This is why Woman invented the Mommyblog

Scene: Crowded suburban kitchen. Decor 1970s but dress is contemporary.

MAMA & POPS are in the kitchen teaming on pizza creation.

MOLLYBIRD: "Can I help?"
POPS: "Sure. Bring in the chair."

MOLLYBIRD drags/pushes a full-size adult chair into the tiny kitchen. MAMA & POPS finish the pizza and MAMA puts it in the oven. As they wait, MOLLYBIRD climbs onto chair and starts to sing and dance:

"Robot makin' pancakes on the roo-oof

Robot makin' pancakes on the roo-oof, yeah man!

Pop 'em in the o-ven for to-nigh-ight

Shake your booty behind your bu-utt

Shake your booty 'hind your bu-utt"

MAMA & POPS laugh until they nearly pee. MAMA suggests a synth-pop accompaniment, possibly trip-hop. MAMA & POPS continue to watch the concert, in spasms of laughter.

Imperfect Podcasting: Night Issues

I recorded the only-second-ever Wabi Sabi Mamas podcast, mostly for Thordora:) I talk about night weaning success-in-progress and older munchkins' waking problems.

... And a Status Report from the Land of Triangle Family

Firstly, with the exception of increasingly-spaced twinges of pumpkin-belly-missing, I am so on board with the single child plan. Triangle Family it is- so be it.

I'm calling night-weaning a success-in-progress. She still asks to nurse when she wakes (if she wakes, and lo! there are nights when she doesn't) but accepts the new rule: there are no nummins when the sun's down. Several clever family members and friends have observed that I sneakily chose the rule knowing the sun is waning and I predict she'll slowly wean by Winter Solstice. Now that I'm sleeping, I'm feeling a great deal more flexible about when/if/how/whatever to completely wean. I love that she's able to participate in this transition. It was a stroke of genius to find a time frame she can observe herself. I think I stole the idea from Martha Sears, but let's just credit my sun-worshiping pagan self, OK?

Ongoing thing: Single motherhood with a father in the house. The Bird will not let him coparent. Nor is he allowed to touch me affectionately in her presence. Observe:

Bu: *hugs and kisses me* "Love you."
Birdy: "Noooo!!!! MY mama!"
Bu: "Yes, honey, but she's my wife, too. I love Mommy too."
Birdy: "No! MY Yife!

All day Sunday I was her mommy AND her "yife." Meh. At least it was highly amusing, as was Bu saying, "You're a baby. You don't have a wife yet." (Not sure if this was silliness, or pro-LGBT language to please and entertain me, or if he didn't even notice...)

Adorableness aside, it's really frustrating both of us that she won't interact with Bu as much as she will me. We are both charmed by her new preference for being home with us. Since she's been in the grandies' care since almost birth during the work week, she's always been very attached to them. It's kind of a little parenting ego boost for us now that she blisses out when we pick her up. She says "My house! I home! Boo home!" and it's like Neverland with chocolate sprinkles or something.

Speaking of Neverland, I'm reinventing it with such wild artistic license Mr. Barry would either shudder with disgust or lavish me with praise... maybe both. We have no Peter Pan books in the house (which is a sacrelige) but I showed the baby a few minutes of the movie. She loves the story but the movie's too scary. She asks for a Pan story every night, so I get to exercise my inventiveness while she drifts to sleep.

Right now, the overall mood is a seesaw one between glowing, self-congratulatory awe and O Plz Goddess don't let us throttle the toddler. We're riding it, it's cool.

Mother Stories Are Their Stories, Too.

I just started a perfectly innocuous post, but deleted the draft immediately. My head filled with the blogger worries I know trouble so many parenting writers. It's not necessarily the safety issues that are weighing on me, although these are of concern, but I'm thinking of respect and self-determination and privacy. As the Bird grows, what will she feel about my writing about her life as if those stories are my own? Will it devalue her experiences for her if I share them so publicly? I've always written- first in notebooks and now online- that writing is my only way to process my experiences. It makes them more real, more valuable, more deeply mine to frame them in words, to craft exactly the language that reflects my experience of the memory. In doing that with Molly's babyhood, I'm documenting for her as much as I am reaching out desperately to other moms for support and community. As she grows, though, and is capable of making her own story-memories, what is the impact of my simultaneously broadcasting these stories? At what age is it appropriate and necessary to ask her permission and blessing to write about her?

I was pining for BlogHer this year more than the last two years since I'd first heard of the conference. I'm tackling blogging issues in a few different ways, and I'd love to meld minds with other writers in this still-strange new world. The conference this year featured a panel called Public Parenting and Privacy. (Links to good notes from an attendee's blog.)

It looks like some interesting topics were raised and debated, but I don't know if the philosophical nature of my worries came up. I haven't really seen this addressed in mothering or fathering blogs. It's probably an issue I'll revisit in the near future as I work through this.

Thoughts?

Weaning Theory Part 1: The Summit and the Wisdom of Doc G.

The Bu and I held another Parenting and Wellness Summit in our Art + Junk Room. As all such meetings have been, it was chaired by Mr. E after finding his Mz. R.E. in full-on wigging mode while attempting to sketch a little bit during the Our Miss E.'s nap. Like all Parenting and Wellness talks, the conclusion reached is that a massive amount of my stress is due to sleep issues. The only strategy that seems available to us is to night wean at the least. The mister is gently lobbying for a total embargo of boobie exports to babybellyland in order to bolster relations between the elder E's and create a New Sleep Deal for mama.

As most weaning discussions happen on days of strung-out craziness, my side of the dialogue is a tearful chaos of IDUNNOWHATTODO! Only that's the crazy talking because it's clear what I need to do:

1. Determine if, indeed, my own sanity is a priority. If yes, then
2. Realize I must wean her at night.
   

OK. Only I don't know hoooowwwww. But that's more crazy, because, my doods, I totally did it. Successfully. I then caved during a tummy bug and nursed her back to health and back to our time-honored habit of night wakings. My tactic was Dr. Gordon's plan, which is tailored for crunchy, weepy, worn-the-fuck-out, toddler-nursing mommy-messes. His plan has logical steps and gentle, supportive language and theory. It worked beautifully at 18 months. I'm a little fretful that my 27 month old will be a harder sell, but I'll get into that in my next weaning post. I have several. Perhaps, for balance, Lexi can weigh in on life as a toddler nurser who does not have Teh Crazy?

Trusting the Bond

(Image is "Written in My Scars, by me, digital mixed media. I was googling mother/child bonding for an image to use and then remembered "Hi, I just made one.")

I spent the whole day with the Birdy! I've had so much going on that she's been at the grandies' late several times this week, and I worked Friday, which I usually have off. It felt so blissful to have her with us all day. We had a sublime pre-nap snuggle, and bedtime was easy and sweet.

The between sleep times were giggly and wild and silly and chaotic, punctuated with frustrating and exasperating, but the sleep transitions were my favorite. It's interesting how much more I enjoy them now that she isn't nursing to sleep. I think she's always fought to stay awake when she nurses; she doesn't go all milk coma like other kids. When she does start to drift off she pushes away, then latches on and this is why bedtime ritual went from an hour and a half to twenty minutes tops.

I loved the reconnecting we had today. It's so hard still to leave her there when work stuff or art stuff or whatever necessitates that I focus. She is starting to entertain herself better but is still seriously commanding of the attention she needs. Wants?

It's just really hard still for me to accept the "village" scenario. I'm at the point now that I appreciate that I go to work and am not eyeball deep in toddler intensity all day every day, but the challenges of working are still there. The hardest thing has been releasing the ideas I've had about control. It really has been a struggle to accept that I cannot dictate every aspect of her little life. That sounds so fascist. I'm not sure there's a way to explain that away, even... It's just been an evolution toward more trust and openness. I trust that she is safe, and I know with solid, perfect intuition that she is loved so purely when she is in their care. With that trust has slowly grown a more relaxed set of expectations. The pressures and guilt of managing a Parenting Style are receding, and what emerges is a Childhood.

Her childhood will be a tapestry of varied threads- contrasting, overlapping ideas and different loves. It's not a straight line, that I draw in one pen on a map. It's not even my map.

What I do is, I hold her. She whispers, "Mama," and pulls my arm around her. She searches me with her tiny fingers for a new security and she settles with my hair, which she pets or a few minutes before she relaxes into sleep. I listen to her breathe for a long time, and I know that I know that she is at home nuzzled against me. I know that my mother is the compass in my map, whether or not I travel the same paths she did, and I trust in her teachings to guide me into her role.

my bee girl

Mollybird started getting really scared of bees a few weeks ago, when the evil little fucking wasps living in our car port sprang to buzzing, vile life with the advent of spring. I'm allowing my seething hatred of the nasty creatures bias to show because I want some kudos for the zen aloofness that I'll affect here in this next part of the story: So, we launched a massive PR campaign about how Bees Are Great and They Do Not Hurt Us If We Leave Them Alone. We reinforced the effort by cute idyllic little stories about hives and honey and ooh! candle wax, too! "You know how you love little candle flames, Bird? That's a bee gift, too! Bees rock!" I was integral in the bee love mission- when the buzzy little demons came near me, I sat with perfect patient stillness and beamed at my frightened toddler, radiating my love of all things with wings and stingers. She wasn't buying it, but the insta-panic seemed at least to relax into hesitant sobs.

Two weeks ago, we were in the dining room having our morning coffee/sodapop/sippy and breakfast and the baby suddenly screamed and burst into tears. Immediately after, a huge wasp flew away from her arm. We weren't sure if she was scared or stung for a minute, but then a little welp popped up. Bu smashed the wasp and I dialed 911 called the pediatrician to get her dosing for Benadryl- my mom had a deadly allergy so I was panicked. (See, there is a rational explanation for a nature worshipper to detest insects. It's allowed.) We got her dosed and calmed, and then The Story was told for the first time.

Now, it's not the same without sound effects and gestures, but she says: "Bee! Hot! Boo (this is her nickname) and she points to her elbow where the sting was, then she pushes her hand out to show where the bee went. "Dada! Oof!" and she shows how Dada smashed the offending wasp. She beams when she gets to that part- her Daddy is a Superhero. A Bee Slayer. Protector of the Innocent. It is awesome to watch his face when she tells her story.

And she is still telling it. She's learned to say "sting" just to improve the story. The site of the boo-boo keeps moving; it's now on her hand. We are muchly amused by all the storytelling, and are pretty blown away that she remembers it and recounts it well enough that a new audience can follow the plot. It's positively amazing that my girl has such a grasp on language now. She is just... fluent almost. Storybooks are even more important lately, too, as she decided last week she is no longer nursing to sleep.

It's so much fun right now. And fascinating. She's like a time-lapse video of a flower blooming on fast forward. The development seems to be tripping over itself as she learns stuff. The other day I remarked to Bu that she's a lot more personey now.

Interestingly, she is much tougher now about bees.

Mind(over)fullness

My church (Unitarian Universalist) has an American Buddhist monk in residence for the weekend, and he led a meditation workshop this weekend. At first, I was over-scheduled and couldn't go, but my day opened up and the grandies were available for babysitting so I jumped on the chance to take part. Mindfulness- "being here now" is a goal that I'm striving for so much. There are a million tiny things piercing my consciousness at any given moment, so a day of meditation and turning inward felt like an amazing gift.

The workshop was, shockingly, torturous. I thought a day of Buddhist meditation would be like a tall, clear glass of water where my soul is a thirsty throat. Instead, I found it perfectly excruciating. My internal dialog was a constant barrage of "I suck at this," and when I finally found some peace in there, it was when I stopped trying for body awareness and let myself flow with the eclectic intuitive techniques I use spontaneously when I meditate on my own. It's vaguely like a hallucinogenic Tantric/Wiccan animated film with stream of consciousness poetry narration.

The insights I had were that my body is sorely, sadly neglected- my back and lungs are not even close to doing their jobs well. I can't even approximate decent posture, and my breathing is pitifully erratic and shallow. I'll never have a straight spine, but I can have a less burdened one. I also theorized that sitting meditation is artificial in the extreme; that the human body is patently unwilling to be still and quiet at the same time. I sat, still and reaching for an emptiness that would never come and longing for dance or Tai Chi or lovemaking. The monk was sexy, I noticed eventually, from boredom.

It started to seem so unbelievably strange and affected and decadent almost to be human beings, sitting in a building and listening to the near-soundlessness of our own breathing. It struck me as pitiable and disturbing to be earth creatures with pulses and skin and bones and blood who have so thoroughly and perfectly severed our own bodies that we have to struggle and be taught to exist peacefully "in" them.

I decided that guided meditations or mantras and chants are far more suited to me as play for my tired brain. As for my body- sitting, which it does far more than could ever be considered healthy, is antithetical to a true celebration of physicality. Movement- the spiral dance my hips find by instinct when I let myself dance, or the pounding of my heels on pavement or the old mud path in the woods across from our property- is the key to finding home in my body. The monk can sit- he does it with grace and nobility- but I need to have moving hips and feet to find my connection to a body in time.

The day wasn't a waste, though. I'm pleased with these insights, and the messages received from my crooked, chunky body. I'm happy I made time and followed through with a gift of good rich time for myself. I also ate a great cookie with lunch afterward.

Easter, the Day of The. Biggest. Meltdown. Ever!

I was one of the pair in charge of planning Ostara (pagan, spring equinox, reason for term "easter") and had a blast. I drew a beautiful, colorful banner with our Persephone chant, baked orange honey muffins from scratch, created Faery chalices with little blessings, and generally poured my little pagan heart into the ceremony. We created a ritual role for the Little One- she was to be in ladybug costume and scatter petals around the circle and lend the wild faery-ish energy native to the toddler aura to our goings-on.

That was the dream I had- Earth mama and her adorable baby-daughter charming her friends and fellow celebrants with her mind-blowing cuteness. REality? Was not so much with the cute, more with the screechy awful toddler rage. We missed the entire ritual, instead watching Beauty and the Beast on the (Thank You Goddess It Works!) VCR in the kids' room at church and doing some Olympic level rocking and soothing.

I was so annoyed- it was My Ritual! I was its author, artist, mother, and I was missing it because my child was misbehaving. After the sitting and swaddling (yes, my 22 month old likes to be swaddled again) and nursing, the effects of all that soothing finally sank into me too. I got my real brain back and realized that I don't believe in the concept of an under-two baby "misbehaving." I felt it go, all the tension melting and I thought of You. You, blog; and You Alexis; and you readers. You, all moms who are learning to let go of parenting pressures. I thought, "I am a perfect wabi sabi mama in this moment. I am here, spending ritual time mothering, giving into the dissolving of plans and expectations, and I am the Goddess here, comforting my freaked out, overwhelmed young, who is my little Teacher."

* * *

I'd planned to go back to the UU Church this morning for our Socinian Communion, bringing Molly, and my Aunt, and my Grandma. Aunt P was sick, so I decided to go alone. (I'm always worried I can't watch over Grandma and the baby together.) Then I thought I'd try to taker with me, and I waffled back and forth, spinning my wheels for a while. I finally told her she would stay with Daddy, and she exploded. She was so angry she couldn't express or cope. She was beet red and shaking and tearing at the air around her. I said, "Molly is real mad at mommy, huh?" I don't know what else to do- I freak out when she is that upset. I almost stayed home. Bu urged me to just go, he promised she'd be OK once I left. (She was, totally.) We talked for a quick minute about how my indecision made her meltdown worse- completely agreeing here.

I drove to church quiet, and reflective. I worried in the back of my mind that my sweetpea was home screaming still, but forced myself to trust that her father could console her. I meditated on being calm but firm when I have to tell her things that I expect to upset her. During prayer/meditation during the service, I asked my GoddessMama to help me find a way to be her gentle guide and help her find her own coping skills. I focused on balancing being a loving, gentle mother but being consistent and learning to say no.

Blessed be on this day of renewal and newness:)

Rebozo

Earth Hearth, a parenting blog based in the southwest US, has a post about rebozos today. My favorite baby sling was our little "rebozo." It was a large sage green shawl I'd picked up at the thrift store and wore to my bridal shower. The little shawl was the first sling I used with Mollybird, and I wore it everywhere we went when she was small. I had it on at an art reception, and a mom asked me if it was a podega or a rebozo. I had never heard either term, although "Maya Wrap" and Mei Tai had been in my daydreams and wishlists for a while.

Eventually, that mama would make me a gorgeous Mei Tai for the little one. It's beautiful, and much more comfortable than my makeshift sling. My little rebozo is so special, though. It connected me to a primal mother energy as much as it drew me into my new daughter. It was a little coccoon for my small one. I miss wearing the baby. She won't tolerate it now, although she's certainly light enough to carry comfortably.

Call this post a second installment of the Ovulation Chronicles- those crazy three or four days a month when the resolve to parent an only child dissolves into dreams of pumpkin belly, joking attempts to talk Bu into unprotected sex, and waxing nostalgic for newborns in little shawl carriers:)

Notes from the new Now

My little orange Be Here Now Bracelet, as it's been dubbed, was like my little Dumbo feather "teaching" me to fly. I adore Dumbo. Goofy little dude so precious, and the whole elephant love thing. Yeah.) Bu got in the habit of snapping it like a middle school boy crush tweaking a bra strap when I started to spaz out. It was cute and brought me back to the moment. Alas, the little bracelet met its inevitable demise last night at the hands of an excited nearly-two cavegirl. (Another insight that is helping the mom-stress: The "Happiest Toddler" guy says toddlers are cavemen and I'm all over that metaphor.) Because I don't trust myself to fly sans feather I need to go dig through my jewelry pile and grab a new bracelet or throw one together.

So in my newfound Nowness I have found that Molly is absofuckinglutely adorable between the little mini-tantrums. I have laughed a lot with her this week. In other elephant news, we saw Horton Hears a Who, and it was fabulous. She had fun and was "easy" that day. We took a three year old sorta-niece too, and they were very BFF. This means there are two kids that she will play with relatively drama-free. Awesome development.


The time is night to start preparing myself for the next hell-week in 14 or so days. Experiments have shown that the Bird does indeed break down into an insane clinger monkey monster of shrill evil stress the same week that I am my worst self. I can't find much to support my theory that my menstrual pheromone signature summons a demon from her soul, but it's a definitely observable pattern. I'm hoping that knowing it's coming will help- it does a little with my own PMS. I bought some calcium/magnesium pills that were recommended, and it may be wise to stock up on Fenugreek so the milk crash is alleviated. I'm also planning to start a regular, small New Moon ritual at my place, inviting my EarthWays people and any other friends who are interested.

So my new meltdown free family strategy is this:

• Happiest Toddler DVD on the way


• New Be Here Bracelet


• Small steps are my friend, big steps are made of small ones

Also, I'm riding high on the squee of meeting a little weight loss goal this week.

Intro Post: Heidi

Heidi Richardson Evans (that is to say, me, who just decided a third person profile is a little too formal) is a first time mama in her my early thirties. I have perpetual dark circles around my eyes. If I am home, there is a two-ish toddler attached to me, most likely at a breast but occasionally just on a hip. She has honey colored curls and is about the size and weight of a hummingbird. We call her Mollybird, but not because of the hummingbird thing, although it's a cute coincidence that she's eensy.

I am a born- and- bred- and- only- managed- to- leave- for- about- ten- months- one- time West Virginian with a love (pretty hills)/hate (social conservatism) attitude about my home. My marriage will be four years old this year, and our relationship's entering the seven year itch. We are both creative types struggling to become business types so we both have day jobs while we build our graphic design and photography business.

Lexie is like my Gail, if I were Oprah, and Oprah had never met Gail face-to-face. She (Lexie, not Oprah or Gail. Keep up already) introduced me to the term wabi sabi, and I'm rather shocked at this, only because it's a term from Japanese art applied often to ceramics and guess what art medium I majored in. The incredible idea that parenting is like pottery- where the cracks and smudges from the kiln (or um, life) are actually desirable is a freaking revelation to me. My journaling here is a journey (Dude: journey? journal? Is it meaningful or just annoyingly sound-repetitive?) toward an attitude of mindfulness and celebrating the idea of Wabi Sabi Mamahood.