Farts on Parade

Comfort

2020-03-18T13:22:00.004-07:00

If you asked me last week what things were comforting and soothing, I would give you a list of all the things I have designed to be so. Long baths. My husband and kids and I all snuggled up on the couch watching a movie. A long hike. Time alone for writing and reading. Sweat pants on a rainy day.

I wouldn't have been able to name comforts beyond my own making.

And right now the world finds itself in great discomfort. Plans, routines, jobs, appointments, errands, all screeching to a halt. People in isolation. Fear threatens logic. Too much news.

Although I adjust on the fly and plow on, I have felt an absence of peace in my life. It's hard to nail down exactly and it feels self-absorbed to do so. Other people are dealing with things much worse, right? What is the value of my pain in something this large? An on and on with the reasoning that lets shadows grow by refusing to look at something head on.

So I stuff it down. This feeling isn't necessary. Keep going.

But three days ago as we were driving near the base of a mountain, I spotted a lone fisherman standing knee deep in the cold water of a trout stream and a lump formed in my throat immediately. Both the idea of being him- standing upright against the current, hearing the water, ring finger resting on the line to feel the bump of a bite, as well as the familiarity of the shape of a wading man, pulled at my heart. Tears spilled out of my eyes before I could fight them off. I felt a comfort at the sight of him.

Two days ago, I was making a long drive home. My family in the car, the dimming light, the splattering rain mixed together with the already pulsating anxiety inside of me. Each subsequent hour brought my palms sweatier and my breath harder to find. I sent the radio to seeking and suddenly heard the familiar voice of a nationally syndicated radio host from my childhood. And for a brief second, I wasn't the driver in charge of keeping my family safe through tough conditions, I was the kid in the backseat. I was the one without the weight of responsibility, but with complete trust in those in front of me. I let that radio station play until it gave itself over to the fuzz of distance.

It is disingenuous to deny my thoughts, feelings, and fears. It is irrational to not ask for comfort when comfort is needed. But it is a gift to be given bits of restoration from unexpected, unsought-out sources. Looking around, keeping my eyes and ears open gave me a brief respite from the noise in my head and I am so grateful that relief came unexpectedly from my mom and dad.

I know my parents comforted me when I was scared or upset, but those images are blurry and don't easily come to mind. Yet, the small moments sail back to me with full imagery and color. These benign things done without intention are the pixels of reflection.

Right now in these extended days at home, my kids are absorbing these little nothings that may come springing back to them in times of stress and confusion. I can't know what they might be. They'll just be little treasures of familiarity and comfort lying in wait until they are needed.

Mother's Day

2019-05-30T10:44:00.001-07:00

(I sent this essay to my mother for Mother's Day this year)

Every year for Mother’s Day I walk the aisles of Target, peruse Etsy, and search Pintrest for the right gift. Every year, the options fall short, because what is the kind of gift that says “I am sorry for giving you lice”? Mother’s Day is tomorrow and my mom is still washing her bedding and replacing hair brushes. What kind of gift could possibly negate the damaging effects of having been given an invasive parasite?

My mom’s favorite Mother’s Day gifts were the handprint crafts we made at school. Add in some googly eyes or some cotton balls and that craft was definitely a keeper! Being 32-years-old, it seems like a reach to break out a stamp pad and some construction paper, but what then do you give to say, “Look at the life you made! Good job!”?

While head lice is the most recent of the inconveniences afforded my mom by her children, it is not the worst of it. I can think back to time when my siblings and I all had the chicken pox, one right after another, leaving my mom with at least one whiny, fevered, and grumpy child for a full six weeks. Or the multiple times she (alone) made 12-hour drives with the three of us in tow (and on multiple years at least one kid was in diapers). Not to mention the last-minute costumes, forgotten permission slips, dirty laundry, the homework, the bleeding knees, the stomach viruses, the dates of the sporting events, the beautiful flowers planted years ago in anticipation of a spring bloom brought into the house in the dirty fist of a child, packed lunches, that year I grew four inches and had to get new clothes and shoes (twice), oh, and that other time I brought home head lice.

The things we have done to our moms.

Since becoming a mom, I have found myself scrubbing vomit out of car seats, or lying in the cold tub with a fevered child, or losing a lot of sleep due my children’s bad dreams. In those fearful, exhausting, and frustrating moments, I think of my own mom and I think- I know what to do because it was done for me.

In my efforts to find the right gift, it finally dawned on me- the only gift I could give my mother, is love my children well. To repress the gagging and smile at the sad, sick boy with his head in the trash can. To sit next to my daughter’s bed at 2:30 am and rub her back, soothe, and assure her. To stop what I am doing and savor because these are very moments that will float back to my children’s consciousness when the sweet weight of parenting lands on them. When the decision to choose self or other is before them, they will, without thought, pick up the child covered in bodily fluid and love them well.

Facing (my biggest) Fear

2019-01-04T15:04:00.000-08:00

A few months ago my son got lost at the beach. So lost that we had to call 911. The next month, my daughter was incoherent, burning up with fever, and ended up in the ER. I started a long detailed blog post about those events, but in usual form, I didn't finish it. It felt cathartic to write out what had happened, but it didn't feel good to read it.

The purpose of writing it was to acknowledge my deepest fear. The fear of losing a child. It is a fear that lives in all parents and motivates us to fight endlessly for our children's survival, but it is not a sentence that we say out loud. I feel that many people like me, fear the fear of that fear. But what is that? Fearing the fear that is caused by a fear? I have had enough cognitive behavioral therapy to know that that is load of crap and I have been challenging that fear recently.

After facing two situations where losing a child became a real possibility, the retaining wall I had built around that fear began crumbling. And I was left facing it. It is possible to lose a child. It is possible for me to lose my child.

When it was my turn to step to that line of possibility, I felt myself at a decision. While my breath escaped me and heart raced, my mind was on high alert and working beyond normal bounds. In both crises I went into action recalling all the tips and tools offered to me over a life of experiences. I remembered in blaring clarity to activate a team of people to help find my son. I found myself laying in a cold bath with my daughter, yet I don't remember undressing or turning on the tap. Each word of advice from parents before me was accessible and ready for use.

I felt fear in those moments, but I also felt this great perseverance. There was no stopping or giving up or thinking of myself, there was only action and energy and focus. In both of these situations, the fear that has haunted me since my first positive pee test, stood before me. And while it existed as rapid breathing and shaky fingers, it had no power over my mind.

To have both situations resolve with the best possible outcome has brought me gratefulness and joy- two things that are opposite of fear. Those feelings have stayed with me. They forced me out of "what if" and into now. And I look back wondering- how much of my life has been lived in "what-if"?

My husband has been on a journey with mediation and mindfulness for the last year. I have taken on some of the ideas and practices, and there is a quote I recently heard that has stuck with me. A small truth about our projections, our fears, and our doubts. Something that comes from a place of reflection. Like for me- encountering my fear and then looking at it square on.

"We suffer more in imagination that reality."- Seneca

There are poignant things to be said here, but I would fail to do them justice. I want to you encourage you if you read this at a time of fear. You won't feel this way forever.

Poor Old Michael Finnegan Begin Again

2018-09-17T19:37:00.003-07:00

Do you remember that song? The one about the poor old man who's beard kept growing out and then back in again? I feel like he probably just wanted to have a beard or not have a beard, but the cycle just kept repeating. That is me and this blog. I go weeks without thinking about it, then log in and start another draft (currently up to seven) and never finish it or post it. Then feel guilty about not sticking with it, and that I have done less with this post since my second child was born (i.e. she has fewer posts), and that so much time has passed that to do a recap would be an affront to the amount of life lived between posts. So I won't recap. I also wont post anything of substance today. I'll just make a post. The Finnegan beard? It is back out again.

Butt cheeks!

2017-08-11T18:21:00.002-07:00

Somehow the little hummingbird that started this whole adventure into motherhood and led to the creation of this blog, started kindergarten this week.

It seems impossible.

Regardless of how it seems to me, he is in fact enrolled and attending kindergarten at public school. I have watched him get prepared over the last two weeks- counting down the days left at daycare, celebrating with a daycare/preschool graduation, getting a light-up backpack and supplies, and generally morphing into a school-aged kid.

We prepped him on the important things like listening to the teacher, being brave and talking to new friends, and being calm with his voice and body. He sort of listened and we felt we had done to the due diligence required for the starting school pep talk.

After the first day of school, we asked him a million questions to try to learn all we could about the school routines and skills covered in kindergarten. He vaguely answered some questions, lots of "I don't know", and lots of changing his original answers. At this point, it was clear that he had done his best all day and was starting to come unglued.

First, it was just some bouncing on the couch, then he was standing and jumping on the couch, then he was jumping on the couch yelling, "Butt cheeks! Butt cheeks! Butt cheeks!" He was hysterically laughing as he continued to let loose his string of profanity and jump up and down. I turned away and felt the tears well up in my eyes as I tried not to laugh. I couldn't resist- I too started laughing loudly watching him explode into life.

It was clear that he had kept it all together just as long as he possibly could and it was now the time to unwind and let go. It was funny. It was Monday.

Tuesday brought additional jumping and also an excessive amount of gas. Wednesday brought "the worlds most uncooperative dinner attendee" out of him. Thursday he got some special dad-hang time and we were mostly spared from explosions. Friday he was deciding how to feel and picked sad- "I am going to be sad because I miss God." (this was interesting for a variety of reasons).

It is clear that school is a transition unlike any other. He has been in daycare since he was 10-weeks old, but this is so very different. He doesn't nap anymore. His sister is sad every morning because the kindergartener and I leave before she is dropped off at daycare. I now have a chatterbox along for my morning commute. We have to do way more laundry (stupid dress code). All of us are feeling the effect.

But I feel happy about it. I love seeing the papers that come home demonstrating scissor work. I like hearing him talk about keeping is choices-tracker on green. I like hearing about the mean girl and hearing him talk about dealing with her. I like that he is growing and becoming ever more his own person. I like knowing that my husband and I managed to get him this far, even though he was once just a bunch of farts on parade.

Three Posts Started in 2017 and Never Finished- A Summary

2017-05-31T18:54:00.003-07:00

Below are there titles and summaries of blog posts that I never finished. I feel like there are little nuggets in each that I care to remember and share for posterity, so I will post them in mini-version here.

Okay, so where did we land?
A 2017 check in, notable changes: baby that walks, a kid in the pre-k lottery, a husband that left his established career to pursue a graduate degree and new road forward, and a me with a diagnosis of Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. It was a summary and reflection on how far we have come and where we are going with extra focus on continual change but an underlying joy.

Attending Funerals with My Children
This was a post about the five funerals I have attended since becoming a mom. The highlights- at four of those funerals I held an infant in my arms while looking into a open casket (talk about unavoidable self reflection on the matters of life and death), comforting my son as he grapples with loss, and notes about unspoken agreement with my husband about how to support each other in these events. The general vibe? Immeasurable love and a good bit of sadness.

The Name You Carry
This about seeing the first pictures of my daughter's namesake. Summary- I had only ever heard stories about the woman whose name my daughter carries, but (during a funeral) I saw the first pictures and was reminded of the excitement and weight of naming our children. There is a feeling of guilt if the chosen name only comes from one side of the family, but that there is also an absoluteness about the name choice upon getting to know your child over time- its like "Of course that is your name! This is who you are! You couldn't be anyone else!" I also love looking at my cousins, nieces, and nephews and knowing that their name and identity is directly connected to someone worth honoring with a name.

"Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness"

2017-01-22T17:04:00.002-08:00

I have been rewatching The Wonder Years. It is one of my top five favorite shows of all time. Today I watched the episode called "The Wedding" (S:5, E:22) in which the older sister, Karen, gets married. I have cried every time I have seen that episode, but in the emotion explosion due to my baby turning one, I really cried. I have always loved the poem that Karen's mom reads and so I looked up. It is powerful, spot on, and so wonderful I wanted to share it here. Enjoy.

Happy Birthday, Beans.

2017-01-13T12:41:00.000-08:00

It is nearly the baby's first birthday and I still haven't written her birth story.

My girl was born a week after her due date. I was dilated (to a 5!), fully effaced, and sitting at home not in labor. My doctor decided to induce me on the 18th of January. On January 17th, my boys and I ate ice cream and stayed up late to savor the last few moments of "just the three of us". I was not sad, but I felt something strong about it all.

We arrived at the hospital at 6:00 AM, ready to get the show on the road, but until I did the paperwork, got put in a room, robed up, and ready, it was nearly 10:00. My doctor came in and broke my water in an effort to jump start labor without drugs. For one glorious hour I had great contractions that were gentle rising and bearable in a variety of positions. I also had a sort of elation that I was going to experience birth as is intended to be. But alas. It stalled.

At 12:30 I was put on a Pitocin drip and thus began the familiar rapid and intense contractions that silenced the conversation my husband and I had been sharing, limited my movements to sitting still on the bed, and sucked me deep inside myself and simultaneously outside myself all at once. Lost in a swirl of waves, the repetition of the word "open" in my mind, and nothing but my husbands hand to ground me, I was suddenly and intensely jolted into my surroundings. Push time. It had been less than two hours on the Pitocin, but I knew this feeling. The nurse doubting my rapid progress, checked me and called for the doctor. He arrived and I got to work. I knew this work. I had done it before. This time I remembered the cues of how I should position myself. Unlike the time before in its quiet, I let myself be loud. Never screaming as that wasn't the response I needed. But loud. Powerful. I felt my face curl into an awful grimace, but I allowed it. I did work. In a few short minutes, I birthed my baby into the world. I looked down to see that this child I had been carrying was a girl. My girl. And as I reached for her, I felt something I never expected to feel. Fullness. Contentment. Satisfaction. Completion. As she lay crying (and I was crying, too) and wriggling on my chest I felt us begin the transition of being two separate selves-this girl that I had just met and yet always known, and me as a single individual with only one heart inside me. I felt my soul make the same commitment it made once before-a guarantee to stay connected to this soul for the rest of my life.

The next months were exhausting, hard, and rather dark. The delay of this birth story is due partly to busyness and partly due to only recently feeling brave enough to recall those early days. Postpartum anxiety took a deep hold on me. I was home alone with kids too early. My grandma died. My body was weak. My daughter couldn't feed right. My son was angry, sad, and confused. And I was terrified.

Was terrified. It is important to note that I was terrified. And even more important to note that I am no longer terrified. I am amazed. Amazed that we made it out the other side ok. Amazed at the joyous bond between my kids as siblings. Amazed at the way I love my husband on a new level. Amazed at the baby girl who has become talkative, active, playful, and funny. Amazed at the boy who has become a helper, caring, curious, and kind. Amazed at the way our family still keeps me feeling full. Content. Satisfied. Complete.

My Mother's Bedside Table

2016-10-17T20:09:00.000-07:00

An essay by a four year old

My bed just sits in my room. A wall at the head of the bed and a wall to my left. I have no where to put my toys and reading material other than in my bed with me. My parents do not seem to care that I often awake with toys jabbing me in the side or worse so near my face that they are dampened with condensation from my nightly mouth breathing.

My mother has this magical table right near her bed. It holds books, her phone, and her glasses. This is ideal. I can walk into her room first thing in the morning, grab the phone and demand to watch videos. If I knock her glasses to the floor to some unreachable spot that's too far for her to see, she may collapse in irratitaion and let me watch something on the phone. However, I feel that she is far to stingy with the magic box that plays cartoons, so I often have to resort to books. I have covered her Pulitzer Prize nominated book with the board book of Are You My Mother?- a classic story about a lost bird and snort. You should check it out. I have also crowed the night stand with such treasures as used tissues, a marble that she said I couldn't have, and a sock. My mother seriously does not know how to use her little side table efficiently-her books have no pictures, the little dish of earrings is "too pokey" and the lamp is just green- no animals, no design, nothing! If I had a bedside table I would treat it right. Pile it high with papers, cups, toys, dirty clothes, and even my pet fish, Hula.

So mom, if you're reading this, give up your table. I already covered it in my stuff making it basically already mine. Perhaps you could get dad to go ahead a move it over to my room? Thanks. Oh, and I'll get you the rent check next month- the stick collecting market is flooded right now and isn't paying too well.

Siblings

2016-08-29T19:21:00.001-07:00

I really like my siblings. They are people that I would spend time with, even if I wasn't related to them. We share a corny sense of humor and an affinity for donuts. My sister and brother also demonstrate an incredible willingness to be helpful, kind, honest, and supportive. I really think that they are top notch.

One of my greatest joys has been to watch my children become siblings. My son was 3.5 when his little sister arrived. He loved her from the start, but her noise and needs overwhelmed him. More than once after being told to be gentle or she could get hurt he replied "you can just buy a new baby". Which is both funny and f-ing terrifying. For three months I lived on the edge of panic and awe as big brother came to understand his sister.*

After three months, my daughter was actually eating, making her more sturdy and less grumpy, my 3.5-year-old starting turning into an almost 4-year-old, and after a surprisingly crumby southern winter, the sun came out. Things started falling into place.

First it was that big brother could make sister smile.
Then it was that she was big enough that brother could hold her (with help from mom or dad).
Then came the laughing.
Then the sitting up.
Then the playing with toys together.
Then it was the rides in the double stroller.
Then the head-to-head nuzzle.
Then it was the bath time together until the water is cold and both of them are all pruney.

They used to be just two kids who happened to live together, but now they are siblings.

Every now and then as I watch them interact on the floor, I get this funny feeling that they are bonding together so as to team up against my husband and me in the future. I have these little visions of the two of them demanding puppies or trips to amusement parks, and the visions-I always give in.

I am grateful that they will have each other. I know that the years of pulling hair, breaking things, arguing, and fighting are yet to come, but someday when they are in their 20's or 30's they'll have each other to complain to about the fact that their mom wrote the intimate details of their lives on an internet blog with a title about flatulence. But you know what my darling children reading this in the future? Tough shit. Also, brush your teeth. No one likes a stink mouth. XOXO, Mom

*This single paragraph recap is a gross underestimation of the struggle we endured as a family, but this is one of those "light at the end of the tunnel stories".

Two Kids, Five Days, One Bag

2016-06-15T13:40:00.002-07:00

I recently traveled with my two kids to visit family six hundred miles away. While there, my sister saw my luggage and commented on the one bag that contained all that crap that a three-year-old, a five-month-old, and their mama might need for a five day trip. With her encouraging, I have decided to share what I have learned about efficient packing with children.

This is the bag post-trip. If you are interested in the bag, it can be found at Large Utility Tote

1: You are going to use less than you think you are.

2: If laundry is an option at the place where you are going, pack even less.

3: If packing diapers, pack them into your travel bag with the clothes. By putting them in with the clothes, you are constantly freeing up more space in the bag for the things you are surely going to accumulate on your travels

4: Embrace the idea of clothes as pajamas. A pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt can be used both for sleeping and also as a backup outfit if needed. You can plan for the kid (or yourself) to wear them on the drive home, eliminating an entire outfit from the bag.

5: If a single outfit requires its own special pair of shoes, pick a different outfit.

6: Baby shoes, while cute and a natural cause of "aww", are useless. If the kid ain't walking, the shoes are just taking up space.

7: Skip the awkward sized toiletry bag. Wrap your toothbrush in a paper towel and throw it in the bag. Pack just the basics.

8: Duffle bags are a lie. While unzipped, they seem to fit all your things, then you go to close it and its like putting sausage back in it's casing. Stick to rigid shapes if possible. It also is easier to get to what you need.

9: Make it multi-purpose: hydrocortisone works on burns, bites, hives, and sores. Skip single purpose items.

10: Accept that you may need to stop at the drugstore. To pack for all types of possible injuries and ailments is stressful and demands a lot of space. Pack one type of pain reliever/fever reducer (sans box) and hope for the best.

*I also had a diaper bag with changing mat, bulb syringe, my wallet, phone, etc. and bag that contained my pump and supplies.

**From this trip I learned that I should have packed sunscreen and bandaids. They were the only two things I needed by did not have. Next time I will pack only the lotion-style sunscreen (the spray kind leaves a smell on clothes packed nearby) and two bandaids just tossed loosely into the bag.

***If you want specifics, here is what was in the bag.

For me:
1-dress
1-pants
2-shorts
1-gym shorts that were worn as pi's but could be regular shorts if need
1-pair of jeans
5-shirts
1-bra
3-unies
2-socks
1-pair of sandals
1-swimsuit
1-book
1-ipad
1-charger
1-sweatshirt
1-zipoc bag of vitamins
1-small tube of hydrocortisone
1- hair straightener

For the toddler:
3-shorts
1-pair of pants
5-tshirts
4-undies
2-socks
1-pair of shoes
1-swimsuit
1- one cup sized pyrex with medicine
1-sweatshirt

For the baby:
5-outfits
1-pj's
3-socks
1- cardigan
1-pack of diapers
1-pack of wipes
1-swimsuit
1-bottle of infant tylenol
1- container of formula
1-bottle

Windows of the Soul

2016-04-16T20:48:00.002-07:00

Whoever wrote "The eyes are the windows of the soul" must have cared for an infant.

Among the pooping, spitting up, feeding, and crying (sometimes from the mama, too) babies occasionally afford the most miraculous experience to those who care for them. It is hard to describe without cliché, but it is beautiful and wonderful and my goal to describe it here.

I literally look at my newborn all the time. I watch her eat and watch her play. I check her body for rashes and bumps. I see her. She sees me. We have even reached a stage of chatting with each other. But now and then, my baby will catch my eye in such a way as to invite me into her soul. There is no other way to describe it. She will lock onto my eyes with this smile of utter joy on her face and attach herself to my heart. I feel my eyes well up with tears and my heart beats a little faster. It is so nearly tangible, that when I inevitably avert my eyes, I expect to see the tether between us. I am always the one to break the stare. I try not to, but within a few seconds it overwhelms me. It simultaneously breaks my heart and fills it.

Even among the adults I love most dearly I have never felt that anchoring of lives through a wordless look the way I have with my children. Pride, shame, or fear prevent that exchange between adults-whether on my part or theirs, the window is closed.

But a baby. A baby will let you in. All the trust that they have in their entire being is in you. It is a charge that is humbling and terrifying. But each little moment that I am granted that view, I feel the forces within me pledge myself to a life of loyalty, love, and care. And I know that she is seeing me, too. She is the breeze through the gap in the sill drawing out my secret self. The part of me that exists beyond my self-consciousness, my self image, and my doubt.

I remember telling my sister in early months after my son's birth that sometimes I would look at him and it was more than I could see. Like I couldn't take it all in. But now, nearly four years later, I am keenly aware of what was happening. I know because I can't sleep at night unless he has been checked on. I know because I have washed his vomit out of my hair, and the only feeling I had was sadness that he was ill. I know because I have loved him on the hardest days. Those moments I had described before-he was letting me in. And I was letting him in, too.

Friends have asked what it is like having kids, well, this is it.

Information Overload

2016-03-13T19:53:00.002-07:00

My sweet daughter came into this world at 41 weeks gestation- enough time to have been thoroughly cooked. However, she arrived with some surprises that made the ability to eat challenging.*

Nursing was hard from the start. The lactation consultant came to the hospital room on the day she was born and told us that we were both capable of breastfeeding and that it would come together soon. She didn't sound alarmed. Then we went home at 30 hours post-partum.

At home, she screamed at me in an effort to latch on, sometimes taking up 15 minutes a side to get on the boob. We powered through, with my expectation that she was just on the verge of figuring it out. "She is able to eat and make wet diapers, so she is ok, it's just me having a hard time." I thought this every feeding, so 8-10 times a day for days.

In my delirium of new baby/raising a toddler/lack of sleep I let this go on for two weeks before loading up in the car and going to the lactation clinic, after first getting a prescription for such a service from my OB so that this visit wouldn't cost a million dollars.

This one visit turned into weekly visits, which turned into suck-training with a pacifier, which turned into pumping, which turned into supplementing using a special needs feeder, which turned into surgery to correct her tongue tie and lip tie, which turned into using a nipple shield, which turned into weaning off the nipple shield, which turned into a return to the familiar painful nursing we started out with along with supplemental feedings of pumped milk.

Meanwhile, baby girl was weighed weekly and I did everything in my power to fatten her up, regardless of her poor ability to suck, high palate, and ability to spit up the entire contents of her stomach three times a day. At six weeks she had gained a whole pound since birth and I celebrated. (I got chik-fil-a drive thru and sat in the parking lot listening to my audiobook for 30 glorious minutes)

We are making progress! So why the cynicism oozing from this post? Its because at some point it all became just too much. Too much talking about it. Too much pumping. Too much stress. Too much time occupying my mind. Too much information.

Here are just SOME of the titles of the handouts given to me from the ladies at lactation:
Need to Increase Your Milk Supply?
Let's Talk About Galactogogues
Relaxation for the Baby Who Arches
The Calma (propriety bottle nipple information guide)
Baby-Led Bottle-Feeding
Breastfeeding Tips for Babies with Muscle Issues
Posterior Tongue
Suck Training Exercises

Now these nice ladies are wholly invested in the health and well being of mothers and babies. It is a noble job and an under promoted profession. My feelings of irritation are not with these women, but with this idea that the right thing to do is to struggle.

One thousand times I have wanted to crack open the container of formula that sits smartly on the counter. But I want permission. I still can't seem to grant it to myself. The approval of friends and loved-ones still hasn't convinced me. Mom guilt is incredibly powerful. I don't even know where it is coming from, but that doesn't make it any easier to reckon. I used formula to supplement my first child, then exclusively formula fed for months. I was formula fed starting at six weeks. My issue is not with formula. It is my stupid inability to admit to defeat, as long as I can continue to make forward progress with my daughter, regardless of how much anguish it causes me, I can't seem to let it go. I can't seem to say out loud, "I need a break."

I gain nothing by being stubborn. I gain nothing by allowing my spirit to become weakened by fatigue and failure. I gain nothing by denying modern advances in baby care. I know this. I know this full well.

And so, anonymous stranger that sits in a library in Tallahassee perusing pintrest and happens upon this post, or beloved devoted reader, or whoever lands here and needs to hear it:

"You have done an amazing thing. (You have kept a human alive.) You have earned the right and privilege to let go of whatever that thing is that you keep mulling over in your mind. Let's do it together."

*My daughter was born with the mildest of issues. I feel absolute gratitude for her health and functioning body. My heart goes out to all babies and mamas that face life-threatening challenges.

UPDATE: In writing this I freed myself. I opened that carton of formula a day later.

And Then There Were Two

2016-02-25T20:34:00.004-08:00

It seems like you wait forever to meet your sweet babe, then suddenly they arrive and when your head finally clears the fog, you look up to see that weeks have passed. At least that how it is for me.

I have not written for quite sometime due to equal parts busyness and inadequate words to describe the fullness of my life right now.

Last month we welcomed the arrival of a darling baby girl. Her gender was unknown to us, but from the first time I visualized her little life, she was a girl. So when my doctor announced that SHE had arrived there was a brief moment of surprise, followed immediately by the feeling of "of course".

Her labor is worthy of a post on it's own, so that will have to come later.

So what makes me pick up my decrepit old macbook after such a long hiatus? The last two hours of my evening do.

My daughter was born tongue-tied and lip-tied making nursing a challenge. Weeks of lactation consulting have resulted in endless nursing, pumping, and bottle-feeding sessions. One "meal" for this kid is at least an hour long event. With a solid hour hard to come by as a mom of two, breaks are taken to make sure that big brother gets what he needs, too.

After an episode of Daniel Tiger, I interrupt the nursing session to get him into bed. He requests and extra hug, then a kiss. A few minutes later the door opens to request a song and yet when it is over and the door shuts, he cries "Mama" several times into his Darth Vader blanket.

Then it is back to the couch to resume the meal time routine for little sister. This part is the worst-she cries in the boppy next to me while I pump for 15 minutes. When I am done with that, I quick wash the pump parts for next time, the proceed to feed her a bottle. This process is also slow in an effort to get her to keep the food down.

I just finish feeding her, when her brother's door swings open. "I think so, I pee the floor," says the teary voice at the end of the hall. I lay the baby on my bed and go to investigate. A mostly eyes-closed version of my son is standing by the door in a half gallon of pee. I debate moving him to the bathroom, but reason kicks in and I realize I would have a long trail of pee to clean instead of a single puddle. I watch the urine cascade down the crooked old floor and pool in the corner near the trash can.

In a state of tiredness and confusion, the little guy is struggling to get his socks off in the clothes changing process. He starts to fall over, so with pee-soaked hands, he grabs a hold of my shirt for balance. I finally get him into dry pjs, get his hands washed and get him back into bed. I clean the floor perfunctorily as it is after 10:00 pm and pee is sterile and I don't really feel like dealing with this now and pull the door shut.

Tired from the day and the added adventure of this evening, I wash up and head to bed. The same bed where I laid my newborn. I arrive to find her laying in a large pool of spit up on the down comforter. I swaddle her and decide that I will just flip the comforter over tomorrow and call it good.

The evening was messy, tiring, and completely normal. This is the pace of things right now. Everything always has a little bit of body fluid on it and the laundry is my arch nemesis. The days are slipping by faster than I could have ever imagined. Everyday my kids are bigger, brighter, and more themselves than the day before. It is my greatest gift to see them grow.

These days of dampness, stickiness, and smell will pass, but for now, I am here. I am in it. And I am grateful.

Catharts on Parade

2016-01-10T09:29:00.001-08:00

The first time I was pregnant, I had so much to process. Everything was happening for the first time and I was the first one going through it in my circle of friends and similar aged family. I found myself pregnant with thought. Pun intended.

I have been quieter the second time around. This time, I have reflected more and generally piped down. Also I was busy-like really busy and something else happened. I started to receive praise, both from people I know and people I have never met. Seemingly kind and encouraging remarks made me shut my mouth about how I really felt, put my head down, and keep going.

In the first few months, I was frequently doted on about my size. "You're so small!" "You have no belly at all!" "I hope I look like you when I am four months pregnant!" And what do you say to that? Well I sure couldn't say, "Actually, I am fucking terrified. I keep losing weight. I feel discouraged because when I look at my body I can't see the baby that I am carrying. I feel like it could slip away and no one would ever know it was there. Standing up makes me feel so tired that I feel like a strong wind could turn me into sand and I'll blow away, lost in the breeze forever." But that is what I desperately wanted to cry out to them. Instead, I smiled awkwardly and tried to change the subject.

As months passed and my body grew, people shifted their words of affirmation to the way I was getting by. "You have it all together." "You are so calm." "I don't know how you balance work, grad school, parenting, etc.." And again. I would smile, thank them and squish the screaming thoughts in my head. "TOGETHER!? TOGETHER!? I am literally alive because of Jimmy Dean frozen breakfast sandwiches. I have stretchmarks, hemorrhoids, varicose veins, and heartburn. There is a human shoved so tight in my ribs that I haven't had a deep breath since October. My nose bleeds. My gums bleed. And sometimes I pass gas involuntarily because a baby squashes my intestines."

Each time I would begin to let the levee break, I would think of my friend with MS who had the rockiest pregnancy I have ever witnessed. I would think of my friend who has carried multiple children that she will not meet in this lifetime. I would think of my grandma milking cows hours after her water broke. These are the kind of people I know-women of incredible strength and courage. And yet I know that I could have said something at anytime to these brave ladies and they would have listened, but I couldn't. I still don't feel like I have the right. (see multiple posts about stupid anxiety disorder...)

So what happens then? My husband finds me sobbing in the bathtub two days before my due date. On this occasion, the house was unusually messy, which stressed me out and gave me a nice gateway to CryTown. Once I cried about the crusty crockpot that I would deal with later, I looked at the 2/3 of body that was sticking out of the water and I let myself think all the things I had been stifling. When my husband came in, I blathered about my weird body, about trying to finish my research to graduate in May, about my job, about the unready nursery, and about a bazillion other things. When I finally said all the things I could think of and stopped to blow my nose (still in the tub), I felt the breath of release. My husband picked up my gushing face and confirmed that we would fine, that we love each other, and that this baby will be here soon. And today I believe each of those statements, I just wish I hadn't waited 40 weeks to hear them.

Dear Baby Number Two

2015-08-23T05:23:00.002-07:00

Dear Baby Two,

I have yet to take a picture of my growing belly with you inside. I have yet to peruse the aisles of Target imaging all the things you and I might need. I have yet to begin work on your bedroom, although your time in utero is half way through.

I am sorry about the two weeks I didn't take prenatal vitamins because I ran out of them and forgot to go the store. Every single day I forgot. For two weeks. I am sorry that I have fallen twice and surely scared you with the surges of cortisol and adrenaline. I am sorry that raw vegetables have disgusted me since May and you have gotten none of their benefits.

I wanted to give you all the grace and goodness I could muster, but I fear I have not.

But as I sit here in the early morning, your brother still asleep, I daydream about you. I wonder about the way your voice will sound. I wonder about the color of your hair. You ride silently with me all day, even when our schools days are 12 hours long. You are my ally. When I lay down at night you wake up. Your elbows and knees are a welcome feeling in my belly. Your dad can't feel your movements yet, so each jump is just between you and me. I am happy that you are my child.

I may not get all the things accomplished that I should before you arrive, but I am so excited for that day. The lack of preparedness is not be confused with a lack of readiness. I have arms you can sleep in and the anatomy to feed you. This time around I know that beyond all the niceties of nurseries and pinterest-inspired crafts, that this house of love made by your dad, brother, and I are enough. You, Sundance, are so loved.

Always,
Mom

5 Things That Happened During my Second Pregnancy That No One Warned Me About

2015-08-05T17:13:00.000-07:00

This time everything is different.

People told me so many things about carrying a second baby. Some of their stories were good and some were awful. I was optimistic that my next go round would liken itself to my first pregnancy, which was pretty good. I have not had a terrible pregnancy, I know people who have it had it so much worse, but a few things have happened to me this time that were unpleasant, new, and even scary because I was not informed about the possibility that these things could happen.

1. Morning sickness. It is only ever talked about as the nausea that steamrolls you in the morning and often leads to vomiting. Through my own experience I can tell you that that is not always true. Sometimes that wave of nausea causes you to empty the contents of your core in a different, more gross way. And that can happen every day. For a month. Oh, and sometimes the nausea can be significantly worse in the evening than the morning.

2. Instant Monster. As a generally calm person, the desire to bite off heads was new to me. There were times that I was feeling sick and moody, where in my first pregnancy, I might have laid down in bed or taken up residence on the couch. When those waves of inner and outer sourness hit me during this pregnancy, I would again try retiring to my bed or the couch, but there were always the knees and elbows of a toddler jamming into me, whilst being used as jungle gym. In those moments, I felt like I would explode. My skin hurt. My senses were immediately overwhelmed. And I was instantly a monster. I would pick up my kid, give him some fruit snacks and sit down on the closed toilet seat to try to get my hackels down.

3. Small belly. EVERYONE told me variations of "You will get huge fast!", "You will pop by like 10 weeks!", "Fat you gonna be." So I got a little excited to have some outward evidence of my little bean. I feel like I have begun to stretch out, but I look rather unnpregnant to the people not living inside my body. I have heard some of the craziest things from women when I told them I am pregnant. "For real? You can't even tell!" Well, you know what all this did for me? It gave me a complex that there is something wrong with this kid or with me because I don't look as expected. Seriously, I had to talk to my therapist about it. It was a constant thought. Yet, as I always knew in the back of my mind, that this baby and I are fine, I was reassured when I heard his/her heartbeat yesterday.

4. Fainting/dizziness/lossofmusclecontrol. This one scared me the most. I was in the kitchen and suddenly I could not feel my legs. It was like they turned to hot metal- warming up, going soft, and giving in. I fell onto my butt, shattered the glass in my hand, and terrified my husband and son all at once. I shook for most of the day, waves of dizziness swept over me, strange sensations in my body kept me constantly on edge. Turns out, fainting (what happened to me qualifies as fainting), is not that uncommon during pregnancy. It can be brought on by about a million factors, blood sugar falls, dehydration, electrolyte imbalance, lack of iron in the blood, etc.

5. Nose bleeds with added bonuses. I knew that nosebleeds were common and I had had a few the first time I was pregnant. While my body decided to add to that unique experience by passing large and gross blood clots from my nose. This one was a true surprise and had both my husband and myself appalled. (It is not good when no one is able to keep a level head in a new situation)

The point of exposing myself as a gross, shaky, neutrotic person, whose nose has betrayed her, is to let you know that these things can happen, and if they happen to you-you are not alone!

The Parade Returns!

2015-06-20T13:49:00.006-07:00

I have been away a long time. My last post was in April. In beginning of May, this happened...


Anyone else recognize the dollar store test?

Yep. Up the spout again. Another bun in the oven. Back in the saddle. Going to be a mom of two.

My cup runneth over.

The Taming of the Child (through a profuse usage of exclamation points)

2015-04-17T21:03:00.003-07:00

On Thursday after my students boarded their buses for spring holiday, I sat down to call some families. I was making a list in my head all week of students who were doing a great job as of late. I made three phone calls, each showing success in different areas:

A boy who was failing due to talking, playing, and general tomfoolery had been more focused and engaged in his work this week
A girl who is prone to emotional outbursts made it through the week without a tantrum
A boy who often gets angry and confrontational with kids made it through the week without threatening anyone

I called the guardians (an uncle, a mom, and an older sister) and spoke positively about their student's positive behavior improvements. The guardians were pleased by the report and I was able to make a connection with the adults at home-letting them know I was invested in their student and that they were having success at school.

After I hung up the phone, I left the building in route to pick up my own kid and perhaps if I wasn't sitting in traffic for thirty minutes I wouldn't have had time to have an existential crisis on the matter. Yet, as I sat squished between cars in the 5:00 standstill, I scanned the radio twice before settling on silence and began to mull over the conversations. I put myself in the role of the parent of one of my students. Thinking about the type of call I just made and I felt it hit me. Like a ton of freaking bricks.

We tame our children.

We turn them into versions of people that we think will have some likelihood of surviving in the environment around us.

We (teachers) try ceaselessly to help all the kids who walk through our door find academic, social, and emotional success. So our kids who are wildly emotional (passionate), our kids who are loud and silly (humoristic), and our kids who are hostile (distrusting until proven otherwise) are molded into schoolable kids. Do they become less passionate as a result? Does some part of them disappear? Does their sense of carefree wonder get stifled by our projections of what success look like?

I am a human who conditions other humans to fit in a sort of box! (At this point I am freaking out in the car). Forget test scores, reading levels, knowledge of science, or math, or history-I shape 10-year-olds into who they are as people! WHAT MAKES ME QUALIFIED?!

As my heart started to pound in my chest, I remembered, I am their teacher! I am their advocate! I am there to be there for them!

And suddenly I remembered how I feel when the other kids shy away from these passionate, verbose, and high-strung kids.
I remembered how I feel when these kids are reluctant to trust me.
I remembered how much I care about them.

My heart settles on a thought-I don't think I could or would do anything different.

Then I started thinking about my kid.

I tame my child.

I attempt to turn him into a version of person that I think will have some likelihood of surviving in the environment around me.

I (parent) try ceaselessly to balance my child's natural wildness and the social norms of society on him from the start. I know how I feel when my kid is knuckle deep in his nose at church and screams like a banshee when I try to intervene. And I also know how I feel when I see him tromping most triumphantly through the over grown weeds, wielding a stick, and giving loud commands to his imaginary crew of followers.

I feel the weight of all of this. I want my child to be free in his mind and free in his spirit. I want my kid to have healthy relationships with other people. I want my child to know how to navigate different situations with ease.

I want him to be happy.

Really, I just want to not screw him up.

For more on my teaching adventure see:
Reflections on my first year of teaching at an urban school

I'd Do It For Him.

2015-02-17T19:21:00.002-08:00

When I started writing blog I had no vision for what it would look like in the future, but here we are three years since the farts first went on parade and I still have more stories to tell. The most recent of which, is a whole new level of momness.

My least favorite place to take my son is to a store. The battle of getting into the cart, the fact that his arms can reach the shelves, the bribing with snacks, the eventual flinging of the snacks, the checkout line, the getting him back out of the cart- all of it stresses me out. But we parents, we do it anyway, don't we? Multiple times a week, sacrificing our good mood for tubes of toothpaste and yet another gallon of milk.

Needing a random assortment of things, a superstore would allow me to get all I needed with only one cart debacle. So on to Walmart we went. I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich ready for a meltdown and pack of fruit snacks if things got really dicey. Up and down the aisles we wound collecting our supplies as he munched quietly on his pbj. Finally, we made it to our last department-photo. At the counter I ask for my pictures and then manage to talk the young employee into checking me out there. He hesitantly agrees as I start pulling art supplies, kale, and baby wipes out of the cart. But three minutes later, I was all ready to go, giant-front-of-the-store-line avoided!

Feeling like a winner, we left this far corner of the world and headed out. Winding through a few side aisles, we hit that big opening that leads straight to the door. Then my son starts crying out of nowhere, which is really uncharacteristic of him. I am not saying I have one of those kids that doesn't cry, but it is usually preceded by the word "no" or running face first into a door. Again. But nevertheless, he was fussing and chanting "Momma hod choo! Momma hod choo!" So I scoop him and he lays his head on my shoulder. Figuring that he is just tired, I lean my face to his, enjoying the little cuddle. One hand on the cart, we continue toward the door, past a big cardboard display of bargain towels, toward a a wire rack of $5 decorative wall paintings of flowers, and birds and the like. Then suddenly

He ralphs...

Everywhere...

Thrice...

I freeze. Not sure what to do, I just sit down. He is still laying on my shoulder, but now both of us are coated in yuck. I keep telling him, "It's ok. It's ok. It's ok." which I realize now was entirely for myself. As I am sitting there, looking on at the disaster that has befallen upon this major thoroughfare, in this the busiest store in America, an older man stops to ask if we are ok. Snapping back to life, I respond that having clean up paged would be so helpful. He smiles and leaves. A minute later I hear the call, "Clean up needed in action alley." Action alley? Damn skippy this is action alley. Towels are cheap, you can decorate every wall of a room for $20.00, oh, and there is vomit everywhere.

People continue down the path toward me, first noticing that my cart is not moving, then realizing why, then taking a detour. I apologize profusely and everyone is profusely nice to me in return. In between apologies, I watch the giant mechanical door, just 20 yards away opening and closing, letting the non-puking shoppers out into the night. Yet, there we sat. Together on the floor, coated in throw up, feeling the cool draft with each customer's exit. It was lonely. I was humbled. I was so mom. Not grossed out yet, not trying to flee the scene in shame, just rocking my little boy as he rubbed his face further in toward my neck, smearing his trails of his evacuation into my shoulder. I was reminded so instantly of all that I would endure for him. I always knew I would give him my organs or fight off a bear for him, but I hadn't considered the possibility that could end up on that hateful people of walmart website with vomit in my hair. But I would do it for him.

This reminded me of one of the most tender moments from The Simpsons.

(image from: http://images.laughaton.com/13479/Simpsons-Moments-8211-Do-It-For-Her)

Speech Therapy

2015-02-08T21:01:00.002-08:00

We speak a code language at our house. It is an alphabet without L's, PH's, J's, F's, TH's, sometimes R's, or multi-syllable words. And let me tell you-I am quite fluent in this vernacular. It rivals Spanish as my next best language.

While it is good that I know "Pa push da bunt!" means "Phil(the dog) pushed the button on the remote and made the volume go off.", but at 28-months, it is time to help the world understand my son.

This Thursday, he will be evaluated for speech therapy. I am both very excited and inexplicably hesitant. Since he was born, he has been free to be himself. We have not cut his hair, pushed him toward an interest, prompted him to decide if he is going to be left or right handed. He has just been his own choosing. In so many ways my husband and I have shaped him in to the little man that he is, but it happened organically and without an agenda. Now we are letting someone else in. And it feels strange.

I am the one who pushed for him to be tested. Many kind people in our lives encouraged us that he would grow out of it and be fine in a few years. It isn't a bad theory, lots of kids do manage it alone. But until these people have been here on a 12 time out kind of morning. Until they have listened to my son yell the same things over and over until he starts hitting because no one knows what he is saying. Until they have heard the garbled speech for an entire car ride home from daycare and not understood a dang word of it, it seems unfair to make such a claim.

I believe in interventions. I am a teacher for crying out loud! Do you know how many meetings I have sat in, where a parent was informed that their child was in need of intervention? Do I suddenly know how they feel? Yes.

It isn't shame. It isn't embarrassment. It isn't really sadness, though my eyes disagree. It is the heartbreak of feeling like a helpless parent. Of knowing how the multitude of sacrifices made since pregnancy, just weren't quite enough. Not that those were in vain, but that according to some measure against others, against the "norm", something may be broken and I can't fix it.

*Update*

We had the evaluation. We learned two things:
1. He is definitely marble mouthed and the doctor did not understand all the things that my son said, but his mouth is able to make all the phonemic sounds. Even though there are several letters missing from his alphabet now, he is physiologically able to make them, and he will.
2. He wants to talk like other people he hears- 4+ word sentences, multi-syllable words, etc, so he uses "jargon" (nonsense words) to fill in the spaces between words he can say to feel confident in his speech. All this time we couldn't understand him, but a good bit of the time, they weren't words in the first place.
3. There is no obvious indication that he will mature through the speech stages at any significant lag from the norm.
4. I feel sadness that I projected a problem onto my child by comparing him against the world.
5. My child, speech impaired or not, is a wondrous being that delights my heart.

If you would like to know more about speech stages, this link may be of use to you.
http://www.children.gov.on.ca/htdocs/English/topics/earlychildhood/speechlanguage/brochure_speech.aspx

New Parents

2014-12-14T14:04:00.002-08:00

I have been reflecting on birth lately. As if that is something normal that people sit around and think on, but nevertheless, I have been.

A few weeks ago, I got to hold a newborn baby in the hospital. I got to watch as the purply little fingers changed to pink with time and much flexing. I got to feel the arm flails and kicks that were exactly the same out in the world, as they had been for months in utero. I was amazed, not just by the darling baby, but by her parents as well.

Have you ever seen a woman after she has given birth? There is never a time that a woman will look more beautiful. I know, it sounds lame, but that is for real. Radiating from the face of the mother is something so spectacular, that it makes her look different. She will look like herself as she was meant to be. The expression is not particularly smiley or proud, but it is as if all the crinkles of life beyond that moment are relaxed and the only thing left to read on her face is love.

And when the baby moves from arm to arm of goo-goo-eyed family members, the tie between mom and baby is still there. It is so strongly present that it seems tangible, as if I could reach out a feel the string between their hearts. Its not fear or anxiety that keeps them linked, but just that they haven't quite become two people yet. Coming into the world doesn't immediately sever the oneness, as we think it does through physical actions, instead the becoming two separate people part is a gradual process and in some small way a never-ending one. The very stuff of our being is borrowed from our mothers, are we ever really distinctly apart from them?

And then there is the partner. The one who is thrust into something so immediately and so completely without the surge of hormones and god-designed biochemistry of attachment, brought on by child bearing. The partner doesn't have a baby, but they HAVE a baby. It must be strange. I can't truly fathom or appreciate that world, because what do I know of it. Yet, I can't help but see it again in my head- the face of dads with new babies. Amazement. Its a look that says, "I knew it would work. It just doesn't seem like that should have worked. But it worked. And now they are here." My grandmother (due to a speech problem) often uses an adjective- "numbfounded". It is the perfect word for the face of someone who has just seen a miracle. It is there when they answer the nurse's questions, or stop to take a bite to eat, just this faraway look of wow.

When I was six, my mom had a little boy. I went to see them at the hospital and can only remember going out into the hallway so they could take my mom's IV port out and me not get squeamish. I came back into the room a little worked up (at six I knew needles hurt, I had no concept of what child birth entailed), expecting my mom to be reacting like I had after my kindergarten booster shots. But, there she was, a portrait of calm, delicately adjusting the blankets surrounding our brother.

It was another 13 years before I went to the hospital to see a new mom. This time my eventual sister-in-law. (Looking back, I can't believe she was okay with me, her brother's girlfriend, coming to see them. But I am forever grateful that she did.) It was so quiet in the room when we got there. Neither parent was talking, they were just looking at their new baby. We held the baby with such stiff arms they quivered under the seven pound bundle. And as they watched us holding their daughter, I saw those expressions, I just didn't know how to label them.

The next time I was in the hospital with a newborn, it was my turn. My husband took a picture of my son and I just after he was born. It is my most beloved moment, and in it, is that look that I have only recently begun to decipher.

Less than a year after I had my son, my sister-in-law had another baby, this time a boy. It was present there to. The looks on both their faces, not weakened or diminished by multiple experiences. Even with their other children present and the light-heartedness of their questions and musing. Love. And amazement. Love. And amazement.

Most recently I met my niece and as we made the nine hour drive back home afterward, my mind was swimming with all that had been stirred in me. I kept seeing my sister's face as the baby cried and with a fountain of patience and tenderness, she just cuddled and talked to her new baby. I kept hearing her husband say, "She was amazing. She was incredible." Desperate to make meaning out of all I was feeling and thinking, I began plotting this blog post, but all I could truly nail down was- there is nothing like a new born baby. And there is nothing like their parents either.

I also keep coming back to this quote from Call the Midwife:

This post is inspired by and dedicated to: my brother, my nieces, my nephews, and my son.

Felt, Glue, and Sweatpants

2014-11-15T11:22:00.000-08:00

Last time I wrote, I was reflecting on my entrance into the world of mom, as if I had reached some pinnacle of nerdiness, but what did I really know?

On October 30th, at 10:00 pm, I found myself baking goodies for my son's Halloween party at school. I cut the rice crispy treats apart and wrapped them quickly. I still had a costume to make.

At 11:00 pm, as I sewed the tail onto my son's Mickey Mouse shorts, I was again hit in the face with that feeling of being so...mom. If my tone is negative, it is not intentional. Each time I have this realization wash over me, the only feeling I have is complete surprise. I don't think anyone can picture themselves gluing ears onto a headband in the late hours of the evening, nearly falling asleep in the process and therefore getting glue EVERYWHERE. Even when I daydreamed about the future, this was a moment so insignificant that it warranted no time in the dreamscape. And yet when I found myself there it was absurdly normal and yet utterly shocking.

Transition into mom-itude has been my greatest adventure. Never before I have I become something different than I always have been. And yet still been just the same. It is a strange dual reality that I have just recently entered into. My years ahead are going to be filled with the beautiful mundane realities of child-raising, the incredible life-chaning moments that come with watching a tiny version of my DNA grow, learn, and become a person, and all the while some strange and wonderful blending of myself and my momself, will continue to occur. Bringing me ever closer to earning the title, "Mama".

I have attached photos of the three Halloween costumes I have made for my son since his birth. Each costume was made with felt, glue, and sweatpants. (and love.) This is the apex of my skill set. The purchasing of over-priced costumes is in my very near future.


The attachable turtle shell (1 month old)

Han Solo (1 year old)

Mickey Mouse (2 year old)

Glimmering Mom-Nerd

2014-09-27T16:06:00.001-07:00

They say that having a child changes you. I knew and believed this when my husband and I contemplated bringing a baby into this world. I knew that in immeasurable ways I would develop love, patience, and gratefulness unthinkable to my childless-self. That internal dialogue was more than three years ago, and now, in throws of toddlerhood it just struck me again.

Have you ever looked at a mom and thought-what happened to you? When did you become such a dork? How you become so mom?

I think, dear friends, this is the change that all the "they"s have been talking about.

I ushered in the weekend with my son cuddled on my lap, bowl of popcorn in one hand, remote in the other. I scrolled through the netflix options waiting for the "dat one!" seal of approval from my son. I went through the tolerable movies but "No. No. No." was all I got. Continuing to scroll and watching the choices get more and more painful, I finally heard the screetching that meant he had made his choice- Beverly Hills Chihuahua 3: Viva la Fiesta!

We watched the whole thing. It was awful, but, on some weird level, I didn't hate it.

My son also loves singing the classic nursery rhyme songs, but with his speech delays, he cannot sing them himself, so he demands that I sing them. It is a sweet and simple thing to do together, but there are only so many times I can sing "Itsy Bitsty Spider", so looking for a reprieve I fired up the Pandora Kids station. It was two hours after I pressed play that it dawned on me, that these high-pitched jams had been blasting, and I have barely noticed. Some of the same kids songs that used to make my skin hurt when I would babysit in my teens, were now tolerable, and in-fact not so unpleasant. In fact, we both clapped with "C is for Cookie" came on.

Something is happening here. I may still watch documentaries and weird indie movies that leave me feeling confused and doubtful of reality after 8 pm, but in daylight its cgi dogs making jokes and getting into shenanigans in a hotel. I am like a vampire, but less cool. Dark and interesting by night and glimmering, mom-nerd in the daylight.

And so I wrap up this post because the hokey pokey is on. And dangit..

How to Succeed at Concerts While Really Flippin' Trying

2014-08-06T19:31:00.001-07:00

I took a toddler to a concert. Maybe not my best idea, but I learned some valuable tips that I will share to other parents who also happen to like going to shows.

1. Check the ticket policy. I walked into the venue, little man strapped to my chest, and approached the will-call window. I gave the lady my id and she gave me an envelope with one ticket in it. "You need a ticket for that baby", she says unflinching. "Oh, no, he doesn't need a seat, he will be on my lap the whole time." I retort. "Doesn't matter. He needs a ticket." She starts typing on her magic ticket machine and informs me that there are not two empty seats next to each other. Quickly, my eyes well up with tears. I had drove several hours, with a toddler, bundled him in a carrier, it was past his bed time, I was overwhelmed, oh, and I was doing this alone. Seeing the panic on my face, a manager took sympathy and wrote me what was essentially a seat pass and let me in.

2. EVERYBODY will have something to say (with their words or actions). My general life motto is fly under the radar, but dadgum if I wasn't a spectacle in that crowd. Inquisitive looks in the lobby were unsettling so I rushed in to auditorium. I took my seat. When my son bumped into the lady next to me, she stood up and switched with the person she came with. Later, when his foot bumped her leg, she picked it up and moved it. Irritation and judgment all over her face. Feeling beaten down, I snuck out before the intermission and stood alone in the lobby to collect my thoughts and debate staying. Not more than five minutes later, the crowds flooded into the lobby. A sweet woman sought me out and tapped my shoulder, "I love that you brought your child. His little happy sounds were great!" she grinned. A few others smiled and made nice comments. I should have been able to revel in them, but I was stuggling to get over the initial experience with my seat neighbor. and the lady at will call.

3. Stuff every pocket with fruit snacks. Fruit snacks are a real treat in our house, even the fruit and veggie kind are limited to every once in a while. When he started to churn and get antsy (and loud), out came the fruit snacks and all silence befell upon us. Mistakenly, I only had one pack, next time, I will have ten.

4. Accept that you will not be comfortable. I had tried holding my son on my lap, but he got squirmy and didn't want to sit still any longer. I put him back in the carrier, but I could not sit down. I creatively tried to lean on things or rest a cheek on the chair rail, but alas, comfort was not mine to have. With my 30 pound babe strapped to my chest, I took my place in the dark eaves of the concert hall, and gave in to the mama sway. For 90 minutes, we swayed, sang, and affirmed my initial motivations in undertaking this challenge- sharing something meaningful with my son, because ever since he was born I have wanted to show him the world and beautiful things it took me nearly 30 years to discover.

5. If you feel like going somewhere, even if it is somewhere that is severely inconvenient with a toddler but going there will restore some part of yourself that may have been unfed since becoming a parent, try it. It may be really hard most of the time, but perhaps you too will leave with a memory of dancing your child to sleep with their little head on your chest as you sing:

Cheers parents! May your children know good music and may your lyrical soul be satisfied.

Lyrics from "Method Acting/Cortez the Killer" by the Dave Rawlings Machine. Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gxPTQDP2bRQ