In Words and Deeds

Notes from the Hammock: Unscripted Childhood

2010-06-01T22:59:00.001-07:00

After the "winter that would not end" and the "spring, what spring," summer has arrived in my part of the world, and it is glorious! For me this means that I can *finally* let my energetic Big Kidlet, who is now a newly self-sufficient three year old, putter around the backyard without (constantly) worrying that he will get himself injured by all manner of harmful hazards my first time mother brain has obsessed over since he first toddled away from me; although, he did learn this week that the water in his water/sand table is most definitely NOT for drinking, courtesy of an aching tummy. This also means introducing Little Kidlet to the joys of being lazy in the hammock, emphasis on "lazy."

I'm not one of those "go-go" mothers who ferries my kids to endless classes, preschool drop-offs, or even overly many playdates. I chose to stay home and find another professional path, and we make lots of sacrifices to be able to make that happen. Part of this is consciously reactionary to the culture I find myself raising my kids in, and partially it is just "what feels normal" to me.

I grew up in a small rural town, and was an only child. My mother stayed home with me while also pursuing her MBA. She didn't view motherhood as "cruise director." Often I would be away for the entire day, returning tired and dirty from my ramblings. I was bored ALOT. I was often lonely to. But I also developed an ability to just be in the moment, something I struggle to regain in adulthood. I would climb on the back of my horse grazing in the pasture and lay on his back and just listen. I developed an imagination. I was always happiest in the barn storage where my mom stored the artifacts of my parents' lives, and I imagined I could play the trumpet I found there like Chet Baker, or read my mother's Pippi Longstocking books written in Norwegian.

Today, the birds were singing in the sunshine we've waited months for, and I took some time with my boys to once again just listen, to not have an agenda for the experience or the learning I wanted them to have, and simply be with them. I lay in the hammock and watched what my boys were learning. Little Kidlet and I gently swayed with the trees above us as he attempted to grab anything he could get his hands on, and Big Kidlet attempted to coax the birds to the birdbath, with calls of "here birdie, come and take a break and have a drink."

The deck needs to be redone, my house doesn't keep up with the Jones', I am an oddity because my kid isn't going to preschool, and I clearly need a pedicure, but I am so so blessed to be able to be right where I want to be, giving my kids some measure of the wonder of an unscripted childhood that I was given.

My greatest pride is found in the small exchanges (endlessly peppered with questions) that I have with Big Kidlet as he asks me: "Can I be an animal rescuer mommy, can I...in my imagination?" To which I reply: "Yes, honey, in your imagination you can be anything."

A River Runs Through It

2010-05-20T14:21:00.000-07:00

I never really think of myself as particularly "artistic," mainly because when I draw or paint with my three year old son, well let's just say I haven't progressed much in my rendering ability since my childhood. But, I've recently begun to realize I tend to think in pictures. When I'm having discussions with people, and I'm articulating my point, I usually have distinct metaphorical images in my mind.

Today as I was explaining the place that I now find myself in with my oldest child, images of water swirled in my brain. In the past, particularly while I have navigated post-partum depression, parenting has felt like the ocean for me: vast, unknowable, unending, with forceful waves relentlessly pursuing me at the shore, threatening to tug me under.

But, at the moment we have reached this place where things have evened out for both myself and my son, and parenting doesn't feel so much like the ocean, as it does a river: twisting, always surprising, where I will at times find roaring and frightening rapids with jagged unseen rocks to navigate, only to find just around the bend a serene and smooth stretch, where I regain a sense of wonder, and peace, and I can rest. Presently, I'm floating seemingly effortlessly along with the current. I'm blissfully in the moment, not fretting about what has come before, nor nervously anticipating the geography of the landscape ahead.

While an ocean indiscriminately covers and conceals the terrain, its depths largely unmapped, its tides powerful and unceasing, a river is a different force; a river changes the surface of the terrain. A river has a plan, that flexes to the land, but doggedly pursues its end to create a "wide, flat valley where it can flow smoothly towards the ocean."

In those moments of peace as I am carried by the smooth waters of motherhood, I appreciate the grooves and valleys that the River has carved, and marvel at the steady force that has reshaped the topography, leveling mountains in its wake. In those peaceful meanders I restore myself for the rougher waters ahead.

Photo by Jim's outside photos

A Constant Gardener

2010-04-27T22:40:00.000-07:00

My husband likes to say, "track-record, track-record," when referring to the true nature of people. Many times I protest that he is being overly cynical, but I have to concede that often times he is correct. My track record is that I am a "serial starter," but not always a faithful “finisher." This probably causes me the most angst when I'm trying to find my way, whether that is figuring out how to parent, or how to realize my intentions and goals. I often feel frustrated that the bloom of enthusiasm can so easily wither on the vine. The metaphor is apt, because without care and tending, what started out with so much potential can be allowed to degrade and ultimately die out. As a mother, that keeps me awake at night, fretting over every misstep and implication of my bumbling through the daily challenges of raising my children. But surprisingly it isn't a given, and this gives me great hope.

We are blessed with a large and beautiful backyard. Our house needs a lot of TLC, but we bought the place because we could see our kids in this backyard. While we have sacrificed and scrimped a lot to be here, and to live our lives according to our values, one of the luxuries we allow ourselves for now is a gardening service. The gardener, and his father before him, has taken care of this yard since the original owner, and each occupant has kept him on. I have a little plot within our larger backyard where we like to plant flowers and herbs. The gardener largely leaves this area to our whims. Once, as a gift to me, my husband made a detailed plan and planted several carefully selected varieties. We tended it well for a good deal of time, but nevertheless over time, our attention drifted, and some things flourished while others did not survive. We blamed this on our lack of a carefully disciplined approach to tending the area. If we had tried harder, and held ourselves more accountable, things would have turned out better we scolded ourselves.

Once, someone gave me a mini rose bush, and we planted it there. We had planted at least one other before, that died, but we put another out there nevertheless. We didn't really over think it, just planted it and let it grow. This weekend, out on the porch, while enjoying the first of the beautiful spring weekends to come with my children, I noticed, really noticed, that the rose bush had grown and thrived. My husband told me that the gardener often goes and tends the bush, even when we are not being as attentive as we should. It seems he simply cannot help himself.

It gives me hope that even when we get lost and inattentive, there is a constant gardener looking out for our little rose bushes.

The photo is mine. Please ask permission for reproduction.

It's a Question of What You Give Your Focus To

2010-04-19T01:15:00.000-07:00

I've been quiet blog wise the last week or two. Life was mostly busy with the celebration of my firstborn's third birthday, which was so much fun, because this year he "gets" the hoopla. In fact, he thinks that every Tuesday is his birthday at the moment. All wants and desires are prefaced with "maybe after nappy? On my birthday, on Tuesdays?" I tell you, moments I want to hug him tight and tell him to "full stop" getting any older than this magical age! That is until the next tantrum, because his burgeoning will has been thwarted by the tyrannical Mother Overlord. In those moments, I'm projecting forward 20 years and hoping like hell I've made the right decisions to help him come out the other end with both of our sanity in tact.

The other event that had me taking a mental retrenching was my parents complete obliviousness to said three year old's birthday. Long and painful episode vastly edited and truncated, I have had to dig deep to realize that their actions are their actions and choices alone, and to further call upon my faith to find compassion and let that rule my regard for the situation. I'm vastly grateful and proud frankly that it didn't plunge me back into the abyss of depression, and that I credit to will and grace (not the TV show). Simply put, I'm moving on. I choose to focus on something else.

Something I'm focusing on this week in my goal to be more present for my family is taming the lure of constant connectivity. This week in honor of Earth Day, I've taken the Great TV Rebellion of 2010 Pledge, and I'm also using it as the official start of more organized homeschooling activities in our household. I'll share what we are up to as we go along on this new journey. Want to join us this week in turning off the TV and electronics and tuning into the outdoors and your children? Head here.

So, if I'm quiet, you know what I'm up to. The TV will be a cinch...Twitter, now that's gonna hurt :)

And God Said: "You're Not the Boss of Me"

2010-04-08T15:02:00.000-07:00

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." – Jeremiah 29:11

Do you know what's good for you? If you are like me, you think you do. You know that if things could just be... everything would be just fine, am I right? The Bible passage I quoted comes up frequently in my small group discussions. Often we talk about how God always answers prayers, but it's not always the answer you wanted.

I had a moment this morning when I woke up next to Little Kidlet where it was as if a veil obstructing my understanding had been lifted and I realized something important. In making my way through this postpartum depression, I have fixated on the fact that Little Kidlet would not sleep neatly and compliantly in the wonderful and comfy little co-sleeper I had set up next to my bed. I lamented to myself, and yes, said prayers, that if this child would just sleep where I needed him to sleep (emphasis on I) then I would be better rested, my husband less cranky, etc., etc.

I didn't set out to bed share with my children, although I wasn't opposed to it...up to a point. With my first child, he hated the bassinet, and ended up sleeping with us for several months, but ultimately we transitioned him to his own room and a crib by the time he was six months old. The transition at night was just fine, although daytime took several more months. We had no need of even contemplating the loaded and loathed method of "cry-it-out," and nor would I have pursued that option. In fact, I took pride in honoring my mother's instincts and after attending a "sleep specialist's" talk to my local moms' group, only going because daytime sleeping was an issue, I flatly rejected her proclamation that I could never expect my son to be able to sleep interchangeably in the bed and crib--it had to be one or the other. I went back to the drawing board, tuned into my son, equipped myself, and in time he did just that with no draconian methods employed. He's been a "good sleeper" ever since.

When number two was imminently arriving, I made plans to be able to have the baby with us as we had had my oldest, but with an added measure of safety with the co-sleeper. The Husband doesn't sleep as soundly because he was/is paranoid that he will roll onto the baby. Ultimately "the plan" was to transition Big Kidlet into his "big boy bed" and have the baby join him later in the room in the newly available crib. I figured by six months, we should be fine. Cue laughter of the reader to this obvious example of "the best laid plans" of an overachieving delusional mother. I blame it partially on my background in management. I was used to people doing what I (benevolently) directed them to do.

To say that parenting has been a "humbling" experience in this regard would be a massive understatement.

So when Little Kidlet had a different agenda, in my fog of exhaustion and depression, I cried out to God, "Can you help me out with this? I need this kid to give me some space, I'm drowning here!" And He didn't answer this perceived need, at least I thought he didn't, until I awoke this morning.

When I woke this morning snuggled to my child I realized that God had given me exactly what I needed. Because, I was drowning, and I needed a life preserver...a little warm bundle of life preserving wonder that would not leave my side...even in the dead of night, or the deepest darkness of my depression.

God blessed me and answered my prayers for help, but not in the way I directed Him to.

Photo by woodleywonderworks

On Turning Three: Happy Birthday Big Kidlet

2010-04-06T23:07:00.000-07:00

My "baby" is turning three. He's becoming his own little person. Things are changing, and I'm trying to roll with it, and not tremendously gracefully I might add. When he was a young toddler, he used to sit in my lap nightly as I rocked and asked me to keep singing. Now, when I start to sing randomly during our day, more often than not, he turns to me indignantly and commands me: "Don't sing mommy, don't siiiiiiiiinnnnnggg!" Really? Already? I thought I had a few more years of being the coolest thing since...oh wait...that would be his father. In a myriad other ways he's already starting to pull away from me...and wait, I need a tissue.

Maintaining connection to him has been tough; I barely have a connection to myself right now. But I'm trying. I'm focusing on doing "projects" together when his brother is napping, and I think he really enjoys the unfiltered one on one time. Even though "I do it my-SELF" can be heard at least ten times per day (on a good day), I have noted the tone of happiness when we sit down and work on something and he asks me "we do it TO-gether, mommy?" It makes me happy to. It's doesn't come naturally to me, but it seems to get a little easier with practice.

In honor of my Big Kidlet's birthday, I want to list the things that I love about this kid. He really is such a blessing to me, and I pray everyday that I don't squander the gift that is him.

I love...

the things that come out of his mouth right after he wakes up...easily the sweetest, funniest, and most insightful things he says all day;
his skin, it's so, so soft, just like The Husband's. Seriously women pay big money to get skin like this;
his eyelashes...see above...it's really pretty unfair;
his imagination...I love to listen to him in his bed on the monitor;
his zest, and oh I pray I help him keep it;
that he loves books like his mama;
that he wants to help;
that he asks questions;
that he loves his grandparents, and my sister-in-law, even when I don't;
that he points out trucks everywhere we go;
that he is a "good sleeper";
his laugh;
that he has a sense of humor (he'll need it);
that he loves breakfast like I do;
that he's starting to dance;
that he can carry a tune;
that he hums when I hug him like I do;
that he goes down stairs cautiously and tells me "I be careful, mommy";
that he has a tremendous memory (although this can be a challenge);
that he doesn't complain, and rarely whines (I know this could change);
that he stands up for himself;
his eyes, and incredibly his eyebrows, which are the mirror image of mine;
that he seems to have an independent streak, and I pray that he is more at peace with it than I have ever been;
his naked bottom as he is streaking down the hallway to his bath.

I love this child. I give thanks to God for this child, and ask forgiveness every single time I fail him.

As I have often prayed since his birth, I pray that he grows in character, courage, compassion, and conviction.

Happy Birthday Big Kidlet!

Love,

The Mother

Photo by eddiandizosmom

Inside Voice(s): Sometimes It Gets A Little Loud and Crowded

2010-04-05T15:05:00.000-07:00

I had one of those snarky interior dialogue moments today talking with another mother (well actually more listening, she was doing most of the talking), where I thought to myself, "Well, don't YOU just have it ALL figured out..." Thankfully, my inner editor was on the job and saved me from uttering this pretty rude observation. My inner moralizer also popped up to chastise me (always quick to join the fray) , and helpfully explain to me, myself, and I, that I was just jealous about what I perceived to be someone who was having an easier time of it. Then the inner rationalizer joined the party upstairs (it gets kinda crowded in my head sometimes) and started picking away at the conversation by pointing out the challenges this woman lacked (and I have). Truly, I wanted to tell them all to go to...well, you can finish that sentence.

The part of the conversation that really pricked a nerve (aside from that this child ate ALL vegetables and fruits, rarely if ever eats ANYthing from a box, has never had A PIECE of candy, apparently never has had a sniffle, sleeps PERFECTLY, AND doesn't act up EVER) was when I was commenting that my son and I share a passionate nature and have, um, a temper. To this she speedily responded oh no, not her, she just isn't "emotional." Evidence of this offered was that she and her husband have never in their thirteen years together...fought...ever. Now this woman is really pretty sweet, honestly, and on most days I find her chatter pretty non-ire inspiring, but today I am feeling, well, a little emotional and I had the most unseemly urge to duct tape her. I was in no mood. You can imagine the uproar caused upstairs in the critic's loft from that particular thought.

It went down hill from there (inside my head). We parted ways a little while later, and I proceeded to try and not become irrationally irritated navigating my son through the grocery store with his own little cart he so so loves to push all by himself. On the way out as two wine bottles narrowly missed being strewn across the floor, my emotions and nerves were shot, and I chalked it up as one more day I needed to go home, pull some of my manuals down and remind myself how to raise my passionate and emotional kid without murdering him myself first, and hating myself.

Don't mind me, I'm just being emotional.

Photo by brogananneramm

The Stain of a Mother's Love

2010-04-02T21:16:00.000-07:00

How do you view your stretch-marks? When my head is screwed on straight and I have proper appreciation for all of my blessings, I consider them a badge of motherhood honor. I try to think that they are the record of the amazing things my body has done, and tell a bit about the life this body has lived, sort of like the rings of a tree trunk.

Today I added another badge that mattered to me...egg dye stained hands from making Easter eggs for the first time with Big Kidlet. So what, families do it every year, what's the big deal? Well in my family, nope we didn't. I vaguely remember some Easter egg hunts attended as a child, but for the most part it was a non-holiday in my household. I remember when I started to spend significant time with my now husband's family, I just really didn't get all the hoopla about Easter. I understood the religious import in theory, but not in an applicable way.

There is one exception to this. I have a distinct memory from a time when I couldn't have been much older than Big Kidlet is now. It is a resonant memory of dyeing Easter eggs with a woman I called "Nana." She was a family friend, who basically adopted me as an honorary grandchild. At some point not long after, my parents decided that Nana had some issues with driving and chain smoking that made it not a good idea for me to hang out with her, and she disappeared from my life. But I distinctly remember having fun and feeling loved in that hazy memory of brightly colored eggs in an unknown kitchen.

I've felt like a giant mommy slacker when it comes to celebrating holidays because it just is abnormal to me from my upbringing. So, it was a big deal, this small thing of some dye and some hard boiled eggs.

I ran around town doing some errands after, and would catch sight of my natty stained fingers and feel the need to explain to the cashier that I had been dyeing eggs with my son that afternoon. I was the only one who really understood why I said that with a distinct note of pride. I knew I had expressed my love for my child and wore my badge of motherhood honor.

Photo by thisisbossi

Love...Pure and Simple

2010-03-29T23:25:00.000-07:00

This is just a quick post to say how much I love and appreciate my husband. An old friend reminded me today that I am so happy I married someone who grew up, but who knows how to be kid-like (in a good way). He's not perfect, he doesn't seem to mind that neither am I (clearly), and I appreciate that he makes a choice everyday to be a stand-up guy. And, when I look into Little Kidlet's eyes, which are the same as his daddy's, I melt.

~ Love, The Wife

Photo by feltcafe (I wish I were even remotely crafty)

I Feel Rotten, Oh So Rotten: A Beauty Intervention

2010-03-26T22:18:00.000-07:00

Today's accomplishment falls under the goal of doing some restoration of body and soul...

Some people have therapists, some people have bartenders, and others have their hair stylists. My longtime stylist is Michael, and although I am a terribly inconsistent client, each time I slip into that chair, a bedraggled mess, I know he'll work his magic and I'll feel just a little better on the other side. He knows me well (and is reeaaallly good at what he does)...so well in fact that when I slipped into that chair after an eight month absence, he stopped, leveled me with a long look in the mirror I could barely stand to look at myself in and asked with subtext "moving a little slow today?" Oh crap, I can't lie to my mother and I can't lie to Michael.

We have a long history, and he's been there through my ups and downs. The first time we met nearly eleven years ago, I plopped into the chair of his new salon that opened conveniently close to my work place, with long, long blonde virginal hair and said, "I want it short and I want it red." He looked at me steadily with a bit of surprise, and a bit of wariness reflected in his calm eyes, and asked some probing questions designed to ascertain if I really knew what I was asking him for, and assessing my "crazy factor." But once he surmised that I was resolute, and reasonably sane, he proceeded to give me the best cut I'd ever had and a color that I wish my budget and my lately developed awareness of the adverse effects of hair coloring would allow me to duplicate.

It was life changing that cut and color. The look on The Husband's (then The Boyfriend) face, as well as those on the faces of every work colleague who thought they had me pegged, made that cut worth every living penny I paid.

Through the years the cuts and colors have changed (we both mourned a little bit when my decision to stay at home with my kids curtailed my beauty budget and spelled an end to my color habit), but we comfortably knew what to expect from one another. Michael knows that if he's lucky he'll see me maybe twice a year, and I will arrive thoroughly in desperate need of a beauty intervention, but that I will more often than not arrive with an agenda that will probably surprise him and he'll get to have a little fun because I trust his judgement and skills completely. I know that he won't judge that I have let his former masterpieces fall to ruins, and he'll keep a lot of his goops and serums to himself because I generally "don't like crap in my hair." He will let his latest proteges work on me because he knows I'm patient and a risk taker (at least in the hair department), willing to let someone learn. I will tell them some of the crazy things we've done, and urge them to listen to every single thing he teaches them, because they hit the jackpot in mentors. Some I can tell get how special he is in what and how he does what he does, and understand that in addition to having unbelievable skill, more importantly he sees people. And to top it all off we'll usually have a great conversation spanning religion, politics, relationships, business, philosophy, you name it, while his skilled scissors are flashing around my head. Truly for me he is the holy grail of hair care.

Today I told Michael, my eyes glistening a little bit despite my best efforts, "I need a change, I need to feel beautiful." And that's just what he did for me...again.

My fantasy hair... photo by michael mccormick

Depression is Not a Life Sentence for Your Children (I Pray)

2010-03-25T14:01:00.000-07:00

Recently an article in the Los Angles Times reported, "Evidence is mounting that growing up with a depressed parent increases a child's risk for mental health problems, cognitive difficulties and troubled social relationships." This is one of my greatest fears. That's because in my own experience I know this to be true. As I read this article, it definitely struck a chord for me. It's something I worry about often, and in those moments when I fail to hold it together as a parent grappling with my own demons, I beat myself up stridently for this reason.

Depression runs in families. I am certain that my father has suffered from undiagnosed and largely untreated depression for most of his life, and I suspect that it started very early on. He had a troubled relationship with his father, whom he idolized, but had a difficult time connecting with. Things got to the point that my grandfather took him to a therapist with the goal of finding out why my father "hated him." The therapist worked with my father, and ultimately told my grandfather that his son did not hate him, and in fact worshiped him, and helped the two to ultimately have what my dad described as "a wonderful rediscovered relationship." But this new found father and son connection was tragically arrested when my grandfather had a massive heart attack and died when my dad was barely 14 years old.

In the years that I've known my dad he has been prone to intense anger, has at times been both verbally and physically abusive, and has fallen into deep periods of hopelessness, punctuated by terrifying threats of suicide. My husband doesn't quite grasp my aversion to the guns he enjoys in a sporting fashion. My father always had a sawed off shot-gun just under his sweaters on the top shelf of his closet, and I believed that he could and would use it at any moment growing up as a child. Guns represent violence and insecurity to me.

As I age, I also suspect that my mother also suffered, and continues to suffer from depression. But she manifests it very differently. She withdraws from everyone and everything. She prefers to give her care and attachment to animals, with whom she has a deep connection and a beautiful gift for healing. To this day, my mother largely remains a mystery to me. Whereas my father, a deep lover of history, regaled me (repeatedly) with stories of his life, when I would ask my mother about hers, she would vaguely and flatly tell me she "didn't remember." I remember looking at photos of my mother as an obviously spunky and stunningly beautiful young woman, making up the stories that I knew were there, feeling very hurt that she chose not to share them with me.

My parents are both still living, but I consider myself all but orphaned. They emotionally abandoned me long before I physically left them. That's how it feels to me anyway, although I know they disagree. We don't have any kind of functional relationship now. This is largely their choice. For years, I stayed silent about how I felt about their distance and estrangement from me, fearing that they would completely cut off what little relationship we did have. That was until this year, just after the birth of Little Kidlet, whom they have yet to meet.

I finally, in the twilight of my thirties, had mustered the courage to tell them how much it hurt me to be estranged from them, to not know what was happening with them unless I made it my business to find out, and to ask them why they didn't seem interested in their grandchildren, let alone their only child?

It was my fear realized. My mother flatly rejected that they had not expressed care and concern as parents, that if anything happened to them, "I would be contacted," and that if I needed them to tell me that they thought about me, or loved me, then the problem was mine. End of discussion. As I sat on the phone (on speaker so my husband could hear) trying to control my body shaking sobs, my father tried to soften the precise blows just delivered by my matter of fact mother. But, we have not spoken since that day. I periodically send them updates about the boys, but that is the extent of our relationship. I can't manage much more at this point. Looking at it now, and the timing of that conversation, it factors as a trigger for the depression I'm now moving through.

Instinctively I know they do not mean to hurt me, but it doesn't lessen the pain of feeling unwanted. My ninety-plus grandmother, who always sees the bright side of things (how else to survive losing your husband, and raising two teenage boys alone, put them through college, and live to be the last of your immediate family), sees the fact that they don't contact me (or her for that matter) as their attempt to protect me. And I guess she has a point; they must know that I was and am miserable in their world, and was happy to leave it. I do consider the day I left home for good at nineteen, as an escape from the frequent and explosively angry arguments between them, fear, and sadness that was pervasive in their home. I returned briefly a few years ago to help nurse my father after a surgery, and I could barely breathe before I was able to get back to my life again.

I work a lot in my prayer and biblical study trying to give them and myself grace for this. It is really only through the lens of my own depression that I can even attempt to do that, to understand how you would want to shield your children from your own darkness and despair.

Reading about the effects on children identified in the article, "learned helplessness," resonated, but not in the way many would think. It is true that from my experience of my father's expression of his depression, I felt, and feel the lure of fatalistic helplessness, of succumbing to the belief that no matter what I do, I am not able to "fix it." But from my mother's expression of her depression, I learned a complete revulsion of helplessness (she often complained about this fact scathingly regarding my father). I learned that if you wanted to fix something you had to do it yourself, and if you failed, you only have yourself, and your weakness to blame. This leads me to the feelings of shame that I am not somehow

"strong enough" to, as my mother would say, "grunt and bear it." She never had any patience for my intense sensitivity and tendency to cry, and secretly, neither do I. I fight that feeling myself now at times as a mother, and focus on being a "soft place to fall" when my emotional toddler is melting down.

But even though it runs in families, it's not a foregone conclusion according to the findings this article reports. The overarching theme of the article is that the effects of a parent's depression on their children is to a degree combatible. The article states: "Studies suggest, for example, that changing destructive parenting practices and teaching children good coping strategies can make a big, positive difference in kids." This is a main driver behind why I attachment parent. I understand how being insecure in your relationship with your parents, from the very beginning, can lead to a profound insecurity in oneself and one's relationships with others. I know how exerting my need to control, and not setting up parameters of true respect between parent and child, can alienate and estrange them, and ultimately not equip them well to make good decisions for themselves, or worse make them fearful to make decisions at all.

As one mother who grapples with depression shared in the article: "My son is a lot more prone to worry and anxiety. He struggles with big, big feelings. He feels things on a very deep, empathetic level and is so affected by the feelings of others." Another in the comments on the article explained the extreme "empathy" they (and I to) developed as a "defense mechanism" because of the need to "tailor one's activities to the parents 'mood of the moment.'"

That hit the nail on the head of what I experienced and I worry what my own swinging emotions and moods are already doing to my nearly three year old. He shows he is sensitive to my moods, and tells me "I be a nice boy, mama" in particularly tense moments between us when he realizes he has pushed me and I show him I have been provoked. Sometimes this breaks my heart. I know how scary that can be for a kid. He doesn't need to twist and turn himself to make his mama happy, and I shouldn't make him feel that way!

The findings about the physiological effects of depression on a child's growing brain are particularly chilling as well. You are literally influencing the growth of their brains, long after they leave your physical body.

I figure that with this knowledge, both of my self and my struggles, as well as the effects it can have, I need to parent in the best possible way to counteract it. As the author also writes, ""Not only do children fare better if they are taught not to blame themselves for a parent's depression, they also flourish when caregivers can give them plenty of attention, says Beardslee."

I often write about my faith and God, and what place does God have in all this for me? The answer is a lot. Although faith was absent in my parents house, I was exposed as a young child, and have never lost that deep sense of connection, one I can't always explain. In my darkest moments, God was and is a constant for me. Many people that grow up in unstable homes easily fall into addictions and substance abuse. While I had other issues, I never ventured, nor wanted to venture in that direction. Frankly, I think I feared the lack of control. But, I also felt "guided," for lack of a better term.

When I worry about these issues, I am reminded that before I was my parents' child, I was God's child, and the same is true of my children. So another "coping mechanism," in fact what I believe to be a truth, I will teach my children is that they are loved well and wholly, even when mommy doesn't do such a great job of it. They are not here to complete, fix, or reflect me, but to live out the love and purpose that God has for them, and them alone. I am not the true compass of their lives, God is.

As an adult and a parent that has made plenty of mistakes, I also find hope and comfort for myself in my faith, and especially when encountering this challenge of circumstance and biology. It is a daily exercise in trust for me. Trust that I am intended to be just who I am, that my trials and triumphs have purpose, and that I am loved in my brokenness.

So, bottomline, I believe that depression can be encountered and combated for myself and my children. Just because I struggle doesn't mean that they cause it, or are doomed to also, but I will continue to work to try and protect them from the darkness, by showing them a light out, and showing how their mama fights through it, with every breath I have. God willing.

I always appreciated this iconic photo from the Great Depression, housed at the Library of Congress, but as a mother I "get" it.

Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow. ~Swedish Proverb

2010-03-24T22:36:00.000-07:00

The house is quiet (well, if you ignore the snoring of The Husband) and the baby sleeps (for the moment) in the co-sleeper. Last night he slept a tiny bit in the co-sleeper, but was still keen to be snuggled next to me. I had one of those deep in the pit of the night moments when having unsuccessfully tried once again to resettle him in the co-sleeper, I had to leave bed and have a terse conversation with God. But as I prayed curled on the couch, a calm voice overtook my frantic mind and said that I had to be more patient, and the start was just that--a start. I returned to bed and snuggled my little one back into me, not so much resigned, as accepting of the fact that I would end up perched and crinky in body on the edges of my bed, but hopefully we would both sleep and breathe in unison once more (for now).

Today dawned as a day of re-centering. Wednesdays are my lifeline days, they are the days I mindfully and intentionally walk with God. This Wednesday was also especially anticipated for a special time set aside to celebrate a friend.

The subject of today's study was "Treasure and Worry" based in Matthew 6: 19-34. The discussion prompt started with "What do you worry about? What are you anxious about?"

...

In view of the fact that I was voted "Biggest Worrywart" in my senior class "gag" awards, I decided to remain silent...this could take a while. I decided to let the other ladies around the table have the floor, and studiously avoided the eyes of the facilitator as she guided the conversation.

I answered the questions silently, making mental notes about points to explore in writing later, and listened to the women around me. That was until the woman next to me suddenly turned to me and said, "What do you worry about?" All eyes swung my way and I mentally went through the humorous response I could use to deflect and move on. I knew one person at the table fairly well, and the rest are virtual strangers to me. The person I knew well is hooked into my local network of moms. How much did I want to reveal?

I decided to be real.

It was scary, and I felt ashamed, still feeling that if I could just be stronger/better/saner I wouldn't be whining about things that virtually every new mother goes through, but I'm having a ridiculously hard time coping with.

But that's what this study was about. Confessing brokenness and weakness, and placing trust in God (and friends).

And that's what I'm doing.

Later that evening, the person I knew at that table, suddenly appeared on my doorstep with a meal and a hug to share.

I felt very humble, but very encouraged in faith (and friends).

Photo by chefranden

Separate, but O.K...Eventually

2010-03-23T13:13:00.001-07:00

The thing with depression that throws me for a loop are the peaks and valleys. One minute I'll be coping very well and feel I've got a handle on it, I'm happy even, but the next a mighty storm blows in and I'm right down in it once again. On the peak days, I chide myself, "see, you're just being a drama queen about a few bad days, you're doing fine." But on the rough days, I know this isn't something to be taken lightly, the tone of my thoughts is way to scary to be dismissed. It's when those thoughts become highly analytical that it really gets downright chilling.

Part of getting through this is understanding my triggers. Today is a really bad day. Not surprisingly, this comes on the heels of a night of little (even less than normal) sleeping because Little Kidlet was awake and/or nursing more than he was asleep. For eases sake, and also when I admit it to myself a need for continued attachment to who will probably be my last child, I've kept him with me far longer than I did his brother.

I also support the principles of the family bed. Instinctively it just makes sense to me. But I also feel that it really only works well if all members of the household are on board with it, and pretty much it's only been Little Kidlet and (decreasingly) myself who have been in favor of it. The Husband isn't sleeping well either, and gets up for work at an ungodly hour, so his brief hours of rest are precious. Little sleep also is a trigger for his coping mechanisms as well.

Plus, he wants his, you know, wife time. Not that that can't be accomplished elsewhere, but with Little Kidlet's near constant desire to be preferably on me at all times, it's easier to deny and deflect. And I want to deflect right now. I'm just not really ready for much intimacy, in fact it's really the furthest thing from my mind. I know that it is hormonally based and affected by this exhaustion and depression also, because when I was pregnant... This has been true for both pregnancies. I have to consider our needs as a couple, however; we're stretched thin as it is.

Big Kidlet is wildly jealous also I can tell. We moved him to crib at night by this time, and he has always been "a great sleeper" since, and truly loves his crib. It is profoundly hard to put down the baby when the older child is bouncing around, "trying" to be quiet (yeah, right), and the whole process takes longer as a result. This takes more time away from the older child, thus making him mad, and then he acts out...and it can really go downhill from there, and regrettably does alot more than I would like, or feel is acceptable.

Before those who think bed-sharers/co-sleepers literally made your bed, I think that many people (and I know a few) do just fine, and in fact thrive. But I submit that it also has to do with the personalities at play, and I'm certain it can be tougher for someone who is struggling with ppd. While I love, and in a lot of ways crave the closeness with my child, I also have an intense need to have my own space. It comes on very strongly, and it's almost painful to be touched when it does, such is the intensity of the need to have everyone off and away from me. This even happens in my labors--I prefer to go it largely alone and don't like to be touched. Therefore, for me, having separate sleeping spaces ultimately is the way I can continue to physically give, by ensuring that I don't get overloaded with "nearness."

This is an obvious problem for a baby. My husband, and to a certain extent my 3 yr. old, I can tell I need space and they can adjust, but you can't just flip a switch on a baby.

That is why today is a really bad day. I'm exhausted. It's time to start giving myself some (physical) space, so that I can continue to meet the needs of my family even in the midst of this hard time. I've spent the morning starting the transition of moving Little Kidlet out of the bed full-time. We're starting with the co-sleeper (which has sat unused next to the bed...well except as a dumping zone for all my baby stuff). Big Kidlet is not out of the crib just yet, but lately I can see that it is coming, so the co-sleeper in our room, at least for non-shared naps has got to be it. Also, the specter of getting two children to sleep in the same room, so different in age, is admittedly daunting. I tried a few months back, and they woke each other up. And, I still want to have him close, following the path of healthy attachment parenting.

As you can guess it did not go well. I should revise that. It's not go easily, but in my sleep deprived, completely off balance mind it was a disaster. I do not do "cry-it-out," nor will I, so I worked on making the co-sleeper inviting (towel that we have used in bed with our smells, putting a heating pad on low to warm the area before putting him down) and made sure to start putting him down fully fed and drowsy awake. When he cried I came back and soothed him by rubbing his back/tummy, but I left him in there. I laid on the bed and put my hand on him, letting him know I was right there. But he was not happy, understandably so, he doesn't see any need to change the status quo. He doesn't understand. This cycle went on for three hours.

I ping ponged between my two children for the duration, working hard to keep my cool. Somewhere in that span, my husband came home from work early (hoping to catch a nap himself) and took over with Big Kidlet, gratefully, but not before he destroyed the play area and took many of my books off the shelves, because he knows I really don't like that. He to was not happy, and let me know it.

NObody was happy. But I'm not a quitter, and I'm stubborn. I don't do gradual well. Honestly in retrospect I was an idiot to even try such a thing in such a vulnerable sleep deprived state.

Ultimately I did compromise and after nursing him in bed, transferred him to the attached co-sleeper (again, but this time he was sufficiently worn out to allow it). Everyone, except me was down for their naps (including The Husband), and I headed out for some food and some sanity time, which I used to begin this post to work through this challenging day.

The peace lasted for twenty-seven minutes.

What ensued was a thoroughly running on empty attempt to restore the peace, which failed, and ended up with me leaving the house for a breakdown in the backyard and my demons running rampage through my mind. I set myself up for failure, and not surprisingly I failed, and miserably.

Ultimately as I write this, my husband has (finally) recognized the fragility of the situation, and is taking care of my kids so I can write this out and get a shower. It will have to be enough. The danger with ppd is that normal everyday issues, like getting the baby to sleep, can become full blown crisis. I'm once again choosing to avert another more serious one.

I will continue to try again, but with a more equipped mind and body, because it is time. I feel very guilty for changing the rules on my precious Little Kidlet for what feels like a selfish reason. I'll perhaps have some censure from my friends who do the family bed faithfully, as well as some "I told you so"-s from my non "crunchy" friends. But, I have to follow my instincts,and my instincts are telling me that for their health and mine, the baby has got to move a mere one foot away and we need to start our journey into healthy "separation."

Photo by Kenny Møller

I, Being of Sound Mind and Body...

2010-03-22T15:13:00.000-07:00

I took some time last week to just be in my skin and live my life. I focused on getting out and getting some sun and exercise, and on cooking good food in my kitchen. These are the ways that I best care for myself and my family. And it definitely helped drive back the clouds of ppd.

As is thankfully often these days, people with good and healthy messages were put in my path, for which I give great thanks. I also experienced some healthy humility in the form of hearing from and extending care to some that are in far worse circumstances than I. The wisdom of not letting oneself withdraw when those clouds roll in, even if painful and leaving one vulnerable, has been especially important to me this last week. You have to emerge from the darkness of the cave to see the truth in the light.

Particularly helpful to me last week was the speaker at my weekly bible study, Danna Demetre. Speaking about the beauty battle for women, she made several key points that are applicable to any internal battle a woman is waging.

Drawing from Psalm 139, she spoke about accepting yourself as specifically designed to be just who you are. "For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb." (Psalm 139:13) I find this tremendously comforting on the one hand, but also pretty frustrating as well in those moments when I wonder why I have to go through this stuff. And, I'd imagine that those who also struggle with far more serious burdens and sorrows also feel similarly. What is the purpose of struggling so mightily?

I can really only speak for myself, and I know that only when I have been to the lowest point, and become very vulnerable am I able to really see, or at least follow the path that will eventually lead me out of it. But until that point, I'll wander stubbornly in the dark, not asking, or not listening more the case, to direction.

She also drew from Romans 12:2:

"Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will."

As she told us, "in the human brain, the most dominant thought wins," and "before you can begin, you must identify the lies you believe and replace them with the truth." She concluded with :

"Watch your thoughts; they become your words.
Watch your words; they become your actions.
Watch your actions; they become your habits.
Watch your habits; they become your character.
Watch your character; it becomes your destiny."

My verse of prayer and meditation this week is 2 Timothy 1:7 (NKJV):

For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.

I'm counting on that sound mind.

When Enough is Enough: Post-Partum Depression

2010-03-15T23:37:00.000-07:00

This weekend was rough, no two ways about it. While we all eagerly awaited the arrival of The Husband from "The Business Trip That Would Not End," I decided in my desperation to leave the house, and my bull-headed determination to attend the HUGE children's consignment sale I had had on my calendar for months, to load up the kiddos and bring them with me into bargain hunting mayhem. I felt wildly guilty bringing them, felt the sanction of the other veterans there for even thinking of it, much less attempting it. I mean "what kind of woman brings a 3 year old boy and a 6 month old infant to a cramped, slightly avaricious exercise in economy?"

A desperate woman, that's who.

I already felt like a crappy mother for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was subjecting my sweet Big Kidlet who just wanted to go and see the promised horses (conveniently nearby at the fairgrounds) to the melee, when the woman at the checkout (who wasn't even my appointed cashier by the way) with the ROCK that said "I don't need to bargain shop, I just volunteer for all the poor souls that do," didn't need to speculate aloud, "that baby's (the one I was carrying all snuggly warm against me) head looks cold." I was a bit aghast, so I made her repeat it, feigning not understanding what she had said. Um no lady, he is just fine thanks. It was her entree into expressing her derision. I shut her down. I will confess I worked the "poor dear obviously must be a rookie" assumption to allow myself to score getting my stroller to seat my rambunctious, but really doing pretty awesome considering, 3 year old while waiting in the line. (Strollers are a no-no due to the space constrictions, although the veterans get around that by buying a stroller for sale inside.)

What was I thinking? Clearly I was out of my mind you are saying?

You would be correct.

Over the last month or more of super charged emotionalism (more than usual), over the top hypersensitivity (view some of my recent posts on friendship struggles), and misconstruing each time my son declared in all his toddler asserting-independent-control glory, "Mommy go away, I want Daddy!" as a clear sign of rejection that would land him in juvenile hall down the line for having such an abject failure for a mother, I thought this is not normal. You think?! I am given to a certain degree of, um, shall we say "dramatics," but this was topping all previous benchmarks for absurdity.

And it was rapidly getting worse. Bella Swan in Twilight tells the morose hero Edward, "Your mood swings are kind of giving me whiplash." My mood swings were heading towards a crash that could possibly do a little more physical damage.

It was in the shower, when my son was throwing an epic fit because I was the one showering with him and not his (much missed and recently home) dad, that I had a breaking point. And the hell was further scared out of me when the voices and images in my head started to get, well scary. That was when in yet another irrational crying jag that I pulled myself up short and really let myself acknowledge that post-partum depression had returned, and stronger than after the birth of my first son.

So I got proactive, because I love these little boys and my husband and I never want them to have to live in the aftermath of something like I witnessed after a friend suddenly and inexplicably took her own life violently earlier last year, leaving two young children under five.

Gratefully, also over the last few days God has made sure that little beacons have been placed in my path. People whom I read regularly, who have never previously written about ppd, posted on the subject, emails appeared in my inbox on the subject. That alone gives me the resolve to rise and meet this latest struggle with the pernicious "D." Hopefully, I do that for someone else as well. A resource that I'm finding helpful: UppityScienceChick.com. When I want to figure something out, the nerd takes full control.

The first step is I told people I trusted that I am not o.k. From there I am grabbing on to the rope they have thrown to me, and my own resolve and moxie, and I'm grabbing and pulling myself forward, one step at a time.

Another step...sleep.

Photo by wonderbjerg

This has been an anthem of sorts at periods like this over the years. Just ignore the bad 90s pop vibe...in fact you know just close your eyes and listen. :)

Mama Take Note, There is "Fun" in Functional

2010-03-11T23:31:00.000-08:00

A good day. I don't mind saying I was a little scared, given how things have been lately to send off The Husband for a few days and go it solo. But I'm happy to say that more than halfway through and everyone is still in one piece, and in fact we have been... enjoying each other. I know, right?!

The thing about having a big challenge in front of me is that I seem to just gather myself, shelve my, well you know, and stand up to meet it. Because my husband isn't around to help, I've had to anticipate and plan better today, and consequently have been able to head off most issues before they blew up. Because he wasn't around, I had to be both functional AND fun mommy; usually it's mostly about functional, because daddy is decidedly more fun than mama. Last night I rolled around on the floor and let Big Kidlet blow strawberries on my tummy, which he of course loved, and I did to. But despite our relatively smoother sailing I will be extraordinarily happy when The Husband walks back through that door.

I tweeted something that pretty much covers it:

"Held a toddler mommy summit and we agreed on a constructive 2 part plan to cease aggressive maneuvers: He'll listen more & I'll play more :) "

A good day. I'll take it.

Photo by sean dreilinger

On Scarlett O'Hara, Attachment Parenting, and Prayer

2010-03-10T14:10:00.000-08:00

Oh Scarlett O'Hara in all her crazed and delusional glory would be so very proud of me. I've been "After all...tomorrow is another day"-ing myself silly these last few weeks. We, and by "we," I mean Big Kidlet and I, have hit a mother of a rough patch and we are keeping our seats, but just barely. Each day as the sun sets, I resolve to try again the next day to navigate the deep and treacherous ruts on this particular fork of the road we find ourselves on, and not fall prostrate in the mud, thrashing and flinging it all about (metaphorically speaking of course, but hopefully you get the picture).

I should preface the rest that follows with the statement that I am a praying woman of faith. At this point I'm not so much an "evangelical" in my Christian faith, as I am a "searcher." I don't pretend to have the answers, nor do I discount the wisdom of other traditions. However, for me, since I was a small child, Jesus has always been there--He just makes sense. Never more tested has my faith been than in the difficult moments with my children, so you will understand me when I say that this morning, it was literally by the grace of God that we made it.

Big Kidlet's trigger to full scale, intensely angry, meltdowns is very very fine at the moment, as is mine frankly. As closely as I can tell, the novelty of Little Kidlet's arrival has definitely worn off, and behaviors I was relieved to not have seen early on, such as trying to hit his little brother, have emerged when he is in the throes of a temper tantrum. I get this much clearly...the little man is really pissed off when he has to do just about anything any other way than he decides to do it. Control, oh brother do I get it, he doesn't like being controlled. One of these days he'll come to the fundamental question of life that I encountered as a young college student, studying Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales: "do we act of our own free will, or are we acted upon?" Ah, I could go on about that for an age, but I'll spare you.

This morning was going fairly peacefully, and we shared a rare private breakfast together while Little Kidlet slept in. We were on track for an on-time departure for my weekly mother's Bible study and his playschool program. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I have literally been counting the days and hours until this precious break; things have been rough and it is truly something I do for me that keeps me sane. The peace was broken when he was not invited (allowed) to come into our bedroom to bounce around and all over a just awakened Little Kidlet (that's a lot of energy to handle two seconds after waking up for an adult, never mind an infant). What followed was akin to what I think it might feel like to be caught in the whirling edges of a tornado, in other words, it royally sucked. No royalty is to lowly, I'd venture to say it biblically sucked. We needed God. Right. That. Second.

And that's what I did. I prayed fervently to God to still our hearts, and minds, and voices, and hands, and show us what to do. Although my son had been previously protesting that under no circumstances would he a. let me change his stinking-to-high-heaven diaper nor b. accompany me to Bible playschool, and we were so hopelessly late, so that it was highly doubtful that there would be room for him anyway, a voice urged me to try, to leave the house, and on the double. Miraculously it seemed my son stilled, allowed me to change his diaper calmly, get him dressed and in the car without further fuss, and finish loading us up. All the while I plotted a plan a,b, and c, but come, well, hell, or high water, we were leaving this house, and now.

When we arrived, I fairly sprinted in front of another late comer with a similar aged kid bound undoubtedly for the same drop-in playschool program. I prayed that God and this mother would forgive my selfishness, but this was a mayday situation, and I needed to get him safely cared for and away from his verging on speaking in tongues mama pronto. I still feel chagrined about that one, but we both got in, and I started praying that he would be OK as fragile as he had been acting all morning. I watched that pager like a hawk for the first ten minutes, but it never went off.

As is so often the case in my life of faith, serendipitously the study being taught by a friend that day was about "Learning to pray from 'The Lord's Prayer.'" I have loved The Lord's Prayer since I was a tiny child, and I kneeled with my grandparents each morning when I would visit them in the summers. My home with my parents was devoid of faith, or at least a "don't ask, don't tell," policy on the subject. But in my grandparents house, faith was the soft click of the clock that marked the passing of each moment of each day. Each morning was begun with the prayer of The Lord's Prayer. As my friend taught, the daily opportunity for encountering God in intimate relationship through this beautiful, but more importantly instructive prayer, made me understand the reasons that my grandparents began each day by praying it not by rote, but remarkably in sincerity.

Many days I struggle to practice attachment parenting principles with my children, but I continue to try because my faith leads me to feel this is the way I am intended to parent. I see a correlation to my mandate as a parent when God invites us into a close and intimate relationship, where we are encouraged to trust that we will be loved despite our flaws and foibles. I hear the truth of drawing my sons close, firmly guiding them in how to live a life lit by God and intended just for them, assured that their mother unconditionally loves them. I picked up my son from playschool and once again had the energy to love him just where he was.

In our discussion, we spoke about prayers of puzzle, petition, and praise, and here are mine:

My prayer of puzzle is why when I so fiercely love these children it is so surprisingly easy to hurt them in my own brokenness.
My prayer of petition is that God will guide my son in stilling his own anger and hurt even when his parents are not capable of guiding him.
My prayer of praise is that despite my brokenness, in those frightening moments of despair, a voice continues to tell me to try.

What are your prayers of puzzle, petition, and praise?

Photo by TheAlieness GiselaGiardino²³

Everything is Just Fine (Sure It Is)

2010-03-09T23:24:00.000-08:00

I've been delaying posting something all day, and now it's late and I'm telling myself I'm now to tired to do anything of quality. It's a perfectionist thing. But then I remember my commitment to just write something, good, bad, or indifferent. Here we go...

I took Little Kidlet for his well check-up this morning, something that gives me anxiety for days in advance. We do things a little more alternatively than our HMO would like, but we have about as wonderful a doc as one can get within such a system. But I fret nevertheless, praying that I will be able to properly articulate our positions on things when the touchy topics inevitably emerge. This whole dance is a loaded one for another time.

And there is another reason I realized I was dreading this particular visit--the new mom "state of mind" checklist questionnaire, intended to screen for signs of depression. I knew I was going to have to lie. I've had to acknowledge over the last few weeks that I'm indeed struggling with some post-partum depression. I am not someone who has chronic depression issues, mine have always emerged hormonally and situationally, both coming to bear right now.

Why would I lie? For a few reasons. First, honestly I didn't want to be thrust through their protocol that gets triggered when you mark down such things. When I was pregnant with Big Kidlet I will never forget the fact that the combination of marking down that I had been in treatment for depression (saw a therapist a grand total of THREE times during a particularly difficult professional patch), coupled with a positive answer to the "have you had a drink since becoming pregnant" question (I had a SINGLE margarita before I knew I was pregnant) landed me in a prenatal counseling session, and a very uncomfortable prenatal visit with a substitute doc who assumed that I had "issues" based on the fact that I had had to have this prenatal counseling session. It was well intentioned, but I assure you anything but helpful.

And there is the issue of feeling, well, a little self indulgent. The narrative that runs in my head goes something like this: "c'mon drama queen, you're not depressed, you're whiny." Curiously this voice sounds very like my mother's voice. I can't imagine why. (Sarcasm intended) Suffice it to say that my emotionalism was one dimension of my person that made her muse often, out loud, how I could possibly be her child? It was not welcomed, and not tolerated. Consequently I don't have much tolerance for this "nonsense" in myself either, and feel that if I shake myself hard enough I'll snap out of it.

Except when I don't.

But a positive legacy of my childhood is that once I drop my denials, I get down to the business of accepting that I've got to deal with the demons pounding on my doors, and re-balance myself. Easier said than done with kids. Jobs, and sadly even husbands, can and are walked away from everyday. But for me, my family, the one I've created for myself, and especially those babies keep me in it, even when I feel like screaming that I want out, and it's just too painful to endure one second longer. When they aren't particularly nice nor gentle with me, take that feeling and add some exponential compounding to it. But, I also (try hard to) remain mindful that it's not their job to keep me here, it is always my choice and my responsibility.

I know I'm not alone in this little subterfuge. If I've read one obligatory quote from one celebrity new mother, I've read them all. The one that goes, "being a mother is amazing, I love it so much everyday." Right there, she just lied.

Photo by alibubba

Mommy, Mommy, Go Away, I Want Daddy Anyway

2010-03-08T08:18:00.001-08:00

So, we're here. My almost three year old told me this morning that he doesn't "love mommy," and wants daddy to stay home instead. My friends and developmental bulletins have told me to expect this, and I "know"that he doesn't "mean" it, but it doesn't make it sting any less. If it were any other person other than my kid, the impulse would be to tell him some not so polite places he can stick those nasty words. He's not exactly my favorite person day in and day out either.

OK, lets be real, I still have the impulse, but, you know--I'm an adult, and clinging tenuously to that. My husband always tells me that because he loves me so much I can make him madder than anyone, faster than anyone.

My mother used to tell me something when I was a kid that sticks with me: "I will always love you, but I don't like you very much right now." I didn't get that as a kid...I do now.

How do you handle when your kids say hurtful things to you, whether intentionally or unintentionally?

Photo by Tom (hmm a rosa tint)

I'm Known, But Sometimes I Would Just Rather Be Liked

2010-03-05T22:20:00.000-08:00

I had a little light bulb moment today, aided by an article by a psychotherapist on the topic of relational communication. Don't stop reading because it sounds to nerdy and technical, because this article really has some very good nuggets to think about, and applies to everyone.

As I have written about previously, I struggle with relationships, and it is a source of immense frustration and continuing pain for me. It's particularly bewildering because I have struggled to understand why, and it's all to easy and tempting to think I must be flawed somehow. But this article had some insights that have begun to shed some constructive light on this issue for me.

The article entitled, "Would You Rather Be Known or Liked?", describes two types of individuals based on how they prefer to relate to others. Those who would rather be liked are invested in keeping their relationships peaceful, stressing commonalities, and they shy away from really revealing how they may feel about things in a effort to preserve this peace. Those who would rather be known, on the other hand, crave real and authentic conversations, even when there is disagreement, and they declare their positions to see how others will react.

The problems arise when a "liked" and a "known" are trying to communicate, and the article offers some useful tips for both types to carry on with the other.

What are your thoughts. Are you in the "liked" camp, or the "known" camp more predominantly? Considering your current relationships, do you think this is a factor in whom you feel most drawn to, or frustrated by?

Photo by shadphotos

Captain Mommy on Deck Makes Me Ill at Ease, But a Good Hug Means Fair Sailing

2010-03-04T22:53:00.000-08:00

I'm cultivating a little more of an "attitude of gratitude" after delivering a little shakabuku action to myself while rereading what I've been writing lately.

An article about a new book caught my attention about cultivating happiness in your family's life. The author of Raising Happiness, Christine Carter says to ask yourself two questions:

1. When are you happiest with your kids?

2. What part of the normal day with your family routinely causes suffering?

My happiest moments with my kids tends to be when they wake up in morning, and sometimes even more so, from a good nap. In fact, I love, love, love, the things that come out of Big Kidlet's mouth when he wakes up from his afternoon nap. It's like busy little electricians have been furiously working on the wiring inside his little head, and when he wakes up the light switches have been flipped on. In the morning, I look forward to the moment when I open his door, and he pops up in his crib, unzips his crib tent (yeah, it's only for show these days), and fairly trumpets "Good Morning, Mama!" followed by all the things he can't wait to tell me. When I lift him from his crib we share a big hug, and recently I noticed that he has picked up my habit of humming while hugging. Now Little Kidlet also comes in with me, and he grins and wiggles to see his brother, and Big Bro Kidlet is equally excited and eager to get at him and insists on choosing one of his crib animals to share with his little bro while he's getting his diaper changed. In these moments I feel so incredibly blessed.

My hardest moments are in what I'll call the "have to" moments. "You have to wash your hands," "You have to climb into your carseat," "You have to let mama change your diaper." These are when my patience is at its most stretched, and usually it is exacerbated by an equally as impatient infant close by. When I forget, or am too lazy/distracted to build in extra time for Big Kidlet to move through these transitional times, that is when we suffer, and the meanie mommy monster muscles her way into the situation. I have a snarky habit of saying "aye, aye, Captain," to my husband when he gets bossy and commandeering, which is a not so veiled reference to my childhood with a Naval Captain. Well, truth be told, the anchor didn't fall too far from the ship. Madame Captain reporting for duty.

Where do you find the most joy with your kids in your daily routine? Where do you find the most woe?

I also read a quote that is post-up-prominently-in-my-house worthy:

"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who matter don't mind, and those that mind, don't matter." ~Dr. Seuss

Write that down...

Photo from the George Eastman House Collection

Defusing the A-nger Bomb

2010-03-03T23:48:00.000-08:00

The common saying is so disappointingly true, "you always hurt the one you love."

A lyric by the Mills Brothers referenced in an journal abstract captures it well:

You always hurt the one you love, the one you should not hurt at all;

You always take the sweetest rose, and crush it till the petals fall;

You always break the kindest heart, with a hasty word you can't recall;

So if I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all.

I need to hit the "reset" button; I'm in a rut. I need to find a way to jettison the trained responses of my childhood coupled with the missteps of my adulthood, and chart a new road previously untaken with my kids.

I guess the biggest practice I can think to take each and every day is challenge myself in my most vulnerable moments, and ask: "who am I really angry with?" Nine times out of ten I would venture to say that it's not the kid in front of me.

I may have to revise that assessment when they are teenagers I realize.

Photo by gilesclement

It's Not All About You, Except When It Is

2010-03-01T15:04:00.000-08:00

A few days ago I revealed a struggle that I have been having that I'm not to proud of. In that post, I referenced some people in my life that I'm sure would probably not appreciate being the subject of a post, and I'm sure would have their own perspective on things. They have not to my knowledge read this post, nor may they ever, but I felt I needed to say a few additional things about it regardless of whether they ever do or not.

My intent is never to hurt or embarrass anyone on purpose, or needlessly. I never view a blog as a vehicle to inflict harm on others. My blog is my perspective on things, it's my space to work things out. The goals I had for this particular blog was to be authentic and fearless, even when what I have to say isn't comfortable for myself or others. I fully expect that people will disagree with my view of things, and that is absolutely fine. My standard for myself is "am I being real?" That being said, I'll always endeavor to be careful to be mindful of others, and have a care for their privacy, and won't reveal details that are not mine to reveal.

As is common when one is in the throes of their emotional wave, once the seas calm and one reviews things with a more clear head, the impulse, for me anyway, is to smooth the raw bits, mitigate the intensity of my feelings on the page, because in my life I have always been afraid to really expose those ugly bits for fear of not being pleasing to others. I thought about altering it, so as to soften it, or taking it down entirely, and ultimately decided that I would edit some specifics out that don't take away from the overarching tone and purpose of the post. I struggled with deleting it altogether, but even though I'm not proud of those feelings and it's not easy on my heart, it pushes me forcibly ahead in one of my stated goals--"tackling fear," as well as developing my authorial authenticity. Every writer needs a good editor, and in this case my editor self came to bear to channel and refine some of that raw emotion the writer had spewed upon the page.

Now to speak to the specific contents of that post, with the benefit of a few days to think and hear feedback. One commentator (none of whom left comments here, lest you think I deleted them) shared that from their perspective, the common denominator was me, and that I was deferring blame to others for my issues with forming good relationships. Ouch, that hurt! But, what they didn't know is that that is precisely what I fear as well. It is precisely why I tend to put so much pressure on myself about these issues, and why it is such a raw nerve for me. But perhaps by focusing so much on my own reaction to what essentially happens everyday to many others as well, it diverts the attention away from something I feel, based on other feedback, I'm not alone in feeling in the community of women and mothers.

While others may be blessed with a true north, unshakable sense of themselves, and I know some like that, I think they are the exception. Most of us are trying to navigate uncertain seas and searching for buoys of friendship to give us something to anchor ourselves to. When you can't find those buoys you feel...adrift, and it gets hard to keep swimming. This is what I was trying to get at.

Outside a small bird is flinging itself at my window. I figured long ago that they see their own reflection and see it as the enemy, and so are attacking it repeatedly, even though each time they just hit a glass wall. A few have killed themselves this way over the years. They are fighting the reflection of what is essentially themselves, beating their wings at a perceived enemy, and some have killed themselves in their misguided delusion.

Being different is hard. Being yourself is hard. It's a defining challenge I continue to struggle to surmount. Finding a way through it is the best gift I can give to myself, and my children.

Beautiful photo by nickburlett

Mommy Needs a Punchclock

2010-02-27T23:23:00.000-08:00

The house is dark, and while the Husband snores away, I see on the monitor that Big Kidlet is doing his best imitation of the stink bugs of my childhood spent in the desert, with his tush sticking straight up in the air. How he sleeps that way, lord only knows, but it sure is adorable. Here I sit, the dishwasher quietly humming, and although I would much rather be sitting here writing solo, with both hands for that matter, or maybe even the eyeglasses I've left on my bedside table, that's just not possible because I've got a Little Kidlet co-pilot who wants to alternate between nursing, gazing lovingly into my eyes, and talking my ear off at this late hour, in that order.

Who wouldn't love that? Well, I proclaim enthusiastically, I do, and also confess somewhat guiltily, I don't. By this time of day I'm ready to cry "I give!" and I gave, and now I need to be off duty. Except, you're never really "off duty."

This tweet caught my attention the other day, and which I re-tweeted:

"Having a baby dragged me, kicking and screaming, from the world of self-absorption."

Mhmmm, that about sums it up. But many days I'm still kicking and screaming.

Photo courtesy of the workroom

Pretty Little Boxes: Fitting in With Mommy Frenemies

2010-02-26T13:43:00.000-08:00

Good lord, it's been almost a month! That's a big blogger no-no. It's not like I haven't had things to say, haven't in fact composed posts in my head, it's just been an intense and messy time for myself and my family. Little kidlet is just about to turn six months old, and is at that stage where he is aware, wants to participate, but can't yet do stuff, so he gets frustrated. Couple that with the fact that he wants mom right next to him at all times, especially when sleeping, and my routine of putting kids to bed and getting some creative time has been obliterated. I'm lucky if I get a hot, not lukewarm/cold, cup of tea most days. Also, truth be told, I'm not doing so hot on managing my time and tasks very well, and getting caught up in silly stuff of the moment. I've made some strides this week to reassert some order and rhythm, but I'm not quite there yet. In fact, there is the baby again, hold on a sec....

First the good stuff. I've made some progress to start the process of reducing the stuff in my house, and a major victory was working through an issue that my son was having at the program he attended while I have my weekly Bible study. I reached out, I stood up/spoke out for my kid, and things have gotten much better. In fact, I can say that we've had a pretty awesome streak this month of just really enjoying each other, and my fuse has been long and fairly flame retardant.

That was of course before the last few days. Now for the bad stuff. The storm that has been blowing in all day is now raging outside, and a similar storm is also happening inside. My fuse has been very short the last two days, and it's not the kids' fault. It's mine.

I promised myself I would be real in this endeavor, even when it was uncomfortable, so here goes. I have never, and continue to not play well with others. I find it frankly self indulgent and pathetic that by this time in my life I somehow continue to find myself in patterns of trying to fit in, failing at it, and having my feelings hurt because I don't. I really thought (hoped) that by this time in my life that this kind of stuff would have been resolved, but no. It is my least favorite part of being a woman...other women. Sure men can make me all kinds of crazy, but no one is able to really cut me deeply as another woman, either intentionally, or unintentionally. I think that is why I have always been a little afraid of having a daughter--the prospect of helping her navigate through things that I clearly still do not understand how to navigate through myself.

I've been struggling to fit in boxes all my life. "Fitting in" has been a pretty consistent wall I've banged my head into. I just don't, and there are many days I'm really happy and proud of that fact. But there are times when I sincerely wish I could just manage to contort myself to squeeze myself in.

The particular boxes I've been struggling with recently are the kind one encounters when one becomes a mother in community with other mothers. These boxes can be really pretty little things, but the inside, well just say it's not always as advertised. Join the "club," "tribe," "community," receive "support," "encouragement," "acceptance." Open the lid, and don't be surprised when in fact at moments you feel anything but the aforementioned benefits of walking the mommy path with other women.

What hurts me is continually putting myself out there, but not really getting much in return, or feeling downright excluded in many cases. Forming relationships, intimate or casual, is not a strength of mine, but for the sake of my kids (I tell myself) I continue to try. When it comes to my children, it would be a whole lot easier on them I tell myself if I just could get into line with those around me, assimilate. I do well for a while, but then inevitably I let that particular mask slip a bit, and I get hurt and disappointed that I'm dooming my kids to ostracism forever as the children of "that mother." And let's face it, the only person who deludes themselves that the mask is actually fooling anyone is me, myself, and I.

Many times, and even now I wonder why do I bother. Move on, better off without them. But, you can only move on so many times. These are the kids that my kids will know as they grow; I'll be in contact with them for years to come. I think it's important to find a way to peacefully coexist so that my kids don't suffer from having "that mother." I know this intimately, because my own mother was in many ways "that mother." (ahhh, now we get to the meat of it you may be telling yourself) My mother was also "different." She dealt with it by withdrawing and giving other moms and the mommy culture the proverbial bird. I was already unique enough all on my own, add in a mom who also didn't play by the mainstream rules, and it did feel like an added burden. And let's be real, your baggage often gets put on your kid, and how others perceive them, and undeservedly so. I have felt like doing the same thing as my mom repeatedly, although not as overtly, because she is far more bold than I am. And, I really don't want that for my own kids, and I don't think it really solves much for me either. So I continue to try and work it out.

I did get a bit of provident help with this. Also in my in box was the latest GOOP newsletter. For those of you who don't know, GOOP is the personal blog/website for the actress Gwyneth Paltrow. She's gotten plenty of criticism for her blog and what she puts out there, but all in all, I generally enjoy what she sends out. This issue dealt with the timely-for-me topic of "friendship divorce." She often invites "expert" commentators to contribute on topics, and in this issue they focused on how to manage friendships that are no longer working.

I hear with clarity the words of Cynthia Bourgeault:

"The more we can take responsibility for our own emotional well-being, the more we can live comfortably in our own skin, the more friendship can become what it is truly meant to be — whether for the whole of our life or just the miracle of the present: the spontaneous overflowing of our uniquely human capacity for intimacy, compassion, and joy."

It is not the responsibility of other people to like and accept me. I get that. They either do or they don't. But I need to assess how much I can handle, and what degree of relationship is acceptable to me. I also hear the words of Michael Berg:

"If we have a friend that makes us feel worthless, hurts us, or doesn’t enable us to grow and actually makes us feel bad, then clearly that’s a friendship and environment we don’t want to subject ourselves to. We have the responsibility to diminish that friendship. Not only isn’t it serving its purpose, it can have a detrimental effect on us."

He goes on to say that he feels one should not cut someone out of one's life, but diminish their role in it.

Ultimately, I think it will be a day to day assessment, and adjustment of my expectations. I think I will just have to find a median way that acknowledges that these are just women with whom I occasionally gather to let my kids play with others and exchange some chitchat, and not expect any one of them to become bosom friends of my heart.

There, I feel a little better.

How do you handle being on the fringes of the female/mommy culture? How do you make things easier for your kids when you don't particularly enjoy their friend's parents?

Photo courtesy of lonesome-stranger

**For a follow-up to this post go here

The Checkout Line: Bread, Milk, Cheese, Self Worth

2010-02-08T15:45:00.000-08:00

I don't know if this is your experience, but I tend to reach for my writing pen, virtual or otherwise, most often when I'm not in a good place. I think overall it's to find a place to vent it, to look at it a little closer (read: over analyze it with a view towards blowing it into an international incident), or just to hear myself yell. It doesn't take a psychoanalyst to puzzle out why I use this device--as a kid if I uttered what I was really thinking and feeling I was liable to get smacked. Hence, railing somewhat uselessly at the blank page commenced early on. Nevertheless, the fact that I feel like I'm bitching so much really rankles me. Yes, I'm bitching, about bitching.

For many years now I've had an etched plaque with a saying that has sustained me through many a rough patch. In fact, when my husband and I were in our early relationship, going through some pretty world rocking stuff, I fairly drove him nuts with each and every utterance of this sage advice: "Very little is needed to make a happy life. It is all within yourself, in your way of thinking." I'm sure he appreciated hearing it repeatedly very much, but we survived it, so, annoying--yes, but also useful. What you choose to give your attention to does often determine the direction of your life.

So today I want to bitch and moan about some pretty trivial, but nevertheless making me angst ridden stuff, but I choose to write about something else.

Today, I took Big Kidlet on a walk and I needed to go to the grocery store afterwards. He's not a nightmare in a grocery store, but it's pretty much like wheeling around a wild motormouth octopus some days. I've resolved to let up the reins a bit now that he's approaching three and is exhibiting some better listening skills, and a modicum of impulse control. In other words there is a slight stutter step while he thinks about it before he runs into traffic; a glimmer of a reasonable being is emerging. It's not easy for me. Did I mention that my mother thinks that really there was no problem using a dog run as a playpen when I was a kid? Yes, my example has been a clear owner/owned kind of paradigm, so although I resist it, I have to school the instincts every living day as I make my way through early parenthood.

Anyway, so back to the grocery store. As we approach the store he asks/tells me that he wants to "walk himself" today inside the grocery store. Previously my response pretty much can be summed up as an automatic with alacrity, brooking no argument whatsoever, "no way, no how, not gonna happen." But, these days I'm being a lot more aware of when I decide not to let him try simply because it might be a huge hassle for me. I'm looking long term these days. So I said, "sure, with a few ground rules," which we took a moment to review before we entered. To mark the occasion, I led him over to the "customer-in-training" mini shopping carts, which I previously had jealously eyed when other cute little children sedately (to my eyes) wielded them through the aisles after their (to my eyes) relaxed parents, and regarded as absolutely unrealistic in my lifetime for my spirited little boy. I can't describe the look on his face. I wish I could have a snapshot of it to remind myself each time I decide that he can't do something.

Aside from having a minor coronary every time he came in range of a wine bottle display (seriously this place seemed like it was wall-to-wall wine bottles!), he more or less walked behind me, full of pride, as I placed our groceries in his basket. It was a thing of beauty. He proudly stood in line , handed the groceries to the checker, and generally looked to stand about a foot taller.

It was a good lesson. For today that plaque in my mind says: "Very little is needed to make a happy kid, it's all within themselves, when they are allowed to try, and know they can."

Funny, all those little bitchy things I wanted to write down are like vivid dreams that become hazier and a vague echo upon waking and getting on with it. And my day with my kids has been a lot easier.

Macro Goal: Be present for my kids, and do some personal remodeling.
Micro Goal: Be aware that I and my kids are what I choose to focus on. Try and focus not on how much my kids need to test their boundaries can be a pain in my tuckus, but on how great it is that they don't have fear to do so.

Photo by beardenb

Breaking Up The Pity Pinball Party

2010-01-28T22:19:00.000-08:00

"If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy."

The old adage is so very true, and more than a little grammatically painful for me to utter. One thing I hear repeatedly from my fellow friends who are mothers is how easy and detrimental it is to continually put yourself last. In my case, sometimes it becomes a weapon of (self) destruction: overtired martyr mom. Run for the hills people, it's not pretty. This week, in a fit of maternal exhaustion and frustration I told my husband that I felt like a giant pinball machine as a parent. Of course I had to describe the game I was visualizing to my husband in the throes of my tantrum, because my completely spun out brain couldn't remember the name of the dammed thing. That's a whole other post: Mommy Brain. But Mommy Brain on full tilt meltdown is a thing of unparalleled dark humor if you stop to actually listen to yourself. Honestly, I don't know how my husband holds it together listening to me sometimes.

The pinball metaphor is especially apt for me. When my husband plays pinball, he is strategic and focused on his timing when flipping those paddles to keep that little ball in play. And while he is fully engaged and wants to win, he doesn't sweat it when one ball drops through the slot. Now me on the other hand, I start off carefully and tensely flipping those paddles, but as time goes on and I get more and more frustrated, I start pressing those buttons wildly and fiercely. That's usually when the ball usually shoots straight down the chute and I don't even get a flipper on it. Game over.

Mothering small children and infants is intense, at least it is for me. While I practice attachment parenting and support its principles, I struggle with balancing my own needs. I jealously watch my husband disappear to the shooting range, and lets face it, the office a lot of days, and envy him what I imagine to be an escape. But at the same time, the thought of not being with my kids daily literally makes me lose my breath. I chose this path, I still choose it, even when I'm ready to get in the car and drive away. But it's really easy to become hyper-focused and let a lack of self care snowball into a ball of exhaustion fueled resentment that I'm sure my little ones don't understand, and my husband certainly doesn't appreciate.

Tonight I took a break, and it was good. I returned from an evening with friends, and I didn't dwell on the fact that my five month old was still awake, I could once again appreciate that he was really eager to see me and be held BY ME. I am the center of his world right now, and for now I am OK with that.

Macro Goal: Self renovation and repair
Micro Goal: Take a mommy break a least once per week to restore sanity

Photo courtesy of Rev. Xanatos Satanicos Bombasticos (ClintJCL)

A heavy-hearted Mommy day

2010-01-27T14:49:00.000-08:00

I only have ten minutes to write. but I have something to get off my chest...

I fear I'm screwing up my kid.

Why? Because I somehow neglected to deal with all my "stuff" before he was born, and now, poor kid, he's along for the ride and suffers from some of it to. I feel like he deserves so much more than me as a mother.

I feel that it's my fault that he still is pushing other kids. I feel it's my fault when I go to pick him up from his care program after my weekly Bible study and I get those resigned looks, and those reports of how "he didn't have a good day." I feel like sinking into the floor holding his little hand as he stands there and hears his mom given a report of his difficulties in the room. I want to simultaneously hug him hard and tell him not to take it personally, that I know his heart and he is not a bad little kid. I also want to shake him hard and tell him to just please quit it and follow the program like all the other kids.

I read what I've just written, and I see the prevalence of "I." What about him, what can I do for him so he isn't cast forevermore as the "difficult one."

This is where it gets really really hard.

My ten minutes are up, and now it's time to go figure it out, one minute at a time.

A Bit Obsessed

2010-01-20T00:36:00.001-08:00

It's late, but I wanted to post a quick update lest you think I've fallen off the blog wagon. Nope, just writing elsewhere in the midst of this wrenching situation in Haiti. I posted this to my Twitter page and it about sums it up:

"One of my worst traits is my tendency to hyper-focus, one of my best traits is my ability to do so."

Busy helping move some mountains...be back soon!

Show Don't Tell

2010-01-14T23:46:00.000-08:00

Actions speak louder than words.

I had one of those "I'm a crap mother" days today. I've had an uncomfortable number of those lately. You know the ones: when you finally get your kid into bed and you feel about as good about yourself and your mothering as disgusting gum on the bottom of your shoe, and have a strong impulse to get yourself into the confessional booth (even though you're not Catholic), and better yet, if they could flog you a little bit, you feel that would be richly deserved. Yeah, that kind of day.

I wish I could simply say, "that's life with a nearly three year old," but I fear that places the blame in the wrong place. Sure, my kid is a "spirited" toddler, with a wicked stubborn streak (wonder where he got that from), but honestly, he's a good kid. He's really sweet-natured. He just wants me to show him that I'm interested in him and what he's doing. When he doesn't get that enough, he finds ways to get my attention, any attention will do.

Now visualize that old Ram truck commercial, where two rams crash violently into each other. Yeah, it was that kind of day.

Tonight at dinner, when my kid flung food on the floor (again), and said the obligatory "sorry, Mommy," after much cajoling from his dad, I told him, I'm ashamed to say more than a little passive aggressively, "actions speak louder than words." If he was really sorry, he wouldn't do it anymore. Gee, great job Mom! When you had him repeat the words back to you, and he got stuck on the word "louder," and each time you said "louder" trying to get him to say it, he just kept repeating "speak" in a louder voice, that should have been a clue.

Yeah mom, actions DO speak louder than words!

I sat by his crib tonight and apologized, held his hands, and told him I loved him.

He forgave me with his words. I hope his actions tell me he truly forgives his very flawed mom.

Micro goal: I will spend more one on one time with Big Kidlet
Macro goal: I will show him I love him as much as I tell him I love him

Photo Courtesy of fudj

Waste Not, Freak Not

2010-01-12T23:26:00.000-08:00

When I'm anxious, I clean and organize. It helps me feel some measure of control. I used to work in a high pressure environment; there was always something to stress out about, and there was always a mess to clean up. Don't get my husband started how many dead of the nights he awoke to find me still not home, and would call me at work to find me protesting, "I'm just clearing up a few things and I'll be home soon." Remember, I have the ability to be almost unnaturally focused when I want to. Bless him for not bailing on me then.

This kind of behavior would not work with kids. This is why I feel that I wasn't gifted with my children, until I learned on my own that it was time to relinquish such an unhealthy existence. And, I do not embellish when I say I got pregnant unknowingly, and unplanned I might add, the exact day I left that life.

But those feelings just don't go poof! (I wish) Making the transition to a stay at home mother these last few years has had many starts and stops. Mainly the control thing. I always worked up to that point. When I say "always," I mean virtually from birth. My parents have owned their own businesses all my life, and I just tagged along. I didn't go to preschool, I went to a playpen in their store, and developed a hell of a vocabulary my father claims virtually by osmosis. I was the mascot. As I aged, I was put to work in other capacities. Except for a brief month immediately following my completion of college (early), I was employed, and usually in a few jobs at once.

When I no longer had a "job" of my own outside the home, I felt dependent. I did, and don't like this feeling. Cue anxiety.

Lest you think I am now obsessively compulsively cleaning my house, don't worry I won't show up anytime soon on Oprah. I kind of wish I was more, but no, it manifests itself in different ways.

For example, I hate waste. I hold onto stuff. Again, don't look for me on one of those Oprah hoarder episodes. I'm really, really tidy about it actually. But I hold onto stuff nevertheless. Not surprisingly it's about control.

I wasn't deprived as a kid and I never felt "want," but things were certainly tight. I never was in the latest stare of fashion, or with the latest gadget. To this day, stuff like that still doesn't interest me. But, I did learn a certain degree of fear surrounding money from my father. My mother is a very pragmatic, if one angle doesn't work, go at the problem from another direction type of person; My dad, however, is more apt to freak out and run screaming that the sky is falling. I'm a perfect blending of the two: I'm freaking out on the inside, but on the outside I just try to muster up and find a way through it.

My father used to verbalize about his fears of not having enough, and consequently things got hung onto way past their original intended purposes. My parents are dedicated "repurposers." I get this impulse from them, but I'm just not as efficient. Things hang around my house, in their nice and neat (mostly) locations, and just sit. This I think gives me a sense of security, knowing I have these things around me that could be used for something.

That's why one of my goals this year is to "get rid of stuff." I'm trying to realize that I can't build a wall of things between myself and those things I fear.

Today I started small: I started to clean out my pantry. And the organizational fiend couldn't resist busting out the Excel spreadsheet to inventory what I have in an effort to control the waste issue. I buy things, don't end up using them, and forget that they are in there. And then I feel shame, because I hate to waste. It was really big for me to let go and throw out several things in there that I had stubbornly held onto because I didn't want to acknowledge that I had let them expire unused.

Today it's dealing with food that has expired, tomorrow perhaps some fears and aspirations.

Photo Courtesy of zenilorac

Houston We Have A Headache

2010-01-09T22:21:00.000-08:00

I have a headache tonight, a bad one (for me). There went the plans to open the Wii games and fit stuff and start exploring tonight once the kids were (finally) in bed. Before that (last night), the baby decided, nope, nothing but mama's arms will do, and don't even think about venturing more than inches away from me. He's only four months old, I cut him a break. And then there were husbandly needs to attend to, so some goals were being attended to, just not the one I wanted to. And before that (last week) I've had some sort of strange cold yet not a cold thing. And before that... you get the picture. When I get motivated to get moving more consistently, with intent and purposeful determination, invariably it's something like this that crops up to at the very least slow my progress, if not outright derail it. Pardon my swearing in texting language, but WTF?!

I know, I know, perseverance and determination. Yes, Scarlet, "tomorrow is another day."

Photo courtesy of Illusory Reasoning (but only in my mind)

Being Present Means Facebook Can Wait

2010-01-07T23:21:00.000-08:00

Ah technology, blessing or curse? For a more than slightly obsessive compulsive personality like mine, I'm thinking it can be a curse if not kept in perspective. I am reading a parenting book presently that talks about raising a spirited kid. I don't know that my toddler is necessarily "spirited" or just a toddler, but I'll take ideas anywhere I can get them. That's my way of tackling a problem, I research it from many angles and try to apply the best solution to fit the challenge.

The book speaks about the differences between introverted spirited children and extroverted spirited children, and asks the reader/parent to assess themselves as well. I was shocked to find that I would be classified as an extrovert. I know some people may say, "duh," but you have to understand that although I may not be at a loss for words in a venue such as this (which is why I write), in person one on one I'm not the most graceful conversationalist, shall we say. I associate an extrovert as someone who is the life of the room when they enter it. What was illuminating from this author was her definition of an extrovert as a person who draws their energy from being around others, whereas an introvert actually draws their energy by being more solitary. Aha, lightbulb city!

Making the transition from seeing literally dozens of people a day in my prior career life to being home with small children was tough for me in part because, it turns out that I need to be out and interacting with other people; It does actually energize me. Even the pain of my social awkwardness can not keep me from putting myself out there, because I need to connect.

Which brings me to Facebook and Twitter. You know where I'm going with this, right? How much time do you spend interacting with others on social networks? I fear too much for me personally. I worry it can cut into my relationship with my husband, my self care in the form of accomplishing the endless little details of running my family's life that keep me feeling balanced and accomplished (remember those endless lists I'm so fond of), and also for me the most shameful of all, my parenting.

Recently the blogosphere was on fire with the controversy about a work at home mother, very active on social networks, who lost her toddler in a tragic drowning accident in the family pool. Her extremely active interaction in social media while caring for small children at home drew sharp criticism as a contributing factor to her loss. I recoiled at that group that wanted to blame her for not watching her young child every single second to avert that disaster, because it could have just as easily been a case of making any number of split second errors in judgment such as zipping out to put a load of laundry in, grab a glass of water, etc. We all walk this tricky line every day.

But, I also saw their point. Social media can be consuming and addictive, and in the case of being alone with small people that are extremely needy, and not the most brilliant conversationalists, social media connection feels like a life preserver. It's nice to be heard, and it's nice to know you aren't alone going through it. But when the connection of others outside of your home becomes more important than those inside your home, you've got a problem.

This lesson came home for me today. I took my spirited toddler to run some energy off at the park. For various reasons I chose to revisit a park that has been a difficult park for us in the past because it has a lot of very tempting water. It has been a very long while since we had gone, and I decided that it was time to try again. Having my infant with me, makes this a tricky proposition under the best of circumstances, but I like to push myself to tackle challenges that scare me head on. (Another surprising thing I learned about myself as a parent actually) Well, while we did MUCH better than we have in the past, there were still plenty of stressful moments and my frustration with my son was aching for venting. So, I reached for my I-Phone... for about a second. When I realized that I was about to take to my social network to express how I wondered if I would ever have a time with my son when I felt that I didn't need to be right next to him to avert certain disaster, I realized I was about to take my attention away from my son, perhaps opening us up to that very disaster. I put the phone right back in my pocket, and trailed after a little piece of my heart who needs me to make better decisions about who needed my attention most at that moment. Venting could wait, he could not.

Score a victory today in my goal this year to be more present and in the moment for my family.

Photo courtesy of Matt Hamm

The Kids are Happy as Long as I ignore the Shopping List

2010-01-06T23:11:00.000-08:00

Logging some progress today:

Quality time with kids= check!
Quality time with friends= check!
Wrote something (and not just this)= check!
Got things done in the house= not so much
Health=nope...thighs still touching, although I DID at least observe a child playing on the Wii Fit...I'm getting closer to cracking open my copy!

The to do list is taunting me, and my husband tells me I am one paper towel roll away from a Costco emergency, but inching forward.

Refrigerator Psychoanalysis

2010-01-04T14:43:00.000-08:00

What's on your fridge? If it's like mine, you have appointment reminders, lists for shopping and to-dos (the honey-do list is getting frighteningly little perusal recently...it's stacking up). Maybe some pictures, a few pizza place magnets from college nearly 20 years ago? A funny cartoon, perhaps? Some kid artwork and the family command center with all the emergency contact info and directions for what to do in case of a crisis situation, because in a panic, sure, I've got time to check off the action steps, right? Sound familiar?

I also have what I will call "inspirational living clippings." I have an article from March of 2008 about "Do it Yourself Postpartum Fitness." Yeah people, from baby number one, we're on number two folks (as I tuck another pillow behind my aching back because my core muscle strength is crap)! I've also got a print out from Oprah.com of Dr. Oz's Anti-Aging Checklist from who-knows-when, but certainly a while back because it's been aging on my fridge for quite a while now, and looks a little washed out (and I might add it carried over to the "new" fridge we've had for about two years). And, I have what is frankly a reaaaaallllly intimidating list of "Calls to Action" from the Book of James, from my women's bible study about a year back. I'm not even touching that one. Let's just say, I'm not worthy.

I walk past them daily. Grumble when either I walk past so fast that something blows off, or when my toddler yanks something off with a maniacal laugh because he knows it makes us crazy. Occasionally, I stop, read, sigh, and tell myself "I really need to get on these."

They seem so enticingly do-able, in their succinct and clear list format. What's so hard about drinking a glass of red wine or concord grape juice once daily, and having four cups of green or white tea per day (I'm on number one for today by the way...I opted for the black tea at breakfast)? Or for that matter, what's so hard about sleeping se..even to eighhhttt hours per...night, and um, hmmm, having monogamous sex two to (oh come on now, I have an infant people) three times per week? "WEEK?" Yeah, he said "wee-k." Crap! As you can see, It gets a little trickier as I move down the list.

My husband hates the stuff on the fridge and really would like it if the obsessive Scandinavian minimalism of one half of my heritage would somehow break on through to this side of daily life, and not be relegated to emerging regally in the middle of an argument, like some Nordic ice queen. I should say, he would LOVE the stuff, if I actually routinely put much of it into action...especially that sex thing. Every time as he passes with his wide shoulders, and clips something on that fridge, dislodging it, he shoots me a dagger look that clearly yells, "Would you please DO something with this crap?!"

Oh honey, I'm with you. I'm trying.

Photo not my fridge, courtesy of anikarenina

Fear of Sucking: Writing it Down

2010-01-03T23:59:00.000-08:00

Ahhh, procrastination, my old friend. I'm sitting down at 11:59pm to work on one of my other goals this year: write something everyday. So with a minute to go, I'm finally making myself sit down and squeeze in something productive on this front. I wish I could say I'm so overwhelmed with things I have to accomplish that preclude me giving this particular resolution the time it needs, but this journey is about honesty...I futzed, I delayed, and finally with the clock clicking down, I crammed. Now let's really get down and expose the dirty here...I even considered altering the posting time. But I say NO! Say it loud, say it prroo...ok, shamefully, I'm a big fat time waster...especially when I'm afraid of something.

What am I afraid of? Well...I'm afraid it will stink. I'm afraid of what you'll think.

Let me explain. As a reader you can judge this for yourself (and I'm bracing myself to duck), but for most of my life I have generally been regarded as a better than average writer. I won the competitions, I earned the high marks. My eighth grade graduation from my small rural school was an embarrassment of accolades that I'm sure did not endear me to my peers. My artistic ego has stretched luxuriously, like a cat in the sun, with each admiring compliment. Oh it's heady, I'm not going to lie. Along with those compliments also came the expectation, expressed and unsaid that I was "going somewhere" with this little gift. Except, um nope, not so much. Why? Well, I could tell you I had to do some serious soul searching to figure it out, but no I know exactly why I haven't broken through. I don't have a discipline problem, because when engaged by what I'm doing, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone with more singular focus. The problem is...fear. Fear that it will not be good enough.

Oh the cliches just keep rolling! I'm a writer who is insecure and afraid of failure. I promised myself absolute honesty, but oooff, that hurts to type out loud. Well then, we're in it, let's keep it rolling. I have also always struggled with the unseemly need to be liked. Now the reasons for THAT are something that has required a lot of soul searching, and the quest to figure out and defuse that particular self destructive time bomb continues.

But ultimately, it's all about fear. It's a problem, and I'm not sure it can be solved so much as diverted through a bit of skilled rewiring. So here I go tinkering with the wiring:

Macro Goal: Tackle Fear
Micro Goal: Write something everyday, even if it stinks. And...and this is going to be the clincher...not for you, dear reader, but for myself.

Photo Courtesy of UNTAMED+

It's the Little Stuff that Makes the Difference: Micro Goals

2010-01-02T20:57:00.000-08:00

Macro Goal: Be more in the moment and present for my family...

As much as I'm a planner by nature, I still seem to live a lot of my life by the seat of my pants. I've moved through each phase as the opportunity presented itself. When I resist this way of doing things I seem to suffer. I had a career for many years past when I should have changed course, but like the old clothes in my closet that are sadly out of step, and regrettably several sizes off of reality, I stubbornly held on. High levels of toxic stress ensued, which would have been hilarious in my epic inability to acknowledge when to fold the cards, if it just weren't so pathetic. I nearly lost my marriage, my health, and really when I look back on it, myself.

It's tragic how one keeps praying for answers and resolutions, and because one doesn't want to see what the answers and resolutions truly are, whatever force one wishes to call it (for me it's God) seems to have to ratchet up the means of getting through. I always joke with my friends that God had to allow my life to become seriously miserable before I was willing to have my a-HA moment because I am Stubborn, with a capital S. But the old adage is true: people don't change or stop until they want to. Or to put it another way, until the pain of NOT doing something is greater than the pain of actually doing it, they are staying put.

So, I finally unplugged my ears, stopped the incessant "la-la-la-la-ing" to block out what I didn't want to hear, and listened to my life. And, it was like nails on a chalkboard cringe-worthy. The platform I was standing on was burning right up to my toes. So without a clear plan, I jumped.

As it turns out I jumped straight into a veritable ocean of love. The very day I walked away, God saw fit to green light the thing I had wanted and secretly feared would not ever happen: I got pregnant. Now my in laws, who waited a decade for us to get married, and had pretty much written off grandchildren from their uber-driven daughter-in-law, now shake their heads in unbelieving bemusement as my husband and I, having just welcomed a second child, talk about possibly adding a third. I'm just really not capable of slight course corrections, it's an all out spinning of the wheel. My husband has learned to hold on, but (God love him) has always had a penchant for the wild ride. I don't dive off of physical cliffs, but the emotional ones are treacherously steep and rocky affairs.

To be able to do things with such single-minded focus, or dare I say obsession, you have to be a little selfish, which brings me to the macro goal of being more present for my family. When I left my former career I had to mourn; it had truly been a consuming passion in every sense of the word. As happy as I am being with my kids 24/7, I struggle with the wake of that full throttle existence which feels so normal to me. I used to have dozens of people report to me, and now I have two (OK sometimes three when you count my husband in my particularly bossy moments). I struggle with questions of purpose and anxiety of quantifying my contributions.

I never planned to be a stay at home mom, but the opportunity presented itself, and so here I am. It's been an adjustment, mostly happy. Now when I go to the grocery store, I usually run into several people I know. In so many ways my life is so much more full, not only with my growing family, but with community, something that was sorely lacking in my workaholic myopic life. (Did I mention I actually went to Workaholics Anonymous meetings for a while? Bought the book and everything. I was THAT bad!)

In that seismic shift I also resolved to do the one thing that I had yearned for and feared as well: write. And I did it! I actually started to draw a tiny paycheck from my writing ability. And it was and is thrilling...I want more of that! But as is my way, I am very easily drawn into that very selfish space of single minded focus, and that has created another conflict: quality of my time and energy with my husband and kids.

I struggle with the boundaries between doing that which makes my blood sing (write), and what makes my heart beat (my family). I need them both. When I am spending time with my kids, I struggle to make sure my focus doesn't drift and become distracted by the words in my head, or by the lure of my computer to do just one more bit of checking in, and research. When I stare at the blank screen, I struggle to not allow myself an out to go do the laundry, or sweep the floor.

So here are some micro goals to support my macro goal, which can be summed up with the seemingly contradictory statement: plan in order to be in the moment.

Extended work/computer time limited to when children are asleep or with husband
Time spent each day focused on and listening to husband, even if he's recounting details about his shooting hobby that make me glaze over! Will go with him to the shooting range (as he's been asking FOR-ever) at least once in the next six months.
Homeschooling preschool plan in place by Big Kidlet's third birthday
Playtime each day with Little Kidlet (solo and included with Big Kidlet)
Take one family vacation, even if it's a "stay-cation"
Take one kid-free mini-break
Plan gifts in advance
Sex and foot rubs...nuff said

I'm stopping there because as I've said I like my lists but can get a little out of control. Just looking to get started, more will follow. I'll also post some of the daily stuff I do to support these goals along the way as well.

P.S. I did pretty well with this goal today. We spent some time building what we like to call "Noah's High Rise." Big Kidlet loved it so much, he refrained from breaking it into bits as he usually likes to do, even before I finish building. And, it still stands after a full afternoon!

The Big Picture: Setting Goals

2010-01-01T22:28:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

Kicking it off. Step one: Goals. This is a tricky area. They tell you when making goals you should be specific and realistic. I have no problem with the specific. I like lists...ALOT...gloriously micromanaging kinds of lists! I like lists and checking them off so much in fact, I actually will add things I've already done and perhaps neglected to write down, JUST so I can check them off. Do you do that? My husband does to, but it's hard to tell if that is just our peculiar neurotic need for accomplishment.

Disclosure: we've been together for eighteen years, so sometimes it seems we've merged into one person, with one brain. Really it's freaky! We think the same stuff at the same time on a daily basis; "get out of my head" is a common phrase heard in my house because one of us will say almost exactly the same thing the other of us was thinking at that same moment. It's not a bad thing, but I'm just sayin, it's hard to tell if what we do is what others do, or just our own little domestic freak show.

So, as I said, I like the list element of goal setting, but I tend to bite off a little more than I can chew. I don't do "realistic" well. And then I feel horrible because I haven't been able to check it off. So, I'm going to list some "macro" goals, which are really general "principle" goals, and some "micro" goals, which are essentially the nuts and bolts of accomplishing the macro goals. Did I mention I also have an over-thinking thing? But, you know, you've got to work with who you are, and strive to be the best version of YOU, crazy tics and all.

So here is my list. There is of course a back story behind each one, and we'll get to that as we go along.

Macro Goals 2010

Let go of old "stuff" (literal and figurative)
Do some restoration and renovation on the "temple," aka my body, brain, and soul
Be present and in the moment for my family
Tackle fear
What are your macro goals?

Next up, setting micro goals.

Photo and presumably goals courtesy of authenticeducator

You've Got to Start Somewhere

2009-12-31T00:01:00.000-08:00

Another blog, and why read it? Honestly do, don't, it's not about you. It's about me, keeping me honest. Recalling the line from the movie encoded on the female cultural DNA, Pretty Woman, "Do you have goals; you've got to have goals," succinctly sums up the reason for this blog. A girls got to have goals. And, it helps if you write them down. And, it helps even more if you make them public. It makes it a little harder to do a little editorial, apply a little spin, you get the idea. Sure it's a cliche to start such a thing on New Year's Eve, but why not? It's authentic, it's sincere, and what better time? (Right, one of those goals might just need to be stop apologizing and justifying, but let's take it one step at a time shall we, Rome and all that.)

So where is this coming from? Why share it? I'm just like you. I'm not particularly remarkable. I'm a basically happy individual, actually pretty blessed to be honest, and grateful to. But...(you knew that was coming right?) as happens in many lives, things start to drift, life gets busy and messy, and somehow the goals get guiltily pushed aside. So this is me, making me live mine out in words and deeds, one little day at a time.

This is my somewhere. This should be interesting...

Photo courtesy of infi9ite