i was nothing, no one, i was everything to her

As we approach the birth of a new year, I'd like to share one of my favorite poems about birth:

"First Birth"

I had thought so little, really, of her,
inside me, all that time, not breathing--
intelligent, maybe curious,
her eyes closed. When the vagina opened,
slowly, from within, from the top, my eyes
rounded in shock and awe, it was like being
entered for the first time, but entered
from the inside, the child coming in
from the other world. Enormous, stately,
she was pressed through the channel, she turned, and rose,
they held her up by a very small ankle,
she dangled indigo and scarlet, and spread
her arms out in this world. Each thing
I did, then, I did for the first
time, touched the flesh of our flesh,
brought the tiny mouth to my breast,
she drew the avalanche of milk,
down off the mountain, I felt as if
I was nothing, no one, I was everything to her, I was hers.

                                                                                        By Sharon Olds (Morning Song)

teaching preschoolers about the pagan roots of yule

I taught college students for years, but when I joined Lilly's Montessori preschool this week to introduce the children to some of my native Yule traditions and customs, I felt myself a bit jittery. It's almost embarrassing to confess how much time I spent mulling over my "lesson plan." Thinking about how I would go about doing it all, teaching the children a little about the pagan roots of jul (from the old Norse jól) while keeping their attention and having them interact with me. My goal was also to semi-teach (I didn't expect them to learn all the Norwegian words!) a julesang (Yule song) with its dance around the tree.

I really wanted the children to experience that sense of joy and magic, which I imagine once experiencing as a child celebrating jul at my grandma's. But you can't force or fake that sentiment; it has to be true.

So, I began by asking the children if they celebrate Christmas, and that of course got everyone animated, talking excitedly on top of one another. About Rudolph and presents, and the Grinch (and how did he steel Christmas again?). One boy pointed out that Christmas is a celebration of Jesus' birthday. Many talked about having a tree, and I asked if any of them would dance around it. No one did. Then I told them that where I come from, for more than a hundred years, people have brought a tree into the house, decorating it much like people do here. But unlike most people here, people dance and sing around the juletre (Yule tree) on julaften (Yule eve) and at several tree parties thereafter.

home is where we light a candle: on homesickness at Christmas

Digging through Christmas decorations, I recently came across a printout of a chapel talk I gave as a college professor at St. Olaf College ten years ago for a Norwegian Christmas service. Christmas is sort of unavoidably in the air these days, so I thought I'd share it with you all for sentimental reasons. Those of you who know me, will understand that this issue of 'homesickness' is complex to me, to say the least. And you'll know that to me it's all about jól and not Krist-messe (Christ-mass).

I suspect everyone feels homesick at Christmas. Even those who're "at home" experience, I think,  a sense of homesickness; a yearning for Christmas as it "once was."

It is a bittersweet sense of loss and nostalgia. On the one hand, it is a recognition that we can never go back to this "once was." On the other hand, it is a nurturing of this "once was." Finally, it is a suspicion that it never really existed, and that it fares better in our emotional and imaginative world.

expecting

A couple of my friends are expecting, which made me think of this amazing poem, also from Morning Song: Poems for New Parents:

Grave, my wife lies back, hands cross

her chest, while the doctor searches early

for your heartbeat, peach pit, unripe

plum--pulls out the world's worst

boom box, a Mr. Microphone, to broadcast

your mother's lifting belly.

The whoosh and bellows of mama's body

and beneath it: nothing. Beaneath

the slow stutter of her heart: nothing.

The doctor trying again to find you, fragile

fern, snowflake. Nothing.

After, my wife will say, in fear,

now ... give your uncle a kiss

I found this post at The Current Conscience quite poignant in light of the holiday season and the heightened attention to child sex abuse. Excerpt:

How often, especially during the holidays, are children confronted with moments like this one: a relative comes to visit and the child’s parents say something like, “Now, give your uncle a hug and kiss.”

And when the child refuses to provide physical affection, or hesitates at the request, they sometimes hear things like, “You’re hurting your uncle’s feelings. It’s not polite. Now, go give him a hug and kiss.”

Some of us even remember our relatives asking us (some may say pleading or begging) for affection, “Aren’t you going to give me a hug and kiss? Please?!”

I think this insisting and cajoling of a child into showing physical affection towards an adult is incredibly dangerous. Whether it’s a relationship between a child and his/her relatives or one between a kid and an adult who is an acquaintance, family friend, mentor, this type of behavior, in which children are expected to show physical affection as a sign of respect, is something I think we all need to be careful about.

For me, it’s about the issue of when a child gives us the sense that they don’t want to be physically affectionate with someone, and our tendency to encourage the child, at that particular moment, to abandon their intuition and instinct. It’s a small step towards the erosion of that child’s sense of self-trust.

At that moment, we are telling them, “Forget about how you feel. Do something that makes you feel uncertain and uncomfortable, so that someone else (an adult) can feel acknowledged and respected.”
Read more at The Current Conscience >>

women with "wrong" bodies and attempts at healing

Lilly and I: May she never be
told her body is "wrong."

Women are constantly bombarded with imageries that tell them there's somehow something wrong with their bodies; that they don't measure up. But this post is not about those kind of "wrong" bodies. This post is about when Western medicine tells women their bodies don't function right; that they're "wrong."

I got this message from an early age. Feeling unsafe at home, I suffered from insomnia from an early age. I had headaches, frequent colds, and in general a poor constitution. There were concerns I would go deaf when I grew up because my hearing was "poor" (I think it was selective). And they wanted to test me for diabetes since I was "too thirsty" all the time (see, I've always been a swiller.)

The real problems started when I "failed" to get my period. I maybe had a little spotting at some point late in middle school, but it never developed into anything. When I was 18, this was cause for alarm. There were frequent hormone tests and attempts at jumpstarting my period with strong birth control pills; pills that were later taken off the market because of near fatal side effects.

the miracle of life

Because we're trying to conceive a child, and because Lilly is in a constant awe of babies that are in the womb and then come out of it, we checked out The Miracle of Life with timeless photos by Swedish photographer Lennart Nilsson. Then we all sat down to watch it last Sunday afternoon. We expected the video to feature pictures of a growing fetus, but as it turns out, the video is more about what happens before anything turns into even an embryo.

Amazing internal photographs capture living, functioning reproductive systems as the camera follows an egg from its follicular development in an ovary, through the delicate, flowery fallopian tube for fertilization, and on to the uterus for development and eventual birth. Likewise, we follow the shorter journey of millions of sperm as they develop and strive desperately to reach the egg.

We explained as best as we could what the images were featuring. It helps that Lilly already knows all the correct words for the external genitals (both in English and Norwegian, though she's inclined to use the colloquial terms "tiss" and "tissemann"); now we moved on to the internal ones. And we kept waiting for the appearance of a fetus; something more recognizable to a three-year-old.

more business of being born

More Business of Being Born premiered this week in Los Angeles. I loved Ricki Lake and Abby Epstein's first documentary The Business of Being Born with its empowering messages for women to claim their power to birth on their terms, and this promises to be a solid follow-up.



About the film: Executive Producer Ricki Lake and Filmmaker Abby Epstein follow their landmark documentary, The Business of Being Born, with an all-new, four part DVD series that continues their provocative and entertaining exploration of the modern maternity care system. More Business of Being Born, available on November 8th, 2011, offers a practical look at birthing options as well as poignant celebrity birth stories from stars including Alanis Morissette, Gisele Bundchen, Christy Turlington-Burns, Cindy Crawford, Molly Ringwald, Kimberly Williams-Paisley and Melissa Joan Hart.

go the fuck to sleep

I am returning to my Sleep Question book this week. In that spirit, I'm posting this You Tube video of Samuel L. Jackson reading the parody childrens book, Go the Fuck to Sleep, which has seen a runaway success.

If The Sleep Question won't be as laugh-out hilarious, I can promise you that it will make you feel as unjudged and not alone.

when my three-year-old daughter got her period

Bathroom moment

"I have bled a lot," she told me (in Norwegian) the other day we were in the bathroom; "so I need to change my pad." It had been a while since I had my period (and I was crossing fingers), so her words came completely out of the blue to me.

There's something very odd and amusing at the same time to hear your three-year-old tell you she got her period (mensen). Especially at a time when I would rather not get mine. I've in fact been turning hopeful I would not be getting it for my wished for reasons. I've been feeling all the right signs: an overwhelming sense of fatigue, nausea, headaches.

Yesterday, I finally took a pregnancy test. I was four days overdue and I've been regular as a clock since I got my period back this past spring after a nearly four-year hiatus.

on the soothing powers of friendship and pumpkin patches

Thanks to MEA, I had a lovely day that gave me much reprieve from dealing with the age of spite. I know I was so looking forward to having Lilly in preschool for three hours each morning, giving me much craved time to write. But the thing is, it's not much time. And at 11:30, I get to pick up a very tired and hungry child (think that's fun?). Then there's the testing, testing, testing (of limits) before we finally read books. Then the pre-nap ordeals before a nap that never feels long enough. Before she's up again, yet again famished and groggy, still not quite awake. This is when I pop in a DVD for her to watch while I exhaustedly juggle serving her food and otherwise catering to her needs (and desperately still attempting to hold down those limits), as I also try to finish up some work on my laptop, tidy up the house, and make dinner.

By the time Leighton's home by six, I'm in shutdown mode.

See, mornings are for all the fun stuff (as well as those necessary errands that I now find myself cramming to get done). Mornings are for play-dates and hanging out with friends. Mornings are for the rock mamas who know how to make the best of each morning.

Afternoons are no fun. Afternoons are tired. From lunch through nap to dinner, the long afternoon hours have me sinking down into a murky swamp where I find myself barely holding on.

And afternoons are lonely. Tied to the house, settling in for nap or recovering from one, preparing, cleaning up or yet again preparing a meal, they are impossible for scheduled play-dates or other fun things.

age of spite

In the US, we talk about the "terrible twos" but in my native Norway we talk about "the age of spite," and it begins at three (trassalderen). We are so dealing with that right now. Which is why I broke into tears reading the book that arrived as our monthly free gift from Dolly Parton's Imagination Library this week: Old Bear and His Cub.

Old Bear loved his Little Cub with all his heart.
Little Cub loved Old Bear with all his heart.
Every morning they ate breakfast together.
"Eat all your porridge, Little Cub," said Old Bear.
"No, I won't," said Little Cub.
"Yes, you will," said Old Bear.
"No, I won't," said Little Cub.

Old Bear stared hard at Little Cub.
Little Cub ate his porridge.
All of it.

The book takes us along their day through more exchanges of obstinent spitefulness and persistent determinedness.

I giggled my way through the pages until I got to the end.

sex & conception: the heartaches of calculated pregnancies

Me and Lilly, June 2008

We've been trying to have another baby. We've been trying for more than two years. Granted, I did only get my period back this past spring, a couple of months before she turned three and she told me there was no more left.

I was overjoyed when my period returned in April. I have hated it whenever it's since paid its monthly visit.

It always bothered me I never knew when we actually conceived Lilly. Back then, we were newly married and could act like rabbits. Sex wasn't something we planned or decided to do; it just happened. Often. It was sweet.

Things are a little a lot more complicated now. I'm a fan of the quicky; weekend "naps" are great. When they happen, that is. As far as I can remember, Lilly has always resisted naps, and especially during the weekend when she has both parents around. By the time Lilly's in bed at night, we're all exhausted.

why you should read banned books to your kids

We're nearing the end of Banned Books Week, an appropriate time to introduce your child to Captain Underpants if you haven't already. Captain Underpants is the widely popular children's books series by awarded author Dav Pilkey. Diagnosed with ADHD and dyslexia in elementary school, he was frequently reprimanded for his behavior in class and often sat at a desk in the school hallway where he created the Captain Underpants character: a superhero who is kind and nice to everyone, especially to children. In the book series, he is the alter ego of the evil principal hypnotized to think he is Captain Underpants.

Apparently, some think this sends too unruly of a message to kids. The series has been banned in some schools for encouraging children to disobey authority.

battle hymn of the troll mother

I finally got around to reading Amy Chua's Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother (2011), which caused the mama Blogosphere to explode in outrage against this über strict mother who denies her daughters all fun and play, forcing them instead to work hard at academics and music through constant monitoring, threats and punishment. I can see now how it struck such a nerve with people. Why? Because while in the US we take pride in our right to individual freedom and the pursuit of happiness, our culture nevertheless places an outrageously high price on accomplishment and success. Which is what Chua claims she ensured for her children through rigid enforcement of music practice and drilling for hours on end until excellence was achieved.

when all men are potential pedophiles: the park & rec board weighs in on "proper swimwear"

The hostility punched me in my gut as I entered the meeting room last night. I was there to talk about this summer's "pool attire" incident when I was told to put a top on my three-year-old daughter. I explained as I've already done to the pool manager and the pool manager's supervisor, that I find the request offensive in its sexualization of little girls. I also see the matter as beyond the pool staff's area of jurisdiction, which when you look at the pool rules has everything to to with the sanitariness and proper functioning of the pool water (swim diapers required for children not potty trained; no street wear like "cut-offs" and "t-shirts" whose fibers can clog pool filters; no spitting or blowing nose in the pool water; no infectious disease), and the physical safety of the pool patrons (no running, pushing, or alcohol; diving only in designated areas; and diving board and climbing walls only allowed for "good swimmers"). Otherwise, the safety of the child is the parent's responsibility: "children 8 years of age and under must be accompanied and supervised (within arms reach at all times) by responsible person 15 years of age or older." In other words, whether to have my daughter wear a top or not is my decision, which I make based on my child's level of comfort, and mine, and whatever other factor I deem wise to take into consideration.

This is proper swimwear (at the beach in Norway in June.)

In reality, I think the issue is moot. There is at this point not an upper age limit for toplessness stipulated in the rules at our local pool, and it's not like you're seeing girls or women strut around topfree over there when the pool's open. In our culture, a girl wants to wear a top. As many have said chiming in on this issue, any girl will require a top herself by the time she turns five. Even my Lilly wants to wear a top (to my dismay) because she wants to look like me. It's just that the top feels so uncomfortable, so she'll take if off (to my relief). But as she grows older, she'll want even more to look like her peers. And what they wear is limited by what's available in stores, much of which is made for kids to emulate pop stars. For heavens sake; they make bikinis with tops for babies a mere months old.

she wanted a little room for thinking: but she saw diapers steaming on the line

She wanted a little room for thinking:

but she saw diapers steaming on the line,

a doll slumped behind the door.

So she lugged a chair behind the garage

to sit out the children's naps.

walk therapy

A pause in the gazebo by the river

I remember reading about a California-based therapist who would take her clients on hikes during their sessions. The body moving helped the words flowing, she explained. But she also stressed the benefits of the endorphins released from the exercise, and the serenity of nature, soothing the soul.

I was reminded of this when out on one of our walks this week. We've both been down with the cold, and this particular day I felt my spirit heavy too. Lilly suggested a walk; perhaps liking the idea of lounging in the stroller. With my heavy head and runny nose it didn't sound too great of an idea. But off we went.

hair power

I've been feeling my parenting status dwindle. First, the power of the boob went up in smoke. And then I found myself cold in bed alone at night.

For a moment I felt desperate. I've felt sad.

But then there's hair.

My hair. -- If the breast is empty, at least there's still a head full of hair.

One of the mamas I interviewed for my sleep question book told me that all it took for one of her kids to fall asleep, was holding on to "a wad of hair." It could be hers or her husbands, and eventually even the child's own hair, soothing himself to sleep.

This is where I find my power these days: in my hair. Be it before nap or after, it's the hair she holds on to. In the morning, still in that vulnerable not quite awake state, it's the hair she needs. And even if she can't hold onto it as I brew that coffee I so desperately need to wake up; she needs to see it there. In fact, I cause a scene if I put my hair up to avoid getting any in my food. The important thing is to let it all out.

Many parents can relate to their little ones' clutching at their hair, like baby monkeys. But this feels different. This is hair adoration; all she wants to do is run her fingers through my hair.

I do get her thing with hair; I love hers just as much.

holding on and gliding

As summertime is waning, I find myself holding on. The stuff on my list of summer things and other things-to-do slide. My head flooded by thoughts, I let them swim. In a meshed lost-in-thought state of combined absentmindedness and acute presence, we forget about time and savor the sweet last days of summer.

"Let's make a big mess and see what we can make of it," a person once advised me. As I find myself gliding, sliding, barely holding on to everyday, I return to that sentiment. -- If I can let it all flow and float around me and in me for now, then at one point, maybe it will all come into place.

different people

"Wow, people are really white around here!" exclaimed my friend. She'd driven all the way down from the cities to join Lilly and I at the City pool, the idea being our three-year-old kids could play in the water while we got a chance to catch up. I realize I can be a bit slow at times but my first thought was, "they're tanner in the cities?"

We actually have a sizable Latino/a population in our small college town but you won't see many of them at the pool. Perhaps partly due to the obscene cost of the pool passes. But I think it has more to do with our town's segregation of "different people" to the outskirts of town. The heaviest Latino/a inhabited neighborhood is a mobile-park located on the northeast side of town. Our City pool, on the other hand, is situated smack in the middle of the well-kept houses and gardens of white upper middle class families who also happen to live close by the golf course. Sadly, I can't think of one child of color among Lilly's friends.

Laura Baker Services Association, the school and home of many children and adults with developmental disabilities is located close to one of the colleges in a very nice residential neighborhood of historic houses, but while efforts are made to integrate with the community, this population remains on the outskirts too. Originally a school for people with developmental disabilities, it now also offers services to families in the community, including respite care services.

equally shared parenting hurts

As a feminist and equal rights advocate, I was surprised and slightly disgruntled to experience how hard it was to let go of my position as the "primary-parent." I'd been with Lilly 24 -7 that first year of her life so you'd think I'd be ready for a break. Which I craved, but the transition still took some time. And arguing.

Equally shared parenting. It's actually a term and now there's a book for it too. In it, the authors stress that moms must relinquish "primary-parent status:"

If you want lasting and happy equal childraising with your partner, you will need to:

1. Stop thinking of babies and children as your territory.
2. Quit taking on more than half the childraising work and responsibility.
3. Give up the right to be your child's most important parent. (60)

And that second year of Lilly's life, we did it, Leighton and I, sharing our days writing and being with her, playing, cleaning, shopping, cooking.

Correction: the sharing was never equal. I still nursed her day and night. And up until only a couple of weeks ago, I've been the one sharing my bed with her with her body next to me / on top of me.

I am still slightly resentful for how Leighton and I stuck to a schedule where we'd each get a couple of mornings to write (seeing that's the preferred writing time for both of us). On the days when it was my turn to write in the afternoon, I'd still linger after lunch, trying to nurse her down for nap. Which would ultimately eat up half my writing time, leaving me brainless for the rest of it.

I don't know why we held on to that arrangement for so long. The idealism of it. Why I could never suggest we change things up a bit.

breast malfunction

I've always imagined myself nursing my now three-year-old daughter for at least two or three years to come. -- Sort of like moms in Mongolia, where "there’s an oft-quoted saying that the best wrestlers are breastfed for at least six years – a serious endorsement in a country where wrestling is the national sport."

Breastfeeding in Mongolia (Mothering Magazine).

But after one week of sleeping in her own bed at night, Lilly told me one evening that the right boob didn't work anymore. A week later, she told me the left one didn't work either.

She's seemed a little sad, but frankly, I think it's' been harder for me to let go. I've asked her a few times when lying down for nap or at night, if she'd like to see if maybe the milk's come back, to which she just shakes her head.

"proper swimwear:" why sexualize and discriminate against little girls?

Why can't this be "proper swimwear"?
Mail Online

I've been pretty worked up this week since we were told at the city pool last Sunday that Lilly, who just turned three, had to put a top on. The pool manager has since clarified that "proper swimwear" requires a top for girls from when they are at least of school age, which I'm still not happy about. I asked her to bring it up with her supervisor and City Council, and am working on a letter to our local newspaper.

I am also working on a longer article about this for the Sexy Mama column at Good Vibrations Magazine; stay tune for that. In the meantime, I'd like to hear what you think about this. -- What message is this giving young girls? Does it seem reasonable to you to require girls as young as five to cover up? Or might you consider this sexualizing girls as young as five or six. A gender discriminating issue, in fact, allowing boys--and men--to swim, play, and roam naked from the waist up while the female sex, be they five or fifty, are asked to cover up their breasts, -- be they there or not.

Also, feel free to contribute to the discussion about this on Facebook, here or here.

Update Sat. July 23: My article on this at Good Vibrations Magazine: "Proper Swimwear" for a Toddler Girl Includes a Top?! 

Update Wed. July 27: After today's publication of my letter about this incident to our local newspaper, the pool manager's supervisor, which would be the head of the Park and Recreation Advisory Board, finally called. She told me the board had discussed the "pool attire" incident at last week's meeting and concluded that for girls, "proper swimwear" implies tops for girls age five and up. I am not done pursuing this matter. Please; I'd like to hear from more of you what you think about this.

sleep baby, sleep

My husband's not a jerk or an old-fashioned dude. When his response to my announcement that I am ready--and think Lilly is ready-- to sleep in her own bed at night is "so does this mean I will be tired too now?" it does not mean that he is not a devoted co-parent. Far from it. If you know Leighton, you know this is just his bemused way of thinking each step through. If you step back a little, you might even find it amusing (unless you're the spouse; in particular one who's been on edge).

In fact, it was I who asked Leighton to leave the family bed when I was about to nighttime wean Lilly. Sure, the bed had felt way too hot and crowded for quite a while up until then. But I was so wanting her to self-wean. She was nineteen months, and I figured her constant requests for the boob would soon dwindle. Except it didn't. And then when I started driving through red stop signs, I knew it was time.

But Leighton has a kind, sensitive heart, and I knew I couldn't worry about him lying there aching for Lilly while I was having my own hard time with the weaning issue; so I asked him to sleep in her bed.

take care of yourself: on body, soul, and sleep

I've felt frazzled lately and this week I set out to do something about that; to take care of myself. I know getting my body moving helps lift my spirit. So instead of our usual mid morning to-do stuff, I would go for a good, long walk with Lilly in the stroller, rain or shine. At three, she's not crazy about this, but with the wonder of what we've been finding in nature, it's been a really good thing for us.

On the first day, we came upon a duck on main street downtown, trying to get all her little ducklings up on the sidewalk. -- It took several attempts for the little ones and much encouragement from mama duck. It was an amazing experience to watch; would she leave the littlest one behind after all the other ones had made it up after numerous failed attempts? But no, down she went again, helping her babe up with her beak. Talk about attachment parenting. Then down the sidewalk with ducklings in tow, she headed for the river.

Another day, we spotted a deer right in front of us on the trail in the prairie arboretum we're so fortunate to have nearby. Then on our way home, Lilly got a skinny dip in the fountain downtown with a friend while I got to talk with mine.

lazy moms I don't like

Sure, I look forward to the day when I can lounge by the pool while Lilly swims, jumps, and plays in the water on her own or with her friends. But I don't like the lazy mom lounging with her magazine and bag of chips while her kids--equipped with hefty safety vests--are in the water by themselves. Why? Because it breaks my heart to see how her younger boy (about four years old) keeps begging for her attention while the older sister (six?)--having figured out that it will do her no good to ask for it--bugs me instead for mine.

And why me? Seriously. -- While I love my daughter and her friends that I know, I am by no means a kid person. On the contrary. When my friends became moms years before I turned into one, I could never get the big fuss about it. In fact, their mush brains bothered me, and I was upset by the feeling of having lost my friends.

I know my body language is not particularly friendly towards this kid. I can't stand how her only reply to my responses to her constant "look at me!" or "what's her name?" is "what???"  I've even told her I do not want to talk to her (yes, I did).

should we deny little girls their princess pink?

Lisa Bloom, author of Think: Straight Talk for Women to Stay Smart in a Dumbed Down World, recently wrote about how she squelched herself from squealing to the five-year-old daughter of some friends; "Maya, you're so cute! Look at you! Turn around and model that pretty ruffled gown, you gorgeous thing!" Explains Bloom:

"Teaching girls that their appearance is the first thing you notice tells them that looks are more important than anything. It sets them up for dieting at age 5 and foundation at age 11 and boob jobs at 17 and Botox at 23. As our cultural imperative for girls to be hot 24/7 has become the new normal, American women have become increasingly unhappy. What's missing? A life of meaning, a life of ideas and reading books and being valued for our thoughts and accomplishments."

Bloom continues with a description of how she instead chooses to talk to kids in a matter-of-fact way; in this case about books, seeing that Maya was carrying one around.

Bloom's article gives food for thought. -- We've done our best to protect Lilly from the gender stereotyping so common in our culture that begins with the little pink and blue baby onesies. Instead I got many in green and yellow for her at my baby shower, and then a lot of baby blue hand-me-down clothes from friends with sons after she was born.

As a result, strangers have for the longest assumed Lilly's a boy, even after her curly locks started to grow.

We were a little surprised this bugged us so much (we sort of like to identify ourselves with a growing movement of ending the obsession with gender and undoing gender stereotypes), but in the end we caved in and got her some pink clothes -- and she loved it. She loves the feel of dancing in a dress, and she loves to be told that she's so cute and pretty.

kids and eating disorders

We're still in recovery mode over here after our trip to Norway where we stayed with my parents. -- Like depressed people, we crave rest and seek comfort in food (especially chocolate), gorging at every meal, adding dessert when we didn't used to.

One of the things that saddened me the most on our visit overseas, was to see Lilly's appetite evaporate so completely. And all the more in response to my parents' constant pestering at its lack of presence. She just turned three, but even so my mother had the nerve to suggest to Lilly she was on a diet when she wouldn't eat.

Adding pressure on kids to eat is in my opinion a sure way to lead them down the path of eating disorders. I never had an appetite at my parents' house with the constant tension and frequent eruption of fights during meals. In elementary school, I was the skinny quiet girl with glasses who wouldn't eat her packed lunch. The memory of throwing up over the dinner table while trying to force down the required amount of spoonfuls will never leave me.

thunder: bad moms don't always turn into good grandmas

I never felt safe in my parents' home. As a child, I would instead seek shelter outside during stormy weather.

I thought of this as Lilly woke crying from her nap the other day when it started thundering, and she said it was skummelt (scary). Later on as I was making dinner, I asked her how she liked our vacation in Norway from where we just returned, having stayed with my parents who still live there. Again she replied; skummelt.

Though Lilly's appetite (and mine!) has returned after we got back home, we're both processing our stay with my parents. She whimpers more in her sleep at night and though she now will go down for a nap again, she wakes as soon as I try to leave her, crying despondently if I tell her that if she won't take a nap, she'll have to stay in bed for some quiet time, something she was fine with before our trip to Norway.

And I struggle with my own rehashing of things that were said; my mother's venom.

A recent longitudinal study found that children of depressed women were less likely to show behavioral problems later on in life when they were under someone else's care for at least half a day each week. Children who spent less than four hours each week in formal child care--e.g. with a nanny, another family member, institutional day care--were at a significantly increased risk for behavioral problems, relative to children of nondepressed mothers.

summertime means pool time

Photo: The Middle Bit

The pool opens this weekend, which means summer is officially here. And time to dig out that bikini again. The other day, a friend and fellow mama blogger at The Middle Bit asked for my permission to include a photo of me in her forthcoming book, describing it as "a photograph of a confident young mom in a fabulous red bikini." Of course I was flattered, but as I pointed out to her, whereas she saw me as a "good looking mom" in that bikini, I was in fact feeling like a bony and potbellied old monkey slogging my body around.

That said, I fondly remember last summer's Friday mornings at the pool  when it was reserved for young children, hanging out with my friends and our kids. Picnics and lazy afternoons pushing nap time back, savoring the sun, the conversation, and then home for a crash two-hour nap for Lilly and some time for me to read on the porch.



I am hopeful about this summer. The sun has always been a good competitor to work for me, tempting me outside. And I want summers to be different. To have time off for spontaneous outings, not to be on a schedule.

This summer is already looking so much better. I don't find myself worrying so much about her running away or into the street the way I did last year. On good days when she needs me less with her outside, she'll find her toys in the garage: her trike and chalk and bubbles. She'll play in the sandbox. Slide a little. Look at the growing plants and flowers. Hopefully without causing too much devastation. She loves playing with our neighbors' ten-year old daughters (I love that they will play with her). I've even been able to sit by myself in the sun this way (for a brief half hour, but still). Or get dinner ready while looking out on her playing. Or sneak type on my laptop by the kitchen counter.

I want to do less of that this summer. It's summer, which should be about fun and relaxing together. I am officially taking a break cutting back on my work time, at least when I'm with her. Next week, preschool begins for her, giving me those sacred dependable morning hours. So I'm not lowering my goals (on the contrary, but I'm not going to spell that out).

I envision super-productive morning hours writing at the house or the library, then picking her up for a picnic at the pool where we'll stay for a couple of hours or so. Or play in the park with friends, or at home in the backyard, maybe garden a little. And I look forward to outdoor concerts at the Walker Art Center, picnics by the lake, outdoor barbecues, lounging on the porch.



Summer's here. It's been a long time coming; let's bring it on.

the power of the boob

One of the mamas I interviewed for my Sleep Question book used this term to describe the nursing relationship she had with her children. The power of the boob to comfort, nurture; to help bring to sleep.

I can definitely relate. Lilly will turn three this month, but the power of the boob holds strong. There have been periods when it's been driving me crazy, like at around the 18 months mark where she seemed to ask for it constantly throughout the night. When I had reached the point of oblivion to red stop signs and lights, a dear friend helped me find a strategy to reduce the nighttime nursings without feeling like I was weaning her (I've always wanted to let her self-wean).

Our solution was a combination of Dr. Sears' list of night weaning alternatives, in particular his "Just say no!," "Nummies go night-night," and "Let baby be the barometer." I would talk to her during the day and before bedtime about how the boobs have gotten so tired; how they need some rest and sleep at night now. Then I made up my mind as to how many of the nighttime nursings I wanted to end, and at what time she could have free rein to nurse on demand again. Finally, I told my husband to sleep in another room. We'd been enjoying our family bed up until then, but I had begun to feel crowded out in bed. I realized there might be some whining, and I knew I wouldn't be able to stay committed to my goal if I were to worry about my husband (who's as opposed to her crying as I am) as well as her.

The first night when she asked for the boob, and I said no, she did cry. Right away and almost before I had a chance to respond, knowing already the answer. And in an angry manner, not despondent or despairing. I used her daytime behavior to gauge how she was dealing with this new nighttime situation; and she seemed fine, just a bit more mama needy perhaps, and even more physical, with which I was fine.

vibrating with irritation: on boredom and perspective

(Photo: Matthew Spevack)

I've felt burnt-out. And I've not dealt well with it. Rather than slowing down, I've pushed through. It's not been pretty.

You know how your children look so precious when they sleep? How sweet it is to "gaze lovingly" at your child, as Gretchen Rubin (author of The Happiness Project), puts it, when she's sleeping?

When I do that at night, I regain perspective. The countless times I've felt my body vibrating with irritation, as my friend describes it, melt away and I can be in the moment with her. While, ironically, she's asleep.

After I found myself on the verge of dumping a pot of dirt on my daughter's head last week, I've made an effort to claim a moment each day where I'm truly present with her; where I embrace the "everyday beauty," to quote my friend again. Whether it's kneading the pizza dough together, she gleefully boxing at it with her fists; making lunch into an outdoor picnic in the backyard; or taking a break with her at the porch in the afternoon sunshine to give her all my attention, perchance as we savor cocktail hour together.

Sometimes I feel like I'd be a much better mom if I did not have this constant urge to write. It's so much easier to, say, cook with Lilly, or clean, dance, read, sing, talk, play--I'll even say to garden--than it is to try to think and write with her around. If I can let go of work, I'm not as prone to snap; I'm more present, I have better perspective.

not a magical garden

not a magical garden

The sun's been out, but it's been a sad week. We will not be expecting a magical garden this year. For Easter, Lilly received a garden kit from her grandparents, Gerome's Magical Garden, and she's been pretty psyched about getting out to plant. We've been reading the book about Gerome the Garden Gnome, watching Curious George Goes Green!, and I've been looking forward to including her more in my gardening than last year where the goal primarily seemed to be to keep her out of my garden.

Gerome's Magical Garden

Finally, on Tuesday, we got her pots and seed packets out, the little figurines of Gerome the Gnome with his rake & trowel tool and Terra from the Land of Worms, and one cubic foot of potting soil. Lilly got her new gardening gloves on and following the illustrated instructions, we filled the three pots with soil, watered the dirt, added more soil, and then planted the seeds. Aside from the fact that this small feat took the entire morning, I felt pretty good about it; at times bursting with pride at my little toddler gardener who was executing the tasks with laborious meticulousness.

My inflated pride deflated after I'd gone in to get her some milk. Returning outside, I find her covered with dirt, one pot half emptied, the dirt stirred in another where some daffodils and sticks had been planted alongside the figurines. The third appeared untouched.

quizzical mama at BlogHer

You might imagine my excitement when I received an email yesterday from a BlogHer editor announcing that one of my posts had been selected to be featured in their Family topic section; especially when I tell you that BlogHer (founded in 2005) is the largest community of women who blog with 25+ million unique visitors per month (Nielsen/NetRatings).

So today my post titled "Children's Sex Education Book Too Graphic?!" has been featured on BlogHer's front page under "What's Hot on BlogHer:"

And even more prominently on the front page of the BlogHer Family section under "What's HOT:"

I've had a profile page since February at BlogHer where I feature posts from my three blogs, and recently my quizzical mama blog was approved for inclusion in the BlogHer directory too. Some of my posts have received really high reads, like my post on Lust Films. But today is the first time a post by me has been selected to be featured. Fun!

what I got for mother's day

This year for Mother's day, I got the gift of time, and this card. Inside it reads: "Do whatever it takes to get some peace and quiet today. Happy Mother's Day." My husband had added this:

Dear Anne-mor,
You have been a good mamma for almost 3 years running now. Go on, do what the card says; get out of here, and get some peace and quiet!! Take the magazine and go!     Love, Leighton

Dear mamma,
DON'T listen to pappa!! STAY with me, I love you so ... 
I love you for all the neat things that you do for me, helping me to grow and be a strong big girl - and someday hopefully into somebody like you. Here's a book to remind you of all that only you and I can give to each other; to say thanks for all that you've done already.     Love, Lilly

The said magazine was the latest issue of In Style for my occasional escape into fashion and gloss; the book a daybook organized by month and theme featuring poems and excerpts short enough for my brief amounts of devoted quiet quality reading time, all written in the voices of mothers and daughters capturing "the special connections and separations between mothers and daughters." Seeing that I have "paper memory," as my friend puts it, and therefore always carry a notebook in my pocket, I appreciate that the book also provides room for my own notes.

My post this past winter about glossy magazines spurred quite a bit of discussion on my Facebook wall. Most of the commenters bemoaned all the advertisements in these sorts of publications, advising me to shun them.

The thing is, I'm not too bothered by the ads; they're all part of the hyperbole gloss just as much as the catwalk shots. And more than once, the featured interview has inspired some thoughts in me, like Cameron Diaz' words on the challenges faced by women who want to pursue both kids and career, and more recently Julianne Moore's comments about pressing social issues and the need for reproductive rights ("If you don't have control of your own body, you have no control of your life." InStyle / March 2011).

True, mostly the magazine contains a lot of glamorous fluff, but on days when I can barely contain my frustration of motherhood, that's the sort of thing I crave.

Like yesterday.