get a hold of your hormones. Get these kids inside and feed them and love them, and do the best you can and be proud of it,' I resolved. So that's what I did. And that's what I've done everyday since. It's never perfection, rarely graceful, but it's getting easier as each day passes. My baby is less fragile, and my toddler no longer has pee accidents. Most days, I manage to brush my teeth, and I no longer care who sees my breasts at any given point. I've settled in the new normal that is having two kids who are 25 months apart. Both uniquely and substantially in need of my time, attention and love. I'm watching in awe as they begin to play together by making each other laugh. I've learned to let anything go that is not essential to maintaining safety or peace. I know there will be challenges every step of the way, and I have days where I feel like crawling in a hole, but I think I've come to terms with the fact that doing the best I can as a mother means being imperfect.
Every mistake is an opportunity to learn. Needless to say, I've learned a lot since we transitioned from a family of three to a family of four. I also realize now that every other mother out there who gives a damn has many of the same feelings and experiences that I have. The girl at the park with her three probably felt just as discombobulated as I did when her baby was born. She was probably trying to offer me some encouragement by telling me that it had taken her several months to settle in to routine again. Even though it sometimes feels like I'm the only one who has ever had a day this ridiculous, guaranteed, there's a mom out there somewhere enduring an even more ridiculous one, and that's strangely comforting. New normal is messy, unexpected, exhausting, and....perfect.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Not Your Mommy's Blog
This here is the maiden voyage of lifebythebeans blog. I'm new to the blogosphere, and definitely a novice.
I hope anyone who stumbles upon my humble little blog will forgive my relative cluelessness regarding all things technological. Despite the intimidation factor of beginning something new, I am excited for the opportunity to write honestly, engagingly, and hopefully humorously for anyone who's out there reading. And I'll work on getting flashier with visual content, links and who knows what else.I'd like to acquaint you all with my intentions for lifebythebeans. As I researched how to go about starting a blog,
If you read my profile, you know that I have small children. Obviously, they will be the
source of a lot of my material. I don't think that I could offer a fresh, genuine voice without writing (probably pretty frequently) about my girls who are two and a half and 5 months. Motherhood consumes my daily life, and is a huge part of my identity right now, but it's not everything. I'm also a student at the University of Maine, on the ten
year plan, studying English. In addition to college and parenthood, I also work part time as a hairstylist. In these other realms of my life I'm sure I'll find inspiration too, so don't gag and roll your eyes at the thought of yet another boring-to-everyone-else mommy blog cluttering up the internet.While I cant say exactly what I will focus on here in lifebythebeans, I can tell you what I
will not do is pass judgement on methods of mothering alternative to the ones I choose,
or offer tutorials on cloth diapering, making organic baby food, or potty training. I can't teach you how to knit hats,
sew a quilt or bake bread. While it's unrealistic to say I won't blog about my kids or other domestic matters, I'll try to avoid rambling aimlessly about developmental milestones. Even though I am a mother, and I'm up to my eyeballs in all things toddler and baby, my hope is to provide interesting writing about meaningful and relatable topics (including but not limited to Motherhood) to all kinds of people.Who do I think I am? Who will want to read what I have to write? Who cares about my perspective, or my anecdotes,
So there you have it. That's the premise of lifebythebeans. It's vague, I know, but I hope the quality of the content
here will compensate for the lack of focus. I don't pretend to be a professional writer, or a supermom, but I think those are both worthy goals, and I'll keep pursuing them. I promise to always be honest and sincere in my posts so even if you don't share my opinion, at least you know I'm real. If you do disagree with something you read here,that's perfectly acceptable, just tell me why. I'll do my best to bring you something each week worth spending five minutes on. Won't you join me?
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