All this to say.....

In August I was on an all-time blogging high, getting to a record 5! posts. Then...what happened? September and almost October have gone by in a flash, with the winds of change blowing all around me, twisting me this way and that. My dearest sister-momma and her family moved out of town in search of a new lifestyle, and I spent lots of time soaking her in and helping her move before she left. Our own family has begun house-hunting too, which consumes hours on the internet, in the car, and trekking over strangers' carpets and into their bathrooms while their cats shriek in little cages in the closet, or their children play video games on the floor.

The summer washed away and is, as we speak, falling from the trees. I've been planning trips, too, and I took one with the Boodge. Back to my homeland (where the heart is) in Ontario and Montreal. I saw my brother and his sweet family, my mom, my dad. Came home to a new appreciation of my own family, fonder from absence. And in a few short days we begin churning again with more planes, boats, and automobiles to come.

Yesterday the news reported that the polar ice cap is melting alarmingly fast--faster than expected. My gut clenched. It's too late, I thought, but then argued with myself, because no, it's not too late, and there is much that can be done, and much unknown. But still, the reality of life on this planet may be very different in the future, and we have to brace for the change. To calm myself, I remind myself of our resilience and adaptablity, and I hold my family close in my mind's eye and am grateful for them.

Often I wonder about what it will be like for the Boodge, and ask that question people ask sometimes, "Was it fair to make a baby in a world that is so uncertain? Would it be fair to make another?" I know people who believe, fervently, no. Still, I can't help but feel fervently, yes! For so many reasons--because I'm not giving up on the future, and every new life is a hope. Because I believe that living can be beautiful in some ways no matter what the struggle, and that struggle is part of a full life. Because the scary is helped by the love and closeness and wisdom of others, and I want to Boodge to have an Other--some family that will, hopefully, still be there when is dad and I are gone. My end of the bargain, and Sean's, is to try to create that safe haven of family for the little lives we're summoning forth, and to give them the tools to survive mentally, physically, and spiritually, and to leave a positive mark on the earth. Easy, right?

And what, may you ask, moved me to sit down and finally write this post, to get back on the blog? A little hope has sprung up in me today, a little stream that invites a miracle to come. See....in my family, we have this doll. It's a little African fertility idol that came on a necklace I got when I was 16 years old, wandering around in awe in the parking lot of a Grateful Dead show decked out in my tie die skirt and ankle jingler. It sat in my jewellry box and then my bead box until I gave it to my above mentioned dear sister-mama 5 years ago when she was trying to conceive her second child.

It worked. Fortunately, she kept it in the house and, um, it worked again, quickly creating her third little "weezard" old-soul baby. After that they wanted to pass it on rather (ehem) quickly, so they did so to my brother and his wife. It worked beautifully again, bringing them my sensitive, joyous nephew. The idol then came to live in my house, where, when we were ready, I placed it on a shelf surrounded by incense and beachstones throughout the weeks leading up to our wedding. It's energy was strong enough to come with us to Costa Rica on our honeymoon(or maybe it happened at home--who knows), because the Boodge was born 9 months later. So, we passed it on, this time to some friends of friends that had been trying to conceive for over a year. She wore it around her neck for months, in fact, it ended up being all the months of her subsequent pregnancy, cause...it worked.

It got to the point where some people didn't want the doll in their house, or were afraid to touch it. But I think the will has to be there--the idol doesn't just work randomly on people who don't want children, or aren't ready. Clearly it doesn't, because it's been back in our place now for several months, and I have been sitting around wondering when I'm going to menstruate again. Searching forums to find out how long it takes other women, thinking about night weaning the Boodge. He's a bit of a boobaholic, let's face it. But still, I've felt relaxed about it. As some friends suggested, when the Boodge is ready, my body will get ready. Or, when I'm ready to tell the Boodge my body wants to be ready. Or, when we move and he gets his own room. But it hasn't felt right to want to hurry it, yet.

So the idol lay around in various catch-all baskets in the bathroom, living room, in my purse sometimes, until just before I left for Ontario, I thought I should really give it a proper place. So I put it on the little birth-alter I had for the Boodge's birth, next to the soapstone carving of an Inuit woman nursing her babe my mother gave me. I lit some incense and told her I'd like to start ovulating again, soon.

And today...it worked. Just the ovulating, people, don't get too excited. Today, if you don't mind my saying, I will have to go out and find myself a post pregnancy sized "diva cup". Funny how it all reminded me of that waiting in adolescense to say excitedly, or miserably, depending on your savvy: "I got it!". But it feels better this time--more connected to what it means to create another human being and shelter them on this planet. The idol worked, and I hope it keeps working. Because the possibility of another vibrant, amazing life is, for me, an antidote to all the fear out there.

So all that to say, "I'm back!" and "I got it." And keep on creating and trusting and believing in magic, no matter how scary the future may look.

Getting a Grip

So, after my last post, I started to feel kind of depressed. I think I have now gone through the whole cycle the title of the video I posted promises—Wake Up, Freak Out, and Get a Grip. Not that I wasn’t already “awake” to the whole environmental Armageddon issue—but I’ve been snoozing lately. It’s a coping strategy. If I let myself think about the worst that could come in the next 50 years or so, I can quickly become hopeless.

And for a day or two, I was. I hate feeling powerless. And when it comes to global warming, I feel that way. I didn't know where to start. Clearly, a huge part of the work is in confronting institutions of power. But I’m not very into arguing and confronting, and I have no patience for people who don’t see what seems obvious to me. Thank goodness some people are good at this. It’s just not for me.

At the same time, I know I can’t just do nothing at all. Because what if it’s not too late, and the changes we make now really will make a difference? And if I don’t do anything, when I’m aware of the problem and I care deeply about it, how can I hold out any hope that anyone else is going to do anything? Besides—now that I opened my mouth about it on my blog….I kind of have to act, don’t I?

We have an expression in our family: “El Taco”. As in...el taco est cheapo. Whenever one of us comes up with another brilliant idea or a "why don't people..." complaint, we like to gently prod each other with a little “El Taco.” To Sean’s credit, though, he didn’t do that to me this time. Instead, when I shared with him how bummed I was feeling, he told me about something he’d seen on a David Suzuki special the other day. Suzuki was talking about his daughter, and how when she reached a certain age he and his wife saw that their worldview was being reflected from her, and that she was hopeless. Their sense of doom had come into her as they raised her. It sounds like this was a turning point for Suzuki, and it was a good thing for me to hear too.

So I and mulled it over one afternoon as I lay next to the sleeping Boodge in a state of depressed inertia. It seems to me that in terms of parenting, I need a two-pronged approach to global warming. One, model and advocate for a conservationist approach to life for the Boodge, teaching him about our interconnectedness with everything on earth and how to lessen our impact. And two, teach him to the best of my ability the skills he will need to survive what may happen. I decided to start where I am, and with the talents and time I have, and build from there. So here are a few things I’ve decided to do.

1: Come up with a family budget based on what we usually spend per month (we’ve tracked that for a long time now). Then see how much I can tighten it by active non-consumerism. I’m going to really think about every purchase, and ask myself—is it necessary? Can I get it used? Can I make it? Where can I cut down on what I habitually consume? Whatever we save from our budget through this process, we will donate half of it to a group that does the active confronting of power and corporations. Bless them. (Why not donate all, you ask? We’re saving for a down payment now, so cutting back our expenses was part of the plan anyway. Once we’re in a new place under a new budget, we’ll work on a bigger donation.)

2. Find a place that I can volunteer with the Boodge. I’m in the process of researching this, but suggestions are welcome. I figure we have time to go out and do something practical that will be our drop in the bucket. But volunteering will help me learn more about what I can do, and also, over time, will model lots of good stuff for the Boodge. I always envisioned community service as part of my parenting and role modelling, so why not start now, with this issue?

3: Read David Suzuki’s “Good News For a Change.” Cause I need good news, and I need to know more about the specific positive things that we can do. I’ve heard this is a great book. I wrote the name of it down in my address book 3 years ago. The other day I got it from the library, since I’m trying not to consume.

4: Start growing our own food (and composting organic waste). This is part of our plan anyway when we buy a house. The food we eat is fraught with ethical issues—is it fairly traded, is it local, is it sustainable, is it genetically engineered, is it full of chemicals or antibiotics? Growing our own will help eliminate some of those issues. Plus, I want the Boodge to know how to grow food, in case it should become scarce to buy sometime in his lifetime. What we don’t grow, I will buy from as ethical and local a sources as I can find.

5: Blog about it all. This blog is about my journey as a mother, in whatever dimensions that takes. This is part of it. I will keep you all “posted” on any discoveries I make, tips I can share, or insights I have, as I work towards these commitments I’m making. Of course, it won’t be the only thing I blog about, but…it will hopefully become part of what I can offer in this space. If anyone gets anything useful and takes it into their own lives, that’s one more drop in the bucket….

So, stay tuned as I get the wheels rolling. I’m going to work on these commitments and then add more as time goes on. The whole thing has helped me out of my funk a bit. I can’t stop global warming single-handedly, but I can be part of raising the new consciousness about it. Now excuse me while I go turn out the kitchen light.

Mother's Work for Mother Earth

I was telling Sean yesterday that lately I find myself thinking about a lot of minute details such as "Should I teach the Boodge not to throw rocks ever, or just not to throw them at people, animals, things, etc?" "Should I let him play with the yogurt if it helps him learn to eat, even if it makes a mess?" "Should I kneel here with him while he plays with these big boys in the park, or is it better if I hang back and let him stand his own little ground?" These little trivial questions are the important work of mothering, the daily decisions that go into teaching our child or helping them learn--everything. Into making good, self-sufficient people.

But yesterday I was reminded by this short video that none of that will matter much if our children spend their adult years on a hostile planet where they have to fight for their basic survival. I hope you will take the time to watch this, though I will also warn you that it paints a bit of a bleak picture. Just as I felt when I watched "An Inconvenient Truth", the film put a pit of fear in my stomach, and a simultaneous feeling of hopelessness and desire to do something. Maybe all that the film says won't come true. But whether it does or not, we have to face the reality that we are teetered at a precarious edge when it comes to our planet.

It seems too big to comprehend, impossible to imagine all of humanity coming together and dramatically changing the way we live. We have gone so far astray in our consumer lifestyle. I am just as guilty as anyone, just as used to being able to get what I want, when I want. And the small steps I take such as recycling, washing out my ziplocks, refusing to buy certain things or buying used, trying to walk instead of drive--these are all too small to make the kind of difference needed. The change needs to come at the level of power, of government and corporations, and we need to pressure them too.

Just the thought of beginning to do something daunts me because I feel I'd have to dedicate my entire life to it. But now I see this as another part of my work as a mother--to find a way to help ensure that my child has a safe world to live in. And it is part of the Boodge's work in becoming a good person, self-sufficient. So I'm planting a seed in my mind, looking for what the two of us can do together. As long as we just keep doing more than we did before, that is good enough. This post is a start. I'm thinking me and the Boodge are the founding members of Parents and Children for the Earth's Future. Anyone want to join?

Enter the Tantrum

It's not quite in the door yet but certainly, the tantrum has pushed the door ajar and is peeking into our mornings these days. Something has shifted. For one, my little boy has learned to kiss and hug and climb on my lap, wrap his arms around my neck and put his head on my shoulder. He says a bunch of words and wants to say many more. He makes jokes and laughs at them.

But note the use of the term "my little boy". It is starting to feel more accurate than saying "my baby". He's becoming an independent being reaching for the limits of his capabilities, and finding them too often (or not finding them, but that's a whole other problem). He knows exactly what he wants but half the time he can't communicate it or accomplish it. It leads to a lot of frustration for both of us when he wants to drink the smoothie all by himself, when he wants that--no that--NO, THAT!! when he wants up, no down, no up, now down, no....WAAAAHHHH!!

My approach has been haphazard. Usually, I'm trying to get coffee or dinner made, and I am alternately comforting, distracting, or feeding him while in between I dash around chopping and wiping things. By the time we eat he is so frustrated he doesn't want to eat, and I am there trying to keep him in the highchair and calm n any which way so he may eat a few more bites. Meals end in a meltdown 70% of the time. The whole process of creating and eating food just seems to wind him up, and it feels a bit frantic for me too.

The other night I was just roaming around the internet and found this article which really helped me start thinking about it in a new way. A way that wasn't about: how do I get things done and keep him from melting down. Patty Wipfler suggests that instead, we parents just accept that the storm is building, and watch and wait for it to come, gently and lovingly enforcing the limits we need to enforce to keep our child safe and teach them. She talked about how toddlers just feel a building of frustration and it has to be let out in order for them to clear their minds and bodies and try again at whatever is making them crazy. She even suggested that if we know that a certain activity brings on a meltdown, then we should just anticipate it and build it in (like, reheat dinner after it's over).

I loved her article. And then yesterday morning I got to give it a try. We started out as usual--"What's wrong baby? You want up? OK. Wait, I have to put you down while I grind the beans. Just for a sec. It's OK baby. It's OK.....no, I can't hold you anymore, I have to do this...." The Boodge was testy as usual, holding my pantleg and crying, getting more and more upset. So I sat down on the kitchen floor with him, and waited for what was to happen.

He started to cry harder, got into my lap (standing) and put his arms around my neck, wailing in my ear. I offered him some words of empathy, rubbed his back. He escalated to sobs. Drooling, snotting, tearing sobs in my ear. At first he wouldn't let me hold him, but after a time he sort of kneeled on my lap and his trio of mucous saturated my shoulder. As I waited for the storm to pass, it was clear to me that this had been pent up for a long time, put off partly by all my efforts to entertain and distract him morning after morning. But yesterday, he let it all out.

After about 15 minutes, not long, he began to sputter out. Calmer, he relaxed more into my lap and my comforting hugs, and he looked at me and offered me a little smile. Soon, his playful self emerged again and he jumped off my lap and went into the living room to play while I finished getting breakfast ready.

And that was that. It was brilliant! We ate in peace, and he actually ate well, and then all day long he seemed calmer, less easily bugged. And here we are, 5 meals later, and there has not been a meltdown at any of them, or anytime really. I can't say I've figured out what was so frustrating, but it doesn't seem to matter. Whatever it was, he was able to let it out with my love and support, and he felt better.

I'm sure there will be another storm soon enough, and I'm so grateful for the learning that I don't have to fear and evade the tantrum. There is so much about it that feels right: allowing him to express himself, teaching him that I will be there for him to help him through dark emotions, and knowing that I don't need to give in on the limits I want to set with him because he may "freak out." As one who has had many a torrential cry in my life, I know it can be scary to let go, but that when it's over, I feel cleansed and ready to move on with new courage. I saw that in my little boy. So enter the tantrum. I'm even looking a little forward to the next one.

I know, seasoned parents out there, that it's only just begun and I've yet to weather a true, hurricane force tantrum. I don't mind if you give a little chuckle at how much I don't know. But I'm going to try to come at this tantrum thing like a storm watcher--staying safe while allowing myself to look into and understand the force behind the weather. It feels better than the running for my life or, and more conscious than hunkering down, watching movies and ignoring it.

Going bananas.....

I'm feeling a bit bloaty. Either I'm finally going to start menstruating again or it's the bananas. See, yesterday I was at the local organic grocery store. It's a family run store and though it's a wee bit on the pricey side, the woman who runs it, Jennifer, is so nice and so sweet to the Boodge that I go out of my way to spend my money there. Yesterday I was buying some of her overripe bananas. "I give to you," she said, and she asked me if I could use any more because she probably wouldn't sell them. I said, sure, I could use more and before I knew it she was putting 20 of them into my stroller.

Sitting in his high chair at dinner, looking at the pile, the Boodge learned to say "Na na." or was that "Night night?" or "No no?" No, clearly distinguishable. Clearly banana.

I consulted my friend the internet and found some recipes. So far I've baked a big pan of banana bread pudding, 12 banana chocolate chip muffins and 1 loaf of banana bread. I've banana blessed my property manager and his wife, Jennifer and her husband, and some friends and their babies. These bananas are just spreading love all over town.

The bread pudding is super easy to make. I'm afraid to admit how much of it I've eaten in 24 hours. I adapted this recipe. I used 2% milk instead of the "fat-free half and half" (um, what's that?) and I used 4 bananas. I think it could even take 5, and some chocolate chips would not hurt it at all. I also threw in some cinnamon and nutmeg and put a little less sugar, and used whatever bread I had going stale (some sourdough buns, some sliced bread. Here's how it looks.



The Banana Bread is one of my favorite recipes, because I can convince myself it's healthy even though I substitute chocolate chips for the dates. I use an extra banana and leave out the oil. Also, I just buy flax seed meal and use 3/4 cup of that, rather than the part whole/part ground seeds. Unground flax seed is not as good for you. The seed just passes through unscathed, if you know what I mean.

I felt like things were getting a bit serious for the Mama Being so it was time to go a bit bananas and post something light. Hope you enjoy!

Normalizing the Normal--Happy World Breastfeeding Week

Many times I have sat down to write about breastfeeding, but it has never evolved into a complete post. There is just so much to say about it, and it seems so loaded sometimes that it’s hard for me to narrow it down. But a friend on Facebook brought to my attention that it’s “World Breastfeeding Week” from August 1-7, so it seems like a good time to break the seal.

The other day I was nursing the Boodge in the park when an older lady and her aide walked by. The lady looked down at us with a serious face, her expression masked by big sunglasses and a hat.

“When I had my babies, we were’t allowed to do that.” She stated. Her accent was thick Austrian, like that of an 80’s movie villain. I felt my sensors go on alert, but waited to see where she would go next. “We couldn’t show our breast. We had to cover it all up, we couldn’t breastfeed our babies in public like that.” Her voice was angry, but I sensed it wasn’t at me.

I nodded and said, “That’s too bad.”

“Yes. It makes me angry. Because we had to hide it. It was Vienna, they were very strict. And I nursed my children for 11 months.”

“Good for you.”

“Yes, but so when I see this, I feel angry. I like it, but I am angry because I couldn’t do it.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s not good for Mothers or babies.”

She nodded and bid me a nice day and moved on, her aide looking awkward and embarrassed by her side, especially since the Boodge had pulled off with all the commotion and, horror of horrors, left my breast exposed for a few seconds. But I was glad she had stopped to share her experience. And I was glad that she got angry about it, because if women like her hadn’t gotten angry about it and spoken up, I wouldn’t be nearly as comfortable sitting in the park breastfeeding my baby.

The experience helped me realize why it’s so important for me to support breastfeeding. But whenever I sit down to write about it, I want to make sure that I don’t suggest that I think women who give formula to their babies or stop nursing earlier are somehow not as good mothers as those who breastfeed long-term. One thing I can’t stand is the “Mommy Wars” concept that pits women and parents against each other for the parenting choices they make. I have never felt more part of a supportive community and a sisterhood than since I became a parent, and I am not here to knock that community down, but to try to strengthen it. As Arwyn at “Raising my Boychick” put it so beautifully, “No-one can know the balance of a mother’s decisions.” (I'd like to send you to the exact post, but her blog is so good I got lost in it and read about 15 posts....so just go check it out.)

I know there are a lot of reasons why a mother may decide not to nurse her baby, and they usually come from the situation somehow being intolerable or uncomfortable and inconvenient for the mother and/or the baby. Fair enough, I say. If I had to limit my diet due to a baby with food allergies, if I felt pain while nursing, if my body had been violated or disrespected by someone in the past, if I had to pump under pressure in a bathroom stall because I was working full time, or was being repeatedly bitten by my baby or on and on….my feelings about nursing may be different. It’s the "balance of decisions" we must all make to keep ourselves peaceful inside, able to respond to our children lovingly and without resentment.

So when I say I support breastfeeding, it has nothing to do with not supporting other mothers' choices. It has to do with normalizing the normal. I want people to be as comfortable seeing a baby or toddler nursing as they are seeing them take a bottle. It has to do with getting to a place where a woman who wants to breastfeed for as long as the baby and she are happy with it is totally supported in that, and the community welcomes it. It has to do with making nursing as convenient and comfortable as possible for the mother and baby. Because I believe that often breastfeeding becomes intensely uncomfortable and inconvenient for the mother because of the way it is regarded and attended to in our culture.

I feel lucky that I’ve had a great experience breastfeeding and a very supportive circle in which to do it. But since the Boodge has turned one I am frequently asked how long I plan to nurse, and I know what’s behind the question. People often find it strange to nurse children into and beyond toddlerhood. It’s hard to dispute all the research that says nursing, and for as long as possible, is good for children. So why is it such a difficult topic? I think that the two main confusions in our culture that lead to this attitude are confusion about sexuality, and about independence.

Our breasts make others, and often ourselves, uncomfortable. We have such a media and religion-warped view our sexuality, we can’t seem to separate the breast from its sexual role when a child is nursing. I think that is what really throws people for a loop, and why why so many people draw the line at “when they can walk up to you and ask for it.”

When I nurse in public, I am conscious that some people may find something sexual in it—and that makes me hesitate in certain situations. It makes me uncomfortable exposing my breast. People comment on how my son is a “boob man” and how “this is how it starts with men, huh”. I know they're joking, and I laugh. But I'm also aware that they can’t help but see sexuality because I am using a part of my body that is so perversely coveted and objectified in our culture’s sexual imagination.

It has nothing to do with the Boodge being a man-child that he likes nursing so much. It has to do with nourishment, nurture, comfort, closeness, soothing. It has to do with what comes naturally to him and feels good. It has to do with love and physical connection between a mother and a child. When I nurse the Boodge, we slow down and are both relaxed. I get to stroke his head and play with his little feet and show him my love in a physical way, and he is calmed and happy after. It is no different from snuggling with your child while he drinks some hot cocoa. Why should we be in any rush to give up this amazing thing we have?

The other big worry about breastfeeding toddlers seems to be our culture’s focus on “independence”. This was highlighted to me by a woman I met at the playground, who somewhat sheepishly admitted she was still nursing her 13 month old. When I supported her, she talked more, and told me that some members of her family had suggested that it was selfish to do this because “what if I died, and then no-one else could feed her.” It was hilarious and ludicrous. As if this poor little girl wouldn’t have much more to worry about if her mother died than where to get milk. I mean, she can eat and drink, right?

I think people confuse freedom and independence. I’m all for freedom, with responsibility and respect of individual differences in exercising that freedom (without harming others). But really, would we want to be completely “independent”? Where would we get our food? Who would we talk to at the end of the day? How would we create and raise new people? What would the work we do contribute to, except our own lonely survival?

We are interdependent, and we are better off that way. And babies are dependent on their parents. Of course ultimately we want them to be able to survive and thrive without needing us so much. Stopping nursing early has nothing to do with that process, because no matter what, our young kids need us to provide food to them and even help them eat it for a long time. It seems that there is some uneasiness about letting the bond of closeness that nursing brings continue into toddlerhood, as if it will turn our children into eternal infants or something. But I just find that sad, and so wrong. Nursing is one way to help your child feel soothed, secure, and loved. Can’t that only contribute to them feeling ready to explore and individuate themselves in the world, become independent from a place of deep security?

The current issue of Mothering Magazine includes a fabulous article about a woman’s experience nursing in Mongolia, where breastfeeding is embraced and children commonly nurse until 4 years old or whenever they lose interest. I laughed reading about how mothers, grandmothers, and even grandfathers can always succeed in distracting toddlers from disputes about sharing by waving their breast around and saying “Baby, look what I got for you!” It reminded me of the funny things I’ve experienced nursing a toddler, the way he jumps on to the breast with an excited laugh, or in a downward dog position while hopping from foot to foot, breast to breast, occasionally doing backflips in between changes.

Nursing makes me laugh. It makes me be still. It fills me with love for my child. It fills me with wonder and respect for my body. I want to live in a place like Mongolia, where I can feel comfortable nursing the Boodge in public while he does his boob hopping routine. I want all women who are trying to nurse their babes to get supportive comments rather than inquiries about how long it will go on or jokes about boob men. I want them to get mentorship from other women, to get to nurse or pump at their workplaces, to feel that everyone around them is comfortable and respectful when seeing their breast doing its job so there’s no need to hide in a lonely room to nurse or forbid their babies to latch on.

Happy World Breastfeeding Week everyone. Let’s keep normalizing the normal, and I'm sure we'll end up OK. It's that simple.

Trusting the Gut

Last weekend found us in the burning Okanagan camping with a group of my husband’s oldest and dearest friends—a whole crew of great people with awesome kids. We camped at what was basically an RV and tent parking lot next to a nice beach on Shushwap Lake.

Saturday was a perfect summer day with the sun blazing and a lake cool enough to not even notice. Our whole crew set up in front of the roped off kids area and spent the afternoon alternately baking and cooling. I was feeling nice and dirty and a little brain dead from two nights of travelling-with-a-baby sleep.

At some point in the afternoon, a woman from our group (who I just met for the first time this weekend) came down to our beach spot laughing about how her partner had sent her 3 urgent messages saying a storm was coming our way. “Hail and wind, he says. ‘Don’t set up your tent. You’re on evacuation alert.’” She laughed, and we all looked up at the cloudless blue sky and felt the soft summer breeze.

“It’s sure hard to believe that.” Someone said (maybe even me?)

“Yeah, it will probably pass us by.”

An hour went by and we forgot about her words. I was sitting under an umbrella with the Boodge and a friend who had a young baby, longing to lie out on a towel and soak up some sun, so I asked Sean to be on the Boodge for a while. Moments later our brother-in-law pulled up on his motorboat…he was taking kids out tubing and had come in to change loads. Sean decided to hop on with the Boodge—we had brought is lifejacket just in case he got an opportunity to go on a boat ride.

Immediately, I felt a little mommy-worry. “Should I come, I wonder?” But Sean said, “No, I think you should relax like you wanted, we’ll be fine.” We had been planning to take him in a boat anyway, and I knew Sean would keep him safe. I lay back down on my towel and watched the Boodge's little orange-hatted head bob away in his dad’s arms. Uneasiness hadn’t left me, but I talked myself out of it.

At that moment, the woman mentioned the storm warning again. Someone went to make sure the boat knew about it. I had forgotten about this, and my unease escalated. A physical sense of trepidation came into me, strong enough to make me recognize it as important. Should I go stop them from getting on the boat? Go get on myself, so I could be there to protect the Boodge? I stopped myself, not wanting to appear like the overprotective mother, the wife who doesn’t trust that her husband can take care of the baby. Relax, relax. But my body was telling me differently.

I watched the boat pull out into the water, throw out the tube, and a kid and then an adult bounce in for a ride. A friend’s daughter came up fresh off the last boatload, soaked and dishevelled and out of her mind with excitement “We went tubing! It was so AWESOME!” I looked back at the lake and realized I had lost sight of the boat. Nothing I could do now but lay back and wait.

A few minutes later, in an instant the wind picked up. Dark clouds came over the mountains on the other side of the lake. People jumped quickly to their feet. ”That storm is coming, we have to pack up.”

Even as our friend said it, air mattresses and umbrellas were picking up and blowing away. “Get the children out of the water,” someone yelled. Sand was blowing hard, like little pinpricks on my legs and arms. My baby was in the water. Where is that boat? Whitecaps were forming on the lake where there had been ripples moments ago. I looked up and down the beach where boats were docking and unloading and I didn’t see the Boodge’s little yellow lifejacket, his orange hat. Panic was taking me over, I felt frozen in one spot looking up and down the beach to spot their boat.

It feels terrible to be powerlessness to do anything to help when what is most precious is in danger. But it was worse because as I stood there I realized I could have prevented him being out there if I had just listened to my intuition, my knowledge, my body giving me warning. If I had not worried about how I may appear. If anything happened to him now, how could I live with the knowledge that I didn’t get him off that boat when I could have?

Gavin de Becker, in “The Gift of Fear”, writes about how often we discount our instincts, talking ourselves out of what our gut knows and putting ourselves in peril. Malcolm Gladwell also explains in "Blink" how our brain assesses all the information available unconsciously and tells us what to do in an instant. Still, we question ourselves. We humans are so blessed and cursed with higher thinking that we discount our animal part that tells us how to protect ourselves and those we love.

Mothers are gifted with amazing instincts. I think every mother I know has a story in which her body told her to check on her child just at a moment when they were in grave danger. And we all marvel that our children are surviving toddlerhood with all its close calls, but I think it is because of our animal instincts that they do. We act unconsciously, grabbing baby before he falls down the step, opening a door in time to see a toddler climbing to an open window, checking on the kids only to find them mixing up a concoction of Drano and shampoo to drink on a dare. It's our gut that moves us, if we can get out of the way and listen to it.

I am not blind to the irony that last week I was writing about how important it was to me to teach the Boodge to honour and trust his instincts. The Boodge and his dad came in on the boat, safe and sound, and I have never been happier to see them. The situation, luckily, was a powerful lesson learned with no loss. Now I have to ask myself, what about the Mama-instincts that were given to me when he was born? How can I make sure I trust them next time?

Baby's bodies, baby's selves.

Often, people want to grab my baby, snuggle him in and breathe his smell while they kiss him all over. I don’t blame them—I want to do it too, all the time. Forgive me a moment of utter lack of humility while I say---he’s SOOOO cute and amazing. Who wouldn’t want to hug him?

The problem is, the Boodge doesn’t really go for it. 95% of the time, he gets a rapidly escalating “Oooh, aaaaahgh…” of resistance, depending on who is grabbing him. I know some babies are more cuddly but he is who he is. He doesn’t like to be held down. He’s a goer. When I change his diaper, hold his hand, put on his clunky orthopaedic shoes, get him dressed—he fusses. He resists his Dad’s wrestling manoeuvres, and very often when you go in for the kiss, he turns his head away.

People sometimes say things like “Don’t you like me?” to him, or “Why won’t you love me?” They get hurt and defensive, as if it’s somehow personal. They tell me half jokingly, half resentfully, that I’m the problem, because now that I came into the room he’d rather have me. But sometimes if I leave the room I also spoil the moment as he comes running after me. It’s totally normal separation anxiety, but sometimes at family gatherings it puts me on eggshells lest I move my body in the wrong direction and interrupt a bonding moment. The whole thing irks me like a splinter in my brain, so I’ve been picking away at it for a while.

From what I can see there’s a line somewhere between: children need the guidance and nurturing of adults because they are new people and don’t know how to get along in the world without us, and “We are the boss of you, so you better listen”. Somewhere on the We are the Boss of You side of the line is where the more dangerous power relationship between Grown-Ups and Kids exists. In that place, I think it’s sometimes forgotten that children, though new humans, are entirely human, and human rights apply to them, including the right to autonomy. Even more so, we need to protect those rights because they are the most vulnerable and powerless among us. When I am struggling with a parenting issue, and it helps me to think about what side of the line I want to be on in raising my child.

Children have the right to, and should be encouraged to, make free and safe choices about their bodies. As Grown-Ups, we do have to be strongly authoritative sometimes over their bodies to keep them from harm. I stick my finger in the Boodge’s mouth, insist on holding him or some part of him, grab him away from something he was interested in—all the time. Naturally, we can’t give our children complete physical autonomy, that would be neglect. We have to teach them to respect their bodies, maintain them properly, know their limitations, protect them from harm. It’s an enormous, complex job for parents and kids that is fraught with danger. Just thinking about it daunts me at times.

I’m glad the Boodge can make it known that he doesn’t want to snuggle or he'd like to stay near a person he feels can protect him, and I hope he is just as strong voiced about that his whole life. That’s one thing we don’t have to teach kids, but we have to be careful not to “unteach” it by making them feel they’re not allowed to protest to unwelcome touch or fight an unnecessary restraint. I’ve counselled too many survivors of sexual abuse to believe that my child should be encouraged to let people hug and kiss him just to be polite and not hurt their feelings. Even so, I find myself doing it sometimes, so I'm glad I've had a chance to sit down and think this through.

Of course, I feel sad for the people that love him and want to just eat him up at this most snuggleable phase of his life—it would be nice if he’d cozy up to them like he does to me, his dad, and a few of others who he will let hold him happily. It would also be great if he’d just sit on my lap for half an hour snuggling while I chill out, rather than taking his autonomous body all over the apartment, beach, playground, or wherever we are.

To those he pushes away I have to say—just wait a bit. He will get there. He’s a human, and like all humans, he needs to trust and know you before he can safely let you into his intimate space. Don’t you wish you had been able to hold onto that knowledge that you had instinctually as a baby? How many less yucky relational and sexual experiences do you think you would have had (please understand I’m not trying to “blame the victim” for not speaking up—but the society that tells us to be nice and suppress the instincts that keep us safe)? How many more children would feel empowered to speak up about violations to their bodies if we could send the consistent message that it’s OK if they do.

In time after you’ve played on the floor with him a few afternoons and been the one to catch him from a fall or show him the next cool thing, he’ll bring you a book to read and he’ll want to sit on your lap while you read it. He’ll let you take him to the playground where you can help teach him about bodies, like how you do have to hold him back when he’s going to smash his head, run into traffic, pull a dog’s hair, or maul other children. In return, he’ll teach you about your body’s limitations and abilities as you stretch to help him climb the slide and bend to pull him out of the tunnel. It all will be worth it, I promise. And I’ll be at the beach. Call my cell if you need me.

Past the tipping point, getting twitchy.....

We’ve just returned from a whirlwind tour of Southern Ontario, visiting family and, yes, house hunting. I never thought I would consider moving back to Ontario until my husband brought it up about 6 weeks ago. BC has become my home since I landed here almost 10 years ago determined to put down some roots and mend the wounds of my life’s journey to that point. And this province and the people I’ve met here have done that, and beyond. I have a community of friends and family here that feels good, and the place fits me in so many ways. My husband has always lived here and has close friendships dating back 20 years and his entire family nearby. It would be painful to leave, we would miss so much—and staying would be fine if that’s what ends up happening.

Bur for Sean and I it’s the first time we’ve been ready to seriously entertain the idea of buying a place, and we’re looking at all options in the quest for where to settle ourselves next. Living in the Vancouver real estate market can be discouraging—if you didn’t get in 10 years ago at prices that already seemed inflated, you are pretty limited in your options. It seems for the 6 years we’ve been together we have idly looked at real estate listings and daydreamed about a place that seemed far out of reach. Now that we have our little mini-man it all seems even more important to have a spot we can grow in and call our own (and the bank’s). We’ve waited, biding our time in an apartment and saving our money in the hopes that the market will turn.

I’m not complaining—I feel I am already fortunate and blessed beyond what many experience. Still…every time I load up the Boodge in his stroller with his portable toys and snacks and take him to the park I think about how it would be if he could run in his own yard. I think about planting a garden with him, showing him how to cook the food and enjoying it together. Right now I am thinking about how I could sunbathe or do yoga in the backyard sunshine while he naps (and yes, I’d rather be doing that than writing this). I think about him having a room of his own and being able to scream with glee or fury without my worrying about the neighbours. And I think about him growing up near my parents, and his cousins, people I love dearly and want in his life and mine.

In Ontario, when we looked at the possibilities, we were inflated rather than deflated. We kept reading listings going “Listen to THIS” and then recited lists that amazed us—2 acres, 20 acres, waterfront, swimming pool, old brick house, outbuildings, 4 bedrooms, stunning views….. “Guess how much?” And then we would announce what seems, by BC standards, to be a ridiculously low price in an incredulous voice. We had so many conversations that began with “We could….we would, we could…”

Possibility. It felt good, and sweet. People like us, who work hard and make good income, can actually have a nice place there. Imagine! And coming home, I felt ready to make a leap into a home of our own (and the bank's)and a more rural existence.

But now we’ve been home a week, and the trip has already faded. We’re in limbo until Sean sits down with his employer and figures out if he can move and stay employed with them—which should happen next week. Being in a state of uncertainty is hard, especially when you’re twitching to jump off the cliff and free fall into whatever is next. I get bummed, and restless. Some may say, impatient.

Ah, maturity. Adulthood. We’ve been so careful—we tend to be slow (sometimes I think too slow) to major decisions, and now we’ve arrived in this wonderful place where we have lots of appealing choices before us. So appealing that it’s bittersweet, because we won’t be able to realize all the possibilities, and will have to accept some loss with whatever choice we make. Still, staying the same is not an option anymore, and the future looks bright. So let’s go there, I say, and see what it has in store.

The Politics of Parenting

When I was pregnant, I was touched by the way people took extra good care of me. I recognized a beautiful universal humanity in it, an almost innate drive to care for the young and vulnerable future, our children. A year into motherhood, I am less romantic about this desire in others to protect my child. They say the personal is political, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt that as much as I do in parenting. Opinions are heated when it comes to how to properly raise kids, and much as we all know that it’s not really our place, we can’t help letting our opinions leak out. I do it. My friends do it. Grandparents aunts and uncles do it. Strangers on the street do it.

Just over a month ago, we were travelling to visit Sean’s family and a woman pulled up beside us at a stoplight. “Excuse me” she said, so I turned with a smile, thinking she wanted to ask directions.
“Your car seat is facing the wrong way, your baby needs to face the front.”
Politely, I began to explain, “No, he’s not a year old yet, they have to….” Be rear facing until the baby is 1 year old and over 20 lbs. But she had cut me off.
“Yes, it’s wrong. If I had rear-ended you, he would have gone through the window. You need to turn him around!”
“No, it’s regulation—“
“It’s dangerous. I’ve got your license plate number and I will be calling Child Protective Services on you.” Her face was a mask or anger and disgust.
Stunned, I hesitated and at that moment the light changed and we all moved forward.
“What?? Pull over!” I said to my husband. We waved her over too, but she went on. Her work was done. I got out the manual, which I keep with the car seat in the car, and read it over. I knew I was doing nothing wrong—I had just transferred the car seat into the truck a half-hour before, carefully checking the manual and all connections. I knew basic physics said he was safer rear-facing. But I needed to make sure anyway. Her threat, combined with her self-righteous fury, had shaken me.

A few minutes later it was easy to laugh about how that child protection call would be handled. We realized we had just had a run in with someone who was clearly coming from a passionately and wrongly held belief, and maybe a dose of heavy stressors in her life.

But the other day, I had an even more unsettling experience. A colleague and acquaintance wrote to me on Facebook. She had a “concern” because she had noted that in my status updates, I sometimes mentioned drinking alcohol, and some other times mentioned nursing. Her understanding was that alcohol was passed on through nursing. She wondered if I had different information, and asked my forgiveness if I did.

Just as when the woman in the car yelled at me, I felt the same moment of freeze, taken aback, rendered speechless. I knew I had researched breastfeeding and drinking alcohol and discussed it with my Doctor. I had determined that I could enjoy the occasional drink without any detrimental effects on my baby. But this was a person who I thought knew my responsible character. She was a person I admired in many ways, had confided in at times, and found warm and loving. She must have a serious concern if she was feeling the need to write this awkward e-mail, after we had only crossed paths twice in the last 2 years. Having this question come from her threw me into another moment of questioning myself, and my own knowledge.

It’s hard not to get defensive when someone calls our parenting into question. We all want to protect children and help them thrive, and especially our own. But the opinions on what is essential to that undertaking, or detrimental to it, can vary greatly. Parenting is forcing me to discover, bit by bit, what those essentials are for me and my child. This happens within a complex world of marriage, extended family, and socio-cultural-economic-spiritual-physical history, (if you’ll accept that as a word)and expert opinion. It’s an often confusing process, and fraught with uncertainty and contradictory advice.

My husband and I have made a number of parenting choices that are controversial in our culture—home birth, extended breastfeeding, co-sleeping, not letting him cry-it-out. We did a lot of research and trusted our instincts and judgement, and these things felt right for us with this child, at this time. Family and friends have done everything from raise their eyebrows to blatantly tell me I was stupid and putting my child at risk. Nonetheless, most remain supportive and quiet because they know that we are responsible, loving, and conscientious parents and our baby is thriving.

It’s a reality of parenting that it changes many of the relationships in our life, some for better, some for worse. A lot of the worse comes from discovering ideological differences with someone that we didn’t see before. And those differences are so personal, and so political, that it is hard to even discuss them sometimes, so friendships drift apart.

Of course, my acquaintance did acknowledge that she might not have all the information. She probably framed her “concern” as well as anyone possibly could…and I did send her some links and explain a little. But I was still hurt that she put together the information that I drank occasionally and that I nursed with an assumption that I may be careless with my child’s welfare.

So maybe the rest of my response, in which I urged her to remember that people can make choices different from hers and still be excellent parents, was a bit more defensive than necessary. Maybe it came from all the pent up feeling from all the other times I have felt judged, and for mothers all over who are questioned and question themselves constantly, even as they work harder than they have ever worked before to be good people and parents. Maybe I don’t take criticism that well. Well, OK, I know I don’t take criticism that well.

Still, I’m wondering where the line is between protecting children and honoring parent’s rights to make their own choices for their families, even if we don’t think they are great choices. I’m wondering when we should to speak up about what we see, at the risk of alienating each other. And when should we just stay silent, and trust that our friends are doing the best they can within their own context? I know I judge people too, and I hope I keep my opinions in check unless I feel afraid that a child will be harmed. Or at least, I hope I can approach people in a way that increases understanding on both sides.

I’m sad that a person I used to be happy to see may now be a person I feel awkward to see. I hope that as I grow in parenting, I can learn to negotiate these situations with grace and an open mind, less defensiveness, and more trust in myself. I’d love to hear your experiences with this type of thing, and how you handle them.

At the tipping point.

Our family got away to Tofino this weekend. It was a trip in honour of Ardan’s first birthday, a sort of baptism for him in the Pacific. For Sean and I, a journey to regroup, look at the year behind and ahead in a space out of time—or so it feels there. We are feeling hopeful these days, excited about big changes in the wings. Within the year, we’d like to move to a smaller town and buy our first house, a little slice of space out of time all our own. And we are enjoying the anticipation and the question we find ourselves in. Where will it be? What will it be like? How will it change things? How can we make it the best home possible for our family?

Maybe not just coincidentally, I have been noticing examples of how life can sometimes blindside us. I read a quote recently that started it all off, something to the effect of “She wept, because life so often turns out so differently from what you expected it to be.” And then other things popped up—an acquaintance who is going through a tragic divorce. Sean telling me about a woman he once met who had been in 7 car accidents. A woman on Oprah who, in her 30’s, developed a strange disorder in her ligaments that started pulling her body slowly to one side so that she had to exist painfully leaned over, struggling to drink water and walk through doorways.

But it’s not just the unexpected, unlucky changes that sometimes blindside you—even your fondest dreams for can throw you for a loop when they are actualized. Having a baby, glorious loop though it is, surely teaches you that. I’m aware that no matter how much we plan and anticipate, we can’t know until we make the change what it’s going to bring with it.

I like change, don’t get me wrong. I also like to plan, anticipate, cover all the angles, make sure the changes we have choice in are going to lead to the best possible outcomes for our family. So the now knowing part is tricky for me. Scary, I dare say.

When I started writing this yesterday, I had to stop without finishing, because I didn’t have an ending. It all seemed to negative, and I wanted a way through that. Then another coincidence happened. I read "What if..." over at Mama Renew, about how we come to the tipping point where the desire to move forward is greater than the fears we have about what that may bring. It seemed to be written just or me. I realized that I am there, at that tipping point, so I have to stay outside the fear, or I will close myself off to the beautiful possibilities. So let the winds of change blow, and may they gently but firmly land us in a better place.

A letter to Boodge on his first birthday

I wanted to write something for Boodge first birthday, and it came to me that I wanted to write it to him, so it took the form of a letter. I have good intentions to do this every year--and you know what they say about good intentions....it's the thought that counts. That's what they say, right?

Anyway, good parenting intentions is a post for another day. Today, it's my son's first birthday, and I am celebrating with all of my spirit and love. Who knew it would feel so good? So, here is the letter. Hope you all enjoy.

Dear Boodge,
You are one year old. I had no idea how elated I would feel on this day, how proud and grateful. One year ago, as we waited for you to come, your father and I had no idea what to expect. We were both excited and apprehensive, but only had a vague sense of why. We needed to meet you—we couldn’t wait to meet you. And meeting you has been the most wonderful thing that has happened in both of our lives so far.

There will probably never be another year of our lives together that will be more physically intimate for you and I—maybe even so intimate altogether. So much of this year was spent holding you, rocking you as I watched your eyes slowly droop down to sleep, nursing you and listening to your sweet breathe-gulp-breathe rhythm, carrying you to soothe you when you were hurt or scared, or just needed to see what was happening at my level. I’ve wiped your snot and your drool and your pee and poo, even your vomit, and had all of them on me at one time or another. I’ve lifted you to look at cars, goats, flowers, photos, magnets, mirrors, CD players, plants, people, buffalo, and every other thing that captures your interest, which is everything from what I can tell. I’ve become so familiar with the heft of your body, the feel of your little hands on my skin, the softness of your belly. I love all of this so sweetly, and much as I can't wait to see you grow more independent, I will also miss it.

I read this year that once you have children, you enter this strange relationship with time. You want to freeze so many moments and just feel that happiness and beauty, forever. But also, you can’t wait to see what comes next. I have felt that so much. Your father and I have shared so much delight over you, so much laughter, and you will see from the thousands of pictures and videos we’ve taken that we wanted to stop time so often. I want to burn it all into my memory—the Mad Dog nursing when you were a newborn, the jumparoo-Riverdancing in your little orthopaedic shoes, the downy feel of your head, the way you crawled like a seal at first, the shriek in your giggle, your favourite babble words “Ogoi, ogoi, oyaaa, oyaaa, ajugajugajugajug, DA! DA!” But I know it’s futile, that I will forget. There is just too much that has happened, already.

This year has been intense for all of us. Your father and I have changed and weathered a lot—but that pales when I think of the changes you’ve accomplished. You started out this wee floppy thing, with nothing but your, and my, instincts to rely on. Now you are a little man, walking, talking, dancing, playing games with us, waving and smiling like the Queen of England from your stroller, flashing your mischievous eyes. And you did it all with such cheerful grace. One thing I learned from you this year is that we all have a natural, amazing capacity to grow and learn in exactly the way we need to, if we just trust the process. You never thought to doubt the process. I hope I can help you hang on to that.

I hope I can hang on to that, and to allow you to grow into yourself, nurturing who you are and helping you discover what makes you thrive. I feel so blessed to have been given the chance to raise you, to show you through this world. You are nothing short of amazing. So happy birthday little Boodge. And thank you, thank you, thank you for coming to us. Here’s to a long life together.

Love,
Mama

A year into the journey, a Mama surrenders.....

Last weekend I celebrated my first Mother’s Day, and next week is Ardan’s first birthday. A whole year since that squirming creature emerged from the primordial muck inside me and showed me to a new horizon, vivid with a sunrise of emotions. Joy, love, wonder, frustration, disappointment, surprise, bewilderment, anger, perseverance, delight, pride. I’ve been walking towards that horizon steadily now, and feel the need to stop and look at where I’ve come from.

People tell you all the time that when you become a mother, everything changes. But the experience is so profound that words of warning are too puny to make a difference. There’s no way to tell someone what it will be like, not only because the change is too enormous, but also because it happens uniquely to each individual. How motherhood changes us depends on who we are, how we were raised, how much stability we have in our lives, whether we wanted to become a mother, and countless other factors. Not the least of which is the baby we create, since all of those are unique too.

I’ve always loved the archetypes of the three phases of womanhood—the Maiden, Mother, and Crone”. I never considered how the transition between phases might be sad, or graceless, as well as exciting and growth-producing. I became a mother the day my baby was born, or even conceived, but the “Maiden” that I was before still hung around. And I have to say, she hasn’t always been helpful. She has stood looking over my shoulder, pointing out things like, “You haven’t slept more than three hours in a row in months now,” and, “I guess evenings are not going to be the same for a looong time…if ever.” She holds the memory of life before, the life to which I can not return. Not that I want it back, either—just some parts of it. Uninterrupted conversation. Long easy baths. Sleeping in. Leaving the house in 2 minutes or less. Daily yoga practice.

Don’t get me wrong—I love being a mother more than anything I have ever done, and I am deeply grateful for the opportunity. But I struggled to accept the changes that came with motherhood. All my relationships, with friends, family, parents, and my husband, seemed to rotate suddenly on the single point of Ardan. My career ambitions evaporated for a while. The daily work I did this year was often work I don’t enjoy—laundry, cleaning, organizing—repetitive tasks that don’t require mental engagement. There was so much to process, and but my usual ways of coping (journaling, long solitary walks, sleeping well, exercise) were not always available or possible anymore.

My default coping strategy (when I am not coping well) is to become Supermartyr…able to put aside her own needs with unparalleled resentment, denying all help offered, proving her own superior ability to handle everything. I realize now that I fell into that role at home. “Look how hard I am working. Look at my back pain and my sleep deprivation. I’m the one suffering, I’m the one going through so much change, I’m the one sacrificing.” It was my mother who gently pointed this attitude out to me on her recent visit, although I had already begun to recognize it myself. Supermartyr hates when people point out her flaws.

Just as I was pulling out of that mess, a friend sent a link to Oprah’s site. Oprah had interviewed authors Amy Nobile and Trisha Ashworth during a show on motherhood. Nobile commented that we have to realize that we can never again be the person we were before we had children. “You have to reinvent yourself,” she said. It was a great relief to hear this. I think it was then that it clicked for me that if I measured my contentment the way I had before, I would not be content. The Maiden in me was always seeking, striving to become best self. The Mother becomes herself, is defined by, her responsibility for and to her children. So much of my life now is about tending my camp, and my seeking is in how to balance being mother, wife, and a person at work in my community as well as I can.

I don’t pretend I have become completely reinvented, but I am learning. I am learning to accept the work of mothering gracefully as part of what comes with the incredible blessing of having a child. I am learning how to find balance, to use resentment as a cue to ask for what I want instead of to throw guilt around. Because when you have a baby it’s not just about you anymore—that’s the other thing people tell you all the time.

Most importantly, though, I am learning to surrender. Surrender to the changes that have come, and continue to come, surrender my desire to control what cannot be controlled. Surrender to the wonder of watching this delightful little being change every day, bringing new questions and new joys. Surrender to the love of my family, to the help that they offer, even if it isn’t always offered exactly when or how I want it. Surrender to the relationships that have drifted apart, and the ones that have become so much closer. Surrender to the sick baby that needs me at night, the feisty baby that crawls away with poopy bum, the sweet baby who wants to nurse between explorations. The more I surrender, the less I resent. And the more I am able to appreciate the short years and long days of mothering.

Taking it to the next level.....

One of the first lessons Sean and I learned when we had a baby is not to talk about things that are going well, as in: “Oh, he loves his carseat.” Or, “What sleep deprivation? This baby is a great sleeper.” Some lessons, though, must be repeated until we have truly learned them, and so the other day I found myself boldly stating how lucky I felt that Ardan had never thrown up (minus a very few big spit ups when he was little). Then in the next breath, I offered to help my friend whose 2 year old had a stomach flu by doing her 4 year old’s preschool drop off and pick up.

What possessed me to tempt the Great Mother, who we all know is, among other things, a trickster? Two days later, still blissfully ignorant of the games she was plotting, I noted that Ardan’s sleep seemed restless. “It’s the spring energy,” I told my cousin as we shopped at the local herbal medicine store. “He’s so excited by the sunshine!” The lack of sleep, I figured, explained his whiny clinginess too.

“Quiet child tea.” Said the nice, quiet proprietor of the store.
“Oh yeah, would that help with his sleep?” I asked.
“It could, and yours too….”
Sold! I scooped some into a bag, at the same time I joking that if the answer to sleep was so simple, everyone would know about it. But you can’t blame a girl for trying….

So yesterday, I brewed up a cup in the afternoon, and I slipped it into the sippy cup last night. Ardan had totally refused dinner, no matter what I offered, but he was happy to sip it down while he bounced in front of my chair, eating scraps of pizza that I handed him from my plate. At 8:30, I nursed him to sleep and went to join my husband for some wine and vegging. By midnight, and the wee one was stirring, so I kissed Sean goodnight and decided to go to bed myself.

I slipped in to bed next to his little pyjamaed body—he was crying now, ready for Mama’s comfort. He began to nurse, only to pull off and cry harder. And then suddenly vomit was spewing from his mouth and he was sobbing, heaving, scared. He crawled through the first spew towards me, saying “Mama”. My heart, in spite of the situation, melted at the sweetness of it—at 11 months, he’s just barely learning to say Mama. Then that sweet mouth opened again with a heave and spewed sour all over my chest, chunky vomit that trickled down my shoulders and into my hair.

“Oh, poor baby.” Oh, foul smell. How did I forget about the smell of vomit? My own stomach is pretty solid, I rarely do it myself. Each time I inhaled to speak words of comfort to Ardan, my breath caught at the smell. He was on top of me now, slipping around on my chest. He heaved back for a third and fourth expulsion, and I shouted for backup.

Lying in a pool of vomit, holding a soaked and crying baby…not the best way I have ever ended a Saturday night. Sean changed the sheets while I stripped and soothed Ardan, and we all retired to the living room, where Ardan proceeded to dance the jig repeatedly and practice all his sounds (especially the pig one) with joyful enthusiasm, smiling and laughing maniacally. Was it the Quiet Child tea? Was he on some sort of hallucinogenic baby-trip? Or was it the stomach flu, the Great Mother reminding me of my cockiness, initiating me into a new club of motherhood?

Whatever it was….the point is taken. I am newly humbled, sitting here feeling twinges of nausea myself as Ardan sleeps it off on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I will not tempt the trickster again. Or so I like to believe. But really, I’m sure I will….sometime, somehow, I’ll lead myself to believe I’ve got something figured out in this wild motherhood adventure. And the Great Mother will smile and rub her hands with glee, and reach out to take me to the next level.

For the Ladies....Happy Women's Day

It’s International Women’s Day, and I don’t want to let it go by without honouring all of the women that make my world go round. Men are great, of course, but women! It has been my incredibly good fortune to be surrounded by amazing women my whole life, and they have given me so much strength, inspiration, and laughter. When I think to list all the things these women have brought to my life, I am overwhelmed.

My maternal grandmother brought my extended family together in feasts of wine and good food, allowed me to curl my little girl body into her soft folds, and showed me that joy can survive even unthinkable losses. My paternal grandmother inspires me to speak my mind frankly and be grateful for by blessings rather than complaining about my misfortunes (though she’s better at both than I am). Both have taught me to love literature and language and care about what’s going on in the world, and have shown me that growth is lifelong.

My mother taught me compassion for others, and to keep an open-heart to everyone as much as possible. She showed me that we can go deep into our darkness and come out stronger, humbler, wiser, and steadier. I am thankful every day for her friendship and support, the unwavering, unequalled love that a mother gives, that I understand now from experiencing it myself, and am in awe of. That love I often took for granted, but which literally gave me my life, nurtured me steadily and unwaveringly, taught me everything, from language to cooking to how to play nice, only to release me, gradually and unselfishly, into the world on my fledgling legs with tears and pride in her eyes.

And then there are my woman peers—my sisters-in-law, my cousins, my dear friends—collectively, I think of them as my “sister-women”, and I am blessed with so many. These are the women who can split a side with me in laughter, and who can witness my tears with a gentle smile of understanding and offer words of comfort, or tears of their own so I don’t cry alone. They went out with me and shook booty on the dance floor when we were single, and now they sit on the floor and admire my baby’s naked booty wiggling across the living room.

These are women of courage, not afraid to live honestly and outside the mold, women of love and passion, loyal, fierce women, who move through change and loss with grace, bringing back new wisdom to share with me. With a single glance, they can assess the emotional nuance of a situation and offer help, rocking a restless baby or showing up ready to pack up an apartment or sending a song that will comfort my soul. We have grown together in friendship, and together ridden the waves of this ever-changing ocean of life. For each and every one of them, I am so grateful, and I to each one I wish the most blessed of lives.

Thank you, thank you, thank you—my heart is full with all of you women.
Here is a song for you: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSwMWv0pbpk

Braving the Economic Storm Together

When I was 8 months pregnant, home from work one day, my property manager came to the apartment door. “I hate to do this,” he said, looking ashamed. “What,” I replied glibly, “Another rent increase?”
“No. I’m sorry. You’re getting evicted.” Just like that. Time stopped. Shock kicked in.
“You’re not serious,” I replied. We were great tenants, and had been for 4 years. But he was serious. The building was being sold, and the owners wanted their son to move in—or so the story was.

Shady, to be sure, since the buyer was a rich property speculation company and our building was in a prime location to be destroyed so condos could be built. But we didn’t have time to risk the legal battle—we had to find a home to bring our baby to. Sean and I kicked into high gear, driven with a singleness of purpose I don’t think either of us had felt before. Crying and worrying were secondary to finding a place to live. All our other obligations became nuisances. I sat at work looking at apartment listings, left early to go look at them, and didn’t stop until a new home was secured.

Had this happened a year before, when we weren’t expecting, it would have been different. We could crash anywhere, then, we could move again if necessary. But with a baby, security was so much more critical. We felt incredibly vulnerable, and at the mercy of economic powers that were sweeping us aside, uncaring.

Still now, I periodically bring baked goods to my property manger, as if that will somehow stop such a thing happening again. But the smooth pearl of comfort in my heart, then and now, is the knowledge that we have wonderful friends and family who will help in any way they can if we need them.

Now, as I watch the crash of the economy, I can’t help thinking about all the families that are out there feeling even more vulnerable than we did. Losing not just apartments but homes they worked so hard for, losing jobs that they were loyal to for years, losing money they put aside to send their children to university, losing pensions that they counted on to take them through retirement. I feel for families with young children who are wondering what if, what now, what are we going to do?

These are scary times. They are also times when good people, wanting to hang on to security for their families, can be abused by bosses and landlords and banks that hold the power. They are times when we have to keep our heads up and decide what really matters. And then put our heads down, and push forward towards whatever that is. We will all discover new resourcefulness and strength as we are tested by this economic storm.

My heart goes out to the families, young and old, who are reeling from the sudden shock of the economic crash. But maybe we’ll gain from all this too, in realizing that if we have each other, and we are safe, warm, and fed—that is all we really need.
My hope is that this challenge will teach us a new way to feel secure, through community rather than consumption.

Mama's Milk

I was just online looking up how coffee was discovered. I had a hunch that it was discovered by mothers, and I had to laugh to see some story about Joe goatherd who saw his goats looking lively and took the berries to a medicine man.

Maybe, but I prefer to believe it was some Mama with a baby on her back, foraging for food, who ate some beans and suddenly her sleep deprived brain cleared. Miraculously, she found she could make it through a day of repetitive tasks and labour, and still be patient, loving, and entertaining. And, as Mamas will, she shared the magic bean with all the other Mamas, thus spreading it the world over. And to her, I am eternally grateful.

Maybe my appreciation the dark brew is stronger because I gave it up for a while. I’ve been drinking coffee, literally, since I can remember. All my mornings of high school and university began with a cup of coffee. I poured it out of rounded flasks while serving breakfast at the pancake house, an old thrift store pot in my first apartment, a bodum during my single living days. Finally I was pouring it from one of those 40-cup office things into a huge cup after cup while I struggled with brain death in my first and only cubicle job.

And then I started to get stomach pain, and feel sort of dark inside, as if my gut was getting coffee stained. So I gave it up—switched to green tea, with soy milk and organic cane sugar. I was happy with green tea for about 5 years. It was earthy, and so good for me. Coffee had turned me off, and I didn’t plan on going back.

And then I had a baby. Sweet, amazing baby with the smile that makes my heart leap with joy. But often at night, his alter ego comes out, waking up sometimes every hour--unsettled, cranky. I’m sure every Mama knows the feeling of waking up thinking “Noooooooooooooooooo.” You drag yourself out of bed, carrying the extra 20lbs of baby. Your head is in deep in a fog as you shove small bits of banana into your baby’s mouth, scraping dried up food from the floor below him whenever you bend to pick up the spoon he keeps dropping. His smile, buoyant as it is, makes you a little…nervous, as you wonder how you will keep up with this level of raw life-loving today?

And you sip your coffee. And after a while, you notice the fog is just--gone. It’s as if you slept 8 hours instead of 4. You feel sure you can make it to naptime, maybe even further. You’re ready to get on the floor and babble gibberish at the top of your lungs.

It’s that promise that has brought me back to coffee with a zealous appreciation. When I wake up in the morning and smell the pot on (dear hubby is usually up before me and baby, working from home) I inhale the promise of a good day. Sometimes when I fall off into exhausted sleep, praying to the Great Mother for a good night, I am also already thinking how good coffee will be in the morning.

Coffee is Mama’s milk. Every Mama whose home I visit has a pot of coffee on the go, or even an espresso machine on the counter. Cupholders on our strollers are more important than a hand brake, even, and maybe more useful, since we may be more quick to notice something like the stroller rolling into traffic.

So I salute that foraging Mama of my imagination, way back in time in Ethiopia, who dared to discover those beans. I hope her soul is resting somewhere with her feet up, sipping a warm cup of Java.

Birthing the Mama

On TV today, a (male) doctor was talking about why it wasn’t right to force men into the delivery room if they were uncomfortable with the idea. Maybe there was a reason that birth was only women’s domain for so long, he surmised, and then he referred to birth as a traumatic experience.


I guess it was the terminology that irritated me. Birth is not a trauma, it’s amazing, surreal, painful, indescribably intense—but trauma? Then I thought about the definition, in the DSM-IV, of post-traumatic stress; in order to be diagnosed with PTSD, a person has to have experienced an event that involves “actual or threatened death or serious injury, or a threat to the physical integrity of self or others” and responded to that experience with feelings of intense fear, helplessness, or horror.


I suppose if that is how you define a trauma, it is possible that some men, and women too, feel that birth is a trauma. Still, as a counsellor, I’ve worked with survivors of trauma, and I can’t equate birth with the unspeakable violations and losses they’ve been exposed to.


Still, giving birth (vaginally or by caesarean) does bring us up next to death. Not to suggest that birthing is inherently dangerous—I’d never want any woman to feel anything but empowered and confident in her body’s ability to complete such a natural process. But it’s a bloody affair, (I was surprised how bloody!) and it is powerful, and I can see, especially for the partner watching, how it may be traumatic to see your beloved become an animal version of herself, to know your child is struggling towards this world, and to be helpless to do anything.


I remember my aunt Libby, after my first nephew was born, saying that she believes every woman, at some point during pregnancy or labour, must acknowledge the (remote) possibility of her own death. Most of us, I think, are more concerned about the possible death of our baby. Dear friends and family have had births in which the baby was stuck and had to have his collarbone broken, or have an emergency cesarean birth.


My son’s delivery, no doubt, was traumatic for everyone that was at our home birth, including myself. He had had “wet lung”—when he hit the bed, the midwives started arguing about why he wasn’t breathing. He needed oxygen, and luckily, they had some there, but we had to go to the hospital immediately.


It wasn’t a dire emergency—they delivered the placenta while I held him, the oxygen tube under his nose while he cried rapidly, sucking in air. But then I was on my feet, directing people where to find the things I needed to take to the hospital, getting dressed. “Sit down,” my midwife said, “You could faint. You’ve just had a baby.”


I needed reminding—because that was the last thing on my mind. My baby needed to go to the hospital, the ambulance was on its way, and I was not going to be the one to hold it up. Later, my cousin Natasha told me she had said to Debbie, my doula (also dear sister-friend) “Did you see that, how she just got up and started going, just after giving BIRTH.” And Debbie replied “That’s her Mama kicking in.”


Traumatic, I suppose. I did feel, as I locked eyes with my silent, wet, naked son, still attached at to the placenta inside me, Death standing just off to the side, watching. But I prefer to think of the experience as transformative, not traumatic. My Mama kicked in.


When I rose up from that bed it was with that new part of me that grew along with my son during the pregnancy, and was birthed along with him that day. That person can survive on less sleep than I ever imagined, can find new stores of patience when she thought she was at her end, can carry and rock a feverish baby all day and barely notice the aches of her body. And every mother goes through that transformation, whether through birth or through the sleep deprived, overwhelmed days of first looking after a baby.


Trauma, like birthing, does often show the survivor just how strong she is, and help her ultimately find deeper compassion and wisdom. In birthing, those gifts come in abundance, along with a new being that brings more love and joy than you knew were possible. It transforms the maiden into the mother, marks her body and her spirit forever, not to harm, but to forge.


Maybe this is why we want our partners to be in the room with us, because we know that we will come out of that room changed, and we want them to be changed too. I saw my husband at the hospital, holding the oxygen mask over our baby’s face, making sure he was with him in everything that happened to him next, arguing and advocating with all the staff, his face tense with worry, his mouth set in determination. His Papa had kicked in. I’m glad we crossed that threshold together.