Blogger FAIL!

Here we have a beautiful, awesome blog. And two mamas who are totally into the idea of imperfect parenting... and then there is me, who is just TOTAL FAIL when it comes to maintaining more than one blog. (I also let my son's blog go to seed...)

January resolution: I am going to reaffirm my commitment to this blog. I shall post at least once a week. I shall fail and bounce back!

This week's imperfection: I could not let my husband handle one night on his own. For fuck's sake! I have been the go-to night parent for so fucking long, and I couldn't just try to see if my husband could handle one night? I am afraid of becoming my mother, afraid of abandoning my child, afraid of being abandoned all over again...

My triumph is that I am considering going away for a weekend by myself. I haven't committed to it (we're still maybe going as a family) but I think that going on my own would be a Very Good Thing. Totally wabi sabi because I will be terrified at the huge change, but... I need it. And Rems could use a lot more daddy time.

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?

Meditation on Meaning and Mothering

I had an insight this morning. Or a couple. Yes. I had two poignant insights that might be important only to the mind of a mom who was awake no fewer than six times to nurse her toddler then had to go to work.

My first insight was a little diagram image of my priorities that popped up all visual and organized in my head. It went Tiny Her, Him, Work, Art, Housework, Money.... on downward in increasingly small fonts until the tiny, squeaky-meek little 'me' box at the bottom of the pile was microscopic. Oh, I thought. The "oh" of the dawning realization variety. Mentally I tried to imagine a pretty graph of overlapping circles where the ME section was a warm pale color- possibly peach- that gently blended in perfect graph harmony with all the other neat little divisions of life. It fell apart a little bit because immediately the next epiphany slapped me and was more grounded and more describable. (It came with a blog post fully written and edited, and almost hit the publish button for me.)

Weary Hippie Mother in Appalachia Insight the Second:

Here's what bugs about my own little parenting zeitgeist: it's the lack of value given to my choices. I've never encountered hostility directly in my family, neighbors, or out in my town. No one has asked me to cover my nursing child or reprimanded me about the dangers of co-sleeping. Instead I get these amused little reactions like I am the most adorable little eccentric- just about completely harmless- when people find out the barely-touched crib was Freecycled before the baby was walking, or see us nursing, or ask me if my handmade sling is safe. I'm thrilled that I've had a comfortable time of it- I was braced (after too many hours of web-based mamadrama) to be assaulted with judgmental people.

My complaint, now that my new insight has helped me articulate it, is that my parenting choices are seen as indulgent. (Also, I can hear people scoffing: 'parenting choices' is a phrase full of pretentious over-thinking.) It's in the way doctors presume that breast milk is of no nutritive importance after six months or a year. It's the way people just warn sleep sharers that the kids will never leave the bed. It's the convenient loss of the history of midwives. and ignoring C-section rates.

I won't pretend for politics or good press that night nursing isn't exhausting me, or that my husband isn't dying to have me back in our bed full-time. I just want to own my reasons. I want to say, yes my mother-milk is important to my small picky-eating baby. I want to acknowledge my belief that small children need a warm, comforting body next to theirs at night. Now that I'm moving toward a new phase with weaning I need to express that nursing for two years has been a gift to Molly. My waiting to wean at an age that's radical in my neighborhood isn't a sentimental avoidance of choice- it's a real decision. It's all so complex with ideas of sacrifice (and motherhood culturally is far too tangled up in that for me to even scratch the surface) but my reasons, and my choices, are expressions of love and of careful thought, and of intention.

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.

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.

imperfect (perfect) prayer beads

My anxiety hit a volcanic critical mass this week. I felt it rising in me all day, and instead of making some sort of truce with it, I tried my damnedest to bury it.

That always works, right?

My darlin' Bu guided me through when the eruption came, and I unleashed what he says was my biggest freakout ever. (Just a brief qualifier here: He helped me through my mother's death from cancer seven years ago.) It felt incredible to release the tight, horribly knotted mass of stress I'd been containing. Bu observed, for the millionth time, that my difficulty Just Being was the root of all my evil panic.

The morning after the explosion, I felt amazing. I grabbed a prayer bead bracelet on an impulse as I left for work that morning. I never wear bracelts, a leftover habit from art classes- they catch the clay or ink. I thought the foreign feeling might help remind me to focus- a little "Hello, here I am. Here you are," to bring me into a moment.

Driving to work I admired the little orange wooden beads and was feeling very proud of myself and full of great mojo. Then I notived the bracelet is cheap-o fakey junk: the big long bead where the cord should come through (and cue me to turn the other direction if I were actually praying) was just decorative. The knot is a random pokey mess somewhere off center. So I thought, Fuck! I hate this cheap shit and started to spiral into the sorry-for-me-I'm-so-poor idiocy. Then I stopped cold, realizing this little off kilter knot and pretend end bead are the perfect essence of Wabi Sabi. It's a little lesson not only in mindfullness, but in letting go of perfection.

It's really coming home to me only this year that I have an overwhelming attachment to extreme black and white thought. I've been building up huge, palpable pressure from the idea of things needing to conform to my idea of perfection. I've never really figured out that I'm a perfectionist because my idea of perfection is, um, quirky. But I'm realizing that I'm really rigid about conforming to my own standards that are often insanely out of reach.

The beads are a great little trigger to be present, and I really love that I picked up such a perfectly imperfect symbol.

Can I rename it Demeter Day?

If I actually allow myself to think about the history of Thanksgiving, I get pissy and cranky and I do things like write a ranty post and then delete it immediately because I'm not really as negative and hateful as I sound. The whole sordid weight of American history and the clash between the oppression that's happened and the patriotic shiny sweetness makes me queasy and annoyed so I kind of just don't think of myself as celebrating Thanksgiving. I just focus on my family and great food and visiting and the baby and whatever.

I've evolved as a cook over the past few years. The year Shane and I announced our engagement over Thanksgiving dinner, I took frozen shrimp cocktail and champagne to my Grandma's. This year I'm doing something with broccoli (was going to be a casserole but I'm daydreaming now about a puffy baked appetizer thing of some sort) and baking fresh bread and I have a potato salad assignment from my mother-in-law for the first time, which tickles me.

So I'm grooving on the vibe of the harvest feast- adamantly neverminding the fact that none of this food was harvested by any of our hands on any of our land. I'm thrilled to be immersed in kitchen goddessery and the simple pleasures of baking and gathering at a table full of love. I'm musing a little bit about how I can teach Molly this as she grows, and how in general to impart the Real Truths I feel in my soul to her when they conflict with the utter bullshit she'll encounter in school. I'll bury until later the worries about all the cultural everything and turn my mind toward the food and the cool air and the brilliant red bush raining tiny yoni shaped leaves at my front door.