Children, Identity, motherhood, parenting

On Her Way

My daughter has reached the age at which I formed a consciousness.

We all have snippets of early childhood, maybe even earlier; bits and pieces of memory. Sitting on grandfather’s lap to create a painting. Banging on the ledge above the backseat because you couldn’t sit quietly in mass. How much is real memory, spotty because of time elapsed, and how much is fabricated from photographs and family story? And when does the real narrative begin?

I remember all of third grade.

I remember playing at friends’ houses, sleepovers, sitting under a desk goofing with a classmate. That is the year I think of as starting true friendships and forming my own separate identity (though I didn’t know it at the time). That is the year my eldest daughter has just begun.

Four days into school and she asked for her first ‘play date’, though I’m sure that term has fallen out of fashion with her set. She and her friend had already arranged it on their bus ride home one afternoon; it was just up to the adults to assent once they’d filled us in. She’d had her first sleepover at this girl’s house last year (her one and only thus far save relatives’ houses and no – I wasn’t ready for that), played there once this summer, and gone to the beach with her once. This was the friend’s first time at our home.

I later realized that I adopted the always-appreciated (on my part) mode of parental supervision my mother employed whenever I had friends over growing up. There, but not. Seen, but not noticed. Moving through, not hovering. Accessible, but not in your face. My mom always joined the conversation when drawn in – and usually made some fun comment – but never horned in. She always made sure we were safe and having fun, but in such a way that made us still feel like we were on our own. Similar to my mode of relating to young children, which I think I also adopted from my mother: let them come to you when they’re comfortable; don’t force yourself on them.

As my daughter and her friend’s conversation floated in from the adjacent room and later the porch window, I heard the exchanges and tenor of my own third grade days; the way kids talk when there are no adults around, the free and easy language and grown-up cadences because they are the big kahunas with no one else around. My daughter introduced her friend to her way of life on her own turf; her likes and dislikes, her favorite activities and special belongings. Her friend got to see how she interacts with her sisters and me and my husband. She welcomed her into her home, her nest, a secret club of sorts – a level of friendship that can’t be reached at school.

A level of friendship that can’t be reached, I don’t think, until this age, this magic number where our little kids morph even more into distinct little beings.

My daughter and her friend played so nicely. They were polite. My daughter didn’t even goad her friend to join her in tormenting her little sisters. But I sense the shift. One more step in her leaving the home, one more layer of my baby shed.

I know – not because I’ve mothered a child this age before, but because I’ve been this age before. I remember it as formative, solid memories in my experience.

She’s on her way.

anxiety, motherhood

A Note to My Children, Aged 34 and 7/8

Always wipe the table free of crumbs after dinner. You will not have time to do it in the .5 second panic tomorrow morning when someone unexpectedly rings the doorbell.

Likewise with sweeping the crumbs that got knocked onto the floor. Toys strewn across the floor you can blame on kids; crumbs may have been made by the kids, but people start thinking you’re unclean if you leave them lying around. I know, it’s unfair.

As much as you enjoy staying in your pajamas, your flannels should not see 2PM. It’s kind of hard to explain that away unless you’re sick – again, to the unexpected visitor.

Clean your stairs. Well, the parts that don’t get swiffed clean by stampeding feet. The corners where Dust E. Bunny and his wig making factory reside. This is especially essential if you live in a cape like your mother has chosen to do two times over (!?) as your front door opens directly onto the stairs.

In other words, keep a modicum of clean in your house. You know not when the unexpected visitor ringeth.

Children, Living, motherhood, parenting

Legendary

If you’ve ever watched a three year-old dance, you will quickly realize that rhythm is innate.

Is it the way the earth turns below us, the pull of the tides, the swish and wash of our mothers’ womb that makes our bodies able to move in time to the music?

And what is it about growing up that makes us lose this innate ability?

If you’ve ever seen a thirty year-old twitch on the dance floor, you realize that some of us indeed do.

When we knew we would spend our lives together and started forming dreams of family, my husband and I imagined bringing our barefoot babies to outdoor concerts where we could watch them twirl and bounce them on our knees and hips. When the time came, we were either too tired or it was the children’s bedtime or it was simply too much work to pack an army of little people and all their accoutrements for the park.

Three kids and several years later, we actually achieved some of that dream last night.

A local tribute band to Bob Marley and The Wailers was playing on the beach a town over from where we live. A beach concert with a picnic supper would probably be enough to lure my husband and the music of one of my favorite musicians – albeit covers – was more than enough for me. The kids were impressed with the novelty of sitting on the beach listening to live music, aided by the fact that they got to peer through their father’s binoculars to see the action on stage. My eight year-old made me burn with pride, when just by the opening chords of a song, she said, “Mom, isn’t this one on your CD?” She has a great ear for music. She skipped through the waves crashing on the shore as the music played, her sisters quickly following her lead and soaking the one pair of clothes they each had.

photo courtesy of Tunes on the Dunes

Just as the riveting bass line of “Could You Be Loved” surged through the speakers, not one, but two daughters expressed the urgent need to use the facilities. I heard what turned out to be the last song of the concert through the bathroom walls. I hadn’t exactly envisioned this in my dreams of family concerts. But it was a nice night with a good vibe and the girls were having fun by the water, so we decided to hang out and let the crowds disperse. Many others decided to do the same and the band apparently decided to do another set. I was psyched. ‘Redemption’ from my bathroom run!

But my youngest was soaked and sandy, my husband was getting cranky at running interference with the girls, and the tide was coming in. In resolute denial that I wasn’t watching a show in my peasant blouse cuddled with my fiancé on our Guatemalan blanket, I turned away from the shore in my mom capris, huddled with my toddler on our picnic blanket – determined to enjoy the show.

My husband finally sat down. My older two finally buried themselves in the sand at my feet. And I got to rock steady to the beat. I was rewarded by deep tracks only on my Bob vinyl. By the time the finale came, I rocked and bounced my youngest in my arms. We had our own extended “Soul Shakedown Party” as the sun faded. She laughed and anticipated my moves, bobbing her head one way as I bobbed mine the other.

Time seemed to stop. No, suspend. As the band played an extended version of that great song, the minutes spooled out with the sound, a treasured pocket of time where my daughter and I moved to the same driving rhythm. In synch. In tune.

I saw a mother a few blankets over rocking and bopping with her infant and I flashed back to the times I’d worn tracks in our living room rug doing the same thing. It occurred to me that rhythm may be innate, but we help transfer it to our children. Or make the tendency stick. And they in turn remind us of our primal instincts. The marrow of our being, what we came into this world knowing and needing to do.

Moving, grooving, and enjoying the rhythm of life.

Children, motherhood, parenting

School Shopping

Ah, the joys of school shopping. I was exhausted by the time we got home and I hadn’t even tried anything on.

I remember marathon days of deciding an entire school year’s worth of wardrobe in one hot, sticky summer day, the feeling of peeling off shorts and pulling on long pants in a cramped dressing room so unnatural. And forget if you tried to find a winter jacket, the smooth silky lining of the sleeves so cold against your short-sleeved arms.

Yesterday wasn’t one of those marathon days. My mother had wanted to buy each of my girls a back-to-school outfit. I was merely the consultant and chauffeur who scoured the sale racks for basics while the girls tried on clothes. I would share with you the details of my extreme couponing, which I am so stoked about, but that is not relevant at this time.

Once I’d discovered there was nary an item to be had under $3.99, I would wander from rack to rack looking at the cute patterns and prints of fall ’13. There were a few revolting numbers with lace and sequins that gave me flashbacks of Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’ video. There were some shiny jeans that looked vaguely like hot pants. There were some open weave sweaters a little too sheer for my mother-of-grammar-school-aged-children liking. Maybe I’m just paranoid for the teenage years and want to set the no-sheer standard now. But there were a lot of fashion forward clothes that were modest and something I’d be comfortable letting my kids wear.

That said, there were a lot of clothes, that if they were in my size, I’d wear.

A disclaimer. I hate kids’ clothes that make them into mini-me’s. I find it creepy in a Toddlers and Tiaras sort of way. I feel that kids should be kids, allowed to be and/or kept innocent, modest, and cute for as long as possible.

But I was jealous as I roamed the racks. I wanted to buy some of those outfits in my size. I found myself taking cues from the fashion trends I was seeing in the kids’ section.

This depressed me in two ways.

One, it reiterated mass media/marketing’s pull on our children to grow up too quickly. Pop culture, fashion trends, merchandising drive our children’s ideas of what’s cool and how to be. A dwarf fashion plate at age eight stalking the cat walk.

Two, with limited funds and the fact that my children actually have a place to go each day, their wardrobe wins out over mine. They will be better dressed than I will this fall.

I do feel comfortable with everything we bought the girls on this back-to-school shopping excursion. They will be both fashion-forward and appropriate, cute and trendy.

The colorful birds on skinny jeans will continue to fly through my imagination, while combinations of coral and navy dance through my head. At least I seem to have kept my girls as girls for one more year.

Image from Tobi Fairley

Children, Humor, motherhood, parenting

Yoga with Kids

By adhering to the following prerequisites, you too can have a complete yogic experience with your children.

image from NPR

Start by choosing your mat. When your children see you roll out yours, they will immediately clamor for one of the remaining mats (tip: be sure to have only one of each color and one less than the number of children).
Place yours in an open area, free from obstacles and other people. Your children will fill in the void.
Set your yoga strap at your side, easily accessible during your practice. Your children will be able to grasp it easily as well to whip each other.
Don’t forget yoga blocks – in case you need extra support during a stretch. Or a teething ring or projectile.
Clear your mind. Your children will ping around like ping-pong balls no matter what venomous thoughts you entertain.
Lie in repose. Ignore that fact that a toddler’s thick skull could sucker punch you in the gut at any moment.
Oh, and be sure to slide your sandals off before lying down, but keep them close by. Your particularly feisty child may need a missile to launch at you for not arranging her not-right-color mat properly.
Range through the poses at your own pace – not that of your instructor. You need to adjust for puppies crawling through your downward dog, snakes wriggling under your bridge, monkeys hanging onto your tree.
Accept your body as it is. Don’t force the sore muscles of your shoulder or your tight hamstrings. Your children will do that when they knock into you, sending your warrior tumbling.
Move your yoga practice outside for inspiration and variety. Tell your children they may play nearby if they tire of yoga. They will tire of yoga, but will stay right by your side, taunting and pleading for snacks and your attention.
Scan your body for areas of tension. Notice the up-tick in your blood pressure as your children attempt acrobatics off the couch onto the yoga mats.
Do not abandon your practice before it is finished. You came here to find inner peace and relax, dammit.

Living, motherhood

What I’ve Learned in a Week

The selection of cheese at Wal-Mart is appalling.

Wal-Mart has apparently been accepted into more than just our vernacular as spell check just corrected me with hyphen placement.

We look like tyrannosaurus rex when we walk along the road texting with our little tiny arms.

My nearly four year-old is a yes-woman, flashing her smile at all the right times to attempt an early release from time-out.

My six year-old is perfecting well-aimed barbs in an attempt to make the world run her way.

My eight year-old is stuck between an attitudinous pre-teen limbo and a cuddly, sweet girl.

I’m taking the life of my already tenuous midsection into my own hands when I dare lie in savasana with a three year-old lurking.

Namaste is not in a three, six, or eight year-olds vocabulary – at least not in its proper use.

It is near impossible to find board shorts with an inner liner.

Aloe is a wonder ‘drug’.

Fall is coming. I can feel it in my bare shoulder peeking out from under the quilt in the morning.

You can still go to the playground in the rain if you stay under the trees or in the big wooden ark.

Whole-wheat o’s covered in honey are like crack to the playground set.

The amount of times I’ve been told to ‘not get old’, apparently it’s not advised.

Even if a story is wholly written in your head, it’s still not easy to get it down on paper.

Those plants with the pointy seedpods in my garden are butterfly weed.

Firefly larva eat slugs, hunting them by their slime trail.

Even though I hate slugs, I still find that fact revolting.

A week, while packed with infinite moments, goes by in an infinitesimal flash.

Living, motherhood, parenting

Pieces of Me

Walking across the quad of the campus of my alma mater yesterday, where I’m taking a weeklong institute on writing, my feet felt tipped. No, not tipsy, but tipped, as in leaning outward. Now as someone who is a diagnosed overpronator, this is not a sensation I am used to. Must just be because I haven’t worn these sandals in awhile, I thought.

When I reached the classroom, I felt my foot roll and thought I’d stepped on something. I bent my leg a la checking for dog poo and saw that the rubber sole of my sandal had started to disintegrate. What I’d stepped on was a small wedge of the one that had made up the bottom of my shoe. As the day wore on, a pile of rolled-up rubber collected under my chair and a Hansel and Gretel crumb trail of what had worked itself off in the hallway led me to class this morning.

I was pissed. I had paid good money for these brand-name sensible shoes. My husband did point out that I most likely bought them when expecting my first child about nine years ago, but still. My father still has shoes he wore when I was a babe. What the heck!

Shoe travesty aside, it was disorienting to find pieces of me scattered all around the various paths I’d taken yesterday – and left behind unbeknownst to me.

But then, looking back over this entire week, that seems de rigueur.

The first time I sat down to write this, I shut the door. My now-six year old opened it and asked if she could rest while I wrote. Fine. But the door stayed open and I could hear the television, computer, and talk radio playing simultaneously downstairs. Then she started explaining, in great, glorious detail, some drawings she’d done. Beautiful. But I can’t form words and listen to them at the same time. Then my three year-old started a full-on high-pitched fit about the television being shut off for dinner. Downstairs. Behind the couch. Far removed from me and yet still ear shattering. Then my husband called up the stairs that dinner was ready.

And now this, my second time trying to write it, two daughters camped out in the room until I complained of noise and one went into her room, closing the door behind her in a huff.

I’ve attended class all day each day since Monday, leaving campus each day rife with ideas and inspiration, which I need to shove on the backburner of collecting my kids at various family members’ houses throughout the state, trekking home, figuring out dinner with food I didn’t have time to shop for, hugging and kissing for lost time, trying to relax and catch up on my sleep deficit and finish my homework at the same time. All three of the kids contracted a stomach bug, which not only made me worry about them, but the various family members who still lovingly offered to take them.

There are pieces of me scattered all over the place. My house, my car, our other car I had to take when I transported all three children at the same time, my purse, in the mosquito that bit me as I cleaned the puke off the bottom of the car and then flew into the woods by the side of the road, the carpeted hallway of Adams’ Library, the windowless classroom, the roads I’ve rushed down, the hearts of my children, the imagination of my husband, the dreams of my soul.

I’m not a crumbly mess, but it’s hard not to feel worn thin.

motherhood, parenting

The Mother of All Father’s Days

Is it wrong that I enjoyed Father’s Day more than I enjoyed Mother’s Day this year?

My parents and father-in-law came over for a casual brunch, which gave me the impetus to clean the house, but not so much pressure that I obsessed over the tasks for which I did not have time. Said brunch gave me an excuse to make one of my favorite casserole recipes. We enjoyed a nice, relaxed visit together. My husband devoted the rest of the day to smoking some ribs on the deck. Slow cooking gave us the chance to sit on the deck together while the kids played and we relaxed. As an accompaniment to the ribs, I tried a new recipe of zucchini fried in beer batter, which allowed me to sink myself into savory, lemony fried goodness. I read al fresco, tickled my babies, and even had a last-ditch burst of energy to dust, mop, and change the linens of my bedroom.

Holy schnikes – we had a good day.

As the cool breeze riffled the pages of my novel, a slight wave of guilt sloshed at my conscience. I was not supposed to having a nice, relaxing day. I was not supposed to be enjoying myself. I was supposed to be making the day of the father of my children.

Being as I can rationalize anything, I petulantly argued to myself that, since Mother’s Day usually sucks, why shouldn’t I have fun now? Why should I martyr myself more than I do any other day since no one does it for me?

Now, before you get your dander up, my love, (yes, I’m addressing you dear husband) – I am not begrudging you your special day. You are a fabulous husband and father and always deserve a day to put your feet up after all the hard work you do.

I just thought it was pretty ironic that I had more fun this Sunday than that sacred Sunday in May. Besides my selfish rationalizations, I think it also had a lot to do with expectations. I had none yesterday – except helping the kids make his day special. There was no high bar for me so I surpassed it easily. Having a beer and reading my novel in the middle of the day was a pleasant and most welcome surprise.

Damn Hallmark and the jewelers and florists make anything less than a champagne brunch with a string quartet fall flat. I don’t need diamonds, but the social expectations make me feel like I need something different, something to make me feel appreciated, valued. And I deserve that – all mothers do. But whatever nebulous idea I have in my head of what a special Mother’s Day looks like never materializes.

So Sunday we (I hope my husband did, too) had a good day. I’ve been toying for a while with the idea of an anti-Mother’s Day. (I’ll get around to writing the manifesto at some point) But maybe I just had the inaugural one. And it could really be any one of the 365 days in the year. Any day that a mother takes time for herself, eats good food, enjoys her children, and has a good time with the joint caregiver of those children.

Happy Day, people. Now go eat some fried zucchini – and enjoy it for gosh sakes!

nom nom nom

Children, motherhood, parenting

Put the Sexy Back

Décolletage. Cleavage. Bare belly. Unbuttoned jeans.

These are the images that welcomed our band of second graders as we traipsed through the mall to escape the rain on a field trip. There were sights to see. We were headed to the upper level and the wall of windows overlooking the river and city skyline. The foul weather turned what should have been an outdoor river walk into an educational excursion of another kind.

Beyoncé flaunting her barely there bikini on a banner was the first thing my daughter and her friend noticed. Somehow, the larger than life photos in the Victoria’s Secret storefront seemed to escape everyone’s notice except one of the male chaperones. The mannequins in various states of undress in another window didn’t, however.

Women have breasts. We all have abdomens, some even with six-packs. There is a certain allure and attraction to the human body. It is beautiful. But should a shopping center be an inappropriate place to take our children? Should we be bombarded with images that remove the natural beauty of the human form and replace it with sexually loaded suggestions?

I realize my eight year-old is not the target audience for these shops. I realize there is a demographic who wants to look sexy and physically inviting. But if my child is receiving the same subliminal messages as these others are, how can she differentiate the expected outcome?

How will she learn that there is a time and place and stage of life when these things are appropriate? That her body is to be respected and guarded, shared with a select few who will care for her someday. That modesty is to be valued. That the beauty of the human form should not be determined by the amount bared or shape of one’s skin.

I know. That’s my job. But it becomes a whole heck of a lot harder when walking through the mall becomes a minefield. And their marketing budget is a lot bigger than my measly mom one. They’re everywhere. Posters, posing, pitching. Their message will come on the bodies of friends as she ages, in movies, television shows, magazines, in the affection of suitors. How can my quiet, safe message compete?

I can only try by building up her inner reserves. By giving her the self-esteem that beauty is not skin-deep. By teaching her the attitude that her mind, her soul, her sense of humor are something else, something stronger and sexier than the dip of her décolletage.

It’s a tall order.

It seems like a small drip in the swell of the siren’s song, but I will sing. I will sing for my daughter and all others like her.

May is Mental Health Month, Mental Health, motherhood, postpartum depression

Destymie-ing Dysthymia

http://www.health.harvard.edu/newsweek/Dysthymia.htm

The American Psychiatric Association defines dysthymia as depressed mood most of the time for at least two years, along with at least two of the following symptoms: poor appetite or overeating; insomnia or excessive sleep; low energy or fatigue; low self-esteem; poor concentration or indecisiveness; and hopelessness.

With all the myths and tragedies running around my head lately, it’s perfect poetic justice that the word dysthymia comes from the Greek. And I’m starting to think that’s what I have.

My raison d’etre in this land of depression (or whose labor and delivery unleashed the beast) is now approaching four years old. My depressive symptoms linger on. They’ve certainly lessened, that’s for sure. I no longer want to chop off my fingers, run out the door and never come back, or think I’m a completely horrible, terrible mother. But like a thin fog that spreads layer after misty layer until the terrain is no longer recognizable, it’s lurking and oozing its way into the corners of my life. On the days the sun doesn’t shine, I’m chilled to the bone, the damp crawling inside and refusing to leave.

Postpartum has passed the baton to dysthymia.

The Internet can give you whatever leverage you need to make whatever case you want so I can prove it.

Depression that begins as a mood fluctuation may deepen and persist when equilibrium cannot be restored because of poor internal regulation or external stress.

Postpartum = mood fluctuation

Poor internal regulation = my anxiety-ridden self

External stress = meeting the needs of three small children

Equilibrium null and void = deepened and persistent depression

I also never had the appetite or sleep disturbances associated with clinical depression, but have my fair share of “anhedonia (inability to feel pleasure), social withdrawal, guilt, and irritability,” which the American Psychiatric Association is considering adding to an alternative definition.

Nothing like self-diagnosis. But if it’s an open and closed case of dysthymia, why am I not responding to treatment? The article mentions recovery. I’d like some of that please.

I think there’s a hole in the fabric of mental health for women beyond the grasp of postpartum, but still not functioning in a productive and positive way. If a traumatic event, which birth and what follows can be, unleashes a maelstrom of symptoms that were lying just below the surface, what then? What can we do for those women who don’t fit the textbook mold of either postpartum or major depression?

How do we destymie dysthymia?

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Category Archives: motherhood