Tasting Life

Inspired by the beautiful weather, I've spent some time in the the sandbox recently.

Tiny shoes filled with sand push up mountains. The sandbox is their world. Together they create craters, peaks and valleys, castles and roads. They are building their world together. Brothers.

Outside the sandbox, my little one, just learning to sit, grasps for a stem, holds a crispy brown leaf at arm's length. Shaky. And in a surprisingly swift move, without hesitation, he tries to stuff the leaf in his mouth. Oh, to taste his world. To understand.

My oldest son grabs his own remains of a past season, a stiff pear leaf to crinkle in his palm. He stuffs the remains into his sweatshirt pocket. A treasure for this two year old.

My boys, brothers, want to be here, in their world - creating, tasting, saving. They want to gobble it up. They remind me to taste a few leaves each day.

Secrets of Adulthood

Our local book club meets in a few weeks. All women, mostly mothers, from various walks of life. I offered to host our next discussion, which means that with some input from the group, I got to make the call for our reading selection. Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project has been sitting on my nightstand for a few weeks now, keeping Understanding Exposure and Literature and the Web company. I wish I had kept better track of how I learned about this book. I know I first stumbled across it through a tweet or a blog post, which quickly lead me to The Happiness Project site where I found myself glued to my computer screen reading post after post. But I don't remember who lead me there. I wish I did so that I might thank that person.

I'm thoroughly enjoying the book, and not just because of its easy, conversational style, but mainly because Rubin has me reflecting on my own life and what I might do to be more engaged in the present, more fully aware of my own happiness. So for fun, I used one of her early project starting ideas, creating a list of the Secrets of Adulthood, as a springboard for creating my own. So here it is, with some input from my husband, the list of lessons I have learned over time, my secrets to adulthood:

1. What you do daily is what you are doing. Aristotle wrote, "We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit."
2. Consistency matters most.
3. Don't buy cheap shoes. Your knees will thank you.
4. Because that's the way we've always done it is not a valid reason.
5. Cooking from scratch not only tastes better but teaches patience and understanding.
6. Tip well.
7. Buy local.
8. No matter how much space and seating you have in your living room, everyone always ends up hanging out in the kitchen.
9. Learn to sew. You'll learn so much more than just how to fix a hem when you pick up a needle and thread.
10. There's no such thing as strong coffee, just weak people.
11. Just because you haven't ever done it, doesn't mean you can't.
12. It's almost always worth the extra money. For example, fresh squeezed is better than orange juice from concentrate.
13. Write it down. You will forget.
14. There is an art to gift giving. It is an art that must be practiced.
15. You will fill whatever space you have, so consider what you really need, not just what you want.
16. Mean it when you say you are sorry.
17. Practice brevity. Repeatedly.
18. Home improvement and craft projects will take three times longer than you anticipate. This is due in part to the five extra trips you will need to make for forgotten supplies.
19. Always proof read. Always.
20. Many problems can be solved by going for a walk.

What secrets have you learned?

In Bloom

It might just be because it is that time of year - the time of year when the crocuses start peaking out from the earth and you once again wake to the sound of chirping, birds having returned from their winter homes. But with spring popping up all over, I'm inspired to buy everything cherry blossom related from Etsy sellers. Because in addition to having an Etsy shop, I am an Etsy buyer. In fact, I joke that I opened my shop just so that I could support my Etsy purchases!

I grew up in northern Michigan, surrounded by family and lakes and cherry trees. My extended family has orchards, cherry and apple trees as far as the eye can see. And my sister and cousins and I ran the orchards at six, seven, eight years old. We'd play hide and seek among the drooping branches, heavy with fruit, hold pit spitting contests until we felt sick to our stomachs from eating too many Bings. But my favorite time of year was spring, when a gust of wind would loosen the snow white petals from their branches and you could walk through the most fragrant snowfall of blooms. Cherry blossoms remind me of this time, remind me of the importance of family. So because I'm not able to make a trip back to visit with my family this spring, I'm buying up all Etsy has to offer on this theme as my tangible reminder of my family.

Cherry Orchard

Tailgating to get to its heart,
dangling from the gate of the pick-up,
bounding over irrigation hoses
to find the sweetness at the center
of the orchard.

We cram our cheeks full,
spitting pits with force.
A contest of cousins,
juices dribbling
onto hand-me-down t-shirts.

Skinned knees and shabby shoes,
we are content,
surrounded by the branches
of family
rooted deep in this orchard.

And if you want to know more about my two recent purchases, check out Joy Kolitsky's art at Sugar Beet Press and the work of Michigan photographer Kimberly Blok.

I Am Not Superwoman

Sierra over at Actual Mom is due in a few short weeks. She has been posting other's birth stories on her blog, gearing up for her big day. She has me reflecting on my own birth experiences, particularly that of my first born, now two and a half year old son.

It didn't matter where I was - standing in the check out lane at the grocery store, the women's bathroom in a department store, pumping gas - mothers and grandmothers would approach me wanting to share their story. At 40 weeks pregnant, I was huge with my first child, a baby boy. And as every expectant mother surely knows, the stories that you hear most often are not encouraging. I heard so many horrific tales of 20+ hour labors and breech births and unimaginable pain that I was starting to second guess my decision to have a natural childbirth. No drugs. No epidural. Nothing. What was I thinking?!

I am not Superwoman. My husband knows this best. I am a wimp. If I cut myself just a tiny little bit, tears go coursing down my cheeks. I grab band-aids for every little nick and scratch. I am not good with blood, blisters, or pain. So why did I choose natural child birth at a birth center? Because I knew without a doubt in my mind that I wanted to be present and clearly aware for the birth of my child (now children). I didn't want pain relieving drugs to crowd out my memories of this life-changing event. And given everything that I read, I knew that some of the medical interventions currently used by hospitals actually hinder the laboring process. So as my belly grew larger, I clung to something my midwife said during one of my routine visits halfway through my pregnancy: "Remember that women have been giving birth naturally since the beginning of time. Our bodies were meant to do this. The second your baby is born, you will forget all the pain. Why else would so many women choose to have multiple children?"

I was told to expect a slow labor for my first child. First children are notoriously late and always slow in their delivery. Although logically I knew better, I expected it to be like the movies. My water would break. I would go to the birth center. This is not what happened.

I went to bed feeling a bit crampy, but since I was only two days away from my due date, this was to be expected. I thought I was having Braxton Hicks contractions. I tossed and turned for hours but did manage to fall asleep in the wee hours of the morning.

When the alarm rang at 6am, I bound out of bed with a "thank god!" Now I am not one that wakes easily, much preferring to smack the snooze button three to five times before ever considering allowing my feet to touch the floor, but not this morning. I wanted to get up, didn't want to lie still any longer. Still thinking I was headed into work, I jumped in the shower, started packing my school bag for a day of teaching. It took my husband pointing out that I was standing at my dresser mirror swaying my hips for me to begin to entertain the idea that maybe today was the day. "Hey, didn't we see this is a video? Aren't you doing the birth dance?" And it turned out that my "cramps" were four minutes apart. No water breaking. No instant pain. But I was in labor.

In our birth preparation class, we were told that beginning labor could take a while. We called the midwife to let her know my labor was started, and she suggested I try taking a walk to help my labor progress. I barely made it to the car before strong contractions had me doubled over. No time for a walk. Time to have a baby.

By the time we arrived at Bryn Mawr Birth Center, a 20-minute car ride at most, I was already in transition. There was no time for drugs even if I had wanted them. My midwives, calm and reassuring through the whole process, were not phased by my guttural screams. Everything I had learned about breathing and focal points and calming one's mind...right out the window. Less than two hours later, my son arrived. And my midwife had been right. When she lifted my little boy into my arms, still attached to me, the pain was gone, replaced by overwhelming awe. His big blue eyes became my entire world. He let out a tiny cry and instantly went in search of food.

I am not a Superwoman. And in most circumstances, I don't share my birth experiences with others. Not because I want to keep them private, but because I'm almost embarrassed that I don't have a heroic birthing story to share. My son arrived unexpectedly quick, without complications. I loved the entire experience. Feeling the pain of birth meant that I was present, aware the very moment my son arrived. I remember his birth vividly, with love. I wish someone had shared with me that labor, although honestly difficult, could also be so amazing.

I may not be Superwoman every day, but I was the day my son was born. His birth helped me realize all the strength and power I have within me.

I Am Not An Artist...Am I?

I am certainly not an artist. Having a two-year old interested in learning the shape and form of things has taught me that. He looks at me with those big green eyes, pleading me to draw a rocket ship with his over-sized orange crayon. Nothing is more humbling. My rocket ship looks a bit like corn on the cob. But he is forgiving and asks me to draw a train instead. He claps, giddy, as I begin by drawing the engine.

He is excited about art, about creating and manipulating shapes. He draws big looping circles with his yellow crayon, clenched so tightly his knuckles are white. "Moon, mommy." A minute later it is not a moon but a planet. He does not fear the attempt at art, nor does he hesitate to reinterpret, the change. He just draws.

I take him to art class each Thursday morning. A small collection of toddlers with their moms in tow dabble in finger paint to create masks and press hand prints onto construction paper. Our children beg us to be artists with them. During the first few classes, many of us moms hesitated, content to watch over small shoulders and attempt to control the chaos that is a painting toddler. "Hey little guy, why don't you..." or "Why not try this." But toddlers resist such control; they throw tantrums when not allowed to create freely.

When did we lose this? At what point do we harness the impulse to create, to get dirty? When do we become so inhibited that we stop looking at the world with child-like glee?

Taking inspiration from some of the comments that have been posted on my recent giveaway and from a friend's recent blog post on the power of beginning, I've been reflecting recently on how I sabotage my own efforts by not jumping into my endeavors whole heartedly. I'll wait until the last possible minute to edit essays for my graduate classes. I'll let myself be backed into a corner when a tough decision looms. In essence, I try to disavow my responsibility for any failures by shooting myself in the foot before I've ever even made a mistake to begin with. I am a self sabotager.

I could learn a lot from my toddler - namely, to ditch the fear of starting things, the fear of change, and most importantly, the fear of failure. My son jumps in, heart first. Imagine what I could accomplish if I did the same.

52 Questions: Why?

Where did January go? We're already spilling into the fourth week of January, and I'm just now able to set aside some time to start to think about 52 questions, my pet project to take on one question about parenting each week. Looks like I have some catching up to do.

Why 52 questions on parenting? Well, first let me say that I am by no means an expert on parenting. I do not hail from a large family with siblings numbering in the double digits. I have not written any books on parenting. I am not an early education researcher with an alphabet of university degrees. I don't spend my days wiping away boogies and drool from a room full of toddlers...well, not usually. Instead, I am a mom interested in connecting with and learning from other moms.

My eldest son is nearly two and a half while my youngest son is five months old. I know that I cannot even begin to imagine all the peculiar situations that I will certainly find myself in raising these two gregarious boys nor imagine the millions of questions that will arise from these moments. After having to explain to my two year old in the middle of the grocery store why he shouldn't "honk" mommy's boobies while he sits in the cart, I know to expect the unexpected. But, what I found is that when I share my experiences, when I spend some quiet time reflecting and writing on both the proud moments and my parenting pitfalls, I'm better able to be a parent. My hope is that as I respond to these weekly questions, it will encourage me to be more present, to spend more time reflecting on not only the parent that I want to be but the parent that I am. And, in doing so, I hope to connect with others who are traveling this same road.

It's Not You. It's Me.

I do some of my best thinking during the twilight moments, somewhere between lucid and dreaming. As my head his the pillow last night I realized I was working too hard at being something I'm not all that interested in being...well, at least as far as this blog goes. I adore all the crafty mom blogs out there. Each week I see moms posting tutorials and giveaways and recipes, and I have tried to imitate that approach with my Made By Me Monday tutorials and Tech Tuesdays and whatnot. But I didn't really start this blog with that in mind. Instead, this blog was borne out of my work with students and blogging about my adventures in teaching. Upon becoming a parent I realized that much of my reflection on teaching connected with what I was also learning as a new parent. I wanted a place to share those reflections, to connect with other parents struggling in similar ways, and start a conversation. Turns out, I didn't intend to start a tutorial blog. I was just easily sidetracked by all the great tutorial blogs out there.

So with the coming new year, I'm going to start again, returning to where this blog began. But I need your help. Last night I had an idea that I would blog each week in response to a question. So, I need 52 questions, one question for each week of 2011. I'm not talking "What color should I paint my kid's room?" kind of questions. I need 52 of the big parent questions to think about, reflect on, and respond to. I'm already thinking that I need to respond to a question on religion. What happens if you were raised a religion but haven't attended in years - should you return to services simply because you've had children? Or something to that effect. Maybe even some practical parenting questions - to cry it out or coddle? Or how about how do you handle gift overload during the holidays? Help me create my list of 52 questions to answer. Use the comment box below to post your ideas. I'll start to organize a list as the questions start rolling in.

Each Gift Has a Story

It started many, many years ago. I did not wake on Christmas morning expecting to find the latest gaming system wrapped up under our tree. My parents never stood in line to purchase Cabbage Patch dolls. I knew I would never find Guess jeans under our Christmas tree. Instead, I learned very young what joy comes when you give and receive homemade gifts. It outshines anything you could ever buy.

The weeks prior to Christmas, my mother would wait until my younger sister and I were sound asleep. She would lug her sewing machine out of the hall closet and pull the secretly purchased fabric and notations from the top shelf of her closet. Camped out on the dining room table for hours, my mom would sew dresses and doll clothes and crafts for the family. I will never forget the Christmas morning that my sister and I unwrapped Holly and Ginger, the yarn-haired babies nearly half our height that my mom handmade for us. Dressed in beautiful gingham dresses with matching aprons and bloomers that my mom painstakingly sewed, Holly and Ginger were the names she wrote out on the birth certificates she created for our dolls. These handmade creations were saved for last. The last presents unwrapped each Christmas morning. The favorite, most treasured gifts.

My sister and I picked up on this tradition and at a young age began to make each other handmade gifts. And as we grew older, we carried on the tradition that my mother started. We still make handmade gifts each year. I've given wreaths, hand-painted ornaments, knit scarves, sewed matching place mats and tablecloths. And the gifts don't always work out as planned. One year while in college I sewed my sister a poncho. A deep red chenille poncho with black fringe edging. It was way too large for my sister. But I gave it to her anyway, telling her she could use it as a poncho or as a picnic blanket. She still uses it as her Christmas tree skirt to this day. And each year, as she is setting up her Christmas tree, she gives me a call to remind me of the Christmas that I gave her a picnic poncho.

When you give a handmade gift, you don't just give someone an object. You give them a story. You give that person a piece of yourself.

Today's Advice

Today's inbox brings me this: “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit.” --Aristotle

Crap...literally. Because what I do repeatedly is change crappy diapers. I guess that makes me excellent at crap. =)

In Defense of Moms

Lisa Belkin over at New York Times' Motherlode blog recently published Katie Allison Granju and Jillian St. Charles’ response to Erica Jong’s Wall Street Journal essay “Mother Madness.” In it, Granju and St. Charles argue that Jong vilifies the modern mother's choice to breastfeed and co-sleep. Their response drips with barely contained vitriol, criticizing not just Jong's position on motherhood but her writing style, contributions to literature, and the contributions of feminists of Jong's generation. Such obvious attacks do not promote dialogue but serve merely to divide: are you a baby-wearer or a politically-aware feminist? C'mon. which is it?! While I understand that Jong as well as Granju/St. Charles are intentionally trying to rally support using emotionally-laden rhetoric, ironically such responses are leaving out a very significant audience - mothers.

Both Jong and Grangu/St. Charles get caught up in their own passionate appeals - a position on modern motherhood. Unfortunately, neither seem to really connect with the day-to-day realities of being a mom. Jong does indulge in some hyperbole with statements like:

"Attachment parenting, especially when combined with environmental correctness, has encouraged female victimization."

While Grangu and St. Charles misread Jong and attack Jong's apparent disconnect from today's moms with statements like:

"And as for Jong’s assertion that mothers today don't tell each other the truth about the difficult, challenging and even dark parts of the world's toughest job, well she obviously hasn't read any momblogs or any of the wave of 'momoirs' that have been released in the last decade."

Really Jong? Attachment parenting in conjunction with environment awareness are what keep women from reaching their potential? You've over simplified for effect. I get it. While I agree that obsessively and dogmatically following any parenting theory will ultimately do a great disservice to both the child and the parent, it is dangerous to reduce the difficult position modern mothers find themselves in today, wanting to both raise emotionally healthy children and find ways to be emotionally healthy themselves by pursuing their own passions and work, to such polarizing rhetoric.

Unfortunately, Grangu and St. Charles aren't much better, seeming to miss Jong's point entirely. Jong has not authored a plea for mothers to spend more time reading momblogs about how to parent. Jong is not saying we shouldn't breastfeed or co-sleep. In fact, she directly states, "Mothers must be free to choose." Instead, one of Jong's most salient points advocates a more communal approach to parenting, taking up the position that it takes a community to raise a child. Besides, Grangu/St. Charles arguement that there are a pleathora of mommy blogs misses the mark in another respect, there is a difference between writing for an unseen audience and confessing face-to-face your failures and misgivings as a parent, in connecting one-on-one in honest conversation about your doubts and fears as a parent. Jong seems to argue for more connection and less parenting from unseen gurus.

It is unfortunate that both pieces are littered with such anger and sweeping generalizations. At their heart, both pieces seem to be generally concerned about the position of mothers. I love Jong's final statement, that our cultures seems to have devised "a set of expectations that makes [mothers] feel inadequate no matter how passionately they attend to their children." I agree. I feel caught between my hopes of being a good mother and to also find fulfillment and identity outside of my role as a mother. And Grangu and St. Charles also offer up some good observations: "Progressive politics begin at home, with the way we raise our children, and many women will tell you that becoming a mother was the most politically radicalizing experience of their lives. Suddenly, the personal really is political, in a very tangible way." I also agree. Suddenly, my desire to work for and vote for policies that support the education of all children, healthcare for all children, and open access to both, are much more personal now that I have children of my own.

All this coming from a mother with a masters degree from a women's college, typing with a two month old bouncing on her knee while her two year old naps, proving there is such a thing as the feminist mother. We are political diaper-changers. We are intellectual nurturers. To steal a sentiment from Walt Whitman, we are large; we contain multitudes. So let's hear more balanced critique and less dichotomizing rhetoric from both sides of the motherhood debate. Let's spend less time pointing fingers and more time figuring out how to support mothers, working in the home and outside of it.

Homemade Halloween

Harry and Daddy were hard at work this week in the garage. We heard the crinkling of foil furnace tape and infectious giggles as the two of them constructed Harry's Halloween costume. Our garage was transformed into the laboratory of a mad scientist...scratch that...mad engineer and his eager miniature assistant. Together they reconfigured a couple diaper boxes, some tubing from the dryer vents, light switch covers, and pipe cleaners into a robot costume which Harry wore to the Halloween parade in town today. My eager little robot loved waving at the crowd in his homemade creation. And, he caught the eye of quite a few other kids and parents, happily smiling at their compliments on his costume.

Not to be outdone, my littlest one donned a homemade costume inspired by Not the Kitchen Sink on Etsy. A white onesie, orange washcloth and fish bath toy, tied up with a large black ribbon made for Luke's sushi costume. Oh my happy little salmon maki!

Both of them will venture out tomorrow night for our first trick-or-treating in the neighborhood. Happy Halloween!

Video from today's parade can be found at All Things Media.

A Mother Knows?

While standing in the kitchen of a friend's home this weekend, my little one, eight week old Lukas, let out an ear-piercing wail. I carried him into the living room where I laid him on the couch and starting pumping his legs, bringing his knees up to his chest and letting him push them back down. Almost instantly the cries stopped, and Lukas gave us a gurgle and wide-eyed smile. "It's amazing how mothers just instinctively know what each cry means." Not yet a mother herself, my friend made the same assumption that I did prior to becoming a mother for the first time two years ago, that mothers have this natural intuition when it comes to their infant's cries: we instinctively know what each whimper and wail means.

This is not the case.

It's a myth that mothers can simply tell by the sound of a cry what their child may need. However, it's been repeated so many times in parenting magazines, books, blogs, and by well-intentioned grandmothers that as a culture we've convinced ourselves that mothers must have nearly magical powers when it comes to their children, that all women are born with these magical powers of premonition. I'm here to tell you this is not the case. I may have other magical powers, but I certainly can't distinguish between the cry for food versus one for a messy diaper simply on sound alone. "It's a myth that you can tell what's wrong by the sound of the cry," says Harvey Karp, author of The Happiest Baby on the Block. "Babies are like smoke alarms: You can't tell if you burnt the toast or if the whole house is burning down."

So why do new moms (and even not-so-new moms) berate themselves for not being able to decipher a need to burp cry from my-feet-are-cold cry? We drive ourselves mad, buying each new book or DVD that might help hone our intuition, in an effort to be the natural-born mom we think we should be. It is not intuition that makes us parents. It is experience.

Unlike two years ago when we were first learning to be parents, my husband and I are much less anxiety-ridden, or at the very least, we are less anxious about the little things when it comes to our newest arrival. We don't know what every cry means. Instead, we're more comfortable in the not-knowing. Each time Lukas lets out a cry, we don't rush to the baby, worry-faced, concerned that each cry indicates something horrible. We've learned that babies cry. They just cry. Instead, being a parent has taught us the importance of being patient, taking deep breaths, and remembering that our newborn is learning just like we are.

In the case of this weekend, I knew that I had fed Lukas about an hour earlier and that he tends to be a bit gassy following a feeding. So I took a guess that Lukas was crying because he needed to pass gas. I pumped his legs to help relieve his tummy. He gurgled and smiled when he filled his diaper. It wasn't intuition. It was gas.

Hand-Me-Down Baby

(originally posted at Teacher Et Cetera July 26, 2010)

I've heard the same comments so many times recently that I'm starting to repeat them.

“No need for new clothes. After all, they'll be the same season.” “Oh, how nice, you won't have to redecorate. You can just use your first son's nursery items.” “It makes it so easy and so affordable to have two boys instead of one of each.”

I feel like this is what I should say, what everyone expects me to say. But it saddens me to think that I will be raising a hand-me-down baby.

I'm expecting my second son in a few short weeks, two boys, a little less than two years apart in age. I imagine them running the neighborhood together as they grow: the older boy gregariously greeting all our neighbors with his little brother in tow. When I start to write down some of these hopes in my newest pregnancy journal, I realize that everything I am writing is tied to my first son. “When we first learned that you would be joining our family, we started to teach your older brother how to say 'baby.'" "At the first ultrasound, your older brother giggled when he saw your little shape moving on the screen.”

Prior to my first son's birth, I journaled weekly, posting my reflections on a blog for long-distance family and friends to follow. I reflected on my changing roles, my changing identity. I spent hours planning and painting the new nursery, picking out just the right organic bedding set, scouring through Craigslist for gently used cribs and rockers, strollers and gates, changing tables and toy boxes. The monitor was hooked up long before the baby's arrival. The new clothes, freshly washed and folded, were neatly stacked in the little dresser months before his arrival. And all of this is meticulously recorded in my first son's pregnancy journal, pictures, cards, ultrasound print-outs, and all.

And although I'm already 35 weeks along, I have very few pictures of my belly, of this pregnancy. My newest little one's pregnancy journal sits safely tucked away in our bedroom bookcase, a thin layer of dust on its binding. I pulled it out last around 22 weeks to record my weight and the date of the most recent appointment with our midwife. I've brought the old baby clothes out of a rubber tub in the basement. No need to wash them again. I did that before packing them away. No need to get a new car seat. The old one will do. Our new little baby boy will fit right in to his older brother's model. My hand-me-down baby will fit right in.

And that's when I started to worry. How do I make sure this new little life grows into his own person and not into the mold of his older brother?

But when I watch my nearly two year old son excitedly gobble down green beans, splash in the tub, contentedly sleep, I am reminded of just how unique we each are. My son did not learn to be gregarious from me or my husband. I'm pretty sure he was just born friendly. As much as I coaxed him to say “mama” or “dada” as his first word, he clear as day declared “cat!” soon followed by “bus” and “skkrrrl” (squirrel). He seemed to born with his own unique perspective on the world.

So although his younger brother will grow into the clothes his older brother now wears, I will find ways to honor our new little boy's unique personality and perspective. There would be no hand-me-downs if it weren't for this new little life, no one to hand down to. My first son would not be a brother without him. And so I honor this new little person by handing down what I learned from parenting his older brother. I learn from my mistakes. I hand-down my wisdom, my patience. I hand down my love and respect. I create spaces for him to share his unique view of the world. And I hand down my open heart to his open hands. I hand down the best of myself.