Category Archives: Parenting

525,600 minutes…

Or about four inches.  That is how you measure a year.

Last June Emily graduated from her preschool wearing a dress with purple flowers.  She had a sweet little smile and her bangs needed a trim.  I was a tiny bit pregnant and wearing pigtails.

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Emily, June 2011, preschool graduation

This morning that sweet faced little girl graduated from Kindergarten in the same dress.  It was shorter this year.  She continues to grow up. Straight up.  Her face is sharper.  She is growing out her bangs and is typically wearing no fewer than two hair accessories.  I curled her hair this morning.  Two hours later I arrived at school and she had another hairdo altogether.

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She proudly held her little sister during a good portion of the graduation ceremony.  The back of her neck makes me tear up.  There is something beautiful about the back of a woman’s neck.  Hers is no exception.  In that six (almost seven!) year old neck I can see the young woman she will become.  Inches below her neck is the freckle she had when she was born.

Somewhere between that freckle and that young woman’s neck will be tears and heart break and laughter and joy too numerous too imagine.  She will not always be in a white dress with purple flowers, but she will always be my baby, my Emily June.

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Emily, June 2012, Kindergarten Graduation

Ems,

There are no words to describe this last year.  A fearless little girl started kindergarten in a brand, new school.  Weeks later she started again at yet another new school, beginning a new chapter in a new home.

Your baby face has faded, in its place a crooked smile complete with wiggly teeth.  You still let me call you “tiny heiney” but you were appalled when I mooned you the other day in the kitchen.  You have a new found sense of propriety.

You still sleep with pinky blanket, but the night your sister was born you did not.  I held it in my hands, wiped the tears from my face, the sweat from my forehead with it.  It was a reminder that I had all the strength I needed to make you a big sister.

And what a big sister you have become.  Your patience is out measured only by your kindness.  She watches you endlessly.  Your “baby sway” would lead one to believe that you were a teeny tiny grandmother.   I could go on and on, sweet girl, but the tears streaming down my face have soaked your sister as she sleeps in my lap.

When you turned one I told you you were my big, bright star.  And little lady, you do not disappoint.  Every time you grow a little bit older I tell you to knock it off.  But underneath the sentimentality of motherhood, I secretly rejoice.  One day we will share a glass of wine and reminisce about growing up.  Because I am growing right along with you. I love you, kiddo.  More than you may ever know.

Mom

Sporty Sunday

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I don’t know how it happened. I woke up this morning and felt fine. I fed the dog, I brushed my teeth, I hopped back in bed with Lucy and MQD and I started to feel freezing cold.

Thirty minutes later I was hurling. I crawled back in to bed and let Lucy sidle up to the buffet. She went to town and then the last thing I remember was saying “Can you take her?'” to MQD. I had the Sleep of the Dead for another hour and a half.

I woke up a little after ten. I felt like maybe I was going to live after all. I heard no tears from the living room so I ventured out.

This is when things stopped making sense.

“I thought I’d take Em for a hike,” he said. A hike. We don’t hike. We watch Netflix and ride bikes at the park and make pancakes. And sit around. It was a Sunday, right?? A Sunday. The day of Rest.

So, I went and made a cup of coffee. Exactly what you should do when you’ve had a violently upset stomach.

“I’ll go with you. Lemme see if I can eat something.” Something like EGG SALAD. We were in an alternate universe where coffee and egg salad was the new ginger ale and saltines and violent upchucking with a splash (and I do mean a splash) of diarrhea was the perfect precursor to to hiking. Oh. And in this parallel universe we hiked.

In the beginning Emily was pro hiking.

Within the hour we were getting out of the car at the Occoneechee Mountain State Park, a three minute drive from our house. I started to laugh as we headed off in to the woods. “We don’t hike!!” I said.

“We do now,” said MQD. Hiking was win-win at first, Lucy was sleeping in the Ergo. Fish was psyched. Emily was talking non-stop and MQD suggested we do this every weekend.

The MapMyRun app in my phone said we had gone almost two miles when I suggested we turn around. Looking at the map we did not appear to be even kind of close to where we parked.

MQD and I took turns being Emily’s cheerleader. She was a little champ. A four mile stroll was not what we had in mind when we first set off in to the woods. We counted as we walked, establishing that Emily took approximately eight steps to my five. For every five hundred steps I had taken, she had taken eight hundred. This made her feel validated in her extreme exhaustion. And this fact did make me feel slightly less like screaming “Look, I could shit my pants any second AND your sister is going to wake up furious and sweaty any time now, keep walking, dammit!!”

How can you expect me to just keep walking???

Nearly four miles and an hour and a half later we were back at the car. And it was fun. We hiked. We might do it again. We might be a family that hikes. I can not explain the depths to which this is hilarious to me.

Here is a picture from last Sunday. Ya know… before we hiked. When we used to nap.

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Probably not the last time I will bring this up…

It might be hard to see the “baby” while she is in her Mary Tyler Moore pose. But I nursed my baby until she was almost three and a half years old.

I know I said I was going to try not to yammer on and on about my parenting choices, specifically to breastfeed on demand for as long as my baby and I want to…. but I can’t help it.  Below is a post from another blog.  I contributed to debunking toddler myths.

 

Emily, feeding her baby.

 

Toddler Nursing Myths Debunked

Myth: Breastfeeding will ruin your boobs!

Truth: Your breasts will inflate through your pregnancy and engorgement when your milk comes whether your nurse your babies or not! Vanity has been known to get the best of me.  I’ll admit it.  I’ll even confess that some decisions I made about my health might have been motivated by said vanity, said the girl who quit smoking in her youth when she realized it would ruin her skin before it ravaged her lungs. If you fall in to the camp of women that occasionally puts a little too much focus on the outside instead of the inside you’ll be glad to know that breastfeeding your kids is not responsible for your boobs going South!  Gravity and the swelling of the breasts during pregnancy and engorgement take the greatest toll on the skin responsible for holding those big, beautiful mammaries in place and there is no escaping that!  So, go ahead and do a few push ups and nurse your kiddos!  Throw in some chest presses with a five pound hand weight and those gorgeous boobs that are a cup size bigger than normal will be back front and center where you like them before you know it.

Myth:  Extended nursing will create a co-dependent, needy child.

Truth:  Letting your child wean on their own time fosters independence!!   A child that reconnects with their mother regularly and believes that they can always come back to the safety of a parent is far more likely to boldly step out on their own. Weaning becomes an act that the child participated in achieving.  I can recall sending my daughter off to her first day of school. Anticipating a little bit of anxiety on her part (and holding back my own tears) I said “Go ahead, big girl.  Mommy will be right here after school.”  Off she went, secure in the knowledge that she can return to me.    Obviously, nursing is not the only way to create an environment of loving, kindness.  But for many families it is the cornerstone of the mother-child bond.  Regular (albeit brief as anyone who has ever seen a busy toddler drive-by nursing can attest to!) breastfeeding of a toddler gives both the child and the mother a perfect opportunity to stop and reconnect, re-affirm in a biological way the connection between mother and child.  This affirmation gives the child confidence to move forward. The proof is in the pudding, as they say.  Here’s a picture of my independent daughter taking off on her first day of school.

She never looked back.  And as for the first myth?  Stop by and see me at www.excitementontheside.com  You’ll see my boobs if you hang around a while.  :)

-Kelly from excitementontheside.com

Myth: Breastfeeding past a certain age is sexual.

As a nursing mother who advocates child-led weaning, I have encountered my fair share of myths about extended breastfeeding, ranging from mildly amusing to downright frightening.  One of the most ridiculous myths I’ve encountered is the idea that once a child reaches a certain age (often 1 or 2 years), breastfeeding stops being about child nourishment and bonding, and becomes an inappropriate act with sexual connotations.  Even more concerning is the archaic (and insultingly unfounded) theory that a mother who nurses beyond 2 is compromising her child’s sexual development in some aspect.  And by far, the most offensive and absurd manifestation of the myth is that breastfeeding a toddler is equal to sexual abuse/incest.

Sadly, I believe that the old “perception is reality” adage applies here; if a person declares something as sexual, then for them, it is sexual.  After all, some adults are turned on by the act of diapering another adult, an act that is definitely not inherently sexual.  So, in our western world, a culture wherein breasts are highly sexualized, it isn’t surprising that the act of extended breastfeeding is seen as sexual by so many people.  It isn’t shocking that mothers who nurse toddlers in the U.S. are ridiculed and scorned, in spite of the fact that the majority of human beings on our planet breastfeed beyond age 1, and that the average age for a child to wean naturally is between 3-5 years.  Most of the naysayers, when met with facts and education about the realities of extended breastfeeding, still view it as shocking and disgusting.  But the bottom line is, it doesn’t matter if one person or one billion people share an opinion; their combined opinions do not form a fact.  There is nothing inherently sexual about breastfeeding.

So, how does a nursing mother go about debunking such baseless absurdity?   It can indeed prove to be an exercise in futility.  It has been my unfortunate experience that people who think extended breastfeeding is “weird” do not have open minds, and are not receptive to learning anything that might expose their point of view as irrational and inane.  But I am always willing to offer a person links to literature that endorses extended breastfeeding — literature which comes from highly respected and reputable doctors (such as Dr. Bill Sears), anthropologists (such as Katherine A. Dettwyler, Ph.D), health organizations (i.e. W.H.O.), numerous medical journals, etc.  However, my favorite factoid to pass along is that, to date, there is NO research or data that points to breastfeeding a toddler as being a damaging act, sexually, or otherwise.  So, what most effectively debunks the “nursing a toddler is sexually inappropriate” myth is what is not there to begin with — a shred of evidence to back the claim.

Elizabeth Daniels,  Brandon FL

Myth: It’s not necessary to nurse past one year because breast milk loses its nutritional value.

Reality: Not true. Not even a little true. Actually the opposite is true! Immune benefits actually increase the older the child gets. Breast milk changes and adjusts as your baby grows. Condensing the nutritional properties of your milk and the immune benefits into the amount of milk you make. You know, like how a shot of espresso in your thirties does the work that the seventeen cups of coffee did in your twenties. So as solid food becomes the more prominent part of your little one’s diet, breast milk condenses all of the health benefits into the less milk they do consume. It’s magic really I love the fact that when one of my kids or I get sick, my milk is already transferring immune boosting bits of awesome and helping them fight their colds. But if you weren’t sold at “bits of awesome”, you can read about all this in more specific and intellectual language here (http://kellymom.com/nutrition/milk/immunefactors/). And also here (http://kellymom.com/nutrition/milk/bmilk-composition/).

Issue: Breastfeeding mothers who think it’s weird/inappropriate/gross to nurse a child past a certain age.

I’ve heard this one a lot. A mom says, “I love breastfeeding! It was so awesome. But a two year old? A three year old? That’s weird.”
Just this week, my baby boy turned three. He nurses about once a day. Sometimes twice. He decides when. It is almost always when he is very tired or hurt. The times when he needs comfort and closeness. There have been many times that I thought he had weaned but, nope, he’s not ready yet. And that’s ok. When I first decided to nurse my children I thought I would wean them at one. I thought that is what you were supposed to do. But on the night of my son’s first birthday, as I nursed him to sleep, I saw him comforted and safe. Still a baby. Still needing to nurse. I was sure in that moment I would let him decide when to wean. But then, I got pregnant. He weaned during my pregnancy with his sister because he was frustrated that my milk was gone. It was traumatic for him and it broke my heart. He was 18 months old. When the milk returned and his baby sister came to be with us, he would watch as I nursed her and he seemed sad. I offered to nurse him. He nursed. He looked up to me and he smiled. And that moment is one I will never forget. His relief erasing the sadness of his first weaning. So the idea that this beautiful experience with my baby boy is seen as gross or weird just makes me sad. And to be honest, it makes me angry too. Every child is different. And every mother is different. No child can be expected to follow the same growth, development, or same anything of another child. Some children are ready to go to Kindergarten at four and half, some five, others at six. Everyone understands that. So then why would weaning be any different? There is no set age for when a child will naturally wean. My son is nursing less this month than he did last month. He seems to be doing just fine in determining when he is ready. He’ll get there. In his time. And it makes me happy to know that when he does wean, it will be on his terms.
For more information on weaning, you can start here (http://www.llli.org/ba/aug94.html )

-Colleen from theadventuresofthefamilypants.com

Myth: Once a child reaches a certain age, they should be given pumped breastmilk from a cup.

Coming from a place where I struggled throughout my breastfeeding journey to maintain my milk supply, it’s laughable to me when people comment that once my daughter turned one, that she no longer needed to breastfeed straight from “tap”, but rather, I should be pumping and giving her breast milk in a cup. The only party this benefits is, well, the people it makes uncomfortable to watch me nurse my toddler. Pumping is not an easy job. Breastfeeding is the easiest, formula feeding is harder, pumping is the hardest. Breast milk comes straight from the breast, is the perfect temperature, and the perfect amount per feeding. Formula comes mostly prepared, just add water (although there is washing, sterilizing bottles, and mixing the formula). Pumping takes a lot of time and energy to produce the right amount of milk, heating it to the perfect temperature, PLUS all the bottle washing, sterilizing all the components of a pump, and adhering to the very specific rules of proper storing. Then there are the potential issues you can run into like I did. I had to return to work when my daughter was 4 months old. I pumped at work three times a day and since I have always dealt with low supply, I struggled to maintain a milk supply to supplement the time I was away from home. It’s not as easy as putting cones on your breasts and turning a machine on and the milk just comes pouring out. It is a very intricate process that left me drained at the end of the day and wishing I could toss that machine in the trash. I suppose to really understand why pumping is not an easy task, you must first understand how our breasts function during breastfeeding. Prolactin must be present for milk synthesis to occur. When the breast is full, prolactin cannot enter the prolactin receptors, so the rate of milk synthesis decreases. When the breast is emptied, prolactin can now pass through the receptors and milk synthesis increases. This is now where I make my point: PUMPING DOES NOT EFFECTIVELY REMOVE MILK FROM THE BREAST LIKE A CHILD DOES. When the breast is not properly being emptied often, milk supply dramatically decreases. In order to maintain an efficient supply to pump and then give in a cup, one would spend their entire day attached to a machine. It is just more logical to nurse directly from the breast than to struggle to maintain a supply just to make a few people more comfortable. Besides, if I’m nursing in my own home (seeing as how most toddlers nurse only a handful of times a day or less­­—that number drops even more the older they get) who does nursing my toddler affect? No one, except my nursling and me.

-Courtney

**Jamie’s note- Courtney beautifully summed up the stress of pumping and how it does not always work with our anatomy. This myth bugs me so much I thought I’d chime in, too. Breastfeeding has much more to it than nutritional value. Breastfeeding also serves a way to comfort, bond, and build emotional attachment with your child (this is not the only way to bond and attach, but it is definitely one of many). Would you hug your child using a machine or your own arms? Breastfeeding should not be avoided just because someone else does not understand it. **

Myth: If you breastfeed your baby past infancy they will not learn to eat enough solid foods.

I know a lot of people think that extended (after 6 months, after 12 months after any one of a number  of ages) nursing will mean a baby/child will not eat enough solid food.  I have heard pediatricians tell moms who’s 8 month olds are not excited by solids tell them to cut out a nursing session or two.  I can totally see why people would think this.  If a couple of assumptions our society makes were true then this would be reasonable.  But those assumptions are flawed.  Assumption number one, all babies do things on a set schedule.  Assumption number two, nursing is just about food.

Assumption 1.  Babies do everything on their own schedule, the range of normal is massive.  A baby can be just fine and walk at 9 months or at 13.   A baby can start speaking at one year or two.  And a baby might love solids at 6 months (and may indicate readiness by pulling your food off your plate and stuffing it into their mouth) or be resistant and just experiment until they are 18 months.  There are a lot of nursing moms who find their kids take to solids with great gusto and there are a lot of formula feeding moms who are still giving their younger toddler most of their calories that way.  My personal experience is a mostly formula fed kiddo who only really started eating for calories at about 16 months and a nursing little one who ate larger servings than her big brother by the time she was 8 months old.  She is still nursing at two and a half.  And she still eats more than he does many days (he is 4).

Assumption 2.  Babies nurse for food, for comfort, for immunities, for cuddle time, for a whole bunch of reasons.  Nursing keeps happening even when babies are getting most of their nutrition from food, it just doesn’t happen every hour for 45 minutes like it does with newborns (or no mother could cope).  It happens in “drive by” sessions here and there through out the day.  Or as one nursing session while they fall asleep (or when they hurt themselves).  Or in a number of other scenarios.  The time frame for each child is different but I know a lot of mothers nursing 2 (and up) year olds and no-one is nursing them 8 times a day.

So babies can nurse into toddlerhood and eat solid food.

-Sarale

Myth: Nursing beyond infancy is more about the mother’s needs, than the child’s.

Of the many misconceptions that I have heard about toddler nursing, this is one that has me scratching my head the most. It’s one I hear with increasing frequency. That mothers who do not wean their children by a certain deadline are worried more about their own needs and attempt to artificially prolong dependency.

Anyone who has ever tried to cajole an unwilling toddler into doing….well anything….knows it’s not an easy task. Even something as simple as managing three meals a day can be an epic battle. “Let’s eat dinner.” “NO!” A child who is ready to wean will not continue to nurse. However, a mother may continue to nurse her child beyond her predicted timeline when she sees that it is still important to the well being of her individual child. Clearly, it is not a matter of an unwilling child continuing to nurse to meet mom’s needs.

People will say it’s about independence and discipline – that nursing mothers fail to discipline the child to become independent because the mother wishes to have him dependent as long as possible. So, the thinking is that in order to meet a child’s needs, mom must push him towards independence by weaning even if he isn’t ready? Couldn’t this be construed as mom trying to force her will to have an “independent” child to meet her own needs? Why can’t we just assume that as parents we are ALL trying to meet our children’s needs in the best way we know how?

Children don’t go from infant to big kid overnight; it is a slow process. And emerging independence is a part of that process. As parents, we look for the cues from our individual children. For some of us, that includes when a child is ready to wean. And yes, mom’s needs are considered, although typically that means setting limits on nursing over time to achieve a balance between a need for space and a child’s need to nurse. It’s really not any different than any other element of the parent-child relationship over the course of childhood.

-MD

This seems like yesterday….

Baby’s Got Sauce

The last night of our honeymoon, May 7th, 2011

A long, long time ago I can still remember how that … BOOZE … used to make me smile….  So maybe that is not exactly how the song goes, but I was humming this tune last night.

On May 8th, 2011 we returned home from our honeymoon. Later that week we took a pregnancy test. You know how that turned out. MQD, always up for a challenge, opted to give up the sauce with me. It was more than a kind gesture. It was the perfect way to kick off what was destined to be a mind-bending year.

Wedding. Baby. New house. A clear head seemed the only way to survive.

When Lucy was born late January I wondered if MQD might take a flying leap off the wagon. Nope. He was in it to win it. Might as well make it a full year.

My birthday came and went. I had two gin and tonics in the middle of the afternoon. MQD drove. The following day was his year of sobriety.

Last night we had cocktails. Two each. One on our back deck together, just the two of us, well, three of us.  . He changed a shitty diaper between sips on his Campari and Soda. Why you’d want to drink a cocktail that tastes like bowling ball cleaner and makes your mouth feel like you’ve been licking pennies, I do not know. Ask him.

I told Em we were going outside just the two of us for a few minutes.  “Will you Cheers?” she asked me.  You bet your ass we will, we’ve got quite a bit to be grateful for.

We had dinner outside. Our friends joined us for cocktail hour and we threw the big kids outside amidst complaints of “they never let us inside!” while the babies checked each other out on the floor in the living room.

The second drink went down a little faster than the first. But just a little faster.

“How do you feel?” I asked him.

“Loose.”

Loose isn’t too bad for a guy who got himself a wife, two kids and a mortgage in a years time.

Vodka & Tonic for the lady. Campari and Soda for the man. Yes, I am married to the only person in the world that drinks Campari.

Won’t you take me to Funkytown?

I’ve had a cold. The kind of cold that makes you want to just gobble up Tylenol PMs and wear sweatpants. I usually shower in the morning. Sometimes twice daily. And this is the kind of cold that makes washing my hair seem too damn exhausting. Holding my arms up over my head is impossible. I am grateful that Lucy eats like she is in a hot dog eating contest. At least once a day she eagerly sucks down more milk than her little body can handle and grins and spits about 1/4 of a cup of curdled milk back up on to my neck, my hair, my chest. It’s enough to encourage me to work through the tired and hop in the shower.

The horrible thing about being sick when you have little people depending on you is that you don’t really gets to take a day off. You can try. You can let the big kids eat granola bars and cheese sticks and the little bitties get to loll about in their diapers, taking a break from the day’s scheduled game of dress up.

The worst of the funk hit on Sunday when MQD was home. Back to bed I went for the majority of the day, snuggling with Lucy as often as she would let me. She snoozed away the day most of Sunday and the great majority of Monday. Monday afternoon I got up and looked around my house and decided I had to power through a super clean. I cleaned bathrooms, the kitchen, put away all the laundry, wiped the baseboards, vacuumed the couch and cleaned the ceiling fans. (As a side note, did you know if you use dishwasher detergent in your tub it will shine! Shine, I say!!) I hopped in the shower before Emily got home from school and when I got out I sat down and looked around. The house was noticeably neater, sure. But the rest of it? No one was ever going to notice it had been done. No one but me.

For two, almost three, days I didn’t really do anything. And it didn’t really matter. Unless you looked you’d not even notice. Sure, the laundry baskets were full in our closets. The big pan of macaroni and cheese I’d made last week was gone, the meatloaf I’d planned to freeze had been eaten because I didn’t cook anything else and the box of granola bars was gone.

So, sit on that. If I stop doing anything and it goes unnoticed… Does what I do all day matter? Of course it does. If no one carried the shoes upstairs every day for a week… Well then there’d be a huge pile of shoes by the door. And eventually the dishwasher would be full and the sink would be full and we would need clean silverware, even if we were eating something from a box.

This new job… The job I have had for years but that I have recently been focusing even more of my attention on… It’s so weird. Nothing matters more than Mom. I believe that with my whole heart, what I am doing, it matters. But shoes piled up by the stairs do not matter. Toothpaste in the sink doesn’t really matter. If you asked Mike why he loves me he would probably not say it is because I always make the bed or that he loves me more when I iron his shirts than when I just throw the back in the dryer on wrinkle release.

Lucy needs me. Emily loves me, even at almost seven years old amidst eye rolling and “Mom, it looks cool, not cute” hair flipping… I know I matter. I am loved. I suppose why I am loved is what doesn’t really matter.

When you are struggling to grow up, to find your own way, to figure out who you are in a new part of life it is helpful to look back. Somehow knowing where you come from makes seeing where you are going simpler.

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Kelly, circa 1979

This girl isn’t worried about the little things. She came to show you a good time. When they move me in to the retirement home I’m bringing a box of 45s and a macaroni necklace. And I hope they are ready to party. If life is a circle and we end up right where we started (and I believe that it is) than I’m keeping my eyes on the prize.

And in the meantime? As soon as I’m feeling better we are getting out the poster paint and the rigatoni. Because that’s what matters. I gotta teach my girls how to get to Funkytown. So they can find me when I am old and grey and I wander off.

Judgy McJudge

In light of the recent TIME magazine cover stirring up so much talk about parenting styles I have found myself feeling inclined to defend my parenting choices. But I have remained quiet. Once you start to defend yourself everything goes to shit. How I choose to feed my kids, or where they sleep or how I discipline isn’t really up to the woman behind me in line at the grocery store that tries to strike up a conversation. And while it is not really up to my friends and family either I am fortunate enough to have trusting and understanding people around me that respect our decisions to parent our children in the best way we see fit.

I have tried to avoid the comments online. I don’t really need to know that strangers think nursing your toddler is disgusting and that bed-sharing is appalling. I am confident in my beliefs. I read. I researched. And then I listened to my heart. So far, so good. Em is almost seven. She loves me. She remembers nursing and speaks fondly of those stolen moments at night before she fell asleep as a nursing toddler. And she sleeps in her own bed now. Lucy will do all of those things, too.

Attachment Parenting can be tough on a father during the first few months. MQD is a believer in bed-sharing. I really should let him snuggle with the real, live baby sometimes.

I try very hard not to judge other mothers. “Mommy guilt,” the “mommy wars,” pretty much any descriptor that begins with “mommy” makes my skin crawl. They all seem to set up a divide. You’re in or you’re out. While I have dear friends that parent very differently than I do I know they love their kids. And that’s enough for me. And the Mommies that I don’t know personally? I try not to judge them, too. I try to assume (and yes, I know what happens when you assume) that they love their kids, too.

But don’t get me wrong. I do judge. Silently. On the inside. I try not to. I examine my instincts to question someone’s choices all while remaining indignant over the questioning of my own. Perhaps judge is the wrong word. There is not always a value associated with my thought process. Sometimes I just wonder why. Why wouldn’t you want to XYZ (insert a parenting technique that works for me.) While I do believe that many of the eight principles of attachment parenting truly do lay the groundwork for growing exceptional, kind and compassionate children I also believe that attachment parenting studies provide the research to support what I’d want to do anyway. Hold on. Tight. To that little creature that is gonna grow up so damn fast. Don’t miss a minute. And above all show and teach them loving kindness. While they eat, while they sleep, while they are disciplined. And as I said yesterday loving my people, that’s my jam. It rings my bell.

I saw a woman at the airport sitting next to her infant. She was reading a magazine. Baby had a bottle propped on a blanket in their carrier. “Bottle propping” is dangerous due to the risk of asphyxiation. There’s that. But the baby was eating. Alone. And Mom? She was reading a news magazine. There is nothing that makes you smile in a news magazine. It made me sad. Not the bottle, feed your kid what you want and how you want (unless, of course, you ask me what I think.) But the disconnect. The lack of joy.

There is so little opportunity to communicate with an infant successfully, so many moments when you wish you knew what they wanted or needed, when their crying little eyes stare in to yours and you hope against hope that they know you are trying so hard to understand and that you love them enough to walk through fire.

But the simple moment when a nursing baby (and I would assume it is true of a bottle fed baby, as well) looks up at you while they munch away with big, wide eyes and you say “You were hungry, baby?” I wouldn’t give that up. Not for a Newsweek. Because in that moment I know without a shred of doubt I am doing exactly what I need to be doing. I need those moments. You were hungry. I am feeding you. Win win. To push back to the back of my head all the moments where I thought “what the shit do you want?? You are fed and dry and rested!! Please!! I don’t speak baby!!!!” followed up with the over tired leap to “I am a FAILURE as a mother!!!!”

So, the bottle-propping mother gets a raised eyebrow. But alongside the judgement is a question. Don’t you know you’re missing it? A moment where you would be rewarded with a gold star on your Mommy Chart.

And then yesterday afternoon I was sitting with Lucy. I thought of that mother at the airport. It had been a long day. Lucy was eating. I chuckled. It’s not bottle propping if she can hold it herself, right? She is four months old and so capable and strong. Almost feeding herself, all fifteen independent little pounds of her. Too bad I couldn’t sneak away and pee all alone. 20120518-081618.jpg

Love is All You Need

This morning  Lucy and I were solving the world’s problems from our post in the bedroom.  We had returned to bed for some cuddles after Em left for school.  “It’s been a few days since you posted. Mike Month is lagging…” MQD observed as he readied himself to leave for work.

I thought for a moment before I replied.  We’d had a sweet morning and I didn’t want my tendency towards smartassery to spoil the moment. “There is nothing more boring than a happily married woman.”

I’m at a loss.  I’d planned to wax poetically about our wedding all month, but I fear I will nauseate my devoted readers.  It seems the vulgar and the emotional scab picking are most appreciated (and I will refrain from pointing out what that says about you, you dirtballs.)  I’m not interested  in sharing the down and dirty of my marital life  and my marriage is too new to have scabs.

So here I sit.  Compelled to finish out my month of wedding anniversary celebration and yet there are only so many ways to say “Look!  Hot damn, I am a happy girl!!!” before it begins to fall flat.

“There is nothing more boring than a happily married woman,” I said.  “Even my father has noted that ye olde blog has been lackluster.”  I continued on, making excuses about how difficult it has been to write about my marriage this month, my self proclaimed “month long declaration of love.”

Without missing a beat MQD smirked and said “Your life is one long declaration of love.”  He looked down at Lucy wiggling away on the bed and said “It’s true. Your mommy spends all day telling everyone how much she loves them.”

He’s right.  I yelled “I love you!” out the front door enough times this morning at Emily while she waited for the bus that once she actually yelled back “I KNOW!”  I have told Lucy that I love her no fewer than a hundred times today.  It’s what I do.

I just don’t think you can tell a person that you love them too many times.  I also don’t think it is ever an inappropriate time for a quick game of ass-grab but that is another story entirely.  Rest assured that Mike Month may be lagging but it’s not for a lack of love.

Mother’s Day

It is Monday night and I haven’t written a word about Mother’s Day yet. Weepiness and sentimentality reign supreme every time I sit down and try. Suffice it to say it was a good day.

I love and am loved. I hope the same for all of you.

 

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Adventure

Some days are easier than others. Sometimes I am not sure I know how to be a wife or a mother or a friend. And those are the days you take my hand. I’d follow you anywhere.

The best day

While we were out to lunch on our anniversary I asked you what was the best day from the last year. Without a lot of hesitation you said it was the day after our wedding, the day we left for our honeymoon. I wore my fabulous hat from our wedding day to the airport and the white dress I had left our reception in on the plane. At least a dozen people asked us if we’d been to the royal wedding. It was high hat season.


I asked you why that was the best day and you said it was because I looked so happy. I don’t think there is a better way to explain what a sweet man you really are.

My best day was also on our honeymoon. The day before we came home was my birthday. You had a red velvet cake sent to our room.  I wore my hat and my white dress again.  We went out for sushi.  We laughed a tremendous amount that evening.  And we were headed home to our sweet girl that very next day.

Months before our wedding, before we were even engaged I tearfully told you that I wanted to have a baby before I turned 36.  I confessed that I was terribly afraid of not being able to get pregnant.  Always the problem solver you said “So we get married next Spring.”  The rest was just implied.  We would get married and have a baby.  Simple.

And so we did.

And now I am 36.  Today, in fact.  And damn if I don’t have that baby.

Our family, you guys are my best thing….