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. :)
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
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.
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