Motherhood

Lo those many years ago, when I was working in Seattle and thinking about having a baby, my dear friend Cindy gave me this article.  Every now and then, I pull it out, uncrinkle it, and read it again.  I got it out today so I could share it with my son's teacher, who will be having her first child any day now.  In honor of the lovely Mother's Day we just celebrated, I thought I'd share it with the rest of you, too.

Motherhood:  It Will Change Your Life
by Dale Hanson Bourke

Time is running out for my friend. We are sitting at lunch when she casually 
mentions that she and her husband are thinking
 of “starting a family.” What she means is that her 
biological clock has begun its countdown and she 
is considering the prospect of motherhood.

“We’re taking a survey,” she says, half jokingly. 
“Do you think I should have a baby?”

“It will change your life,” I say carefully.

“I know,” she says. “No more sleeping in on Saturdays, 
no more spontaneous vacations…”

But that is not what I mean at all.

I look at my friend, trying to decide what to tell her.  
I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth
 classes. I want to tell her that the physical wounds of
 childbirth heal, but that becoming a mother will leave
 her with an emotional wound so raw that she will be forever
 vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never read
 a newspaper again without asking “What if that had been my
 child?” That every plane crash, every fire will haunt her.  
That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will
 look at the mothers and wonder if anything could be worse
 than watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit 
and think she should know that no matter how sophisticated 
she is, becoming a mother will immediately reduce her to the 
primitive level. That a slightly urgent call of “Mom!” will
 cause her to drop her best crystal without a moment’s
 hesitation.

I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she
 has invested in her career, she will be professionally
 derailed by motherhood. She might successfully arrange for 
child care, but one day she will be waiting to go into an
 important business meeting, and she will think about her
 baby’s sweet smell.  She will have to use every ounce of
 discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure he 
is all right.

I want my friend to know that everyday routine decisions
 will no longer be routine. That a visit to McDonald’s and a 
five year old boy’s desire to go to the men’s room rather
 than the women’s room will become a major dilemma. That
 right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming 
children, issues of independence and gender identity will be
 weighed against the prospect that danger may be lurking in 
the rest room.

I want her to know that however decisive she may be at the
 office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.  
Looking at my attractive friend, I want to assure her that
 eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but will
 never feel the same about herself. That her life, now so 
important, will be of less value to her once she has a child.
  That she would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, 
but will also begin to hope for more years, not so much to
 accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish his.

I want her to know that a cesarean scar or stretch marks
 will become badges of honor.

My friend’s relationship with her husband will change, but 
not in the ways she thinks.  I wish she could understand how
 much more you can love a man who is always careful to powder
 the baby or who never hesitates to play with his son. I think
 she should know that she will fall in love with her husband
 again for reasons she would never have imagined.

I wish my modern friend could sense the bond she will feel
 with other women throughout history who have tried desperately
to stop war and prejudice and drunk driving.

I want to describe to my friend the exhilaration of seeing
 your son learn to hit a baseball. I want to capture for her 
the laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog for
 the first time. I want her to taste the joy that is so real
 that it hurts.

My friend’s quizzical look makes me realize that tears have 
formed in my eyes.

“You’ll never regret it.” I finally say.

On being thorough.

Today my youngest son and I visited a new pediatrician. Specifically, a behavior pediatrician. I like our regular doctor, he's a nice kid, (I can totally say that, he's at least ten years younger than me) but he's a generalist, and we're reaching the point where we really needed someone more specifically familiar with the issues we are facing, primarily ADHD. (The pediatrician we had for years, who was my pediatrician as a child and had seen absolutely everything, retired last year.)

So we made an appointment with this new doctor, and because of a cancellation, got in almost immediately. And this morning, my son and I spent two hours with her in her office, going over everything that's happened in the last year, what worked and what didn't and why, and came up with a plan for moving forward.

First of all, I have never in my life sat down with a doctor for two hours straight. I've seen therapists where you know you have 50 minutes, so you do feel like you at least have their attention for that period of time, but most of the time when you see a doctor, they have one hand on the doorknob the entire time. This doctor was relaxed, ready to hear our entire story start to finish, talked me both me and my son (although I let him play on my phone for most of the time, partly to keep him busy and partly so he'd not be overly focused on the negative aspects of the conversation that needed to be said.)

I was really impressed with this doctor. I felt like she listened, offered ideas, and together we arrived at a decision with which I am very comfortable. I guess my take away here is this: trust your instincts, and get another doctor when you feel you need one. Again, I like our regular pediatrician, he's very nice, very laid back, the boys like him. We will continue to see him for our regular pediatric needs - sick visits and physicals. But as a generalist, and one with only a few years of experience at that, he just doesn't have the depth of knowledge that we needed here.

Here's the funny thing: the new doctor? Who is super thorough? Her name is Dr. Therou.

Boys and hygiene: like oil and water. Lots and lots of oil.

Remember when your little ones were so excited for that evening ritual of bathtime? When they couldn't wait to finish dinner so everyone could all run upstairs and strip off their clothes and climb in that big, bubbly hot, toy-filled tub of joy and splash around for a while, getting clean in the process?

Well, it ends. Especially with boys. They no longer long to be clean. They no longer care. They are too busy playing Nerf gun wars in the backyard or building intricate lego sets to be bothered with bathing, putting on clean socks, or for that matter, pajamas. Sometimes they sleep in their clothes. Nowadays all I hear when I suggest it's time for the bath or shower is whining. Now that my kids are a little more self-sufficient, (or at least I thought they were) I find myself saying things like, "when was the last time you used shampoo?" and "dude, you are ripe."

And what do I hear back from them? "Um, do I need to change my underwear?"

YES! This is a question that needs to be asked?

My friends with teens tell me it changes again soon, the pendulum swings back again, and then you cannot get them OUT of the shower.

I look forward to that. I think.

Creation

Is a process. It doesn't matter the product, but it is what is learned along the way. Drew is in process of learning baseball technique, and it is gorgeous to watch. He works hard at catching, batting, and learning the rules of the game. Attention spans deter him, but over all, he is focused and wants to get better.

We, Randy and I are important to his creation. We support, get him the tools he needs, and encourage him to keep going when frustration gets the best of him. We remind him it is a game to be enjoyed first, practiced to get better second.

I also see a new piece of my process as I set up my lawn chair between two other moms. We cheer, we watch, we talk, we laugh, and we support. This marks my beginning as a sports mom, and I wasn't sure about the role, but I find it fits me well. I like the independence of the boys, and I look forward to their growth and development, but I still love when they charge into my lap for hugs, reassurance, love, or giggles.

So we create, we shift and change, and look forward to the next step, but not the end because, well, because the end isn't truly there until it is, and then we'll know. And until then we are made to discover, create, and refine.

Fear in Parenthood

There are many things that have scared me about parenthood. The very act of choosing to create a baby, wondering how that baby would come out of my body...even how I would feed that baby.

In hindsight these things seem minor to the frightening aspects of sending those children out into the world without you by their sides.

When my first child started Kindergarten it was after spending years in an environment where I knew the parents of her friends well, knew her teachers well because they were former coworkers, and felt a lot of control over her environment. Sending her to a school where I knew few (one) of the children, none of the teachers and had zero control over her environment was a big shock.

I cried uncontrollably each day I dropped her off at school for days. I mourned our days together. Now, someone else was spending more time with my child each day than I was. This still irks me. I want my kids with me more than they are with someone else.

That aside, the fears of parenthood grow in elementary school. There is bullying. There is bullying even if there is an excellent behavior plan (and there is at my kids' school). Kids can be so mean and I think they are meaner than ever.

I think there are excellent parents out there and I think there are many, many more sub-par parents than ever out there. If you take into consideration parenting in years past, parents didn't have to worry about things like they do now. Yes, you may worry that your child will survive infancy in the past. Modern medicine has made this a slim worry. Now, though, you have to worry about drugs, guns, bullying to the point your child commits suicide in desperation, etc. And where do those bullies, gun-toters, drug dealers come from? Well, I'd guess some of them come from homes like yours and mine. Yes, I believe there are kids out there that will do wrong no matter what their parents do. But there are those kids out there whose parents propped them in a corner holding their own bottles when they were 4 months old. There are the mothers who smoked pot or did crack or whatever while they were pregnant. There are the parents who strike their kids for any impudence.

My kids are spirited. They back talk. I consider the back talk a sign that they are growing, testing, but they still know that they will be loved no matter what they say.

I hope that my children can navigate the school years without bullying, without shame, with heads head high.

I can't guarantee anything. There is the fear.

Challenges of Child Spacing

There are several aspects of having three children that I hadn’t considered or properly realized until recently. In my case, my two older children are just that, older.

While the spacing between my second and third children was not planned to be almost 4 years, that is how it worked out and for the most part it is working just fine. We don’t know any differently.

However, one challenge of having the third child so much younger than the other two is that as a toddler she wants to do everything her siblings do even if she physically can’t do it yet. Her siblings climb the tall slides at the parks or the indoor bounce house and D wants to join them. Nevermind that there are things just her size that she can do…it’s just not the same. Her frustration at her own size and limitations is evident in the squawks and screeches and the boneless protests of being led away from the “big kid” things.

I imagine I felt some of the same frustrations as a toddler, wanting to follow my older brother around and being just a little too small to do what I wanted. My brother is also almost 4 years older than I, like K is almost 4 years older than D.

Although the age difference is a bit challenging right now, I know that it will not always be so. By the time D turns 3 she will be running and jumping with her siblings and cousins without problem. She is close to that point already and she’s not quite two.

Before I know it, my three children will be running in a pack together, forgetting what it was like to be an only, or one of two, taking for granted that there are the three.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Gift From The Sea

More than 50 years ago, in 1955, the wife of Charles Lindbergh (yes, the one who flew across the Atlantic) took a few weeks away from her family (yes, the one that had lost a baby to a tragic kidnapping 20 years earlier) and traveled to Captiva Island on the Gulf Coast of Florida. By herself. There, she contemplated her identity, her place in the world, and her role as a woman in her family. More than 50 years later, the words she penned in eight short essays still ring true when I read them today. Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea has refreshed me during these past dreary weeks, deep in winter's grips. Her images of the sunny seashore account for some of this, but it is her treatment of woman's identity that grabs and holds my attention so that I can read the whole book in one sitting.

The Gulf Coast is filled, dare I say littered, with seashells. As Anne Morrow LIndbergh collects the shells that were no doubt plentiful all around her, she relates each of them to an essential part of her psyche. Solitude, simplicity, evolution. She considers her role as a women in a nuclear family, as wife and mother, while children are young and after they have left her alone. What she consistently comes back to is that woman should relish in her own self, rejuvenate herself daily, annually, and through each season of life. Remind herself that she is an individual, and yet eternally connected to her family and her world that is always around her.

I've been to a few of those old beachside bungalows. They usually have only two or three electrical sockets in the whole structure, simply wooden furniture, maybe an old television. The sink in the kitchenette is porcelain and stained, the floor is linoleum and covered with woven polyester place rugs, and the shelves are lined with ancient bleached shells and coral. As Lindbergh writes of her seashells on her desk and ruminates what significance they hold, I can't help but imagine what calm and peace she must have felt there on the Island, sitting in her quiet cabin listening to the sea, separated from all those who knew her intimately. The ability to relax and reflect must have enabled her to find pervasive truths of her life that ring so true in my own. I must not be the only woman ever to have responded this way as a result of reading the short book; it's now being published in its 50th anniversary edition.

What I find the most remarkable about the essays is their timeless quality. Lindbergh made her trek to the sea and wrote these words before the Women's Liberation Movement of the 1960s, yet the identity issues that she grapples with still ring true with me today. Who am I if I don't take the time to be still and listen to myself? What does it mean for me to be in a relationship with my spouse and with each of my children? How much am I adversely affected by the clutter of unnecessary things and ideas around me? She certainly wasn't the first one to discuss these ideas, nor the last. But she succinctly discusses each one for just long enough to get the gears in my minds turning and then curtly stops in order to let my mind continue thinking.

Maybe I'll reread the book again next winter when I need to feel warm and refreshed again.

Rearranging for Baby

When you find out for the first time that you’re having a baby it is both exciting and terrifying. I remember also feeling a little bit of remorse for the life I was leaving behind.

Some people will tell you that your lives will be drastically different and others will tell you to just tell your child “no” and things will be fine. When I was pregnant with M, our house was filled with knick knacks. They were on low tables, medium tables, tall shelves. There were knick-knacks that, when I had a mobile toddler, I was sure she wouldn’t be able to reach. She reached. She climbed and reached those knick-knacks and as I approached her telling her “no no!” she’d smile, wind up, and LOB that precious Hummel figurine at me with glee.

Her behavior disturbed me. My mom was one of the people who told me that all I needed to do was tell my child “no” and that should be fine to stop her from touching things. I was frustrated beyond belief that my beautiful, spunky child so openly disregarded everything I said. I was at a loss. I figured I was failing as a parent less than two years into my new gig. To top it off I was pregnant with another child that I figured I would screw up just as much. I brought up my concern at the ECFE class that M and I were currently in and the facilitator gave me sage advice: put the knick-knacks away if you don’t want them broken.

It seemed a bit like admitting failure, but I packed away my precious Hummels and other decorative objects. I decided I’d rather enjoy my little girl than battle her to save my “things.” The day after I packed away those things my stress level dropped dramatically. I was no longer worried that my collectibles would be damaged. M was free to climb and explore and touch.

Seven and a half years later (and two more kids later) those knick-knacks I packed away are still packed away. I don’t really know what is in that box. I will bring those things back out when D is a bit older. I’ll have all my Hummels out again. I’ve acquired a few more things since then, some of which D has taken to climbing the sofa to touch. She is more patient with me though, and will hand me the object as I come to retrieve it rather than trying to take out my head.

I know the day will soon come that I can have breakables scattered on low tables and shelves and I will almost definitely prefer the need to have them packed away.

Expectations: What To Expect...

Way back in the summer of 1993, I found out I was pregnant for the first time, with my oldest daughter. I was 21-years-old and knew nothing about pregnancy or infancy. My oldest sister mailed me her copy of What To Expect When You're Expecting. I was grateful. I read that book cover to cover, letting each word of wisdom, advice, and counseling sink deep into my bones.

One look at the cover told me it was time to grow up.


The woman on that cover says it all. Matronly, solemn, practical, pragmatic. She has no use for fashion or the stresses of the world or a good haircut. All she needs is her blue and mauve artificial flower arrangement, a pair of good, solid, gray flats and a wooden rocking chair in which to sit while she reads.

I could have recoiled and rebelled, refusing to take on the image. I was a typical college student of the 90s, experimenting with my identity through the newly formed grunge movement. Out was tailored and refined and melodic; in was bohemia and retro and cachophony. But this was no time to be watching reruns of the first season of The Real World. I was expecting a baby, and mothers were expected to be, well, mothers.

By the time I reach my last trimester and I was celebrating Christmas with my family in Florida, I was realizing my use for this book was quickly fading. Within six weeks I would no longer be expecting, but I would have an actual baby. My sister was quick on her feet again and gifted me with a copy of What To Expect The First Year.


Grateful for the new primer, I began reading it cover to cover, following the guidelines of how to diaper my new baby, how to dress her, how to bathe her, how to feed her, and on and on and on.

And so my education in parenting continued throughout my daughter's formative years. It wasn't until she was a preschooler that I needed to rely upon information outside of the What To Expect series. At that point, I stored away the books and saved them for the time when I became a parent again.

Fifteen years passed before I successfully carried a pregnancy beyond the first trimester again. I didn't even bother getting out Expecting. Mine was a high risk pregnancy from the get-go, and every question I had (if it was addressed in the book at all) was answered curtly with 'you should check with your doctor.' Somewhere around month 5 of my pregnancy, I realized I should get out The First Year and at least make sure I remembered how to swaddle a baby.

As I reread the book, I found myself in shock. What was this tome of archaic, authoritative, one-sided narrative? Where was the balance? Sure, I knew a lot had changed in 15 years in childbirth and hospital protocol, but the content that was shocking to me went far beyond whether to allow hospital staff to give your baby sugar water. It was the topic of where baby should sleep that startled me.

My husband and I had decided baby should sleep with us in our bedroom. The First Year couldn't have been more against this idea. Sure, it's fine at first when you have a newborn, but later, you better get that kid out of the room. True to What To Expect fashion, the book lists out a "number of serious problems" associated with co-sleeping. Less sleep for parents, less sleep for baby, less lovemaking, and more problems for everyone when the baby has to adjust later. The short solution given was this: get the baby out of your room quickly.

Really? Serious problems? And there's no way to avoid these problems? That's it? No discussion necessary, case closed, end of story?

The book goes on addressing the issue by saying that co-sleeping seems to work fine in other societies, but not this one. "In a society like ours, which stresses the development of independence and the important of privacy, co-sleeping is associated with a wide range of problems." Again with the laundry list: increased likelihood of sleep disorders, dental problems due to too-frequent and unnecessary nighttime feedings, stunting of emotional development, difficulty relating to peers, marital problems, and even behavior issues stemming from lack of boundaries between parents and children.

Is there no room for fostering intimacy between parents and children? Bonding as a couple with the baby? Extending the intimacy that brought the child there in the first place to include intimacy with the actual child? And what's up with valuing independence and privacy as the traits of utmost importance? I mean, sure, you want kids to be confident and individuals, but isn't a sense of family oneness important too?

By the chapter on month six, the book suggests that to reduce nighttime feedings, you go cold turkey and just let the baby cry it out. Oh my. I just couldn't agree with that.

As a parent, I have oftentimes lamented at why I chose to do things the way I did with my older daughter. Why didn't I consider cuddling more with her, why did I push her to achieve and succeed and be independent so much, why did I think that strict obedience was so important at such an early age? Rereading What To Expect The First Year made me realize that some portion of my approach came from following the advice that was given as gospel truth. It never occurred to me that there wasn't only one best way to parent. How you build a family differs with who you are and what you want your family to be like. What works for one family won't work for you. The decisions you make as a parent are an outgrowth of your personality, your partner's, and, to some extent, your children's.

I haven't taken the time to read the updated version of Expecting and The First Year. Maybe the content has changed with the times and is more balanced now. At least the cover art is a little more realistic. (But they still hold on to that quilted background, like quilting is a necessary part of the transformation of woman to mother.)



Regardless of what the authors of What To Expect have decided their advice will be at this point, I think I've learned a more important lesson through my years as a parent. Take every piece of information with a grain of salt.

rest within the race

Two boys are busy. Now, it is all relative. My friends with 3 or more roll their eyes enduringly at me. They smile and nod with a knowing smile that says, in the nicest way possible, that I have NO idea.

But really, I think I have an idea….maybe just one, but I’ll put it out there.
When I started training for a ½ marathon, I had no idea how long 13 miles is. Really, I didn’t, or I wouldn’t have followed through probably, heh. I stuck to my training schedule and each time the mileage increased I’d start to get a bit anxious. Wow, 5 miles? That’s far. How will I make it? What if I have to walk? Do you think I should take some gel? Like I said, I had no idea. Each time I would come home from a run I’d tell Randy I wasn’t sure if I had another mile in me.
But I always did.

Parenting is a really, really, really long training schedule. Each child adds a different dimension. There are some “runs” that make us want to quit and throw it in. After others we feel like we “just don’t have another mile in us.” There is no throwing the towel in or returning a child, there is an acceptance of the training, and a moment in which finally, an answer, never the answer, is clear.
One child, two children, red children blue children, it doesn’t matter – there are challenges in this race, this race in which to raise creative, kind, confident kids with a heart for others. It is hard, and sometimes it takes moments of selfishness to really do the trick.

For my mother, it was walks around the house. When she couldn’t stand our bickering and complaining we would find her walking around the house. She would pause at the flowers, pull weeds, or just walk. Over and over, she’d walk. For me, it is running. When the boys become too much, when I’d rather put them to bed at 9 am than start the day, I know it is time for a run. My grandmother sewed, my husband fishes, and my friends read, go for coffee, scrapbook, and watch movies. There are times built into the training called rest days. Those are the days where 44 hours of wii is ok. Those are the days where one more movie isn’t going to hurt. Those are the days where ice cream for dinner is just about perfection. Those days, those rest days, are important. They allow us to build back, center again, and remember the goal at the end.

This Saturday was a running day. Randy and Drew went to the hockey game and Owen and I went swimming. This weekend poor Owen’s binky “broke” and they just don’t make any more. He was sad, couldn’t sleep very well, and was, frankly, mad at the world. It was time for binky to go, and it was time for me to man up and run the run. Somewhere in this week will be a rest day. A day to release all the tension and unrest from the weekend, but in the meantime I keep reminding myself that: A. My miles and someone else’s miles are different and certainly we are training for different races. B. that I can run another mile. And C. I love the process. I love the training. I love the challenges.

Enjoy the race.
Enjoy the rest.

Book Review: You're Wearing That? by Deborah Tannen

You're Wearing That? Understanding Mothers and Daughters in Conversation
by Deborah Tannen

When my oldest daughter was entering her tweens, after a year of hearing she and I argue relentlessly, my husband ordered You're Wearing That? by Deborah Tannen and gave it to me for light reading. He hoped something in the book would help us girls work out our conflicts. I've been a daughter for almost four decades and a mother for almost 16 years. I've got two sisters (no brothers) and two daughters (no sons). Suffice it to say, I've spent my lifetime thinking about how mothers and daughters converse. I started a blog in order to work out my ideas. I have spent God-only-know-how-many dollars on long distance phone calls with friends and family discussing my angst. When the book was in my hands, I read it cover to cover in three days. I found out I'm not the only one who feels this way.

Chances are that you are...

...an adult daughter and that you have something to work out with your mother, or...

...the mother of a grown daughter, wondering why she's so angry or depressed or distant or riled whenever you talk to her, or...

...the mother of a daughter and you wonder what your relationship will be like with her once she is grown. You might even wonder what it will be like once she's past childhood and into her tweens and (gasp!) her teen years. Or...

...the husband or brother or son of a woman you KNOW needs to improve her communication with her mother or daughter.

If any of these apply, buy the book and read it. Or buy it secondhand. Or check it out from the library. Or go in together with five friends, read it one by one and passing it to the next when you are finished. Then talk about it together. It'll be worth your while, your effort and your pennies.

Tannen focuses on the relationships mothers and daughters have once the daughter is grown. It seems like the relationship should be easy enough to navigate, right? A mother nurtures her daughter through infancy and childhood, loves her, and wants the best for her. The daughter looks up to her mother, feels supported and loved, seeks her advice and approval in her times of need, and feels physical pain if her mother hurts. Sounds like the makings of a perfect symbiotic relationship. Perhaps that's why it's such a mystery to women around the world why they say the nastiest things to their mothers and why mothers are so quick to push all the wrong buttons with their daughters.

There is a dynamic push and pull of the mother-daughter relationship, one which Tannen explains is different from all other familial relationships. A daughter seeks her own identity and to define herself as an individual. Weighed against that is her mother's perspective, a woman who sees her daughter as an extension of herself. The two ideals work against each other, sometimes in ways the two women cannot even verbalize consciously.

As I read the book, I found myself realizing that I had to start changing the way I mothered NOW. My daughter was 12 at the time, but the push and pull was already there. This young woman, barely starting her adolescence, would (God-willing) be in a relationship with me for the next 50-60 years. We could continue down the rocky path I had set us on or I could make the choice to repave the path, a path we could walk down together and enjoy the beauty of the view instead of constantly criticizing each other's make-up, hair cut and choice of clothing.

The book is such an easy read, so enjoyable, and so enlightening. Tannen is a linguist (so am I), but I don't recommend the book because of our common research interest. For me, I was delightfully surprised to find that the book wasn't just another volume in my library of linguistics books, but instead it was a book that, when I was deeply engrossed in, I didn't even remember was written by a colleague at all.

So pick it up and treat yourself to a new perspective. I'm glad I did.

Table for One

There was a time when I hated eating alone in a restaurant. Young and unattached, far from my family, it would seem as if everyone else had groups of friends and family surrounding them, and that everyone was staring at me if I dared dine alone.

All that has changed now. Now when we go out to eat, it's at the very least a table for two, but more often a table for six. With a high chair and a booster and four kids' menus and could-we-talk-to-the-manager-about-this-food-allergy-thing, please. About the only thing I do by myself these days is go to the ladies' room, and I'm often not even successful at that.

Last week, however, I had a meeting to attend. With adults, people from my former profession, none of whom have young children any more. And afterward, instead of the usually mess of errands to run in my few minutes alone, I chose to have a nice lunch. By myself.

I walked into the Olive Garden, and smilingly requested a table for one. I was completely at ease as my server inquired if I was having a nice day. I was relaxed as I perused the menu, then pulled out my book to read a few precious pages in peace.

A woman nearby had a baby who let out some shrieks, and I just smiled, thinking, "For once that's not me."

It seemed that the service was exceptional and the food tastier than usual, but I suppose that was because I could actually enjoy it without panicking about how long the kids would last before they got restless. The experience was mine to enjoy, quiet and serenity amid the hustle and bustle of the restaurant.

A table for one used to be one of my worst fears, but it's no longer a scary prospect. Now it's a pleasant change from the regular pace of life. I may try it again soon.

A Reason for a Wienie

K, D and I went to a local grocery store yesterday afternoon to see the Wienermobile. (M was at school...first day!) K wouldn't stand by the big dog alone and would only consent if I said D would be in the photo too.
Although we went for a hot dog lunch and a glimpse of the goofy Wienermobile, we also went for a less frivolous reason.

Ann Peterson is a mom, like me, but she has four kids. A six-year-old and 2 1/2-year-old triplets. She was at the grocery store today. She sat quietly with her family and took in the hubbub that surrounded the giant hot dog. Her eyes were proud.

Ann Peterson sat in a wheel chair. Just seven months ago she was diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), also known as Lou Gehrig's disease. ALS is a neurological condition that affects the nerves that control voluntary muscles. Ann's muscles are deteriorating. Her speech is being affected.

The family needs to modify their home to accommodate a power wheelchair. They also need a vehicle that will do the same.

That's what brought us to the Wienermobile. Those hot dogs they were selling were for Ann.

There were many people who came out to help Ann and her family. This photo only shows the beginning of a long line. But even if all of those people bought a $1 hot dog, there would not be nearly enough to pay for these things that Ann and her family need.

As I stood nearby Ann, urging K to eat his hot dog, I thought about how I would feel if I were in her chair at a benefit for me. I assume I'd feel gratitude, but also humbled.

My heart breaks for her kids.

If you're so inclined, you can help the Peterson family with a donation:

Peterson Benefit fund:
- Using PayPal: annbenefit@gmail.com-

By Mail: THINK Bank
Ann Peterson Benefit Account
ATTN: Nicole Ganrude
25 2nd St SW
Rochester, MN 55902
OR
Peoples State Bank
400 Division St
Millville, MN 55957

You can read more about the Peterson family and other upcoming fundraisers here. There is also a beautiful photo of the family.

Nursing... Without Nurses

When my first child, my daughter M, was born she didn’t nurse like my other two children have. This refusal to nurse, I strongly believe, was no fault of hers, but more the result of a nurse who didn’t take the time to explain what needed to be done to a (in retrospect) naïve new mother. Instead this nurse took my boob in one hand and my baby’s head in the other and repeatedly tried to shove the two together over the course of more than one hour. The result of this marathon, just hours after my daughter’s somewhat traumatic birth via emergent c-section due to fetal distress, was that my infant would scream like a banshee any time I attempted to nurse her.

I stuck with the effort for only about a week before I succumbed to what I viewed as a failure of my first test of motherhood. Whether out of guilt for that fact or just plain craziness, I pumped my milk for my baby every 2 to 3 hours daily for 6 months. This resulted in my never being able to leave my pump for more than an hour or two at a time, and created twice the work to feed my baby. It was not exactly a recipe for happiness, but I was determined that my child would get my milk for the first six months of her life, just as it was recommended at the time (now it is recommended that babies are breast fed for one year).

In addition to wanting to follow the recommendation for what was best for my baby, I perceived that the bias in my social circle bent toward frowning upon bottle-feeding. While I was, essentially, bottle-feeding, I felt compelled to let everyone know that I was pumping and feeding my own milk. I’m sure that the perception that everyone was judging me for using a bottle was faulty, but I was more than a little neurotic about being unable to nurse my baby like other mothers could nurse theirs.

My obsession with wanting to nurse my child continued long after M was no longer using bottles for any type of milk or formula so when K was growing in my belly I was determined to do all I could to ensure nursing success the second time around. I signed my husband, Craig, and I up for a breast-feeding class. It was a one-evening class that taught the parents all about the benefits of breast feeding and taught a few different holds and techniques. It was nothing I didn’t already know.

When K was born, however, I knew one essential thing that I hadn’t the first time around. I could refuse the nurses’ help. So, when I was wheeled to recovery and asked if I wanted help with getting him to nurse the first time I said no. They left me alone and K and I figured it out together. He nursed for a little more than thirteen months.

M has not suffered one bit for not nursing. In fact, she’s had only 2 ear infections in her nearly six years on the planet, compared to K’s multitude of infections that resulted in ear tube surgery before he was one year old. I knew in my head that this would be the case; that she would be fine, but that didn’t stop me from worrying about these things when I was a first-time mother.

When my third child was born just 5 weeks ago, there were still a few nurses who tried to tell me how to nurse my child…my third child. I politely, but firmly, told them to leave me alone. D and I were learning together, and we’d be just fine. And we are.

Big May

May is a big month for me now that I’m a mom. Well, it always has been an important month to me since I was born in May.

This year, however, May brings some firsts, and lasts.

This Sunday will be my last Mother’s Day as a mom to only 2 children. This month will also be the first time I will be a mother to three children.

There will soon be one more little body to love in our home. One more little personality to watch develop and grow into a little person who will alternately make me so proud that I cry and so mad that I cry.

It’s heady stuff, this being a mom.

I remember playing that I was a mom as a little girl. I remember thinking as a young adult that I might someday want to be a mom. Even when I got married, the concept of being a mom was rather abstract to me.

There is nothing that prepares you for what motherhood will be. It’s wonderful and scary and tiring and maddening and the greatest job in the world. I heard all about what others said it would be. But like many things, you can’t really know until you experience it.

I thought that I was a mother when I was pregnant with my first child. Technically, I was. But really? No. I wasn’t a mother until my child was born and in my arms depending on me to teach her how to exist in this world.

There is something in my heart that hurts just a little bit when my children seem to be actively defying my husband or me and then I realize that they just didn’t understand what we were telling them. If you’re a parent and your child is more than 2 years old, you’ve probably been there. Your child starts to cry because they’re scared about something that you just didn’t explain because you thought they understood.

That’s when you realize how important being a mom is. How much we have to teach our kids. How much they really just don’t know, and how scary that can make the world seem. How careful we need to be with little feelings.

A mom is a very powerful being to those who call her mom.

And soon, I’ll have the power to shape another life.
I only hope that I’m up for the task.

Another Phase...for Mother and Child

Motherhood, I have found, is not unlike childhood.  We start off not knowing much, really, about what lies ahead.  We learn on the job, sometimes from parents, sometimes from experts, often from friends.  We make mistakes.  We misspeak.  We learn the meaning of mercy and grace.

With my eldest entering the tween years, I’ve entered a new phase of motherhood (and yes, it takes a lot of mercy and grace, on both of our parts).  In doing so, I’ve come to realize that motherhood, like childhood, is just that: a series of phases.  Some we relish, others we endure, but each phase comes and then—poof—it goes.  It vanishes and we are onto the next.

Before I even had children, I experienced a phase where I thought I knew a few things about motherhood.  I certainly knew what I wouldn’t do.  Ha! 

Then came the infant phase, which knocked me right into “how will I ever survive this” land.  I know that there are lots of you out there who ooohhh and aaahhhh over infants, and today I do, too.  But when I was seriously sleep-deprived, a thousand miles from anyone I knew, and lonely, I wondered if I would ever see the light of day again. 

But then he started to laugh.  And crawl.  And I loved that phase.  I loved it when he made a mess, threw a tantrum, and sat on my lap for hours reading picture books.  I loved it right up until he turned three.

The three-year old phase was a bit more challenging, but still fun.  All in all, we were good, and I knew what I was doing, and then he turned eleven.

And that’s where I find myself now, lost again, struggling to figure out what’s up, what’s down.  My sweet boy is still sweet, but suddenly prone to outbursts (you’re ruining my life!) and comparisons (every other person in my class has video games!) that have previously been absent.  Hormones (his, not mine), independence, and the quest for self-identity—we are here, suddenly, dramatically, here.

Way back in the day when I was still thinking about having children, a friend of mine, Cindy (already a mother of three), was a great encourager.  I couldn’t start having kids soon enough for her.  One day, she gave me a re-print of an article written by Dale Hanson Bourke that speaks about motherhood as truthfully and eloquently as I’ve ever seen it. (Click here to read it.)  It touches me as much to read it today as it did over a decade ago.  And as we make our way though yet another phase, of motherhood and childhood, I have to concur:  It’s changed my life and I’ll never regret it.