Every other minute of it

Winners and Losers

2008-11-17T18:54:00.000-08:00

Short-term losers in the passing of Proposition 8:
1. Queer people who now will be discriminated against under the law. And don't give me that "domestic partnership" bullshit. Didn't we decide a half a century ago that separate is not equal?

2. Children of queer people whose parents' legal status is now in question. The stability of their families is in peril.

Long-term losers in the passing of Proposition 8:
1. Religion. The inevitable backlash against a faith that wrote their own twisted values into our constitution will keep people from gravitating towards a spiritual life. I mean, myself excluded, who would want to be called a Christian when something like 75% of "Christians" voted to discrimiate against what they see as the "other?" Have these people even listened to Jesus?

2. Marriage. If the Right continues to define marriage as a religiously acceptable institution, more and more people will want nothing to do with it.

Eventually, people will not stand to see our beloved constitution have discrimination written into it. Eventually, we will not stand for the law giving more rights to some people than others. And we will stop pretending that a 15 year old child of straight people suffers more sitting through a hypothetical sex ed class for 50 minutes than a child of gay people does when his parents' legal and societal connection is questioned at the most critical times of all (i.e. ER visits, etc.).

I know there are so many reasons to rejoice over the election--trust me; I am happy about Barack. But I am utterly heartbroken that so many of my neighbors think so badly of queer people that they would vote to discriminate against them. I can't even picture my sister and SIL and their two beautiful twins right now without crying. I don't even know how to call them or what to say.

Going to the No on 8 March in San Diego this weekend helped my spirits. But when I look around my suburban cul-de-sac and recall that 5 out of the 7 houses here voted yes, I feel disheartened and frustrated. I should have done more.

Breastfeeding: normal, healthy, and...sexy?

2008-10-11T16:28:00.000-07:00

I love it. I might even buy the magazine to support the decision to put a photo of breastfeeding on the cover (okay, I'll admit it--I want to see all the other cute family pix Brad snapped, too!).

Here's a link to the reuter's story about it. La Leche League is happy about it. Here is a quote from an article on cnn.com:

"Breast-feeding in public reveals a whole lot less than what has been revealed on the red carpet. ... I think we do need more role models like Angelina Jolie willing to be photographed and say, 'Hey look, it can be done, it oughta be done,' " said La Leche spokeswoman Jane Crouse.

To the concerns about the picture oversexualizing breastfeeding, I say, "Who cares?" First of all, the primary function of breasts is to nurse offspring. That males respond favorably to breasts as a secondary sex characteristic doesn't take anything away from their primary purpose.

In fact, I have no problem with the nursing-sexual link. I don't think of my children sexually while nursing, but I freely confess that the milk letting down feels good. Afterall, the hormones released at let down are the same ones released during female orgasm (and childbirth contractions, fyi). While I'd never call childbirth "orgasmic" (and some women actually do--and good for them!), I do feel the sensations of arousal when I nurse. Far from making me feel inappropriately sexual towards the kids, however, those "good feelings" make me feel bonded to them even more than I already am. And if the good feelings encourage us as humans to nurse, that is healthy for baby and mommy.

So if men at times feel aroused by watching a woman breastfeed, I refuse to fault them or even find a reason to object.

Of course, breastfeeding requires more than the endorsement of a popular celebrity, and is sometimes difficult to establish. Even lactation consultants can give differing advice to new moms, further confusing the picture. (See? Even after this post, I still can't ignore my need to qualify all my opinions!!! Argh.)

Even so, Angelina is a model for moms who might not think they can successfully breastfeed one, let alone two babies (she is nursing her twins). And if her picture glamorizes breastfeeding as well, then, rock on!

What we did with all that RAGE.

2008-10-08T18:33:00.001-07:00

RAGE.

2008-10-08T17:56:00.000-07:00

I’m mad SO SO fucking mad. I am shaking with rage. I burst into a flood of angry tears over this two days ago and really, I haven’t stopped being sad, and of course I’ve cared about this issue for years and years but right now I am MAD AS HELL. I want to smash my fist into something.

There is no threat to your straight relationship if a woman marries another woman.

There is no threat to your children if a man adopts his partner’s daughter.

If you are pro-family, pro-marriage, then you should be advocating gay marriage, not acting like it hurts your own family.Take your fucking sign off of your front lawn and grow a fucking brain or conscience.

I know a woman, sitting in a hospital in Virginia, watching the respirator rise and fall next to the body of her love, her partner, her best friend, who is lying still after two 9 hour surgeries following a surprise aneurism a week and a half ago. The woman sitting in the chair doesn’t know if her partner will be alive tomorrow. She has a 20% chance of surviving this situation. I don’t know what the odds are for brain damage. This woman can’t work, can’t sleep, can’t eat for worry and fear. She doesn’t know if she should mourn or pray or cry or scream. And on top of that, Virginia is a state where there is a law on the books specifically denying and gay person any legal recognition in regards to their gay partner. The only reason she is getting to call the shots for her partner’s health is that her partner’s parents are deferring to her. Which they could decide not to do at any moment.

If her partner dies, she won’t even get to call herself a widow. It is to the rest of the world, and certainly to the hospital staff and the government, as though this woman lying on the hospital bed is just a really, really good friend.

***

My own sister lives in Washington State with her partner and their twin toddlers. They were married in San Francisco and cried as the day before their commitment ceremony in Seattle, the State of CA revoked their marriage. They were married again in Sonoma this summer in a sunny lavender field out back of my parents’ farm house. I sang. My daughters carried bouquets that my mom made from her flower garden. The toddlers of the brides crawled between their joined hands as they recited their vows. But they do not live in California. They live in Washington, where their only legal link is the fact that one of them is the adoptive parent of the biological children of the other. That is something. Some states wouldn’t let that adoption go forward. But it is not enough. And while their CA marriage is more symbolic than legally helpful (since they don’t live here), it is a sign to any future court or judge that they did all within their power to legally and culturally link their futures and lives together.

My sister and I met our future spouses around the same time. She is blonde with freckles, like me, and is my exact height and weight. We both sing and play sports and love Buffy. We cry easily and think deeply. We both married people who have brown hair, slender builds, and who are intellectuals. My sister and I aren’t the same person, but we are very much alike, and we chose partners who have a lot in common. It is asinine that I get every benefit from the government simply because Scott has a dick and my sister’s spouse does not.

And I feel so much rage that our friend in that hospital in Virginia has nothing to validate her relationship of over ten years as her love lies dying, blood spilling into her brain, potentially erasing all memory of their life together. Soon my friend might be the only one who knows how deep their love went. And there is no legal record that they even knew each other.

Oh, I have plenty of philosophical and moral and legal arguments as to why you should vote no on Prop. 8. But right now, I can't even enunciate them. I feel it is personal, and I am a shaking, angry, righteous bullet of rage. And I am now going to talk to all my acquaintances, friends, and neighbors about this. I tolerate differences of opinion. But I will not stand for this sickening display of a lack of conscience. I will not tolerate it. Not ever.

Speaking My Mind

2008-09-17T15:39:00.000-07:00

I was re-reading my old blog posts the other day and I could hear my own little sensitive voice in between the lines where I typed an extra paragraph or two to include another’s perspective so that no one would feel left out.

This trait is so natural to me by now that it’s actually difficult for me to recognize it and separate it from my other instincts. That’s why not reading my blog for 18 months gave me enough distance and perspective to actually see those moments where I bit back what I wanted to say, or tempered it, for the sake of others. And even then I had times where I failed at including others’ experiences or perspectives.

This is my most important personal strength: the lengths to which I will go to make others feel included. I have staked friendships, my marriage, and my reputation on my ability to get inside others’ heads and address their concerns or hurt feeling in advance. Maybe it’s the inner sensitive little girl in me, or maybe it comes from watching a “popular” girl spit over the stair railing on a “dorky” girl at my private school in 6th grade, or maybe it has to do with Jesus, but including others, and being very careful with how their feelings are affected by my words and actions are very important to me.

And perhaps this blogging break and my foray into HP fandom has changed me because instead of remembering all that effort with pride for my successes and/or guilt over my failures, I was like, “Shit, that’s exhausting!”

In HP fandom, people sometimes discuss things with personal significance, but the majority of what we talk about is characters, themes, and larger issues like forgiveness, mercy, justice, reconciliation, and, um, sex. OK, I guess all of those can have lots of personal significance, but because we are seeing these things though the eyes of fictional characters, it is so much easier to disagree with another person without any hard feelings. There is a lot of "agreeing to diagree" out there in fandom. It's a beautiful thing.

I think I like being a little less careful with others’ feelings. I like that I need to take responsibility for my own reactions to others, and they need to do the same. I’ll never let go of concerning myself with what others think of me. I’ll never suddenly stop thinking about how my words could make others feel excluded. But gosh, I hope that at 31 years old I can finally say my own opinion, born from my own experience, without apology or constant qualifying: (“Of course, not every mom feels this way,” or “Some Christians disagree, but,” or “If you’re a working parent it is different.”) Like I said. It can become exhausting. Let’s just assume that I speak for myself. That other parents/mothers/Christians/Californias/ may feel differently. That I might feel and communicate something in the moment, and with time, I will feel differently about it.

And now for some AU (alternate universe) versions of famous songs. What would happen to art if we asked our artists to keep others’ perspectives in mind when creating?

From NIN (Nine Inch Nails):

Head like a hole!
Black like your soul!
I’d rather die
Than give you control!
[now we could add:
“But I realize you deserve control
Sometimes I just want my own way
Why don’t we try?
Why don’t we trade?”]

And from Alanis Morissette:

And I’m here, to remind you
Of the mess you left when you went away
It’s not fair to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
You, you, you oughta know!
[now we add:
“And I know, that I’m difficult,
And that living with me is not easy
It’s not fair, to expect you
To love me forever when I get so…
So, so, so ANGRY!”]

Other suggestions?

Thanks to Mom Fu for the song ideas.

This Season of Our Lives

2008-09-11T16:29:00.000-07:00

Hello?
[The internet echoes.]

Anyone still here? It’s me, your blogging mommy friend, with a new post.
[The internet rumbles.]

Yeah, sorry for that hiatus. I, uh, got knocked up and then had the baby in December and was a little depressed and then dyed my hair purple for six months. But it’s totally back to normal now so don’t like worry or anything. Yeah, been busy. Plus I got sucked into Harry Potter fandom.
[Another part of the internet waves hello. The mommy part rolls its eyes and taps its foot.]

Well, here I am! With my natural hair color (kinda)! Ha ha! Back to write about, you know, family stuff. And maybe faith. And to explain the purple hair thing. And, um, perhaps to explain the Harry Potter thing.
[The Internet stares me down.]

Okay, so, I’ll just, you know, start again, okay?
[The internet sighs beckons me to continue.]

Great! Here we go!

I was at IKEA a few weeks after number 3 was born. I was nursing her on a couch in front of the escalator. There was a mom of a newborn who had her baby in the infant car seat in the front of a huge IKEA shopping cart. She was glazed over, eyes reflecting my own exhaustion and expression indicating that she didn't even know why she was there. I watched as she pushed her huge shopping cart up to the escalator and tried to actually walk onto the escalator with it, unthinking.

Of course, the whole thing began to tip and she awoke from her daze and someone helped her down. She was embarrassed and felt silly, quickly pushing the cart over to the elevators and escaping everyone's looks that said, "You're a crazy woman!" And here is my question: Where the fuck were the 10-15 older women, sisters, aunts, mothers-in-law, that in most cultures and throughout most of human history would have been taking care of this new mother and her baby?

What is so fucked up with our culture that a mom with a week old baby is furniture shopping at IKEA??? She should be sleeping while someone holds that newborn until it needs to nurse again. Then she should nap with the baby. Then go for a walk. Then have someone feed her home cooked food while they hold her baby. Then she should nurse again. But the way things are in our culture, we are expected to get back to regular schedules, lives, responsibilities with very little help only days after giving birth. And we are so separated from those older female family members by geography these days that there really isn't anyone to properly care for new moms as they need to be cared for. At the most, her church probably organized a meal delivery for the first two weeks home from the hospital, but that doesn't even come close to being actual support.

And our partners can support us as well, but even if they are helpful when they come home from work and are a good listener, they have their own responsibility to earn a living for the family, which is their support. The support I am speaking of can not come from the breadwinner, but from others.

This season of life, when a woman is intensely caring for a baby/young child, lasts years, and human mothers did not evolve to do it alone. The nursing and sleepless nights alone are a new mother's evolutionary job (or the job of whichever parent or person is raising that infant). Then eventually, that mom is the one making the food for her own little sister or neighbor as she has the new baby, etc. Why do you think it was beneficial for humans to live in communities??

WE WERE NOT MEANT TO LIVE THIS WAY.

I got into a fight with a friend recently. I know, me, fighting? It was crazy. Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up: I called to ask for her help a couple times this spring, and since we hadn’t spent quality friend time together, it made her mad that I would ask for her help. I apologized for asking for help without first, you know, asking her to get a manicure with me or something. And then I told her that if she wanted to hang out as friends, she could have called me, too. And she was all, “Yeah, totally! So thanks for understanding and for not doing that again.” And I was all, “OK, see if I ever call you to get a manicure again.” And we hugged so I guess it’s alright now.
[The internet looks askance at me and narrows its eyes. This reminds me of the look my mom gave me when I was three and bit my brother on the arm.]

Bitter? You think I sound bitter? Well this is exactly the shit I am talking about! (Wow, being in HP fandom has given me an internet potty-mouth.) I mean, what kind of culture expects a mom of a 4 year old, a 2 year old, and a three month old to have the time, interest, and/or ability to pal around with her friends who have one 3 year old who’s in school everyday? What happened to HER calling ME to hang out, or see if I needed anything? I mean, she pees by herself and showers everyday and can read the paper! I pee with a baby on my lap, shower with three small children at my heels once a week, and wake three times to nurse each night! I read the paper once a month, and found out that McCain picked Palin from my HP livejournal flist!
[The internet links me to thenanny.com, sleeptrainyourbaby.org, and msnbc.com.]

No, I am not telling you all this for sympathy. Nor for advice on sleeping training.
[The internet frowns, confused.]

Are you looking for a point here? Here it is: this is the season of my life for some sleeplessness and for peeing with a baby crawling on my lap! I’m not complaining about being in this season; I CHOSE to be in this season of life when the pull-out method didn’t work, okay? But we weren’t programmed to do it alone, and we weren’t programmed to do it with polished, post-manicure nails holding a margarita at happy hour. And the friend that I called two times in the three months since I birthed a baby with a childcare request should have just kindly said, “Sorry, not tonight,” or “Sure, drop the older two off for an hour while you go to that kindergarten parent meeting.” Not be mad that I might need some support two times! In three months! For an hour of playtime with their kid! I was even going to keep the baby with me!
[The internet wonders if I went to one of those religious schools that didn’t teach about proper birth control. Or if I should rethink what I said about not going to happy hour.]

Dude, internet! How do you think I avoided pregnancy all those years my husband and I had sex before getting married? It’s only that now I don’t feel like using it anymore. And I totally will research better birth control options after I finish reading some more Harry Potter fan fiction, okay?

Those of us with small children, including that new mom at IKEA, should be watching our older kids play with sticks and rocks with 10 of their cousins from a shady spot under a tree where we nurse our babies and our sisters-in-law/neighboring villagers/aunts/friends bring us porridge. But since we can't return to those idyllic days in early human history where someone is making porridge for you and shady trees are everywhere, and since even if we could, we'd be trading our current problems of modern life with ones like death via wild animals or crop failure, we need to reach out to each other in whatever ways the 21st Century will allow.

The Compact

2007-03-14T14:50:00.000-07:00

Some of you know I joined a group called the Compact last August and were asking about it. I thought I'd take a minute to share with everyone what it is. It was started in San Francisco beginning in Jan 2006 by a group of friends who wanted to change their lifestyles to lessen their ecological footprint. They pledged to buy nothing new for a year, except for food, underwear, and socks, plus a few personal items and medical supplies. They agreed to borrow or barter for the rest of the things they really needed/wanted, or to find things used. The group got publicized and now there is a yahoo group for Compacting with several thousand members around the world.

Many people have been living this way for a long, long time. If you were raised in a different country, or during the Depression or wartime, Compacting is probably already in your blood. Your grandma might call it being thrifty. If you've ever reused aluminum foil for three months or wondered how to make artistic use of your strawberry baskets, you are a Compacter in the making!

Here is a link to a blog about the Compact.

There are lots of links on that page. You can join the Yahoo group for all Compacters and/or the OC yahoo group without actually making a pledge to buy nothing new for a year. In general, people decide to join the compact for one or all of the following 3 reasons:

1. environmental impact: to lessen the amount of resources needed to create new things and to decrease the landfill space required tostore these things in perpetuity

2. Consumerism: to free ourselves of the mind-control that mass marketing has today, to change our relationship with stuff, torecognize the needlessness of many purchases

3. community: to learn how to share and borrow and barter with your neighbors. This can be fun and fullfilling, plus if the end of the world ever comes (pick your poison: terror attack, peak oil, etc.), Compacters will be more accustomed to working/living communally than others in our society.

A fourth benefit is saving money. This isn't usually why people join the compact but it can be a motivator. It certainly motivated us!! You are still allowed to spend money, though. Compacting is about buying nothing new, except for your own exception list. You still can go to the movies, dinner, buy take-out, pay for services, etc. You can also buy used things, but not going overboard. A nice benefit of joing the online group is that there are lots of discussions on how to spend money in the service sector with environmental sustainability (i.e. the environmental impact of using a gym vs. working out in the park, or how to get a gift that is service-related and isn't a "thing," or how to throw a kid's birthday party without buying anything new, etc.)

I should warn you that while there are a ton of useful threads on the main yahoo group site, (i.e. how to Compact in the kitchen--paper towels, baggies, coffee filters, etc.) there are also many threads that turn into debates as people bring their personal agendas to the Compact (i.e. world terror/oil depletion, the economy, anti-TV,etc.) Sometimes those viewpoints are relevent to the Compact and other times they aren't. I have found that our OC yahoo group is more positive and less "jump down your throat" than the folks at the main yahoo group site. But there are also fewer people and so less info. It is a trade-off. Also, of course you can Compact without going online at all! You just decide to buy nothing new except for your own exceptions and go from there.

I have found that clothes and toys are the easiest to avoid buying new (or at all). I am working towards buying fewer disposable items,but that is tough for me. Avoiding the mall, period, also really helps. And Target. Don't go to Target! The less time I spend at a store, the more immune I am to the compulsion to buy buy BUY.

Our exception list:
socks
underwear
food
medicine
items that will make me more environmentally responsible--if Ican't/won't find them used, of course, like a composter, reusable tupperware, ingredients for green cleaning products, or my new DivaCup!
Organic cleaning products and toiletries
disposable diapers
Occasional art supplies for the kids, new shoes for us, sippy cups
Occasional replacement items, like the new camera we bought when we lost our old one
Occasional gifts, although we try to give Compacty gifts (like used things or certificates to restaurants, massages, trains, etc.)

But I now cut out card board cereal boxes and the like for paper for painting with the kids and find other ways of reusing items in new ways. We also have let go of so many things since Compacting. Hey,if we aren't using it, we should pass it on so that someone else doesn't buy it new.

Check out www.freecycle.com for more give away/trade ideas. Let me know if you have any other questions! Our year of Compacting ends in August but I don't think we will ever really go back to the way we lived before. Not that we were shopaholics, but there were several times Scott would come home to see a bag from IKEA or Target and say, "Seriously, where are we going to STORE that thing!?"

Copycats

2007-02-22T16:31:00.000-08:00

After reading this, and then re-reading my own post on the subject here, I had a few more thoughts about why Grace and Natalie don't like to be ready in time, nor are they inclined to clean up after themselves.

Here is a short list:
1. my shoes are in the hallway, where I left them when I nursed Natalie down for a nap in the guest room.
2. The dishes from the pancakes we excitedly and spontaneously made this morning are on the counter, calcifying the batter onto their surfaces as we speak.
3. I just finished my Christmas thank you cards last week. Yes, I realize it is February.
4. I have a half a dozen household projects half finished: starting composting, starting a little vegetable garden, organizing the pictures we received for Christmas cards into a little photo album for the girls, making a behavior sticker chart for Grace, etc.

Could it be that, far from ignoring Mommy, my daughters are just working their hardest to emulate Mommy? Hmmm??

We'll be okay.

2007-02-22T16:08:00.000-08:00

I didn't pray for a girl or a boy, but I did dare to hope the baby would be a redhead. When Grace sprung outside my womb three and a half years ago, the first words I remember hearing were from my mom, joyfully announcing, "It's a girl!" It looked like a little bit of strawberry blond fuzz was growing on her head, and I was ecstatic.

“Google this disease: Alopecia areata.”

“Isn’t that something about the immune system?”

That fuzz eventually grew into red curls at the nape of her neck, and then into the wavy bob she sports today. For all my talk about girls being defined by more than their physical beauty, I love Grace’s unique red hair that flounces around her head, unkempt, as she runs in the courtyard outside of her preschool classroom.

Won’t ever make her sick…not contagious…

While pregnant with Natalie, I dreamed one night of two little girls, one slightly taller than the other, one with slightly redder hair and one with slightly blonder hair, running in front of me down a busy sidewalk. They were laughing and holding hands. While tense about the cars whizzing past, I also felt such joy that the siblings would run off happily like that. I correctly interpreted the dream to mean that with two little ones, life would be amazing and happy, but it would always feel a little out of control, just slightly beyond my reach.

You can use hats or bandanas when it gets bad….it probably will grow back next year…

Natalie’s blonde bob was so fly-away her first year that we threw her a crazy hair-themed first birthday party and asked guests to come with crazy hair. Sometimes the girls get a treat and I spring for the cool kids’ hair salon, complete with airplane seats and Dora the Explorer on the TV. Usually, their hair is cut by Mommy, while sitting on the kitchen counter.

…see an Eastern doctor…her trigger could be dietary or stress-related…here’s the name of my homeopath…

The first nickel-sized bald spot didn’t phase me. The second, quarter-sized spot prompted a visit to the doctor. It took a pediatrician, a family med doctor, and a skin disease reference book for them to come up with the diagnosis: Alopecia, an autoimmune disorder in which her immune system attacks her hair follicles.

Half of those diagnosed re-grow their hair in a year, no problem. Then there’s 45% that lose more and struggle with patchy baldness, sometimes affecting up to half of their hair, for years and years. That leaves 5% who lose all of their hair on their head or all of their hair on their entire body. Kids have a higher re-growth rate (yay!), but they also are more likely to have recurring hair loss later if they develop Alopecia before puberty (argh).

How do you react when your child is diagnosed with an incurable disease that doesn’t make her sick but might cause her to lose lots of that gorgeous crown of strawberry blonde waves? We began by being thankful she isn’t sick. That is isn’t contagious. That if she does lose her hair, it will be a million times better than a kid who is bald due to leukemia or chemo. That she is being raised in a family that consciously tries not to attach too much importance to physical beauty. As Shawna eloquently said, children with problems and diseases are going to be born. Scott and I were given one. We were entrusted with a child who might lose her hair. Aren’t I glad this child is being raised by me, and not by some parent who has over-glorified physical beauty to the extreme?

Then after about a week we got angry. Angry that the doctor told us to Google the disease instead of answering my questions face to face. Angry that she wouldn’t give us a dermatology referral. We will get a second opinion from a different doctor and will also see a respected Eastern medical doctor after reading information online about non-traditional approaches. A friend with Alopecia suggested that a homeopath help us determine what Grace’s triggers are. We feel good about our approach. We're doing everything right, as my friend Michelle reassured me.

I decided to go two directions simultaneously, which puts me in a slightly hypocritical position, as Michelle also pointed out. One, we are going to continue making a home that doesn’t glorify physical beauty. I have decided to not blow dry and style my hair in front of Grace. We point out strong, kind, and successful people we know who are balding or lack typical physical beauty. Grace knows her hair might grow back but she might lose more. She isn’t too concerned yet; after all, she’s only three.

The second direction is to pursue all options available to try to nip this hair loss in the bud. This would indicate that hair and physical beauty are, indeed, important to us. And they are. I will have to get used to these inconsistencies if I want to simultaneously protect her psyche and her strawberry blonde crown. While we can’t forget which of those is more important, it is fair to say that we care about them both. I won’t pretend that no one cares about hair or hair loss, but I refuse to be horrified by the thought of Grace with an early Ani ‘do. I will not stand over her head while she sits doing a puzzle, fretting over every new strand that falls out. I will not comb her hair every morning for 15 minutes, exasperatedly trying to hide the bald patches.

Maybe she will want hair extensions to hide the bald spots. Maybe we will find the environmental or dietary trigger and she’ll never lose hair again. And maybe a proud balding Grace will redefine what beauty means to those who grow up with her.

“Dr. Roby!” I cried, in mock distress, “You are such a good vet! You fixed my parrot’s beak, helped heal my kitten’s broken tail, and solved my dog’s stomach ache! Can you help with my horse?”

“Sure! What’s the problem?” Grace asked, holding her stethoscope up to the truck I was pretending was a horse. God, what else is usually wrong with animals? I couldn’t think of anything.

“She is losing her hair.” The words sprang from my mouth before I had the chance to sensor them. I stopped and looked at her. With a furrowed brow, she examined the truck carefully. I could have kicked myself. We had set the game up so that Dr. Roby fixed whatever problem I brought her. I feared she would think there was only one solution here.

“Can she still jump and run?” She asked. I nodded.

“Stronger and higher than ever.” Grace hung the stethoscope around her neck.

“Then she’s fine.” Grace shrugged nonchalantly. I let out the breath I’d been holding.

“Thanks, Doctor! What a relief that she’ll be okay.”

Who's your Mommy?

2007-01-29T21:09:00.000-08:00

This January has brought on a new page in the book of Grace. The page of sassiness, of unwillingness, of fold-your-arms-in-front-of-you-and-glare-at-your-mommy-ness. A bit of history: for Grace’s first year, we responded to Grace’s cries, gave her a lot of freedom, and tried to meet her physical and emotional needs so that she would develop a strong sense of being cared for. Then she became a toddler and needed more boundaries than that. Every so often (sometimes too late) we tightened the reigns and helped build boundaries to guide her. Eventually (probably with the advent of Natalie when Grace was almost two years old) we added some direct discipline techniques that have been our lifesavers ever since: the timeout and the “do it before I count to three or I will make you/do it for you.”

But now Grace is three and a half, and I am realizing that there is an expiration date on both of these methods. It hit me like a Mack truck the day I struggled teaching a difficult boy in Sunday School that there is an age when I won’t physically be able to make my kids do something, or force them to sit in a timeout. I knew I needed more ammunition.

I read How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk by Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish and it seemed the natural extension of the kind of parenting Scott and I have always been drawn to. It is communication-based, with real life consequences, using language that builds kids up instead of tearing them down. And, according to the authors, it is more effective than continuing down the road of timeouts and authoritarian punishment. So I began to use my new skills around the holidays. Instead of saying, “Put your shoes in the cubby or I will make you,” I would say, “Your shoes are on the floor.” (Say what you see.) “They belong in the cubby.” (State the expectation.) “Do you think you can help solve this problem?” (Give the child a chance to decide for herself what to do.)

What a great way to open-endedly invite a child to problem solve! What an empowering way to phrase a request! What a load of horse shit! Instead of responding as the kids in the book did with a “Well, I could put them away, Mommy,” she took my conversational approach as a sign that the Great Debate had begun.

Grace: “How about you put them away, Mommy?”
Mommy: “We all take care of our own things, Grace. I will put my shoes away and you will put yours away.”
Grace: “We can help each other. You put mine away and I will do yours later.” See? She's crafty.
Mommy: “No, you do yours now.”

Grace: “Mommy do it.” (Trotting off to color with her markers)
Mommy, in a fit, “GRACE! PUT THE SHOES IN THE CUBBY OR I WILL MAKE YOU!!!!”
Grace: “I don’t like it when you YELL AT ME!”
Mommy: “I DON’T LIKE IT WHEN YOU DON’T PICK UP YOUR STUFF LIKE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO! I WOULDN’T BE YELLING IF YOU WOULD JUST BLAH BLAH BLAH”

This was just the beginning. She couldn’t clean up the toys one day with Grammy and Grandpa Chuck because her arms were cold. After retrieving her blanket and wrapping it around herself, she couldn’t clean up because--get this--her arms were stuck under the blanket. And on and on. One day she actually asked me, “What will you do if I don’t do it?” That was not a good day.

I couldn’t place my finger on the reason these methods weren’t working with Grace, but I began to compile a list of possibilities:

1. She is too young. (Although her ability to out-maneuver me in conversation seems to go against that theory. She is clearly old enough to have a conversation about what needs to be done.)
2. She is too smart for me. (Well, we have known this for a long time. This is one of the unfortunate side effects of mating with someone more intelligent than you.)
3. She senses that I am less willing to move to a timeout and is testing the boundary, wondering where it will be, not realizing that I am using an entirely different approach that isn’t based on an immediate consequence.
4. I am not good at this approach yet and need to practice (blame Mommy).
5. I am not cut out for this approach (i.e. I have too many control issues to allow her this much freedom at this age).
6. Scott has not read the book and isn’t using the new methods and so it is confusing her (yes, let’s blame Daddy).

It finally hit me that here is exactly where I was going wrong: I was turning the new method into a debate with a sassy three year old. The point isn’t to debate her or to convince her to follow a household custom (that’s my nice word for “rule”). The point is to give her the chance to come up with the solution. But if that doesn’t happen imminently, and especially if the solution is really an agreed upon “household custom,” there must be a quick, passionless consequence. Instead of letting the discussion escalate until she is telling me to do it and I want to fly into a rage, I need to more quickly execute a calm, natural consequence.

If the shoes aren’t put in their cubby, that shows she can’t take care of so many shoes, and I will take them and leave only one pair out for several days. If the clothes aren’t put in the drawers after she throws them all over her room, I will take whatever’s out and put it up for a week. Same with books. Art supplies. You name it; it’s been “put up” at some point in the last three weeks. Instead of putting her in a timeout, we put the items she isn't caring for in a timeout. We usually keep the items up for a couple of days, and definitely at least through an episode of her asking for them and being upset that they are unavailable. Now that she knows we are serious about her comlying, things are better.

I also realized that I was always stressed trying to get us out of the house on time. I would be running around, making snacks, gathering jackets, filling sippy cups, etc., and Grace would be humming quietly, drawing at the kitchen counter. Every time I’d pass by, I’d say, tensely, “Grace, get your shoes and put the markers away ‘cause we’re leaving in five minutes!” And each time I would be more panicked and she would just continue drawing blithely. It hit me that she needn’t panic. Mom was bearing the responsibility for getting out the door. Well, no more, sister. She has her responsibilities and I have mine and if she is not ready when the dinger dings, we aren’t going.

And then, all of the sudden, the sassiness disappeared. I still only sometimes was successful at executing the appropriate consequence, and I still only sometimes kept my cool, but regardless, she just kind of bounced back to her old self. And this was the most recent realization: kids just push and pull from time to time and it might have nothing at all to do with your parenting style or the amount of timeouts you’ve given in the last week. They are supposed to feel their way around as they become more and more independent. This means challenging us and yes, being sassy at times.

Today we had to break the Compact and buy new storage bins at Target since she dumped out every piece of clothing in the dresser and refused to put them back. She so clearly wanted to see what I would do. You wouldn’t believe the panic on her face as I folded her favorite dresses and put them in the bin. I put everything in the bin save three outfits and a few jammies. Let me tell you, she was panicked. This made me happy. And instead of feeling stressed, angry, and forced to constantly fold these clothes ONE MORE TIME, I felt giddy that I would never have to walk into that room to a flood of clothes again.

At least not until she’s over a decade old. Then all bets are off. Luckily there’s a How to Talk So Teens Will Listen book, too. As long as she learns how to fold clothes between now and then, I think we’ll survive.

Who's your Daddy?

2007-01-12T16:28:00.000-08:00

Who, or what, is your authority? In a month when everyday brings a new struggle with getting Grace to comply with the needs of the household, authority has been on my mind a lot. More on Grace, Natalie, and discipline later. For now, an exploration of authority through the lens of teaching Sunday School.

It was my second time volunteering in this Sunday School classroom. I knew a lot of the kids’ faces but few names. I barely knew the other teacher. But I had seen this particular boy give some trouble to her last time and reminded myself to tread lightly and allow him to control his destiny, which would be to comply with our wishes, on his own terms. I can do this. I can outsmart him. I know he just wants an inch of control and if I recognize that, he will comply. He was refusing to gather around the teacher for the lesson after individual work time.

“Hey, P., do you want to help with the chairs or the mats?” I asked nonchalantly but with constant eye contact. I’m no rookie. Years of middle school teaching, not to mention raising two toddlers, had prepared me for this moment. With this type, the less of a battle, the better. But recognizing my attempt at offering choices for what it really was, he balked and continued coloring. He raised his face enough to smile at me, a handsome, round-faced smile that said, I’m no rookie, either. My mind began to turn. It’s true—he is being rushed and doesn’t like it. He didn’t get to finish his activity and psychologically can’t join a new one until he finishes. Then, Rubbish! We gave them plenty of time and several warnings. He is old enough to prepare for a transition.

“P., it looks like you’re not done, and I bet you want to finish your drawing. Why don’t you leave your stuff out so you can finish after Ms. K does the presentation?” I paused to watch his face. Unreadable. Hmm. I continued, “She is ready to begin and we need you to come over.” I pulled a chair over for him and walked towards him, my body language and tone of voice indicating that he has missed the window of lenience and now I will force the issue. I am, after all, an authority here.

He stood up and walked over to the stack of chairs, refusing my offer and pulling one down for himself. Interesting. He sat with his work on his lap, still drawing. I decided that this was his offer of a compromise. The other kids were all seated and Ms. K was informally talking with them so as not to draw too much attention to P. I was thankful for the low voices that pretended to mask the struggle P. and I were having. Then he scooted his chair back three or four feet, away from the group, and scribbled on the paper. This is ridiculous. This isn’t even about him not being done. This is an ego thing. I imagined sitting next to him and asking him to put the work down. I imagined trying to take the paper away. He was nine years old and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get it from him. I thought about just allowing him to draw back there, and then remembered the rest of the kids, some of whom also had to abandon their work to join the group. They had an ear on Ms. K and an ear on P. and me. What’s the new teacher going to do with P.? I think we all wondered that together.

I got down so that my head was lower than his. I tilted it to the side, my body language almost acknowledging his dominance. “You’re having a hard time letting go of that work.” My voice was soft. He smiled, probably wondering why, if I was letting him off, I was still pursuing it. Then I went in for the kill. “You can put your work down and sit in your chair with the group, or you can sit next to me in the front.” He shook his head and clutched the paper. I immediately realized my error. All was surmountable until I misjudged him for a dominant stubborn type. A dominant child will actually recognize an authority when confronted and often comply when forced. His refusal showed me he was more of a trapped animal, not knowing how to get out, than a savvy competitor, acquiescing for now.

Ms. K stepped in. “P., you need to sit with the other kids. It isn’t fair to them if you draw back there by yourself.” He still refused and she insisted again, kindly. If attention was what he wanted, here it was. He blushed and scooted back to the group. I was shocked he hadn’t milked the attention when he had it. Again, I had misjudged him for somewhat of a showboat. He passed me a glance that seemed triumphant, though. I couldn’t make him comply, but Ms. K could.

That’s when it hit me. I can analyze his defiance all day long. But no psychoanalysis or discipline tricks will work with certain people unless they have a relationship with that authority. It’s the typical mentality of school kids misbehaving with a substitute teacher: “We don’t have to listen to you! You aren't our teacher!”

Then my mind shifted—something about the term “authority” made me think of scripture and God and the way people are supposed to bow under the authority of scripture or something and I almost laughed. We are all like P., frightened but unwilling to submit to God, to trust Him. We are all shaking our heads, clutching our work, inching backwards, wanting what's best for ourselves but afraid to let someone else show us the way. How can humans ever submit to an authority we don’t have a relationship with? If I don’t feel in my gut that God knows me or loves me, I can’t fully submit to Him. All interpretation about whether scripture itself is an authority aside (for now), we are not going to follow any sort of a divine presence if it is foreign to us.

Perhaps this is why Jesus is so successful at bringing people to God. He is God as one of us, a brother, already in a relationship with us because he feels our joy and sorrow. We don’t gaze at him with mistrusting eyes; we can intuit his connection to us. So let our foundational message about God be that He already knows us and loves us. That He is not foreign, but right here with us. Let’s allow people (including our children and ourselves) to spend time building an awareness of that relationship before expecting people to respond with obedience.

Gender, Part II: Subservient = sexy

2006-12-08T14:51:00.000-08:00

Finally! Part II of my Gender post.

Let's create a toy for very young children that teaches them to narrow their expectations for themselves. Let's make it the kind of toy that encourages them to abandon several of their own dreams and talents, instead focusing them on skills far less meaningful to society. Make sure it is a toy whose impact stretches not only throughout childhood but into adulthood as well, creating unattainable expectations for their future relationships. It doesn't matter what boys and girls are actually interested in; we will put this new toy in front of them so often, with such ferocity, that they will either embrace and adore the toy or will be somewhat ostracized or labeled as weird.

From Barbie to Bratz to the Disney princess phenomenon, girls are surrounded by toys (with accompanying DVD's, sippy cups, clothing lines, and bedding) that teach them that their success will be derived from how sexually attractive they are to men. Is being attractive to the opposite sex important? In most cases, yes. Is it worth teaching to girls? At some point, probably (in subtle ways). Should we design all paraphernalia for girls age 2 months and up to be focused on being pretty, subservient, and well-mannered? Has anyone actually asked these questions?

There are several posts out in blog world about these issues. Take a peak if you are interested:

Redneck Feminist writes about how the Disney princess culture teaches girls to expect beautiful weddings and empty marriages, and how girls become addicted to praise and to pleasing others.

Daring Young Mom writes about lessons learned from The Little Mermaid. The comments alone are worth reading.

Daddy Daze takes up the subject a few times. Here is one post on it. Read Da Momma's comments for my favorite point of view. To deal with her daughter's obsession with the princesses, she lets her have all the stuff but makes up new stories that are empowering, well, as empowering as it can be when you daughter daily dresses up in glitter tiaras and pink boas. But still.

Many people bemoan the way teenage girls and women are obsessed with their looks. But haven't we been teaching them all along that girls are defined by what they look like? I spend a lot of time around boys and girls ages birth to four years old, and the number of comments that little girls get on their appearances, compared to boys, is stunning to me. Yesterday, I heard a parent tell his son to "Look at Jenny! Whoo hoo! Isn't she a hottie?" 'Jenny' is three and was wearing a cutsie girl outfit that was sweet, although not necessarily sexy. This father's tone was very playful and loving. I realize it may come across as creepier than it really was--it wasn't actually creepy at all. But when parents continually draw their own attention, as well as their sons' attention, to little girls' looks, it reinforces to the girls that this is how they are evaluated. I even complemented a friend today on her daughter's cute outfit while saying nothing of her son's. See? I am contributing to it, as well. Argh.

I know, I know, girls and women (and boys and men) are evaluated on their looks. I don't argue that, nor do I even think it is necessarily always a bad thing. (Isn't it fair for people to be attracted to a certain type of look in a mate? Isn't it fair for a boss to want a well-groomed employee doing her customer service?) But what has happened in our culture is that girls are being raised with the notion that good looks trump every other skill or trait they might have. And their social success hangs upon being and looking pleasing to men.

For a fascinating and well-researched book that chronicles the progression in 19th and 20th century white, middle class, American girls from an obsession with "good works" to one with "good looks," please see Joan Jacobs Brumberg's remarkable work, The Body Project.

There are a lot of positive traits in the Disney princesses. It's nice to be nice. It is nice to be humble, to be helpful, to...wear seashells over your tits for an entire movie? Come on! Almost all of the positive role-modely aspects of Cinderella, Belle, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, and Ariel are way over shadowed by their unreasonably thin waists and over-pleasing personalities. But what gets me the most is that the heroine stories we feed our daughters are about romance completing a woman's life. Even Mulan, an otherwise good attempt at a positive role model, ends up romantically linked to the prince who...spent their whole relationship thinking she was a man? Really, it is out of nowhere. But I get it. All the success in the world (saving China! Hello!) isn't fulfilling unless the girl is seen as sexually (or romantically, in kid terms) attractive to a man.

This is the point that has the lasting negative effect on girls. You can argue that Ariel wasn't about Eric, but was using him for her purposes. But the reality is that the important struggle in her story is that success comes after successfully attracting a man. It isn't wrong for humans to want a mate or to want to attract the opposite sex. What is wrong is that three year old girls are being taught that pleasing men in a sexual way is critical to their own success. We shouldn't be shocked at the things 13 year old girls do to become popular. We have been teaching them all along that if Dylan and Ryan think she is sexy, she will be accepted.

Male approval is important. This is why I think it is critical that young girls have positive relationships with men and boys that are not based on physical looks or sexual attraction. It kills me when parents of boys that play with Grace make references to them "dating" or to a supposed attraction between them. "Please," I want to plead, "Let Grace know that she is worth more to a boy than her potential to put out at a later date." These boys will grow into future friends and co-workers of girls like Grace, and I hope we haven't over-trained them to look at every female through the lens of, "Is she beddable?" Fathers and adult men can also play a role in validating girls in non-sexual ways. Girls should spend time regularly with their Dads, or if there is no dad, then with a male friend, grandparent, or the like. This man should go to her ballet recitals, soccer games, and birthday parties. He should complement her often on the things she can do that are not sexual or attractiveness-oriented. She should learn early that she already has the attention of important men, and that she needn't blow every guy in the 8th grade to feel accepted by the opposite sex.

I can tell already that there are interests Grace has that boys her age do not, and vice versa. My goal is to encourage her natural interests without using media and toys that capitalize on her interest to additionally teach that weakness and helplessness is attractive in a woman, that a good girl pleases men first and foremost, and that true success only comes to women by becoming sexually attractive and subservient to men. Play with dolls? Yes. Barbies? No. Watch Maisy? Yes. Disney princess movie? No. Let her rock babies to sleep and care for them all day? Yes. Let her live her early childhood without seeing any other mothers go to a paying job? No. Let her wear pink dresses? God, yes. Tell her she looks cute? Yes. Constantly validate her for being cute all day long? I try not to.

By the comments I have gotten from other moms, even my close friends, I know I am not normal. I was asked three times in the same week, "Why are you like this?" The tone ranged from incredulous that I even care about this issue to curious as to why I bother. These gender posts have come out of wanting to explain myself. I was raised in a family and community where girls were validated for all sorts of successes: athletic, academic, social, artistic. I am only seeking to do the same with my own children. It is absolutely shocking to me that my other peers are surprised by my desire to shield Grace and Natalie from negative feminine stereotypes. I thought we were all raised in the same generation and similarly desire our nation's daughters to not be bound by negative expectations of what femininity is. I challenge adults to allow our children to explore their own natural interests. We will certainly find that many boys will still be drawn to action games and mechanics. And many girls will still want to hold dolls and have tea parties. But these children will also be allowed to explore other interest areas, and most importantly, won't be learning that subservience to men is sexy and expected in every girl.

Judgement House update

2006-11-02T15:35:00.000-08:00

I knew this was a possibility when I wrote my post about Judgement House: the lead pastor at El Toro Baptist Church somehow stumbled upon my blog and commented. Feel free to go to the comments and check out his very gentle and helpful words.

As I wrote the original post, I was careful to make sure it passed the “true Christian test,” i.e. I didn’t want to say “You all are horrible Christians and I am going to tell you so because that’s what good Christians do; we judge each other with mean spirited sarcasm!” So when I saw that Pastor Mike has commented, my first reaction was relief that I had been careful with my words in that post. And I was also relieved as I read his words, which were written with a similar tone of respect.

For every one of my hypothetical accusations of them being a fire and brimstone, exclusivist, anger-preaching church that conveniently opposes anything different from themselves (like people of other faiths, gays, etc.), he could have met with an insistence that I am a typical liberal Christian who is destroying the meaning of Christianity because I embrace worldly and popular views of God and that I refuse to be obedient to the true message of God, picking and choosing the passages of the Bible that meet my own compass-less standard.

I’ve heard the arguments on both sides and I can say that none of these arguments should come out of a Christian’s mouth. We can disagree, but there is no hope for the world if Christians treat even their own kind with such venom and intentional misunderstanding. So thank you God for moving Pastor Mike and me beyond accusations and towards communication.

I wrestled with actually going to Judgement House but decided that while it would have given me a better perspective, I still fundamentally would disagree with the goal.

As Pastor Mike wrote, we do have an awesome God. God has been reaching out to all humanity over the millennia. Our faith traditions, including the Hebrew faith from which we came as early Christians, are all each culture's small human way to put into words the love God has for them and vice versa.

I realize that the early church prayed and decided that the point of Jesus primarily was to be the sacrificial lamb for our sins (atonement theory). But I wonder if the opposing viewpoints in the early Christian movement were more accurate: that Jesus came to clarify what God is like and how to be more like Him and have a relationship with Him. And Jesus defined that as having a relationship with each other.

A Hindu friend of mine who sometimes comments on my blog (Franz) told me that there is a part of his tradition where the devout people worship the worshippers, in addition to worshipping the divine. Because when you pray to God for help, it comes in the form of other humans. This resonated so distinctly with what Jesus tells us about being "in us" and caring for him by the "least of these."

This is just one example of hundreds where major faith traditions have subtle and not so subtle similarities. I can only deduce from these "coincidences" and from seeing God work in the lives of people from other faiths that although they don't worship God in the name of Jesus, it is in fact the same God and will be acceptable to Him. Our own tradition states that there is only one God. Muslims say that there is no god but God. Hindus have several gods because God is so big and multi-faceted that seeing Him in one incarnation is impossible. Christians express this in the Trinity. But when I pray to the Holy Spirit on a daily basis, I am not praying to some entity other that Jesus. Couldn’t we stop limiting God and allow for the possibility that a Navajo honoring the Great Spirit is doing the same thing?

Obviously this is deeper and more complicated that a blog post can address. Pastor Mike, I know you read the Bible differently than I do in general. How to reconcile the difficult Bible passages with the over-arching message of love and salvation is a topic for another day. But just know that I haven't arrived at this place by ignoring the unpopular passages of the Bible. It is through looking at the way the Bible was written, and looking at each passage's purpose and context that I have realized that the Bible points to God. The Bible is not God. Paul spoke of Jesus. Paul and his words are not Jesus. And worshipping the Bible instead of Jesus' message of radical love is idolatry.

There are several passages in scripture where Jesus talks about throwing the wicked into a burning furnace. But he is not speaking of eternal damnation. He is using the symbol of a furnace to be a purifying mechanism for the wicked people and for the wickedness in all of us. Fire and furnaces are symbols in the Old Testament of affliction and testing, but not as punishment. The purpose of the fire is to refine. Look at how fire and furnace was used in Jewish scripture:

Deut. 4:20: But the LORD has taken you and brought you out of the iron furnace, out of Egypt, to be His people, an inheritance, as you are this day.

Psalm 12:6 The words of the LORD are pure words, Like silver tried in a furnace of earth, Purified seven times.

Proverbs 17:3 The refining pot is for silver and the furnace for gold, But the LORD tests the hearts.

Isaiah 31:9 He shall cross over to his stronghold for fear, And his princes shall be afraid of the banner," Says the LORD, Whose fire is in Zion And whose furnace is in Jerusalem.

Isaiah 48:10 Behold, I have refined you, but not as silver; I have tested you in the furnace of affliction.

I went to a home group Bible study today where we meditated on Jesus’ teachings of the greatest commandment, as written in Mark 12:28-34:

One of the teachers of the law came and heard them debating. Noticing that Jesus had given them a good answer, he asked him, "Of all the commandments, which is the most important?"
"The most important one," answered Jesus, "is this: 'Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.' The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these."
"Well said, teacher," the man replied. "You are right in saying that God is one and there is no other but him. To love him with all your heart, with all your understanding and with all your strength, and to love your neighbor as yourself is more important than all burnt offerings and sacrifices."
When Jesus saw that he had answered wisely, he said to him, "You are not far from the kingdom of God." And from then on no one dared ask him any more questions.

We are not far from His kingdom when we understand that God is one. That we are to love Him. That we are to love others, and love ourselves. I am glad that Pastor Mike and his church are motivated by Christ to do something to bring the gospel to others. The gospel I bring to the world is that the kingdom of heaven is here, in us. That God forever glorified the human existence by entering it as Jesus. That we all have that potential in us.

Doing Great.

2006-10-27T13:40:00.000-07:00

Having buckled the girls into their high chairs, and having plopped two heaps of Annie's Mac 'n cheese on their plates, I was sitting on the kitchen stool drinking an apple juice/Bacardi rum combo and devouring the new issue of Mothering Magazine. Yes, we usually wait for Daddy, eat around the table together, pray, talk about our days, etc. but it was 6:15, Daddy was running late, the girls were stealing the neighbor's bagel at the greenbelt across the street out of hunger, and after a day like that, I wasn’t doing too great and I really needed to put them on autopilot for 20 minutes.

Now that Mothering Magazine only comes every other month, I am so needy for its natural family validation and advice that I am known to hibernate with it until I finish each issue. This one didn't disappoint. A thought-provoking article by a pacifist on why banning war play and violent games can actually backfire (it turns out that children, especially boys, use violent play to explore important developmental issues such as power, control, authority, and healing). A tear jerker from a mom who had the unknown biological sibling of her two adopted children contact them when they were all teenagers, forcing her and her husband to revisit their children’s discomfort with why their birth mom would give away yet another baby (it turns out the teens were overjoyed to meet this newfound family member and it made them feel even more wanted by their blood family, not less). Natural toy choices for the holiday season (check out this cool website for many of my favorites, especially the cooperation-minded board games for preschoolers and costumes/dramatic play items. Yes that is a hint, family members). I interspersed each article with sips of the overly sweet but somehow perfect cocktail, creating just the right buzz and allowing me to feel I had achieved "me time." (Don’t fault me for the kiddy cocktail. We are out of red wine.)

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grace reaching for Natalie's plate and I focus to see if I need to intervene. Their laughter invades my concentration on a great letter to the editor about our bottle-feeding culture as I look up to see the girls swapping plates and cracking each other up. "Okay, Nally, you want this one?" Hysterical laughter from Natalie as Grace thrusts one plate towards her. "Or this one?" More laughter as Grace throws her head back, smiling and exclaiming to no one in particular, "She doesn't even KNOW what she wants!"

I begin to crack up and return to my magazine. This scene is repeated several times as Natalie now decides to take Grace's plate and now Grace pretends to be the baby who doesn’t know which plate is hers. Their happy interaction begins to shame me for my self-absorbed cocktail and magazine me-time. What fun parenting moment am I missing out on for the sake of some above average rum and stories about not missing out on parenting? I roll my eyes at the irony as I close the magazine and turn to involve myself in their fun when it hits me. This is their fun. I didn't orchestrate this moment. It wasn't brought to you my mom and the letter C. It grew organically despite my lack of attention, or (I began to realize) perhaps because of my lack of attention.

So, laugh on, girls. You have officially both replaced me as each other's most important companion. It seems sudden, but this has actually been in the works for a while. Both of you as babies wouldn't sleep anywhere except next to mom in the big bed, and now you lie beside each other on a mattress on the floor of the bedroom you share. You who would beg for mom to get in the tub for your nightly bath now close the sliding door to us and dump water on each other's heads and laugh.

Daddy walks in on this laughing/smashing pasta/apple juice cocktail dinner about 10 minutes later, and exclaims, "Wow. You look great. You all do." I can see on his face that he might have been expecting pandemonium and saw something different this night. "We are great," I reply. "They are great," pointing to the girls, "And I am great," I finish, turning away from them towards my magazine. And I am. Feeling great, that is.

Girls and Math article

2006-10-20T22:18:00.000-07:00

I have a few things brewing, but just saw this and wanted to post it since it had to do with my first gender post.

http://www.cnn.com/2006/EDUCATION/10/19/women.math.ap/index.html

Notice how the study doesn't comment on whether or not there are differences in math skills between males and females. It seeks to show that a perceived female weakness is a self-fullfilling prophesy.

Let them know we are Christians

2006-10-11T14:46:00.000-07:00

The card was addressed "To: Our Neighbor" at my address. It was from El Toro Baptist Church, an evangelical church in my area. It was an invitation to "Judgement House," (that is their misspelling of “judgment”) and here is the text of the invite:

"Judgement House is a walk-through drama presentation that tells the story of one evening in the lives of four teenagers who through a series of events must face the consequences of their choices for eternity.

The consequences of those choices will be revealed as you tour their eternal destinations and consider yours.

October 28-31. 6:00 PM till 10:00 PM. Reserve your tour in advance. We look forward to seeing you there! There is no charge for admission. Not recommended for children under the age of 12."

The company that equips churches to present Judgement House also has its own website. At the end of the walk-through, guests are offered the opportunity to accept the free gift of salvation. The average U.S. covenant church “experienced 6 salvations per hour of presentation!”

Let’s pray for a moment before continuing. God, you are the ultimate Truth, the Source of Life, indescribable, indefinable, the One whose love knows no bounds. Please guide us to your love; show us how to bring you into our hearts, and fill us with your Peace. Amen.

Okay, I feel in a better place now. Here we go.

The people of this church are so filled with God’s love, and so eager to share His radical message of redemption and peace for mankind, and so moved by their own experiences with His divine touch, that they pow-wowed on how to reach out to the community so that they can share this love with others, and this is what they came up with? A PG-13 rated scare tactic? Has Christianity stooped so low that we need to scare our friends and neighbors into believing in Christ?

While we ponder that question for a minute, I would like to reflect on Jesus and His teachings. His own “drama activism,” if you will. The way he drew large crowds of people together only to bewilder them by defying the cultural norms of the time by touching sick people, speaking with unmarried women, allowing menstruating women to touch him, sharing food that had not been purified with people who were not meant to eat together. Let’s reflect on the way He went out of his way to include the “other.” The way he often disappointed even His own followers with his message of love. They wanted a revolutionary; what they got was revolutionary love.

This is the man I worship as my God. The more of His presence I bring into my life, the more I realize that Jesus saves, not because we one day say “Jesus is my Savior!” but because knowing Jesus means that you know the depth of God’s love for you. It means that you know the depth of God’s love for that person next to you. It means that you can be so buoyed by God’s abiding love that you don’t seek the fulfillment of your own needs, but instead seek to meet others’ needs.

Everything I have learned about God through Jesus Christ, both in scripture and in experience, points me towards wanting to drastically change my life so that I am not about me, but about Him. So that the only needs I have are to meet other’s needs. So that the line between “others” and me is blurred. So that the line between God and others and me is blurred. "On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you" (John 14:20). So that we all are empowered by the Holy Spirit to do God’s work in the world, to transform any given moment into God’s kingdom.

This is so much more radical than one day saying that Jesus is Lord. If we are counting and measuring “salvation” by how many people say that Jesus is God per hour of programming, we have missed it. Jesus did not reach out to thousands, challenge his own religion and culture, and die on the cross so that people would say He is king. He did it to show the kind of human we are supposed to be.

So I return to Judgement House. Undeniably, the people putting it on believe that if they don’t act, their neighbors’ souls will end up in eternal hell. I understand that they feel they have to do something, anything, to get people to come to Christ. I know Jesus spoke of the fire and of Judgment Day. But there are alternate ways (see also this) to interpret these quotes that are more consistent with all we know about Jesus through his other teachings and actions. Ultimately, would our God be pleased with the fearful worship of people trying to avoid their own suffering? Was Christ afraid of suffering? If we are to be Christ-like, we must not live out our faith as a fearful exercise to avoid suffering. We must live our lives awash in God’s love.

Let them know we are Christians, not by the way we frighten our neighbors into wanting to avoid pain, but by the way we are willing to endure anything or any pain to help our neighbors. Let them know we are Christians by our love. And they will come to worship what is good, what is giving, what is God. Amen.

Gender, Part I: "be girly or else"

2006-09-23T21:24:00.000-07:00

Let me just get this out of the way: men and women (and also boys and girls) are biologically different from each other. There are certainly physical differences, as well as observable psychological differences, that can't be denied. I will never argue that men and women are the same. My concerns are not about the biological differences, but with the pressures of our society that magnify, ritualize, and eroticize those differences to the detriment of both sexes.

Here's an example: men have larger bodies than women. Their shoulders are broader, their muscles larger. They are on average taller than women. What have we done with this difference? We have magnified it by expecting boys/men to get larger muscles and expecting girls/women to be skinnier and diminutive. We have ritualized these expectations by making body size awareness a part of coming of age (which is happening earlier and earlier these days, btw. More on that in Part II). And we have eroticized it by holding up bulky men as the sexy ones, and skinny, frail women as beautiful.

I know women (who are we kidding? I dare you to find a woman for whom this is NOT true!) who hang their own sexiness almost 100% on how skinny they are. There are dire consequences to this exaggeration of difference, most easily seen in the tragedy of eating disorders in girls or the abuse of steroids amongst boys. Is highlighting, magnifying, and eroticizing the slight difference in body size worth the price our children are paying? If your answer is, “No!” then we need to be careful about the images we allow our children to see (advertisements) and the language we use with them (“oh, what a big, strong boy you are” vs. “oh, what an adorable cute little girl you are”).

Here's another dare: find me a difference between men and women--a measurable, biological difference, that our society hasn't tried to magnify and eroticize.

Another way that male and female "traits" get pushed on our kids is the toys we direct them to. We buy our 6 month old girls little dolls (even though all they are learning to do is grab, stack, and open things) and we buy our baby boys Tonka trucks. When we see a baby while on a walk with our daughters, we ooh and aah over the cute little baby, but it is the construction site down the block that we marvel over with our sons. And then when our five year old daughters are playing tea party with their dolls and our five year old sons are working on the race car track, we smile and say, "Isn't it amazing how boys and girls are drawn to different things?!" This kills me. If you want your daughter to be girly (or whatever you think feminine is), go ahead and push her towards that. But don’t look up five years later and say that she is super girly by nature.

Hello?! Am I the only one who doesn't want to actively push Grace and Natalie towards typical feminine pursuits, while ignoring all the other diverse toys that are out there? It's not that I don't want them to be the girls that they are or the women that they will become. I do not want to raise genderless children. Grace totally has a tea set. And loves it. What I want is for Grace to show me what she is interested in, and I will encourage that. Same for Natalie. Grace actually loves caring for babies. Baby dolls and puzzles are probably her favorite toys. I love that she wants to take care of them. I am especially proud when she asks for the sling or tries to nurse them. But I will not continually buy her all the doll accessories and forget that she also loves trains and that her favorite jammies have a construction scene on them with diggers. If Grace or Natalie grows up to be the most feminine girl of all time, it will be because that was her nature and we were following her interests, not because I decided to surround her with girl things to make sure she ended up being feminine.

And this brings me to my last point for this “Part I” post on gender. We have set our society up around these perceived gender differences to the extent that anything or anyone that threatens them, threatens us. Why is being called a "girl," (or try fag, pussy, etc.) such the ultimate insult for boys? We are so threatened by people who don’t fulfill their duty by being appropriately feminine or masculine, that we ridicule and alienate them for being different.

As a parent, I want to see my children grow up being valued for who they are. I don’t hold typical masculine traits as better than feminine ones, and I am not trying to strip my daughters of their natural femininity. I simply want to open them to the broad spectrum of life’s choices, instead of limiting them by shoving society’s gender expectations down their throats.

Grace plays tea party, but it is almost exclusively with Daddy, Grandpa C., Grammy, and Mike. It is critical that in our effort to open our daughters to life’s possibilities, we don’t undermine the beauty and/or importance of typical girl behaviors by having men dismiss them. I love that three of the four tea party guests are men.

In Part II:
-Finally, an answer to the all-important question, “What is wrong with Disney princesses?”
-A discussion ot “adorn them with enough accessories, and they will become mannequins.”
-Why daddy (and/or other male figures) are so important to a girl’s future sexual health

Vote for my next blog topic

2006-09-18T13:55:00.000-07:00

I'm mulling over a few new blog post ideas. Vote for your favorite:

1. Peak oil and disaster preparedness

some clips and blogs about it: http://aftermathblog.wordpress.com/multimedia/peak-oil/
doomsday-type view of the problem: http://www.lifeaftertheoilcrash.net/

2. Why I care about gender issues and about framing gender language for my children (what's wrong with Disney princesses, anyway?)

3. Moving towards a simpler existence that involves living closer to the earth in as many ways as possible, including buying nothing new and growing my own food:

Compact: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2006/02/13/BAGH3H7DH71.DTL

A simple living blog I read (the author is also a compacter): http://simplereduce.blogspot.com/

"I cried during 50 First Dates," and other confessions

2006-09-11T14:16:00.000-07:00

It's true. Yes, I know it was a B comedy with predictable jokes and some borderline offensive portrayals of Hawaiian culture. While I have been known to love me a good Adam Sandler flick, (Happy Gilmore, anyone?) I usually gravitate towards the more arty side of Hollywood (Supersize Me, The Motorcycle Diaries, In America). But something about the ending to 50 First Dates really got to me. And I am not talking about a tear in my eye kind of thing. I was sobbing. If you haven't seen it, and you want to, please stop reading. This is not a great movie, but it does have a thoughtful and somewhat unexpected ending, and spoilers are spoilers. You can come back and read this after you run to Blockbuster or move it up on your Netflix cue and watch it.

It wasn't the love story part that brought forth an epic amount of tears. It was the idea that Drew Barrymore's character, Lucy, can go through life and all of it's extreme joys and sorrows and frustrations, and not remember it. At the start of the movie, her family has things set up so that she never actually experiences any drama of life. Each day is the same day over and over again for this woman with no short term memory (the result of a car crash). We all have those boring or mildly amusing days that are unmemorable. But we also have the Big Days, when we go on a vacation, or get a job offer, or see an old friend, or make incredible love, or have a baby, or hike half dome. Lucy doesn't get to experience any of those Big Days until Adam Sandler's character, Henry, falls in love with her and demands that she live a full life, even though she won't remember it the next day.

Okay, this is the part you really shouldn't read if you haven't seen the movie. Last warning!!!

Really!!

Okay here goes. The fact that Lucy does experience all of these Big Day things: a wedding, sex, pregnancy, the baby's first kick, the birth of a child, her baby's first steps, and on and on but still can't remember is so tragic to me. The movie argues that this is better than a life unlived and I agree. But it is horrifying for me to imagine not remembering the experiences that are dearest to me: my daughter climbing a ladder for the first time, my husband holding me as I pushed her out of my body, my toddler saying her sister's name and laughing, the girls hugging their grandparents goodbye.

For the record, the same impuilse made me cry while watching Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind, another movie that plays with memory and loss. Good God I cried hard with that one. At least that movie is a respectable arty film. Remember this post? And Mike's song that goes with it? I think the reason these films and Mike's song* make me so emotional is that I fear that I do live in a state of memory loss. I remember the Big Days, but how many little moments have escaped me?

The pictures I included have Natalie as she was for something like 14 months of her life: with two fingers in her mouth. Always those same two. Other moms would stop me in the supermarket, almost in tears, saying, "Oh, my son used to suck those two fingers!! That really brings me back!" I would smile knowingly, as though I understood what is is like to have your child grow up and miss these years. The truth is, I don't truly understand that yet. Yes, I love being a mom of little ones, but when people tell me to enjoy it because it flies by, I want to politely suggest that they are on crack. But we can expound on that another day. To continue with my anecdote, there I was, not a month ago, at an Angels game, when I saw another baby with her fingers in her mouth, just like Natalie had done when it hit me that Natalie hadn't done that in, I don't know, at least a week or two. Heck, when did she stop sucking those fingers? I really hadn't noticed that she had stopped doing something so elemental to her nature until I saw it in another kid. See what I mean about daily amnesia?

So I hope, like Lucy, that I get to experience both the Big Days and the daily ups and downs of life. And unlike Lucy, I pray I can remember them all and allow these memories to evoke the experiences that I hold so dear right now in my life.

*which isn't going to be on his album and for that I can not forgive him. But still check him out here (webpage) and here (MySpace).

And I thought I was some sort of camping stud.

2006-09-06T21:35:00.000-07:00

My sister and Laura went "kayak camping" over the holiday weekend with their neighbors who have two young children. They drove to a spot near Olympic National Forest where they rented a kayak and a canoe, loaded them with a few essentials, and then paddled five miles to a remote island only reachable by boat. There, they pitched their tents and gathered firewood to camp for three days, at the end of which they kayaked back the five miles and drove home.

They made our drive-up, roadside camping experience where we had enough room to bring bags of kiddie books and wine, and were close enough to drive to the San Clemente WalMart to get a new french press, look like child's play. Humph.

On the other hand, as was the case when we were growing up and Katie was amazing at many things, I enjoy being in awe of her. Kayak camping? Who knew there was such a thing, and that you could do it on a whim with a four year old and a seven year old?

Lessons learned while camping with two small children and friends

2006-08-28T13:51:00.000-07:00

There is no such thing as too much food while camping, or too much shade at the beach.*

Buy the cheap trail mix and add your own chocolate chips. Don't be sad when the chocolate melts and makes the bag all gooey; let it harden into chunks of trail mix bar.

"Please don't put sand in your vagina!" invites all kinds of stares from onlookers at the beach.

Peanut butter is a magnificent addition to the ever-popular s'more.

Dirt is your friend.

Beach and/or shower access is good with wee ones. See previous line about sand and vaginas.

Nature really is cool enough to hold your child's attention for two days. Plus it takes twice as long to do anything camping anyway so it seems like you have half the time.

No cathedral can beat an impromptu interfaith worship service at the beach that involves the New Zealand Anglican prayer book, a catholic prayer focusing on the heart of Jesus, and a Hare Krishna chant.

Getting a baby to nap at the beach so that we can stay the whole day must put me in some sort of parenting hall of fame.

Don't fight with the one person who knows the secrets of tent assembly (i.e. your husband).

If you like camping, or imagine that you might one day enjoy it, do yourself a favor and marry an eagle scout. You will look cool to your friends when your husband can start a fire, make the tent, change the propane tank mid breakfast, make a s'more like a champion, and pack the back of your car with the precision of a NASA engineer.

Just be nice to the park rangers if they try to bust your friend for smoking weed in his car when he is actually doing his daily Hindu meditation with incense.

Make sure your friends actually brought their french press for coffee before you say, "God, I am so glad you have that french press!"

Don't let a three year old have sole control of the kite.

Go camping with friends often. It rocks.

*when you are car camping and don't have to hike it in and out of your site.

From the frontlines of motherhood

2006-08-08T21:05:00.000-07:00

True story, courtesy of Rebecca:

A mom screams her head off at her son as they sit down at the table in the food court at a local mall. He is (gasp!) about to touch the table top before she has sanitized it with bleach chemicals. (Where is the logic of putting dioxin on your child's hands?!?) But here is the irony: this safety-obsesed, health-concious mama then pulls out a happpy meal and feeds about ten grams of trans fat, sodium, and processed sugar to her 2 year old.

Another one, courtesy of Laura:

A mom is walking the aisles at Target at 8:00 pm with a tired, cranky baby. He continually gets fussier and fussier and then throws a tantrum. She turns to him and yells, "We wouldn't even BE HERE IF YOU DIDN'T NEED THE DIAPERS!" Was she really balming a 12-month old for needing diapers? And it was his fault that she took him to Target at 8:00?

And now, one about myself:

It was a stressful morning all around. I had to deliver a letter at the post office but got there (two babies out of the carseats, into strollers/slings) and then realized I hadn't brought the address. Stay cool, I muttered under my breath. We'll just move on to the next errand and do this one later. So I head over to the drug store where they are out of the kind of diapers I use. The pimpled stock girl acted like it was my fault for actually wanting that kind and didn't even apologize for not having it in stock. This, incidentally, really gets on my nerves. I can not stand it when people don't apologize when they don't have or don't do what their business is to have or do for you. I also can't stand it when customers yell at employees, so at least I am equal opportunity on that.

I swallowed my grimace and moved onto the next errand: grocery list tailored to Trader Joe's. I fight morning traffic a third time and pull into a front and center spot (could it be that things are finally going my way?) and lug my two frustrated kids back out of the car into the cart/sling. I aproach the automatic door and guess what? It doesn't open. Because the store isn't open yet. A worker walks by and says, "Ma'am, we don't open until 9:00." It was 8:15. I grabbed Grace from the cart, shoved it back against the other carts with a smack, and yelled, "Are you freaking kidding me?!?" The worker and my two children stared at me and all three appeared to be on the brink of tears as I tried to make it better by explaining it had already been a long morning and I am sorry for losing my cool, yada yada yada. The worker smiled nervously, hoping I would leave without any other strange outbursts. I got my kids into the car and sobbed with my head on the wheel.

It is so much easier to judge when we don't know the back story.

And also, what is it about motherhood that pushes me to the brink sometimes where I am crying with my head on the steering wheel in an empty parking lot? Okay, to be fair, this almost never happens (anymore) and this anecdote is several months old. But still that did actually happen to me. I was sleep-deprived, I have two young kids, it is fair to get stressed out. Sure. But with all that is going on in the world, I actually yelled at another human because her store wasn't open yet. I actually cried, sobbed, because my morning wasn't working out well. There was a mother written up on CNN two weeks ago who had been vacationing in Lebanon and was desperately trying to get out when her car was hit by an Israeli strike, even though they had a white flag up. Her husband and oldest child died instantly. She was found by a reporter crying in the hospital room of her youngest child who was badly burned. The air in the room smelled like burnt flesh.

May we be mindful of the struggles of others. May we seek perspective on our own lives. May we stop judging others, and ourselves, so harshly. Amen.

The World According to Grace

2006-07-25T13:36:00.000-07:00

File this under "Why the oldest child always wins:"

Grace is collecting the playing cards that were strewn around the family room floor. She has about 20 in her hands when Natalie finds two and picks them up. Grace makes a bee-line for Natalie, ripping them from the younger sister's fingers. Natalie screams. Grandpa Chuck asks, "Grace! What are you doing?" Grace's reply? "I'm teaching Natalie to give me things." Way to use your 20 month advantage.

File this under "Home improvement:"

Scott takes Grace to the bathroom during dinner and she gets spaghetti sauce on the door frame. After Scott asks her to not touch the door frame with dirty hands, Grace apologizes. Scott: "Oh, you don't need to say you're sorry. I'm just trying to make things better." Grace thinks for a minute, and then says nonchalantly, "I would put art on that wall above the light switch. That would make it better."

From Baby to Chiquita

2006-07-03T23:17:00.000-07:00

Grace got a new swim instructor today. His name is Onno and the old instructor introduced him as he flipped his body into the water, splashing us while looking like an 18-year-old skateboarder with swim goggles. "Okay, guys," he says in a so-Cal accent, kind of like Bill or Ted from, oh, you know what I'm talking about. "So we're gonna push off the side on our backs and, like, kick the heck out of the water, 'kay?" The kids stared at him like he had three heads. Last week they blew bubbles and played motor boat. He wants them to do what?

Where was the cutesy little kid voice? How about a song or a get to know you game? No, Onno was treating them as though they were five, not two and a half. Five year olds get splashed and like it. Two year olds cry for their mommies when people talk too loudly. Five year olds want to impress the new teacher. Two year olds don't even trust extended family yet.

I smiled and tried not to smirk. Boy is he ever going to have to do some damage control, I thought condescendingly. But before any of the kids started sobbing, Onno looks at them, beckons them with his hand, and says impatiently, "Names, guys. Names." Will's mom said, "Will." John's mom said, "John." I said, "Grace."

He smiled and replied, "So we've got Dude, Dude, and Chiquita. Alright Dude number one, lets do it!" He held his arms out to Will, who I expected would break into a quivering mess. I watched in shock as Will, the kid with ear plugs who is probably allergic to lots of things and needs his crusts removed, jumped off the top step into Onno's arms. "But they didn't go on their backs last week," Will's mother says in astonishment.

Grace was next. "Okay, Chiquita. You're up." She didn't even look at me for reassurance. Into Onno's arms she went and was soon kicking on her back. She called for me once and then resumed kicking when she saw I was within arm’s reach. John was the same. His mom and I exchanged a "well would you look at that" look.

I way underestimated Onno today, but I am catching on quick. I fully expect them all to have a secret underwater hand shake by the end of the week. In fact, I'll be disappointed if they don't. Onno is now my inspiration. Because sometimes it takes someone from the outside, someone clearly without any toddler experience, to show you that your baby is now a chiquita.

Bring. It. On.

2006-07-01T13:42:00.000-07:00

It was only a matter of time before it happened. Friends and family oohed and aahed about Grace's red hair, her dimple, the way she turns into straight sugar when she wants to. "That face could sell anything," my dad once said of baby Grace, who was cutely gurgling in his arms.

So when a casting agent propositioned us at the phenomenal Aquarium of the Pacific, I was appropriately flattered but not surprised. "Your daughter is just SO cute!" she said while Grace was rejecting my attempts to move away from the touch pool. "Her sunglasses, that attitude...you know, I work for a casting company in LA, and she would be great for a show I am working on. In fact, you all would."

Insert embarrassed flattered face here. Here it was! This is how it begins, I thought. Grace was being discovered! I tried to act calm as I imagined telling this story in years to come when interviewed about how Grace got her start. "Well, it all began at the touch pool," I would say smugly to my imagined future reporter.

But then things somehow went horribly, irrevocably wrong. She continued: "I cast for this show on TV...maybe you have seen it..." (Readers, prepare yourselves for a shock) "...it's called 'Supernanny' and your family would be just perfect."

WHAT?! SUPERNANNY? You mean the show where they hold up your dysfunctional family for the whole nation to see? The reality show whose sole purpose is to make viewers at home realize that at least their family isn't THAT bad?! Is she freaking kidding me?

Here I thought we were headed toward fame and fortune with Grace's beauty and dramatic flair and really the woman is saying I suck as a mother, have no boundaries, and need live-in, round the clock help to save my dysfunctional family. I really didn't know how to respond. I think my expression changed from "embarrassed but flattered" to "looking around to make sure no one overheard the insult." I instantly wondered how long she had been observing us. Had she seen me yank Grace down from the rocks by the sea lion exhibit? Did she see when I let Natalie wander a bit too far in the Great Hall while Grace and I watched the Whales movie? Had she noticed I let them play outside on the patio without sun block? What about when Grace threw a tantrum because I wouldn't let her sit in the green chair at lunch time because (horror) someone else was already sitting in it?

"Um," I oh-so-eloquently began, "I, I know I could use some help...I do have two young children and who couldn't use some advice?" I laughed nervously to keep from freaking out on her. "But I'm not sure I am in need of a parenting overhaul, you know?" Does she even know who she is talking to?!?

"Sure. It's just that your daughter would be great on camera and you are a local family with young kids, and we are really looking for that right now. Think about it." She handed me her card. "It's two weeks of free advice from a professional. Think of it as free help." She smiled and walked off to pet some bat rays. Is it wrong to hope that one of the ray's stingers hadn't been removed?

I walked away from the touch pool and listlessly floated past the next set of exhibits like a dazed zombie. Or like a sea bass circling the Kelp Forest over and over. Finally it set in that while she may have observed an awkward moment with Grace having an attitude with me, she probably didn't single us out based on my parenting skills. In all probability, she simply thought Grace was photogenic and the right age. But still I felt stunned and insulted but not wounded--like a snapper who got too close to an octopus and was inappropriately inked. Or like a sea star pulled from the real tide pool to live out her life in a touch pool where little kids sometimes jab and moms and dads crack jokes at her expense.

But back to my story. Mostly I was excited to be able to blog about the whole thing. Most of my readers actually know me and know how seriously I take parenthood. Those of you who don't know me can tell from my blog that I am a very intentional, while not perfect, mom. I make mistakes and get angry and sometimes let Grace do something she shouldn't, but for the most part, I try to make educated decisions about how to respond as a mother to my kids.

So that is why the follow up to the Supernanny/Aquarium experience was so great. Two days later I was at Target, the only place besides Costco where you can go in to get some detergent and leave $174.56 poorer with new swimsuits, hula hoops, Ziploc bags, kids’ gardening tools, goldfish snacks, and a Starbuck latte, among other things. We were just getting in the cart after a precarious experience in the Target bathroom that involved hand in the toilet (Natalie), fingers crunched in the door (Grace), and no cussing from Mommy (yay!). A woman approached us while we were negotiating the seating arrangements of the cart (where are those double carts when you need them?!) and asked, “Were you the young mother whose kids were just crying in the restroom?” My eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” I said, kind of briskly. I was in no mood to be recommended to parenting boot camp reality show again. Unless she wanted to say I could be an instructor.

“Well, I just wanted to say that I heard you being such a good mother. You were so patient and your calm demeanor really put your kids at ease. Look, it’s only been a minute since the door closed on her hand, and neither one is crying anymore. I had three in three and a half years, and I know how it is. Crunched fingers, hands in the toilet and all. And you are doing so gracefully. I just wanted to share since I know we moms don’t get validated enough.”

I don't know when I ever have smiled so brightly. I think I mustered a “Thank you so much,” before I moved onto keep from tearing up in front of her. As we walked away, Grace said, “What, Mommy? What did that woman say?”

“She said we have a good family, hon.” And she was right. I am a good mom. The reason Supernanny is so calm and controlled and helpful is precisely because she isn’t there 24/7. She can go home at night or after the two weeks and have her martini unpestered. When she showers with someone else, you can bet it’s because she chooses to, and he isn’t two years old and throwing her soap around the bath. When she goes to Target, she can drink her latte while perusing the jewelry aisle without fear that one hand alone can’t steer a mammoth two kid cart with two boxes of diapers on it while searching for the huggies coupon. I’d like to see the cool, calm, collected mom who can do it effortlessly while keeping a clean house, delicious meals, well-behaved and enriched kids, and all the while keeping her husband sexually satisfied with her perfectly shaped body from abdominal crunches. When THAT mom has a TV show AND is humble about herself, then I will volunteer to go learn something from her.

So I will probably call the Supernanny lady and see if they want to interview us. It would be a good experience, especially if we plan on pursuing anything dramatic with Grace. And I am not afraid of them. Supernanny, Bring it on.

Discernment

2006-06-19T14:40:00.000-07:00

Good job, pupils.

I need to be officially in discernment now. I've been in unofficial discernment for my whole life, but specifically for about 4 years. And by "discernment," I mean that I am trying to pray and talk with enough wise counselors about God's will in my life that I can decide if God is calling me to ordained ministry--to the priesthood.

Oh, I've been a minister. I've been lucky enough to be part of God-centered churches who are reaching out to include others, love children, and get to the heart of Jesus' radical message of love and inclusion. I have followed my role models into leadership positions at every church I've been in, even my childhood church as a teenager. I've led retreat weekends, served on advisory boards, written curriculum, run Sunday School programs, led Vacation Bible Schools...the list goes on. And each time, I prayerfully wondered if this new role would fullfill the burning desire God has put in my hear to be a leader for Him.

After Scott and I both heard God calling us to be parents--a lot earlier than we had originally expected--I wondered if perhaps all my thoughts about God calling me to children's ministry and leadership weren't about becoming a priest, after all. Perhaps they were just preparation for motherhood.

I was pregnant with Grace as I led the young adult retreat weekend for our diocese and delivered a sermon at the closing ceremony, at which the Bishop was present. He pulled me aside afterwards and while I stammered things like, "Um, your honor, I mean, Father, I mean...what do we call you??" He smiled said in his regal British accent, "That was the best closing sermon I have ever heard. I was moved." He glanced at my blooming belly. "And I know you are busy but I want you in my office to seriously talk about your future in ordained ministry."

That was (wait, how old is Grace? Okay, plus some pregnant months...) about three years ago. And I never went to meet him. You could say I've been distracted. Or scared that my life will change. Or worried that Scott doesn't want to be married to a priest. Or resistant to the idea that I would be working most weekends and holidays. Or incredulous that someone with as many flaws as I have could be called to be a priest.

That last one is the kicker. Because Scott is on board. A friend my age who has been through seminary and ordination told me that if this is God's plan, He will bring Scott along on the journey. And He has. Scott told me through tears last fall that he knew God had planned for me to do something big in my life for others. That he knew I was not meant just for him, but for the world.

But that God would want me to be a spiritual leader when I still have so much work to do and have so many questions about Jesus and what it truly means to follow Him, is crazy. Then my dear guide and friend Stacey said that it isn't about getting perfect and then leading others to that same perfection. It is about recognizing that you are God's tool and opening up your heart to let Him work through you in whatever capacity He needs to. And another wise guide and friend, Martha, added that God HAS been working through me. This is not a new calling. It is the continuation of a calling that has been operating in my life for decades.

When I was in the midwest in my Grandma's tiny town in the middle of Nebraska, we went to her little church where my mom and dad were married almost 40 years prior. With no regular priest, they were planning on just having morning prayer that Sunday. When I found this out, my heart lept and I literally thought for two seconds that I could do the Eucharist for them.

You see, I am already a priest in my heart and mind. I am a priest with partial leadership training, with a lot of theological learning to do, with a lot of mentoring yet ahead of me, with no financial church experience yet, and with some fear in my bones about where God is leading me and my family. But a priest none-the-less my friends.

That is the answer to the quiz. You can call her a priest.

A quiz

2006-06-12T12:29:00.000-07:00

Question: What do you call a Christian who:
-has deconstructed and rebuilt her faith a few times,
-has heard God calling her to spiritual leadership,
-still has lots of questions about whether or not the early Church got Jesus wrong,
-cries when singing praise music or old-timey hymns,
-writes down notes on her own ideas after hearing a sermon that didn't go far enough,
-all but volunteers to celebrate the Eucharist when the priest couldn't make it to church,
-has a burning desire to learn Greek so that she can get at the true meaning behind scripture and then share it with others?

Leave your answer in the comments.

Overheard in Laguna Beach

2006-05-17T10:28:00.000-07:00

20-something hipster girl with designer sunglasses, to her boyfriend, over tacos at lunch: "I mean, the show makes it look like it is SO much fun to live here..."

boyfriend: "Yeah, and it's totally not."

hipster girl: "I mean, like, all there is to do here is, like, go to theaters, go to shows, eat out at different restaurants, walk on the beach or sunbathe, and, like, go shopping."

boyfriend: "And hiking. But besides that, there is nothing to do here. SOOO boring."

Word for word. I swear. I had to control myself from laughing.

Raising children to be includers

2006-05-10T14:12:00.000-07:00

Mean kids have always vexed me. I wasn't exactly a goody-two shoes as a kid (more on the blue hair and that whole streaking thing later) but even in middle school I felt compelled to stand up for the defenseless victims of preteen bullying. And if the victim was one of my own--my brother, for instance, you'd better watch out. I just can't stand to see a human being ignored or disrespected, and never could.

This trait was probably what led me to any success I experienced as a science teacher. My earth science knowledge was fair at best, as my degree was biology and marine biology, and without a credential, I had pretty much no formal education training when I hit the middle school classroom. But my science lab became simply the medium I used to reach out to kids who are all feeling somewhat unlovable and are regularly teased, ignored, or flat out taunted. Even the cool kids were hollow inside and needed to know they would be loved--even if (especially if) they stopped their mean jokes or cool attitudes. I was the first teacher to volunteer to go to a conference on dealing with bullying, the last to complain about the hours of one-on-one advising we had to do, the most enthusiastic when we were asked to integrate community-building into our curricula.

I can't stand it when someone is excluded. It's so un-Jesus, you know? So imagine my blood-racing reaction when we were at the playground yesterday and two brothers, about 2 and 4 years old, continually ignored and then taunted Grace when she desperately wanted to play with them. It started pretty passive aggressive: the boys were sitting at a little picnic table that was cut underneath the play structure when Grace walked up and watched them for a minute. I said, "Can you guys make room for Grace? It looks like she wants to play here, too. And there is lots of room." The older one said, "No," flatly, and then they both swung their legs up into the benches, staking their territory and giggling to each other. I looked around for a mom or nanny, someone who would report me to the authorities if I bloodied their noses. Even after I spotted their mom off in la-la land at the other end of the park, staring into the distance, I decided that violence was not the answer. The real question was this: how would I want Grace’s inner dialogue to respond to this situation in the future?

After a few attempts at nicely shaming them into allowing her to have a turn or to play with her, I told Grace loudly that these boys were not very nice and hadn't yet learned how to share, so let's play somewhere else, shall we? It escalated into teasing/taunting as they threw woodchips at her if she was in their vicinity and the younger one shrieked as high and loud as he could into her ear if she walked by. Right when I saw one of them standing at the top of a ladder she was climbing, with woodchips in his hand and a snarl on his face, I ran to the steps to beat the living crap out of him, and then in a flash they were gone. They hit the tube slide and ran to their mom before I could scream, "mother fuckers!" at them.

There were mean girls at another grassy park near our house the other day. We stopped our ride in the wagon to watch two nine-ish year old girls and one younger sister play their own game of baseball/dodge ball. Brittany was the name of the one without the little sister. Brittany was just plain mean. She sarcastically yawned and rolled her eyes when her friend had trouble pitching straight. She yelled at the little sister to get every ball that went by her when she batted (but refused to get the sister’s balls when their paces were reversed). She never ever played outfield, just waited for her turn to bat. Once when she was running the bases and the friend was about to get her out, she changed the rules during the play to avoid her fate.

She was so alpha mean girl queen bee that I really wanted to know if this was how her parents raised her or what. Her MO was that to maintain cool girl status, she must ridicule the others, never ever lose, and act like she couldn’t care less about anyone else. The result was two-fold: 1. the friend turned all Brittany-like on her own sister, ostensibly to look cool to Brittany, and 2. they had no fun. Not one laugh erupting from their lips. Is this really what childhood is supposed to be? Contrast this with the two little boys down the block who were playing one on one basketball and laughing the entire time. Apparently some kids know how to play, to win, to lose, and others do not. Those that do seem to enjoy the game regardless of who wins. Those that do not know how to “play nice” work so hard at winning, excluding, or being better than others that there is no chance of them losing. But sadly, there is also no chance of them having any fun.

I wonder now to myself, how long can I control Grace and Natalie’s world so that they don’t interact with those people, (an unrealistic desire at best)? More to the point, how can I prepare them for the inevitable teasing/taunting/ignoring when I am not there to reframe it for them? And how can I comfort them after they are wounded in this way so that they, in turn, become defenders of others and forces for inclusivity? And why can’t we seem to let kids just be kids and have fun on their own anymore?

Last night, as I drove home from dinner at a friends’ house, I spotted two boys, probably 12 or 13, playing catch in the street. One of them yelled menacingly at an unseen person and threateningly pretended to throw the baseball at whoever it was. As I rounded the corner, I saw it was Brittany, sulkily sitting on the curb, not allowed to play with her brother and his friend. I guess we pass these traits down to each other—mother to son, brother to sister, friend to friend. Maybe it won’t be so hard to know how to make includers out of my daughters. First I must unshakably expect it out of myself.

Why we do what we do.

2006-04-20T14:21:00.000-07:00

"Daddy, are you going to work?" Grace watches, her body still, as Scott rushes around from the shower to the hamper to the sink to the closet, a blur of activity that indicates he is getting a late start.

"Yes, honey; I have to go to work today." He sighs and looks at me. "Can I wear these pants with these shoes?"

"Black shoes would be better." I am wrestling with Natalie, trying to give her Motrin before she has a seizure from the pain of a giant molar bursting through her swollen gums.

"But we are going to music class today." Grace looks at Natalie. "Do her teeth hurt? I want Mommy. Mommy, I want to nurse." (side note: Oh, man, music is going to be great today. I can picture it now: Miss Kindel trying to entice the girls to pick up an instrument or dance and both of them stuck like glue to me, and I hobble around with two girls on my hips, pretending that I am dancing. This must be the reason they call it attachment parenting. Every parenting choice has its tradeoffs, I guess.)

Daddy steps in to help: "Grace, come help me pick out some new shoes." Even running late (probably because he let me sleep in after a tough teething night), unable to do fun things with his daughters and wife, he is a saint. "But DON'T step on them--really, don't. These are nice shoes. My work shoes."

"Daddy, come to music class with us!" Grace is standing on Scott's feet, holding onto his legs as though hugging a tree.

Scott peels her off and sets her down next to him in the closet. "Honey, I would love to go to music with you. You tell Miss Kindel hi for me. But I need to go to work. You see, I have to pay Miss Kindel for your class. That's one of the reasons I have to go."

"And pay our mortgage," I add. "And buy us food. And netflix."

"Grace, get OFF of my shoes. They are expensive. I also work to pay for these shoes, you know." I am now walking down the hallway away from them, preparing to change the poopiest diaper in all of human history when I faintly hear Grace ask, "Pay for your work shoes?" I imagine the smile breaking out over Scott's face as he says, "Yes, I work to pay for the shoes that I in turn wear to work...does any of this make sense to you?"

I walk back in the room in time to see Scott holding Grace up for a kiss and I say, "If it makes you feel any better, you also work to afford taking me to dinner tonight. And you can wear those shoes if you want."

Smiling over the heads of our children, enjoying them but also anticipating spending some much-needed time later without them, I remember how much I love my husband.

Asleep in the Garden of Gethsemane

2006-04-11T15:12:00.000-07:00

Grace has started watching movies at nap time.

All right, all right, I did say that we don't have TV. Which is kind of true. We don't have access to TV programming. But we do have a television, which has been hidden away in our bedroom armoir only to be used long after the kiddos are asleep and Scott and I watch our latest netflix DVD.

There we are, at 10:00 at night, snuggled up watching Hotel Rwanda, and the faint sound of the girls' bedroom door opening kicks us into high gear. Scott dashes to the armoire with remote in hand, frantically pausing the DVD and turning off the television while he slams closed the armoire doors, and I jump into the hallway, closing our door behind me, and then calmly redirect Grace back to bed. When I return, we wait a good 5 minutes to make sure she is out before resuming our movie. Brings back the days of stuffing rolled towels under closed doors to blocks certain smells from leaving college dorm rooms. Quick! Spray the air freshener! Open the window! (Just because I wasn't a smoker myself doesn't mean I wasn't there!)

Really, we've just wanted to avoid her asking to watch TV or movies all the time. What she doesn't know won't hurt her, eh? I changed my tune after she pretty much gave up napping the last few months. I end up with a cranky, over-tired two year old on my hands all afternoon, which seriously cramps my mood, not to mention my ability to blog.

So I decided last week to begin watching a movie with her at nap time in my bed. Natalie goes down and then Grace and I cuddle, watching Noah's Ark given to us by her godfather Greg, or the Madeline's Adventures demo DVD we got in a Rice Krispies box. Usually by the second time around when the animals are all singing on the ark, Grace starts snoozing. If Noah thought enduring the 40 days of rain was boring, try watching a movie about someone else being bored. Seriously. Yawn.

But then at Costco the other day, I spied this movie about Easter and thought it seemed timely. I had already been wondering how much to share with Grace about Jesus' passion and resurrection--I mean, she doesn't even know what it is to die yet--so I figured perhaps a movie might help me introduce it to her visually.

This is, of course, a loaded issue. As an older child, I remember crying every year when we read the Passion aloud at Palm Sunday. I could barely bring myself to utter the words, "Crucify him!" out of total disgust and shame that people would betray Christ like that. That people could go from "Hosanna!" to "Crucify him!" in the span of a week. If only I had been there, I thought, I would have shamed them into releasing Jesus. I would have exposed them for the hypocrites they were. Or die trying. In fact, I even felt uncomfortable singing "Hosanna" in the weekly service, so connected that word was in my mind to the fickleness of the followers during Holy Week.

Then, many years later, I had a monumental realization. We crucify Jesus on a daily basis. I do it. You do it. Every time I divert from God's will, or put my will above His, or give in to hatred or judgmentalism, or destroy His peace with anger instead of prayer, I am hammering another nail in the cross. My friends occasionally irreverently joke when we do something naughty, that "Baby Jesus is crying." Someone takes the last mint milano? "Baby Jesus is crying." But God is hurt by our choice to separate ourselves from Him, however trivial it may be (mint milanos aside). And furthermore, we don't only crucify Christ with each selfish or cruel thought; we crucify the divine that is within each of us. As He said, "The Kingdom of God is within you," (Luke 17:21). If we have God's spirit in us, then living by worldly values and not heavenly values slowly kills off the still small voice of God within. Our divine selves die a little death each day that we ensconce ourselves in worldliness.

Before watching the movie, Grace and I talked about what it means to die. That when we die, our bodies go to the ground and our spirits go to God. We began the movie and Grace was a little confused from the get-go. "Where is Baby Jesus?" she asked. Her eyes grew wide at Jesus turning over the tables in the Temple. "Jesus is mad at them!" she observed. But irony of all ironies occurred at the part about the Garden of Gethsemane. For all of you unfamiliar with the story, Jesus and His followers were in the Garden of Gethsemane after the Last Supper. He asked them to keep watch while He prayed and then chastised them for falling asleep on the job. He was arrested there and executed the next day. This begins the part of the story that I was most concerned about sharing with Grace--the betrayal by Judas, the mocking and beating, the crucifixion, Jesus' death.

But two days in a row, Grace fell asleep in the Garden of Gethsemane. And I wondered: is there is a part of all of us that wants to fall asleep at that point in the story? Peter did. The other disciples did. Grace did. Perhaps we want to follow Christ through the easy parts of His ministry: as He teaches and feeds people and heals lepers. But when it comes time for us to choose to stand up for Him when the going gets tough, we would rather fall asleep and be so passive that we can hardly even be blamed for not supporting Him, for not being true to the divine within. It's too hard to be Christ-like. All this spirit stuff is great, but I need to get back to the real world: my job, my plans, my life. I'll come back after the resurrection, when it is easier to be all “rah-rah Jesus,” a cheer leader for God.

Let's stop falling asleep in the Garden of Gethsemane. Let's be the people who pray along with Christ in the hour or darkness and betrayal. When things are tough, let's choose to feed the divine within, instead of running from all that we are. And perhaps we can stop dying a little death every single day and live fully into God's intent for us.

The "Real" OC

2006-03-28T21:09:00.000-08:00

-Our dear friends Scott and Kimberly, who sometimes comment on my blog, live in Alaska.
-They left their car behind in San Diego when they moved north three years ago.
-We tried to sell it for them, unsuccessfully.
-It is now sitting outside our house since Scott used it to drive here from San Diego when he visited last month.
-If anyone wants to buy a beautiful 2000 Volkswagen Passat in great condition, please let me know.
-Scott also blogs.
-Lake Forest, the town I live in, is one of the top ten safest cities in America.
-So are Mission Viejo and Irvine, the two cities that border us.
-The people here credit the amazing police department.
-The real reason we are in the top ten is that only upper middle class people live here and there are no stores, only tract homes with Nazi-like home owners associations, so not much reason to be here wandering the streets at night.
-The Real Housewives of the OC is a new reality TV show.
-I don't know why they need a show for that. Just rent the Stepford Wives and/or read my blog.
-Along with The OC and The Real OC: Laguna Beach, that brings the total of unrealistic Orange County shows up to three.
-My next door neighbor stopped by this weekend with this announcement: "We are knocking on doors around the block to see if we can find the owners of that red Passat with Alaska plates. It is against code for it to be here for more that 72 hours and we want the association to look into it."
-Lake Forest might be in the top ten due to the extreme measures of the neighborhood watch program.
-I think a good new show would be: The "Real" OC: Neighborhood Vigilanty Justice.
-They could have an entire, heart-stopping, jaw-dropping episode on finding the owner of the red Passat on our suburban cul-de-sac.
-The car is going back to San Diego next week.
-I hope that will bring our standing from 9th safest city up to at least 4th or 5th.

Homer and his Ukelele

2006-03-20T07:59:00.000-08:00

Why, when we are planning to get together with family and friends, do we always need "something to do?" Remember when you went to college and you stayed up til 4:00 in the morning doing nothing but talking with the people who happened to get placed in the same dorm as you did? You found yourself pontificating on Kurt Cobain being a hero for our times and why organized religion is anti-productive (he's not and it's not, but you were 18 and questioning everything). There was something about that moment in the common area of the dorm, shared with new aquaintances, deep into the night, where people expressed themselves and you felt part of something new and yet familiar all at once.

I have early memories of standing around my mother's parlor grand piano, which was passed down to her from my opera-singing and composing great grandmother Grace. Mom would play and we would sing, harmonize, laugh, roll our eyes, and encourage impromptu solos from each other. At Christmastime, we would gather with my parents' best friends and Mom would put down her glass of wine to come over and jangle out some beautifully cheesy Christmas songs, like "Twas the Night Before Christmas" and "Up on the Housetop." My sister and the kids of their friends seemed embarassed but I secretly adored these moments of communal performance and shared creative expression. (I do not think it a coincidence that my sister, embarassed to sing impromptu at 12 years old, now heads up an organiztion that uses artistic challenges to bolster creative courage in girls and women.)

My mother didn't invent this family music time, either. Her earliest memories are of sitting in her parents' living room, watching their friends pour each other bitters or coffee while one of their best friends, Homer, played his ukelele and everyone sang and danced. And my mom's dad, Paul, would dance with the women since he was the best dancer of the group. I think my mom misses Grandpa Paul the most when she recalls these memories of seeing her father swing her laughing mother around the room while people clapped and sang. She was a little child, peering into the life of her parents, and learning how families and friends actually meant something to one another.

Does this sound cheesey to you? It's not to me. For the past few years, I've been craving more home time and less party time. More countryside and less subway ride. More Homer, and less American Idol. Real time, not reel time. This is why we do not have TV.

This is also why we will be purchasing a real piano in the next few months, despite the furniture designer lady who said, "Why don't you just get an electronic keyboard? They are easier to maintain and are essentially the same thing." I no longer take advice from that woman. The "same thing?" Great Grandmother Grace must have been rolling in her grave. More on the imporance of pianos in a future post.

Besides those great late night conversations in the dorm, my favorite memory of college was the night my choral group went ice skating/hay riding/apple cider drinking and there ended up being an impromptu bonfire where bongos were brought out of people's trunks and guitars were borrowed at a moment's notice and Indigo Girls songs were sung and someone did a bold verion of U2's "Pride in the Name of Love" and it all ended way too soon for me.

And Saturday night, a new favorite memory was made as Mike and Alec came over to unveil their new music video and drink hot chocolate and ended up sitting on my daughters' child-sized chairs with their guitars and played a brilliant version of Dave Matthews' "Seek up" as well as some John Mayer and other original material, and Scott and I warmed ourselves under homemade quilts stiched by my sister and our friend Sasha, and we had to pause several times in fear of waking the kids, and I harmonized and our laughter drifted it's way into the middle of the night before people returned home. But I secretly hoped that Grace would be awoken by the soothing strains of guitar and hushed laughter and that we would find her at the foot of the stairs, listening and peering into our lives, the very incarnation of my mother as a young girl. May my children know from my actions what I think of time spent with family and friends.

Navigation

2006-03-04T23:07:00.000-08:00

You know when you are driving to a destination and you pretty much know how to get there, but you definitely don't know any of the street names, or even the landmarks themselves until you are within a block of them? The kind of path that you could never give directions to.

And I don't mean the well-worn journey you know like the back of your hand but only by landmarks, like "turn right just past the dive bar," and "if you pass the middle school you've gone too far." I mean the kind of place you drive to with tension in your gut because you keep feeling like this is the right way but isn't it taking mighty long to get the where you're supposed to turn next? I am talking about the kind of pathway where you are always traveling at night and you are late and you have to pee.

So that tension in your gut ends up making you want to scream when you realize you've gone too far and need to turn around--or is it that you haven't gone quite far enough? You begin to feel like biting a hole in your arm just as you recognize the next landmark--a landmark you couldn't have named but now remember as you drive by it. You momentarily cease the desire to bite your own flesh until that tension creeps up your spine again within 45 seconds because yet again you wonder if you have gone too far. If only you had given yourself more time, you think. Or if only you had gone pee before you left. Why didn't you look up the specific directions, you are thinking.

This is the drive home I took tonight from the movie theater on the plaza in the town my parents live in. I didn't grow up here but I come three or four times a year now and because of some construction all the usual pathways are blocked and I find myself panicked every time I drive anywhere here.

This is also how I tend to fake my way through conversations with people who are smarter than I am, or who read the New York Times, or worse, the New Yorker, or who took liberal arts classes in college and remember what they learned. I glean from their expressions and the cadence of their tone how I am supposed to respond to whatever commentary they are making. I feign recollection of famous people's names. I say, "I have heard that name," when I haven't the foggiest clue of whom they are speaking. "I have heard that name" keeps me in the know without getting me screwed when I pretend to know something I don't.

A philosopher or two recalled from college, a few current events taken from the headlines of msnbc.com or All Things Considered while driving home from the library, a passing knowledge of hip hop music from skimming Rolling Stone before falling asleep in bed. I utilize surface sources like these to approximate a position on welfare reform or the apologetics or the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. But these conversations inevitably result in my face feeling hotter and hotter and me wanting to gnaw on my arm really hard until we turn to talk of parenting, or Indigo Girl lyrics, or the liturgical year. Ah, the safe streets of conversation, places I know how to navigate through safely and honestly.

Sometimes it is worth it to let it be.

2006-02-27T08:12:00.000-08:00

Grace loves stickers. Give her a sheet of pooh bear or rainbow or horsey stickers and she will gasp quietly, like the way you'd gasp upon looking out your window on Christmas morning, holding a hot cocoa, to see a blanket of snow everywhere. A delighted gasp, a gasp that says, "I will eventually share this discovery but not until after I take it all in for myself." She apparently feels the same way about stickers as I do about seeing Scott walk in the door with flowers, or answering the phone and hearing my sister's voice. That is how much she loves them.

So yesterday, while I was busy trying to have a minute of sanity*, I heard the familiar little gasp of delight and turned to see Grace sticking 39 cent stamps all over our thank you cards.

When she saw I had noticed, she said, "Look, Mommy! Bird stickers!" As Scott and I lamented later after we fought over what I must have been doing while the girls tore open the stationary cabinet and made it look like Hallmark had barfed its store room in our den, those were pretty expensive little bird stickers. But as I expained to Scott in the midst of the fight, er, discussion, they were worth it.

*i.e. reading my new favorite blogs (this one and this one), er, connecting to other moms, er, researching thoughts about seminary, er, on the phone with a new friend...

Go to Sleep, You weary Hobo...

2006-02-23T14:57:00.000-08:00

We have 3 "night night" CDs that we've played for Grace ever since she needed the car's help in napping almost 2 years ago. She has since learned to nap without the car, but the CDs have worn their way into our nap and night routines anyway. The second track on a great Americana lullabye CD that my dear friend Libby gave us has the un-PC title "Hobo's lullabye." Every once in a while, I hear "Homo" instead of "Hobo" and smile to myself envisioning a poor, lost gay guy trying to make his way through life on the rails:

Go to sleep, you weary hobo,
Let the towns go drifting by.
Listen to that sleel rail hummin',
That's the hobo's lullabye.

But I nearly laughed out loud at the realization today that Grace has had her own wrong version of the song this whole time. The song came on and she said, "I like this one about the hippo." Just picture these poor, weary hippos catching some rest on the trains as they make their way around the bluegrass South.

Go to sleep, you weary hippo...

If Heath Ledger wins the Oscar

2006-01-31T14:07:00.000-08:00

Heath, may I be so bold as to suggest this speach?

"Wow. What an incredible honor. As many of you know, the stage may be the actor's medium, but film is the medium of the director, so I give credit for my performance to Ang Lee and his brilliant coaching and vision. I also would like to thank Annie Proulx, [insert random people here: lawyer, agent, wife, parents, other inspirations].

You know, many people have asked me how I prepared for this role. Did I, an Australian man born in 1979, have any experiences that were similar to those of my character, Ennis Del Mar, a gay cowboy in 1960s Wyoming? Could I relate to his forbidden passion? What these people really want to know, is whether or not I've had a 'gay experience'.

I'd like to clear the air on this subject. I can totally, and in every way, relate to Ennis, and so can all of you. Haven't we all felt the bitter sting of lonliness at some point in our lives? Haven't we all had moments when we felt that no one, not even our families, really knew who we were? Haven't we all felt the regret of having not risked, and therefore, not truly lived?

This movie is not about "the gay experience," whatever that could possibly mean. It is about the human experience. And I would argue that if there is a "gay experience," it most certainly is at its core a human one, primarily. What I learned from this movie was that certain emotions cross the human-made boundaries of generation, country of origin, class, occupation, and yes, sexual orientation.

Thank you so much for your praise and for this high honor."

[Author's appreciation for this article , by Erik Lundegaard, which inspired this post.]

The Power of Positive Thinking

2006-01-27T14:33:00.000-08:00

I live in suburbia. This is the suburb to beat all suburbs. As my friend Meagaan says, other suburbs around the country are based on Orange County. We moved here for Scott's job, and the fact that he loves this job is why we'll be here for a while. I am thrilled that he is happy and learning at work and so I want to make this place, suburb-though-it-is, a happy place for me, too.

In that spirit, here is my list of top ten things I like about living in Orange County:

10. Where else can you catch a live show with Mike Baas?*

9. Every freeway has a carpool lane that is reserved for carpools all day long. I have 3 people in my car always, so I always am in compliance. I love this. And since Scott drives a hybrid, he gets to go in those lanes even by himself. It beats having to read the fine print about "during commute hours" and nonsense like that.

8. The Christmas lights. Seriously, is there like a rule that you have to have an obscene amount of whirring lights emanating from your property at Christmastime? In unison, all our neighbors put up lights and/or flags and/or snowmen and/or candy canes along the walkways and/or glowing nativity sets and/or flashing stars of David the first weekend after Thanksgiving. It's like it was mandatory. I loved it--it was such a treat to go for an evening walk and see all the houses lit up. However, I wondered after spending 6 hours and many swear words putting up my own lights, what would happen if we all spent that time and money volunteering and donating each winter instead of putting up lights. World peace? End of poverty?

7. The libraries. Each one has its own children's librarian and weekly story hour. Craft activity and everything. They are serious about kindergarten preparation here. It is like a sport in these parts.

6. Related to #7, some of the book store story times are so good they beat out the libraries. There is a Borders story time on Tuesdays at 11:30 for which you need to arrive at 11:00 to get a good spot. The woman who does it is a mix of funky alternachick, loo-loo lost her mind, and rap star. She makes funny noises with her tongue and gets 30 moms who are generally too cool to make fools of themselves in designer jeans to imitate her. This has made her my hero. Plus, she always wears orange. A sound system, puppet stage, a dancing monkey for each kid, and slinkies are involved. But I've only seen her actually read a book once. Hmmm. Grace wants to go everyday. Alas, it's only once a week.

5. The multitudes of playgrounds here. Good lord there must be one playground for every hundred people or something. And they're chalk-full of cool equipment, like twisty slides, mini-climbing walls, trip-trap bridges, those telephone things where you can speak to someone on the other side of the park, and zip lines, all over that special industrial material that's made from recycled things and bounces all falling kids upright onto their feet again like cats with nine lives. While we're on this topic, does anyone know what you call those merry-go-round things that aren't really merry-go-rounds that we all used to play on as kids? They whirl you and your 4 friends around in a circle until you fly off or barf? I just found a new park that has one of those! Yeah barfing merry-go-round thing!

4. Proximity to grandparents. Scott parents are awesome with our kids and live 20 minutes away. Yeah free babysitting! Plus I like hanging out with them. It's nice to have family close by to concur that your children really are the most beautiful, smartest, well-behaved, fastest learners on the planet ever.

3. Safety. Lake Forest, as well as the two towns that border us, are all on the list of top ten safest cities in America. We may lack any decent unique restaurants, but dammit we're safe.

2. Good public schools. Even though I still long to be able to afford private schools since I've been to them and taught in them, it is awesome that for free, your kid can go to a top-ranked school.

1. Weather. How great is it that we can go to parks to play all winter long? Seriously, there isn't even fog here.

*Mike, Sorry you ranked after the carpool lane thing. I put you at #10 just so that people would read about you first before they got bored an navigated away from my blog. :)

Finding community in conservative OC

2006-01-20T12:36:00.000-08:00

It's time to share a little of my personal journey to find my peeps. You know it when you find your own kind. Sure, everyone needs to branch out and have friends that stretch them philosophically, politically, and spiritually. I'm all for diversity and learning new things. But enough is enough. Where are my peeps!?

You really could see this coming. I did choose to move to conservative Orange County. I knew I was moving to a place that has, like, one feminist every few blocks or so. I think Scott and I are the token ones for all of Forest Creek, our "Lake Forest II Community." And I was moving here without a job (no work community) and with two very young children that nap at different times, thus keeping me homebound most days. The cards were stacked against me.

"So, how's your new place?" People ask. "How do you like Orange County?" I make an expression that says "I'm adjusting," and then I say, "It's a good spot for this stage of life. So many other stay-at-home moms. So much to do with little kids..." My voice trails off. My listener isn't sure whether or not to probe. I add, "I just haven't found my peeps, you know? My people."

It's not that I haven't tried. I am a card carrying member of the Lake Forest MOMS Club. I joined an Attachment Parenting playgroup. I joined La Leche League. I made myself order business cards that have my name, my kids' names, my contact info, and a little blue wagon on them. I've probably passed out like 20 to moms who ask for my number at the park or Ikea or story time at the library. Not one of these moms has called me back. It's almost like they thought I was cool until I pulled out a stay-at-home mom card. Then they give me this freaky look with a strained smile that says, "I was going to call you but now I realize you're weird and I must get my kids to my car immediately."

Hey, it's not my fault. I can not be relied upon to have spare paper and a pen when I barely remember to bring diapers out with me. But making new friends in mom-world is a little like dating. Do you ask for her number? Does she seem like she's worth the effort? Do her kids have normal names, or are they Jaeden, Brayden, or Shaylin? (I actually did meet two nice moms with kids who were named two on that list. So it is possible to give your child an oh-so-trendy, slightly unique, but really just a new twist on an old name and still be a nice woman.) But you seriously evaluate all these things. It's not that I am that picky; I just already have met so many women who are nice enough and smart enough, but prefer to discuss American Idol rather than the Alito nomination. They don't even know who Alito is and what he is nominated for. (Go search NPR for him if you fall ito that category.)

They may have serious thoughts at home, but they don't share them at playgroup. They perk up when I mention I am looking for a church and whole-heartedly recommend Saddleback, Canyon Hills, Voyager, or any one of a number of contemporary yet theologically conservative mega-churches in the area. This is another problem. I either find alterna-mommas, who wouldn't set foot in a church if you promised her a free tatoo out of the deal, or uber conservative mommas, who either agree with the fundamentalist positions of their churches, or worse, don't care to find out that their church leaders are anti-gay, won't let women be leaders, don't believe in evolution, and think that saying the words, "Jesus is my personal savior" is the only ticket to heaven, regardless of the fact that they often aren't being half as open or inclusive as Jesus was.

My heart hurts because I know I am judging others as I write these things. The truth is that I enjoy meeting women of all types--yes, even the uber conservative ones. In fact, my best friend so far here is a fundamentalist who defers to her husband in all ways amd gasped when she found out I taught evolution as a science teacher. She also parents very differently from me, putting her newborn on a 4 hour feeding schedule. Regardless of how hard he is crying, she makes him wait until it's time to feed again. Afterall, he "needs to learn patience." But she loves to discuss serious philosophical matters with me, is a ton of fun, has the kindest heart I've ever met, isn't weirded out when I want to pray with my kids at random moments, and lives around the corner. So I am not anti-fundamentalist; I just also need to find balance and meet, you know, my peeps.

Part of the problem is that I had it so good in San Diego. My church community rocked. My best friends were progressive Christians, playing music for people in jail, cooking for battered women at a shelter, running youth programs that connected teens with kids of other faiths. They go to dinner with their gay friends, stay out late to hear a new local band that is on the rise, meet for Bible study to rethink the literal interpretations of Revelation, want to become doulas, and know what Taize is. And they are close enough, geographically, for me to see them every so often. Perhaps I am relying on them to fill the space that should eventually be filled by people in my new community.

This week, I think, might be a turning point in my search for my peeps her in OC. Three things happened that are promising. 1: I emailed our new priest and shared my frustration with not meeting progressive Christian moms, and he gave me the names of some moms at our church who are "right up my alley." 2: I ran into two AP moms, who are also nursing their toddlers, twice this week. They seem refreshingly light hearted but very intentional about their parenting approach and they live nearby(!) 3: We started a music class with an old childhood friend of Scott's and her toddler, and I love her. And as a bonus, the class is in Costa Mesa, and all the other moms there were, I don't know, normal, I guess. A few of them go to church together at the local Unitarian Universalist Church. All of them seemed put together but none seemed overly conscious of fashion. They all were having fun bouncing up and down on the floor with their kids and weren't cliquey, even though I missed the first class and they had all met the week before.

I'll keep you posted. If I haven't alientated any possible OC friends who are reading this blog, I might just find my peeps yet.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Part 2*

2006-01-17T13:36:00.000-08:00

Grace, from the back seat, while eating sandwich bites: "I can't handle this."

Me, quizzically looking in the rear view mirror to see what she could possibly mean: "What can't you handle, hon?"

Grace, almost muttering to herself while holding three sandwich bites in two hands: "I have this one, and this one, and this one...It is crazy!"

*For Part 1, see this post.

Journal of the Roby Flu* Marathon

2006-01-16T13:38:00.000-08:00

*Okay, so it's not actually influenza, just a "flu-like viral infection," but come on, can't we just call it the flu like we have for years and years? What gives with these doctors and PA's correcting me-- "Did you actually test positive for the influenza? Because if not, well, then it's just a flu-like viral infection." Gimme a break. 104.5 degrees is the flu, lady!

Day 1: It being Christmas Eve and me buying adorable velvet (or maybe pseudo velvet) Christmas dresses for the girls doesn't stop my loving daughters from all turning into snot factories right before we get ready for church.

Day 2: Must carry on with the pageantry and pleasantries of Christmas as though that's not snot that Grace just wiped on the hem of said velvet dress. But bonus: we can use wrapping paper to wipe noses when tissue box lurks in far corners of present mess.

Day 3: Hoping and praying, not for the Light of the World to be born in my heart, but for this God-awful cold to skip me. Also feeling very motherly towards my sweet, sickly offspring. Poor dears! The snot! The coughing! It's too much to bear!

Day 4: Still going strong as Scott succumbs to the congestion. Wimp. Clearly, his refusal to gulp the horse pills containing fish oil that I bought at the natural food store is to blame.

Day 5: Considered calling the doctor.

Day 6: Accepted the fact that decongestant does NOT work on young children. Also accepted the fact that children turn blue and begin seven octaves of screaming when approached by nasal saline spray.

Day 7: Threatening to call doctor if kids not decongested by Saturday. Kids still refusing any sort of nasal strategy. Grace obsessed with strawberry flavored Tylenol. Have taken to letting her lick the dregs of Natalie's medicine cup. Is this wrong?

Day 8: Crap, it's New Year's Eve. No time to be calling doctors. Plus it is the weekend. Sheesh, why didn't I take them in on Friday? And I feel sorry that they are all sick and everything, but honestly, do all three of the have to call "Hold me, Mommy" constantly? Must do a better job of comforting their poor sick heads.

Day 9: Maybe this is what it felt for Noah when the rain finally stopped. Noses have dried up and Natalie has a brand new tooth. Well, that explains a lot. Saying prayers of thanksgiving for the new toys that distracted us throughout the week of sickness.

Days 10-15: Go to park / host a playgroup / make scones / travel to San Diego / enjoy the feeling of sun on my face / celebrate freedom / I even go to a movie by myself one day

Day 16: Why does this pew feel so hard and cold? Why don't they have softer pews at this stupid church? And why is it freezing in here? You know, churches should offer herbal tea. I hope I'm not, you know, getting sick. I'd honestly rather be pregnant than sick. Hmm...no nausea. Not likely to be pregnancy.

Day 17: Crap. Crappity crap crap crap. Will be running out of Tylenol soon. I feel like I just started an extreme sport and all my muscles are saying, “God, no! Not exercise!" And Natalie is snotty again. Didn't I already deal with that?

Day 18: Stupid pediatrician. Stupid viral infection. Stupid "Mentally prepare for 4 or 5 days of high fever with her. Oh, and Grace will surely get it, too. You should get some rest." What the hell?! How does a mom of a 2.5 year old who just gave up the paci, and an 8 month old who refuses to sleep anywhere but pressed up against the small of my back, get rest? HELLO!

Day 19: Grace's fever hits 104.5. Natalie is still a strong 102.4. Cancel toddler gardening playdate. I'm done. Call in the reinforcements. I seriously give up. If I hear "Up, Mommy, UP!" one more time I will go crazy. Is it wrong to be glad Scott gets sick so that I have someone with which to share my misery? I feel more validated than I ever have in my whole life as Scott looks up at me at lunchtime (halfway through his first day home and sick) and says, "Sarah, I seriously hope you forgive me for leaving you alone to do this Monday and Tuesday. I am done and it's been like 4 hours."

Day 20: Grace says, "Mommy, I don't like it when you scream." This slightly endears me to her (what a well-balanced toddler to calmly say that to a person of authority!) but I bite my tongue from responding, "Well, I don't like it when you WHINE, and CRY, and HIT NATALIE, and when we run out of DRUGS and when Daddy goes to WORK and when you both want to NURSE AT THE SAME TIME" and so on and so forth. Not winning any Mother of the Year contests and it is only January 12th.

Day 21: God, are we really three weeks into this? Scott still home. The monotony is killing us. But my fever breaks and Natalie's, too.

Day 22: [Cue sad violin music] Why did this happen to me? Huh? Three weeks of sickness? When will they all get better? (Sobbing and music crescendo) Can't everyone just deal with their own sickness and stop being such BABIES?!?!?! (Scott reminds me that they are, in fact, babies, and we are, in fact, still their parents. I remind him to shove it.) The only saving grace is that no one is puking. God, that would suck.

Day 23: After mopping Grace's puke off the kitchen floor and cleaning it out of Scott's pajamas, I go for a run to try to drain the sinus pressure out of my eyeball. Big mistake. Almost kill myself pretending to be Rocky. Try inhaling steam over a bowl of hot water. Try more, different, prettier meds. Still have pounding behind eyeball.

Day 24: Well, folks, here we are. Monday January 16th. Scott went back to work, that bastard. Something about "earning money to pay the mortgage" or something stupid. Both kids down for a nap in the same room with Natalie in the crib, so miracles do happen. This gives me hope that the end is near. That and the fact that my eyeball is no longer pulsing on its own. I hope you and your families have stayed healthier than ours over the start of the new year. And if you have something that doesn't sound exactly like what we had, please cough into your elbow and stay the #*%@ away from my kids. Thank you and have a great day.

An Actual Conversation

2006-01-09T13:43:00.000-08:00

Grace, during our evening walk: "'Scuse me."

Me, not sure what she meant: "What happened? Did you burp?"

Grace, matter-of-factly: "Yes; I burped out of my bottom."

Me, suppressing laughter: "That's called farting."

Grace, kicking the stroller: "Oh. I did farted."

Proof!

2005-12-23T13:36:00.000-08:00

Just to prove I am not entirely anti-Santa, here:

But what I really want to know is this: what happened to the Polaroid Santa pictures that we took stumbling through the mall at the last minute as children? I don't know how much my parents paid for them, but I'll tell ya right now it wasn't $24.99 for an enhanced CD image. We weren't at a studio, for crying out loud. It was the Mission Viejo Mall. But there were seriously like 8 workers (elves?) there with the lights and the camera(s) and the flashing toys to get the kids to smile and of course, someone to ring up your purchase. They even take Visa. Now, you can bring your own camera, but you must purchase a package, as well.

The worst is the line. It snakes around fake Christmas tree after fake Christmas tree, filled with whiney 3-year-olds with spit-shined hair-do's, shiny patent leather shoes and what have you. Then there were the two boys dressed like Christmas elves. Red and white striped stockings.

I admit; I did put the girls in cuter than normal outfits (which translates into NOT sweats and NOT poop stains) but Grace peed on her denim dress in the car (I hate Christmas traffic) so we went with the blue sweats. Natalie freaked out when she could tell I was planning on putting her down on a stranger's lap, so I quickly surmised that a Grace alone picture would be more realistic. I was NOT going to do the flashing lights spinning toy thing with Natalie.

All snarkiness aside, it was actually a fun first go at the Christmas ritual. And my other reason for blogging about it is to share that when I asked Grace if she wanted to go "take a picture with a man pretending to be Santa,*" she nodded and asked, "Shall we bring Santa a present?" She actually took one out from under our tree to give to him. We decided to bring him a glass jar with cocoa mix (who am I kidding? It's just Nestle Hot Chocolate) and some candies for the "elves." And in the car, before the peeing incident, she asked me quite sincerely, "Who is Santa's mommy? Is it Mary?"

All of this leads me to believe that the best is to leave Santa entirely out of it for the first cognizant Christmas. Bring him in later when you can distinguish him more clearly from the real reason for the season, and also when you can explain St. Nicholas.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

*Or, "a man pretending to be a person we pretend exists." But whatever.

A telling statement about our household

2005-12-19T11:24:00.000-08:00

We're reading "Love you forever," by Robert Munsch. Grace knows it so well that she can often fill in the blanks if I let her. So we're reading the part about the 2-year-old driving his mother crazy. He runs around the house; he pulls all the books off the shelves, and he pulls all the food out of the refrigerator. He even flushes his mother's watch down the toilet! The next line is, "Sometimes the mother would say, 'This kid is driving me crazy!'" So here's what happened as I let Grace fill in the blank:

me: "sometimes the mother would say..."

Grace: "Bad words."*

I kid you not.

*OK, so to be fair, there is another line in the story about the 9-year-old boy saying bad words. But still.

Adventures in Christmas Family Rituals

2005-12-14T14:12:00.000-08:00

Since I am now officially "anti-Santa*," (see previous post) I have decided to elevate the other, more meaningful (or at least less materialistic) traditions of the holidays. Tonight we head to Balboa Island for the Boat Parade. I am searching for a sticker-based Advent calendar as we speak (yes, I realize it is a little late!). And we have resurrected the Santa Lucia tradition this year, thanks to a book that Grandpa Gary and Pops bought Grace and Natalie (oh, crap, that's me blogging about my dad again).

Lucia Day is celebrated in Sweden on December 13th to honor St. Lucy and is a fun Christmastime ritual in Swedish families. We make traditional foods, like peparkakor (ginger snaps) and Lussekatt buns (saffron bread), and a daughter in the family dresses up like Lucia wearing a wreath crown with candles on it. The children then bring these special treats, with coffee and hot chocolate, to their parents in bed. The whole family often repeats the ritual at their neighbors’ homes, bringing cookies to remind us to “share the light” like Lucia did. You can read more about Lucia Day and St. Lucy here and here.

A sweet tradition, no? Grace became obsessed with Lucia after reading the book her grandparents gave her, and I was inspired to be a creative, crafty stay-at-home mom and do the whole Lucia thing. Lussekat buns and all. Never mind I don't have a crafty bone in my body. Nevermind that I've never cooked with yeast before. No, I can handle it! Afterall, suburban SAHM's are judged by two things only.
#1: how cute your kids are in their Halloween costumes, and
#2: how crafty you are at the holidays.

The plans were great but the execution left something to be desired. My plan to make the food items from scratch resulted in tastey, albeit chewy Lussekater. Rolling out ginger snap dough with a crying 8 month old glued to my leg was also interesting. I also figured that a trip to Michael's and a heart to heart with a craft specialist there would result in the Best. Lucia. Crown. Ever. I apparently had way overestimated the availabilty and skills of said craft specialists. But undiscouraged, I came up with my own plan to cut a ring out of styrofoam board, stick holly pieces into it, and use a hot glue gun to adhere battery operated candles on top. I even remembered the batteries. It was beautiful, this crown. Everything was ready.

This is the best part. We set out to deliver our pepparkakor to the neighbors. I put the plates of cookies in the stroller, Natalie on my hip, and turned around in the driveway to see if Grace was coming with the crown afixed to her head. The crown began to wobble and I raced back to grab it, letting go of the stroller, of course. The stoller with cookies went flying into the street as I grabbed the crown, broke it in two, and the candles shattered in the driveway. This was my moment of stay-at-home mom craftiness glory?!

Grace was crying, and a few months ago when I was more emotional about every motherhood flaw, I would have joined her. But all I could do now was laugh at myself. Did I honestly think this whole thing was a good idea to try with a 2-year-old and an 8-month-old? Never having done any part of the tradition before? After sweeping up the glass and reconstructing a much more realistic crown make of silver garland and holly, and after resurrecting one of the candles for Grace to hold in her hand, we completed our delivery operation and even had a great Lucia morning of our own with Daddy and then with Grandpa Chuck and Grammy. Lussekat buns and all.

All in all, it was a successful first attempt. Next year, I might even try to learn the words to the song in Swedish. And I am definitely purchasing, not making, the Lucia crown.

*Okay, okay, I am not really anti-Santa altogether. Santa WILL come to our house this year and we WILL put out cookies and milk. But I absolutely love that when I ask Grace to sing a Christmas song, she half-sings, half-hums "Happy Birtday, dear Jesus." And I would rather have Grace and Natalie take turns pretending to be Santa and selflessly giving to others without the need for anything in return, than believe in a person whose only mission is to bring kids more stuff. Share thoughts and ideas, dear readers!!

The truth hurts.

2005-12-08T15:39:00.000-08:00

Me, at about 9 years old: "Seriously, Mom. I know Santa isn't real. So just tell me the truth. Do you and Dad pretend to be Santa and put the presents out?" My lip was quivering as I tried to make my voice sound normal from the back seat of my mom's station wagon. It was a stroke of genius to ask when my mom couldn't actually see my face.

My mom must have been trying to read my voice and wasn't sure how to respond. "Honey, you know Santa comes every year." She was stalling.

"MOM! I already know. Just tell me." I was pleading with her for the truth on the outside, but inside, I was willing the fantasy to be real for just one more year.

She sighed and glanced at me over her shoulder. My face was hot as I leaned forward, putting my arms on the front seat. She began. "Dad and I get the gifts and put them out each year. But we do it to honor the spirit of Santa Claus, St. Nick, who gave without seeking thanks in return. Santa really does live on, every time we give others happiness at Christmas time. But is there a North pole factory with elves and flying reindeer? No."

Me, with my heart in my throat, sinking back in my seat, "Oh, well, that's what I already knew." Our eyes met through the rear view mirror and I forced a smile.

I probably added something to make her think that I was okay, like, "It must be fun to pretend to be Santa every year."

And she was probably relieved and said something like, "We can still put out the cookies and milk if you want."

And I probably looked out the window and said, "Sure."

Natalie's Sleeping Haiku

2005-11-20T08:43:00.000-08:00

Ten minutes rocking
Ten nursing, only to find
Pooping precludes sleep

Loud and clear.

2005-11-17T08:30:00.000-08:00

They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Either that or imitation exposes our every flaw.

"No, Natalie! GO AWAY!"

I froze and a chill went through my heart when I heard Grace's forceful command to her sister this morning. The tone was worse than the words themselves. It was annoyed, dismissive, as though Grace intended to hurt Natalie's feelings to deter her from being close by.

The worst part was that I know exactly where she learned it. There is no day care, no TV's in our house to blame when this happens. I had been putting Natalie down for a nap with orders for Grace to leave us alone so that Natalie could get to sleep. I turned on the digital videos we have of Grace as a baby on the computer and told her not to come into Natalie's room.

When she came in, asking for something or other that wasn't a) and emergency or b) helping put Natalie to sleep, and after my whispered deterrents hadn't worked, I said in an annoyed, dismissive voice, "Go AWAY, Grace." It worked.

Too well, apparently.

But before we beat ourselves up over this moment of heartbreak, a counter example: two days ago while we were on our evening walk, I told Grace she was a sweetie. "And," I continued, "Natalie, you're a sweetie, too."

As I put the girls in their car seats later this morning, I heard Grace's voice right as I closed Natalie's door: "Natalie, you're a sweetie!"

Flattering or not, our children reflect us. Perhaps children are one of God's ways of exposing our best and worst to ourselves in hopes we can capitalize on the good and address the bad. Today, I learned both lessons loud and clear.

I will sit by the door.

2005-11-16T21:27:00.000-08:00

"You will sit by the door, Mommy," Grace commands me as I kiss her goodnight. She says this every night, and we usually comply in some fashion. Sometimes I respond with, "I will put Natalie to bed/check on Natalie/do the dishes and then come sit by the door, 'kay?" and, of course, upon my return, she's snoozing away.

Lots of times, Scott is the one sitting by the door while I put Natalie down or check email or do dishes. Scott is pretty much always on Grace duty when he's home. If by chance she wakes up in the middle of the night, he's on it. If she needs to have an ow-y kissed, he does it. (How do you speel "ow-y?") I think of it as penance for all those long sleepless months when Grace just wouldn't have anyone but Mommy.

But tonight Scott is out watching Mike play at the Gypsy Lounge and so I got to sit by the door for a bit. These really are precious times. I think of the way Grace longs for closeness with us and I am beginning to really realize that this will end all too soon. Sometimes it can be suffocating: "Mommy nurse! Up, Mommy, up! You sit by the door, Mommy," etc. But I know this strange mother-daughter relationship is evolving like all mother-daughter relationships do. I also hear her insist, "Gracie do it myself!" and "No, Mommy, I want Daddy do it," more and more often. And I recognize that my role is partly to respond to her requests, and partly to encourage her to grow on her own.

How will this drama unfold at age 15? My father-in-law has insightfully noted that there will likely be a clash of wills heading our way, since Grace and Mommy are both so, well, strong-willed, let's say. We agreed the other night that age 2 and age 15 will probably be the toughest.

But if it is true that Grace and I are on a crash-course for disaster in 13 years, (and I agree that it is likely), how can I use her desire for my companionship, approval, and attention to strengthen our relationship now? I don't mean "strengthen" in the sense that I need to do more for her. Good God, is that even possible?! I mean "strengthen" in the healthiest way--that I want us on super-solid footing in preparation for those turbulent years.

I want her to know that I will "sit by the door" by being present during a tough time in her life, but that Mom also has other interests and needs besides her children. I want to "nurse her" by inviting affection from her when she needs to reconnect, long after she is weaned, but also that there are other people in our lives that will want my affection, and hers. And I hope that these years of intensity and high-investment parenting will pay off down the road: that my daughters will know how to communicate their needs in their relationships, and will be confident that they are worthy of those needs being met--not only by me, but also by the other people they choose to walk with in life.

Dad and Laura.

2005-11-04T14:36:00.000-08:00

My father and my gay sister's partner finally have something in common: they have asked me not to blog about them. C'mon! How can I resist? That's almost like daring me to do it.

I will write one paragraph about each of them. After this, they can each repeat their request to not appear in my blog if they still feel that way. I will honor it.

My dad was raised on a farm in rural Iowa as the oldest of 6 kids. You know, up at 5:00, milking cows, his mom made his clothes, up hill both ways in the snow kind of thing. He is now a sophisticated and savvy investment banker in San Francisco, listens to opera, and can't start his day without the Financial Times. He is currently either meeting with his architect to plan the remodel of my parents' wine country home, on a plane to Germany to meet new potential clients, having a beer at the hot SOMA brewery my brother works at, or blasting Hawaiian music as he heads over one of the Bay Area's five bridges in his BMW. He is the first to compliment the amazing job his parents did raising their kids, but it is common knowledge that the farm was run as a dictatorship (however benevolent) and the kids were beaten with a switch if they misbehaved. Even so, Dad took the best from his parents and magnified it as our father. He may still be a Republican, but you might also mistake him for a sensative new-age guy when you see him listening to his kids' problems, having a tickle fight with his granddaughter, or reading a novel on religious tolerance during the Inquisition in India. Clearly, the man has come a long way.

But he still cries upon hearing old blue-grassy church music, especially "I'll Fly Away," and old harvest hymns like "Come Labor On," and "We Plow the Fields and Scatter the Good Seed on the Ground." You can take the boy out of the farm, but you can't take the farm out of the boy. And I would never want to.

Laura: My sister-in-law was also one of 6 kids in a family without a lot of money. She grew up in a coastal suburb, the daughter of teachers. My dad was motivated by a poor childhood to change his circumstances, and he has: he put himself through college and law school, started his own business, and sent all three of his own kids to college when he was the first of his family to even go at all. His ability to change his circumstances, as opposed to accepting the hand he was dealt, at many different points in his life is an inspiration to me. Laura's childhood motivated her to want to change the world. She's a social worker who works for a Washington watch-dog group that moniters health care and poverty issues. One goal of her organization is to collect and present data that will encourage government to change its approach to healthcare, particularly in regards to children below the poverty line. She chooses a lifestyle that is as low an impact on the environment as possible: she and my sister have one car. She is a vegetarian. She eats little dairy. Her thoughfulness is astounding. Ask her what she thinks about any problem in your life and she will simultaneously affirm your efforts and encourage you to be even better. She has a bum knee and bad ankles after years of gymnastics but still makes it a priority to get out and about in nature as much as humanly possible. She has 7 nieces and nephews and lavishes her attention on each one as if they were the only child who has ever done anything as cute as spit up or get an A in math. And at the end of a long, hard season of research and reporting, after months and months of thoughtfulness towards the world and the environment, the woman loves a good day at the spa. Her motto might as well be: "Love the earth; love each other; love yourself." And we love her for it.

Wow, after re-reading this post, it's clear that my dad and his daughter-in-law actually have a lot in common, underneath the surface.

happy BIRF-day fer MOM-my

2005-10-22T13:33:00.000-07:00

For your birthday dinner, you might think that waiting for 30 minutes in line for Mexican take-out would be a little sad. But then again, you are not me. Consider the beauty in the fact that the two rowdy kids you birthed in the span of 20 months are not tugging on your leg, asking to be picked up, or eating someone's paper menu because they are being entertained in the car by your husband. Then consider the fact that there is an OC Weekly stand at Chipotle and reading it (the Weekly, not the stand)for 30 minutes while in a peaceful line you realize that Orange County is NOT filled to the brim with conservative, conventional, materialistic suburbanites. There are a few outspoken liberal and/or alternative people that come out of the woodwrok to write letters to the editor of OC Weekly, and, apparently, eat at Chipotle with their similarly pierced friends. And then you actually get to eat real carbs because everyone deserves a break from losing baby weight on the South Beach Diet on her birthday. And a Dos Equis, too. And when the evening ends with the aforementioned husband, you know, giving you a special birthday treat (AND I MEAN CARROT CAKE, YOU PEOPLE!) things just can't get any better. I'll take Grace singing "happy BIRF-day fer MOM-my" over just about any other celebration this year.

He knows me so well.

2005-10-05T12:28:00.000-07:00

Me (while holding Natalie's head so that she pukes on her own onesie and not the floor): "Well, today we're off to my monthly affirmation of my own personal parenting choices."

Scott (while wrestling Grace off the potty to wipe her butt even though he's in dress slacks): "La Leche League Toddler Meeting?"

Me (putting on a robe while holding a baby since we are about to open the garage door): "Ten-a.m., baby, you better believe it."

The Blooper Reel

2005-10-04T15:19:00.000-07:00

I confess. I am one of those moms who think pictures of her kid taking a crap or picking their nose is a memento worth keeping. I take pictures of them spitting up, falling down, the first time they go down a slide by themselves, the first time they wear big girl panties, etc.

I compile all of these photos online and send them out periodically to people near and far. No matter your distant relationship to my family--you get the Kodak Gallery photo album.

There you are, drinking your coffee in your tailored, spit-up-free suit at a real job (unlike me, in sweats stained with baby barf, teeth unbrushed and mascara halfway down my face). You probably have on deodorant. I am wearing Eu d'oatmeal. You open an email from Sarah, thinking, "how sweet that nice young woman I met at the bank thought to email me." Lo and behold you are bombarded with 56 pictures of my kids. Kids you maybe never have met, that you are sick of hearing about, that you thought were cute the first couple times you received a photo album but now you wonder--"Is she really going to send me pictures like this every other month when they are sixteen? What will these potential teen pictures be of, Grace's first period? Natalie's first double fault on the tennis team?!"

One of my dear friend's mothers, who is like an auntie to me, recently responded to my monthly email of pictures that "It looks as if it is a breeze for you and that things are going well." God, I love the timing. This is the same week I received an email from my mom suggesting that I need to be more stern with Grace, an unsolicited photocopy from my father-in-law about better toddler feeding habits, and another shopper at the natural grocery store helping me unload my cart because, "Oh, honey, I can see you really got your hands full."

The truth is that I knew my mom wasn't criticizing my parenting (she has complimented me time and time again and I love her for it) and neither was my father-in-law trying to make me feel like a bad parent. In fact, I do need to know when to be more stern, and the article Chuck copied for me was actually a cute excerpt from a novel he was reading and I loved getting it from him. The woman at the supermarket was honestly trying to help a young mom because she had been there and would have liked the hand. And the reality was that I needed the help. But dang-it-all, we moms are so darn sensitive!! The trifecta of advice I received this week somehow just seared its way onto my insecure mommy brain and I just felt like an exposed failure.

So Auntie Laurie's comment about how I made it look easy was welcome. But then I wondered, "Am I sugar-coating my parenting and my kids' behaviors in these pictures? What about my blog? Does that portray the reality of my parenting successes and failures, or is it, too, a misrepresentation, making me look better than I really am? Is anyone actually seeing the real Roby family, in all its glory?"

So here it is: somewhat of a blooper reel. See us like you’ve never seen us before: Grace, Natalie, and Mommy Exposed. This is more than the answer to a job interviewer who asks smugly, “What is the area you are weakest in?” and you respond, “Oh, you know, I want to be so helpful that I sometimes over-commit and get too busy. I have really had to work on not trying to be so helpful to everyone.” You both know that you are technically answering the question (you over-commit), but you are doing so in a way that actually reveals a strength (your helpful attitude). No, no hidden agenda here. My weak spots (and those of my daughters) for all to see:

• I yelled (yes, yelled) at Grace in the bathroom at the supermarket for not going pee when she said she needed to. No acknowledgement of how she is 2, after all, and is allowed to make mistakes and that I would have been even more pissed had she not told me and actually peed in the cart.
• Grace cries “Up, Mommy, up! In her whiniest voice right when I am at the most critical part of dinner every single night. It’s like she has radar or something. God, kids are so competitive. It’s not enough for her to compete with Natalie; she has to compete with dinner? Sheesh.
• Natalie is a light sleeper. (I know; that’s not a big weakness. But the reality in her case is that she is an angel baby.)
• I waste unimaginable time on the internet each day with the excuse that I need intellectual stimulation. Although I don’t know what reading the Scoop on Celebrity sightings has to do with intellectual stimulation. Sometimes I want to tell Scott about something I read online but have to bite my tongue lest I reveal I actually clicked on a link about Britney's baby.
• I pick my nose in front of my kids and then act surprised when Grace picks hers in public. “Oh, Grace, you know we don’t do that with our fingers! Here’s a tissue.”
• I don’t know when the last time Grace ate a whole vegetable was.
• I buy lots of veggies with great intentions about end up throwing a third of it away when Scott’s not looking because it goes bad too quickly.
• One of the reasons I love the horses playground walk so much is that there is a coffee shop there too and I am addicted to coffee.
• I sometimes play up the hard parts of motherhood so that I will be more respected by people who have real jobs.
• Sometimes I want to get away from the kids. And not for something good, like a date with Scott or a spa day with a girlfriend. I mean, I want to get away from this whole family thing once in a while.
• When Natalie cried earlier today and I ran into the room and asked what happened, Grace said, “I bonked Natalie on the head.” Like she didn’t know it was wrong. Like she didn’t care.
• I am a horrible home-maker. Our home would be in shambles if Scott didn't do way more than his fair share after a long day at work.
• Sometimes I want to hit my kids.

Do I have to now include a caveat about how these things are only fleeting thoughts; I love my kids and husband, yada yada yada? There it is.

In the Clear

2005-09-29T21:43:00.000-07:00

“So…at what point in your pregnancies did you stop worrying about, you know…”
“Miscarriage?”
“Yeah. When did you feel like you were in the clear?”

I have a close friend whose pregnancy is brand spanking new, and of course, her mind is filled with the totally irrational but ultra-normal fears of miscarriage, complications, etc. Listening to her on the phone yesterday, my mind wandered back to the 7th week of my first pregnancy, when I had the Birth Center administrator on the phone and I was pleading with her to give me an ultrasound just to “make sure everything is okay.” I began to cry when it became apparent that she wasn’t going to budge. (I have since discovered that telling your midwife or OB that you have been spotting and/or cramping is almost a sure-fire way to get an extra ultrasound, but you didn’t hear it from me.)

The administrator thought she was calming my fears when she said that I would be reassured when I could hear the baby’s heartbeat. True, I did feel relieved to hear the sound of tiny galloping horses out of the Doppler at 10 weeks. And seeing the baby move in utero during the 20 week ultrasound helped me relax as well. Of course, when Grace was born and given a clean bill of health, I felt even better.

But what I didn’t have the heart to tell my friend on the phone yesterday was that you never stop having irrational (but totally normal) fears for your children. Instead of miscarriage, I now worry that they will fall out of the window if they run into the screen. Or that they will spontaneously stop breathing in their sleep. I worry that something will happen to my husband, or to me. I worry about being evacuated from our home during a natural (or unnatural) disaster and not having enough food for them. What if I don’t have access to food and water and can’t produce milk for Natalie? When they are 13, I will worry that some jerk will be careless with their heart. It won’t stop there. My mom still worries when I travel or that I’m not getting enough sleep. Heartache and hardship will haunt our children at various stages of their lives, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it but to give them a strong sense of self and to pray for them.

So that’s what I told my friend—that I prayed for a sense of peace to wash over her in these first worrisome days of parenthood.

"Yours, Mine, and Ours"

2005-09-21T15:02:00.000-07:00

This is the title of a bulletin board group on Babycenter.com. I frequent a few of the other boards, like "Attachment Parenting," "Progressive Christian Families," and "Extended Breastfeeing," and I always saw the title to "Yours, Mine, and Ours" and assumed it was a board about teaching your child to share. It turns out it is a board for "blended" families, but my assumption reveals the struggles of our household recently.

Grace has begun taking toys away from Natalie, who has begun grabbing every toy within 2 feet of her as though her life depended on it, and so it is a bad combination. When friends come over, Grace doesn't want them to play with "her" toys. "Mine" is a word heard often in our home. I thought it would be different with my kids. I thought my loving, warm, sharing approach to parenting would give them a sense of security and would prevent them from looking for identity in material things. Pipe dream, my friends.

My friend Shawna and I have discussed trying to raise our kids where they don't feel that anything is actually theirs--that the things in our home are communal and that we are stewards of them. Then my mom reminded me that developmentally, people need to understand possession before they can understand sharing. So we are doing the "your turn for one minute, then it's Natalie's turn" thing with some modest success.

Then all of the sudden, the other night I was reminded that sharing is about so much more than your turn and my turn. A shared experience can deepen the happy effect of that experience simply because you were not the only witness.

We were walking out of Target at 7:00 pm (yes, I know, I am one of those bad moms who brings her kids at melt-down hour to the store, filling them full of goldfish to keep them from screaming while I dash madly down the isles looking for toilet bowl cleaner). As we walked out of the store, a storm was brewing in the air. The clouds were streaked with pink and magenta bands as the sun was setting, but it was breezy and humid at the same time. I saw the setting sun lighting up Saddleback Mountain, and pointed to it, saying, "Look, Grace! Our mountain is lit up!" She looked up and her eyes widened as she smiled and gasped. There was a huge rainbow in the sky--bigger and brighter and longer than any I had every seen. It sprang up out of the mountain, hooked over the parking lot, and descended to the ground somewhere south of us. "Wain-bow!" Grace shouted at the 14 year-old hipster kid walking 10 feet in front of her mother as they left the store. The eye-liner and low-waisted jeans-clad 14 year old cracked her sullen expression long enough to make a face of wonder eerily like my own 2 year old's. She turned to her mother and said, "Look, Mom," and pointed to the sky. A Target employee points south and says "Lightening!" Sure enough, we hear the thunder a few seconds later and then see more flashing--right underneath the rainbow.

God shares beauty with me; I share it with Grace, Grace shares with the too-cool 14 year-old, who shares something amazing with her own mom who she probably hasn't shared anything with in 12 months. Somewhat of an eclectic spiritual community began to form in the Target parking lot that evening, everyone ooh-ing and aah-ing and sharing their wonder with others walking up to the store on their cell phones who had to say "Hang on...you wouldn't believe this rainbow!" to the person on the other end of the line.

It began to rain and everyone dashed to their cars, the moment gone. As I pulled into the driveway of our home minutes later, Scott ran out to meet us. We were 30 minutes late getting home and he had begun to worry, especially since we had company coming and it was bed time and it was weird that I wasn't already home. Perhaps the storm was getting to him, too. We tried to tell him about the rainbow. Grace appropriately parroted my conclusion, saying, "God gave us a wain-bow, Daddy!" Scott said, “Really? That’s great. Help me unload the car, Grace.” Scott was impressed, but distracted with the reality of our friends coming over and bedtime looming. Plus there was that pouring rain and lightening making us all on edge. I felt a sense of sadness that he hadn’t seen it and couldn’t share it with us.

It wasn't until an hour later, our friends Kathy and Seth happily ensconced in our kitchen window seat sipping Chardonnay, Scott chopping cauliflower, and me marinating the salmon that I mentioned the rainbow again, excitedly telling them how beautiful it was. Kathy exclaimed, "You saw it too? You saw our rainbow? Seth and I couldn't believe how beautiful it was, with the lightening..." I turned back to the salmon as she told her own description of seeing the vision from highway 5 and watching other drivers crane their necks to see it too. It seems this gift from God was "yours, mine, and ours," after all.

Things We Believe (Parenting Edition)

2005-09-15T13:27:00.000-07:00

Natalie, you're new here, so I thought it might help curb your stress level to know a few things about how we Robies operate. We have come to some of these conclusions on instinct, some on anecdotal observation of friends, and some on scientific research. Here is the start of an occasional list of Things We Believe in the Roby Family:

We believe babies seek communion with mom, dad, and other kids.

We believe babies develop better communication skills if we respond to their vocal and non-vocal efforts to "talk" to us.

We believe there is plenty of time for babies to develop independence; that although there are sacrifices that need to be made, it is more important to nurture babies and children through needy times than to force independence on them (as though you could force it anyway).

We hope to God that slinging the second baby will help make up for the reality that life is often more catered to the first child right now.

We believe that a little but of residual caffeine in breast milk is no biggie, but that soda and undiluted juice represent Satan.

We are (obviously) okay with a few hypocritical stances and double standards, but we aim to reduce these as much as possible.

We believe that almost without exception, the moms and dads we see in public love their children very much, even though they might be making parenting decisions that we might view as "unhealthy" or "god-awful crazy."

We believe in teaching by example, that only on rare occasions does it actually feel okay to deny our babies something that we are eating ourselves. The reality is, if it isn't good for a 2 year old, it might not be good for a 28 year old either. Of course, this doesn't apply to lattes or beer.

We believe that Other Loving Adults (OLA's) are essential to raising a well-adjusted child, and we seek time with OLA's constantly.

We believe in wearing your baby, comforting children to sleep, exclusively breastfeeding for 6 months, child-led weaning, setting few but firm boundaries with our kids, clearly communicating age-appropriate consequences and enforcing them, whole grain instead of white, learning real names for private body parts like vagina and penis, modeling a prayer life for our children, "please" and "thank you" are attitudes, not words; that marriage requires time away from children for more than just physical intimacy, that children can be allowed to cry in an OLA's arms when parents need that time away, that first and second year birthday parties should not involve sponge bob or Dora the explorer but that an occasional pinata is okay, that our kids will not become walking advertisements by wearing clothes with the company name in big letters across the front, that TV is bad for your health, that it is our responsibility to prevent ourselves and our children from developing adult onset diabetes, and that children are inherently spiritual, artistic beings who require nourishment but not dictatorship in these areas.

We believe in a parent staying home with children (and by staying home, I mean, taking them to the mall, the carousel, the zoo, the park, down the street to the neighbor's house, on a snail hunt, to the bagel shop, to grandma's, to the pool, to the library, to La Leche League meetings, to Bible studies, to daddy's work for lunch, to the gym day care, etc.).

We believe it is more powerful to ask, "How did you do that?" in an excited tone than to exclaim, "That is the best drawing I've ever seen!"

We believe boys and girls are inherently different but that our society exaggerates, romanticizes, and sexualizes these differences as much as possible. Therefore, we believe in neutralizing society's effect of gender polarization but strengthening our daughters' natural leanings towards gender identity.

We believe we were blessed with intelligent, responsive, affectionate, and disciplined children and we acknowledge our parenting strategies would not work for every child out there.

We believe that blogging during nap time is unbelievably healthy for the intellectual development of whichever parent stays home, even though the prospect of 2 hours' sleep is awfully tempting.

"I climbed a mountain and I turned around."

2005-09-02T14:37:00.000-07:00

Our beloved horses playground is gone.

Early this morning, I asked Grace if she wanted to go to the store, and she answered, "Coffee shop, Bagels and Brew, horses, horses playground. Sounds good." She is, of course, referring to our daily routine of walking 30 minutes to the horse stables, then another 5 to Bagels and Brew Coffee shop, and finally back to the horses playground, a 30 year old wooden tree house-like fort nestled in the trees below the stables.

When I first saw this playground, I groaned. Like all Stay-at-home-moms, my life sometimes seems to revolve around cool toddler places that are within walking distance from our house. Not only was this park at least 30 minutes away, but it was old, monochromatic, splintery, and dirty. I guessed it was as old as I was and later found out it was even older. But at Serrano Creek Park ("horses playground"), there is more than meets the eye.

True, it is a long walk there. But that walk became my daily exercise. Yes, it lacked the colorful, modern look of newer playgrounds and was built on dirt, not sand or woodchips. But it became our own little fort in the trees, with plenty of shade and a diverse system of challenges for a 2 year old. Most parks are a boring repetition of "go up the stairs and down the slide, go up the stairs and down the slide." No wonder moms are so bored they spill their guts to stangers. But this play structure required strategy and physical courage, with tall ladders, a very shaky chain link bridge, and a long narrow slide on which Grace has almost fallen off several times. At the top of the structure was a little room from which you can see the stables. Every time Grace climbs up there, she hollers, "Hi horses!!" at the top of her lungs. When they make that sound that horses do--sort of a whinny sound, Grace adds, "Bless you, horses!" And if we are lucky, someone decides to walk their horse through this forest area while we are at the playground, which to Grace is like having a front row seat at the Rose Parade. In short, the whole place was like a hidden treasure.

"Where horses playground are?" asks Grace as we come out of the stables. I look up and am shocked to see the whole playground demolished. I glance at Grace to see if she is okay--to see if she understands what has happened, and it is lucky that they are still in the midst of tearing part of it down since that involves an excavator and Grace is obsessed with diggers. "Digger, Mommy!" she yells, pointing to the bulldozer and excavator. I roll my off-road stroller right over the yellow caution tape to where a worker is standing. "What's going on here? Are they," I stammered, "going to replace it?" I finish lamely. I don't get a straight answer until we come back from the coffee shop and find a Lake Forest City employee, who tells us that they will be building a brand new, state of the art structure over 100 yards away in the Eucalyptus trees. "Building will begin a year from now," he says, as though that solves my problem of having a 2 year old that needs to run around everyday.

We go over to the swing set, which will remain for a few more months, and Grace rides in it, melancholy and reflective. She looks up at me and says, "I'm sad."
"Why, honey?"
"Horses playground gone. Build new one in the trees." She glances back at the ruins of her fort--the place she learned to climb a ladder, the first place that became part of our life since moving here 4 months ago, and reiterates, "Horses playground gone. I'm sad."

While the tragedies of Katrina this week certainly put something like this event in perspective, let’s not diminish these milestones in our own lives. Saying goodbye to this place is like folding up little 0-3 month baby clothes and putting them in the attic once your 2nd daughter is 4 months old and your husband doesn’t want more than two kids. It's like throwing away your old, worn out wallet that you bought the summer after high school from a street vendor in Florence and used all the way through college and your 20-something single years after your new mother-in-law gives you a new one for Christmas. It's like changing your last name when you get married. These places and objects come to represent a time in your life that you will never get back. Regardless of the fact that you might be moving onto a bright new stage, the passing of time and the objects of that time of your life can be bittersweet.

When I was a little girl, I once cried at the end of the school year when I had to throw out my worn-out uniform oxford shoes. I cried because those shoes were like companions to me all year. They endured everything I did--the recess time, the tests, the friendship fights, the waiting on the corner for my mom to pick me up, the walking down the corridor to the lunch room, the assemblies--all of it. They were like witnesses to my life and only those shoes knew as much about what I had gone through all year as I did. The scuffed leather and worn-through soles were testament to their loyalty.

The horses playground is the only thing besides me and newborn Natalie who witnessed Grace coming face to face with the challenge of crossing the chain link bridge and backing down, unwilling to risk it. The horses playground saw Grace's face when she finally decided to cross that bridge, get up on the other side, and yell, "I did it, Mommy!" The horses playground saw Grace learn that just because Natalie was nursing doesn't mean Grace gets to nurse. (How the hell do you nurse two kids at once in a splintery, dusty playground?) I've grown at this park, too. It was here that I learned to relax when things took too long, that an unscheduled day can be full of adventure, that this time with my children, although at times monotonous, tedious, and frustrating, was a gift from God in that I was the one coaching Grace through the chain link bridge challenge; I was the one bursting into laughter when Grace said bless you to the horses; I was the one giving her a high five when she came down the slide all in one piece.

This all makes me think of the time I drove in my old ’88 Toyota Landcruiser from my parents’ house in San Francisco to my new place in Monterey after college. As I left 101 and drove down the foggy stretch of highway 1 late at night, the radio played the Stevie Nicks version of “Landslide.” I cried that night, too—for all the change ahead of me, for the miracle that I got a job at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, for the relief that college was finally over, for the time I would never get back again now that I’d graduated.

Okay, so the horses playground coming down isn’t the end of the world. After all, dry rot can only hold up for so long. But I include my favorite lines from “Landslide” for you anyway.

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Well, I’ve been afraid of changing cause i’ve
Built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I’m getting older, too.
I'm getting older, too.

I missed it.

2005-08-30T20:50:00.000-07:00

"She got over her acne," a girl at church whipsered to her mother after seeing you for the first time in 2 months. I had forgotten about your little raspberry complexion issues. I had forgotten that you were congested to the point of snarfing all the time for the first 2 months of your life. Even though it seemed like a constant fixture 2 months ago, your super-pissed cry was a surprise to me in the car today since you turned into an angel baby at 3 months old. I had forgotten that you were a child of passion until I heard that demanding scream again this morning.

Natalie, I believe you have a peace to you that Grace will be searching for her whole life. And Grace has a sense of drama that you will never quite master no matter how hard you try at thirteen. You futures seem almost clearer to me than your pasts, and you both were born yesterday. Already I have let so much of your early days and months slip away.

Someday I will play "You Missed It" for you and you will understand how heartwrenching but growth-instilling it is to be a mother:
http://www.mikebaas.com/audio/
Click on You Missed It.

The Point of Faith

2005-08-19T22:36:00.000-07:00

*Please see the comments section under my post "God has a sense of humor" for the inspiration for today's post.*

The purpose of religion is to allow God to work through you to transform yourself, your community, and the world. The world is currently both made by God yet not of God. The transformation of which I speak will bring God's kingdom here on earth. God will be "all in all," meaning that 100% of us will be filled 100% with Him.

It is already happening. In little moments everyday, regular people are allowing God to bring about His kingdom. Where can we see it?

We see it every time you turn towards forgiveness. It happens when you take care of someone who is sick. It happens when you let go of anger and warm your heart towards someone who has hurt you. These situations could be of high magnitutde--for example, joinng the Peace Corps to teach sustainable agriculture to farmers in Latin America. But they can also be more subtle situations, like acting as a servant to your spouse. In fact, a small daily act of faith in God for me is giving my husband the better-looking or bigger plate of food each night. Does that solve world hunger? No. But does it require that I put him before myself? Yes.

"God's Kingdom" isn't necessarily a place; it can be a second in time when you allow yourself to be utterly about someone else's needs, the way God did on the cross. There is no reason to belittle the tiny moments where we achieve God's Kingdom; in fact, it is in these little moments of selflessness that build together towards a life of doing God's will.

John 14:9-10
"Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, 'Show us the Father'? Don't you believe that I am in the Father, and that the Father is in me? The words I say to you are not just my own. Rather, it is the Father, living in me, who is doing his work."

Like Jesus, we can reveal God in our own daily lives in devastatingly significant and ordinary ways.

Playground Confessions, Part II

2005-08-16T12:46:00.000-07:00

"And now, back to our regularly scheduled Playground Confessions!"

The setting: A park I've never been to. I am there to meet up with an Attachment Parenting playgroup but no one else shows. I do spot two little kids playing off to the side of the building and I go around to introduce myself. Perhaps Grace will be entertained by these adorable twins and stop throwing sand in her hair.

The players: Me, Grace and Natalie (obviously), a boy and girl set of twins, 3 years old, a woman and a man in wheelchairs, tending to the kids. They both look mid-30's. She is blonde and probably wore leg warmers in the 80's. She still wears blue eye shadow. He has glasses and speaks sternly yet lovingly to the kids.

The wind up: Blue eye-shadow mom and I are chatting as the kids run haywire around the empty playground and stern man wheels after twin boy who is running full steam aways from us across the baseball field. She mentions that it is so much hotter here. I inquire where they are from. They've just moved from Seattle. See, her husband has a drug addiction problem and can't stay employed. Oh, sure. I know. The whole "husband dope addict problem." Sure. I nod. They are separated until he keeps the same job in construction for more than 6 months and must be clean for a year. Yep, that makes sense. I nod again, wondering if I have a sign on my forehead, and I begin to think this story would make a good post.

It gets better: If you can believe it, it does get better. Eye-shadow mom wheels over to the other twin as stern man returns to our shaded area. He mentions something about his job, and I ask him about what type of construction he does. Oh, no, you see, he's not the husband. Just a friend. The twins' godfather. Been friends with the mom since childhood at a school for disabled children. Okay. But, you, know, everyone always assumes he's her husband, what with the intense connection they have. I mean, he's always thought that there could be something between them if she hadn't gotten married...His voice trails off. I nod. Sure, I know. The whole "in love with another man's wife problem." Yes, yes, tough stuff.

The wrap-up: This guy is out here at the park, acting like the father these kids don't have, and is hoping against hope that eye-shadow woman kicks out her good-for-nothing husband for good. She must totally be aware of this but continues to lead him on in a certain fashion; after all, it is flattering and he is a big help with the kids.

The analysis: Some issues are so personal and secret but are also on your mind 24/7 (like being in love with a married woman, or having a husband with a drug problem), that you sometimes just have to talk about it with someone who can't do any damage with the information.

I now invite any of your comments on similar experiences. Any random people confessing there personal lives to you at the playground/water cooler/shopping mall/airplane?

She's two.

2005-08-12T12:55:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd give Grace something to do while I was cooking dinner the other night. "Aha!" I thought, "I'll keep her busy with a bowl of ice!" Smiling at my brilliance, I got out two bowls and filled the pink one with ice. She climbed up onto her stool and watched me carefully as I instructed, "Look, Grace, you can pick a piece of ice and put it in the blue bowl!" I ceremoniously dropped the first piece into the bowl with a clang.

Grace sat there a moment and then casually picked up the entire pink bowl, dumped all the ice at once into the blue bowl, and climbed down, walking out of the kitchen.

Here's to me thinking of a great idea about 7 months too late in her development.
Here's to Grace creatively solving new challenges everyday.
Here's to Grace thinking for herself.
Here's to Grace on her second birthday. May God continue to bless us with Grace's charm and wisdom.

God has a sense of humor

2005-08-10T20:17:00.000-07:00

"We interrupt this edition of Playground Confessions to insert an anecdote from Sarah's real life. Playground Confessions will be seen later this week. Or next (let's be realistic)."

Grace and I spent a large part of the morning trying to teach Natalie how to play peekaboo. Natalie was lying on the bed; I was sitting at her feet, and Grace was in my lap. Grace and I took turns covering our eyes and saying, "Where's Mommy?" or "Where's Grace?" Natalie just smiled and smiled the whole time like the lovebug she is.

The day went downhill from there, however. Grace is turning two this week and you really can tell. She refused to keep her cup in the kitchen, poured it down the front of her shirt while sitting on the couch, left a puddle of ice on the kitchen floor (in a separate incident!), repeatedly took items out of the bag I was loading for her swin class, and the worst of all: woke up the baby THREE TIMES today. Plus, Natalie has decided that she doesn't like napping when Grace naps, so you know what that means: now Mommy doesn't get a nap (or a break, or a shower, or time to get stuff done, etc.).

I finally hit the end of my sleep-deprived rope at dinner when Grace repeateded shreiked that she wanted more hotdogs as though she were starving to death, and then shreiked that she didn't as though bringing one to her plate would poison us all. Natalie began to cry during this interchange and all I could think to do to avoid slapping Grace was to take my hands and bury my face in them. I was prepared to start crying but decided to pray instead.

So there I am with my face in my hands, standing in the middle of the kitchen with puddles of melted ice everywhere, Grace soaking wet, Natalie crying in her bouncy seat, and me telling God how I can't do this anymore. I literally said to God in my head, "Fix this." Can you guess what happened? After about 10 seconds, Grace says enthusiastically, "Where's Mommy?!?"

It took me a second to realize that while I am at the end of my rope, literally trying to keep myself from abusing my kids, Grace thinks I am playing peekaboo. I open my hands and say, "Here I am, honey!" and burst out laughing. Grace starts laughing and even Natalie smiles. God fixes things once again. Thank you, Lord.

Playground Confessions, Part I

2005-08-09T21:17:00.000-07:00

Maybe I have a warm, inviting, sympathetic look to me. Or maybe these moms are just lonely. But one thing is clear, people need someone to talk to out there in playground-world.

The setting: I am with Michelle at a local playground on a super sunny day. All the moms are huddling around the one table that's in the shade while our children run screaming by and we try to swipe them with sunblock or douse them with water.

The players: Michelle, Me, a 30-something mom of a toddler and a new born who looks as though she "did big things" before this whole mom thing, and a late-20s super chic low rider jeans mom of a little boy.

The wind up: I ask the "did big things" mom how things were going with the newborn and all. She starts with a timid, "Oh, okay..." and then lets it loose by telling us she can't handle the newborn crying and leaves her alone to cry while she tries to sleep. She feels guilty but is desperate. After a little "there, there, poor thing" and a some "have you tried swaddling/a swing/a sling/some valium," we move onto the next topic, husbands. "Did big things" mom says that having a baby has not helped her marriage as dh (dear husband, for all you non-bulletin board people) doesn't understand her anymore.

The main confession: The low rider jeans mom pipes in with a confession of her own--she is separated from her husband over these same issues and is seeking a divorce. Not exactly trained in family therapy, Michelle and I take Grace and Conner throwing sand at each other as our cue to leave. "Good luck," we say to the moms, as we high-tail it out of there.

The wrap-up: I'm all for sharing with other moms, and I don't claim to always keep my own personal stuff to myself either, but these women were total strangers. It wasn't like we'd talked for 30 minutes about nothing and then they unloaded. The confessions were like the second thing out of their mouths!

Th analysis: It is unnatural for humans to be parenting in isolation the way we do today in this culture. We need to have a network of other moms who are doing this with us and who have done it before to share with and learn from.

Stay tuned for the next installment of....Playground Confessions!

"Hell Hath No Fury..."

2005-07-19T13:35:00.000-07:00

...like that of a mother whose babies have been awoken by a truck backing up, a dog barking, or any other general nuisance noise during nap time. Seriously, don't these people know that children nap from noon to 4? Even little babies, who nap 17 times a day, have one major afternoon nap. I find myself feeling bad for all the times I was loud in the afternoon before I had kids and knew that other moms were probably seething over their baby waking up.

It's so funny how a life change can suddenly put you in this whole new demographic. I once loved Cheetos; now I lie to my daughter and tell her that they are "Grandma's carrots" when she sees my mom eating them. Once I went out for drinks at 10:00 pm; now I am annoyed when I can't get to bed by 9:00. Once I thought that afternoons were for loud pool parties; now I scowl at the neighborhood kids who are yelling at 2:00, wakikng up my kids.

Even my language has changed: what once was "going to sleep" is now "going down." "Nap-time" is now "Nigh-nigh time" (what, is the "t" too much energy? Actually, yes, it is).

Here are some things that have become acceptable in our house since children: abstinence as a realistic form of birth control, cheerios as a meal, taking a shower becoming an act of pampering, and paying bills with my husband is "time together."

But there is also now time for a walk every morning, a bigger reason to be environmentally sustainable, and rolling down grassy hills for fun.

I'd say life is pretty good.

Christ-centered moments at IHOP

2005-07-13T16:28:00.000-07:00

Is this "drive-by insult" week, or something?

So my friend Michelle and I are at IHOP this morning with three babies: Grace, Natalie, and Connor, who is Grace's age--almost 2. Both Grace and Connor are climbing around the booth and occasionally fighting over the crayons. Both Michelle and I are addressing them when they get too loud, asking them to "use your words" and finding a new way to distract them.

IHOP seemed a bit busier than usual, and our food took a little longer than normal, which added to the frustration on the part of the kids. Connor, in particular, seemed to be having a rough go of it, getting more and more annoyed. We knew it would all be fine once the pancakes arrived.

I took my 2 kids to the bathroom, and apparently while I was gone, a man from the other end of the restaurant used the opportunity to approach Michelle and tell her that he taught his kids how to behave in a restaurant and that she should do the same with her son. Michelle reportedly told him off and he went back to his seat.

Of course, she was in shock that he would imply that she wasn't teaching her child--hadn't he been watching her all along? Plus, Connor and Grace aren't even 2 years old! It's not like we were at a fine restaurant or something--it was IHOP, for crying out loud.

So the first surprise is that after processing for a moment longer, Michelle calmly gets up, goes over to the man, and tells him that she will pray for him. His response is the second surprise: "I'd appreciate it because my family needs the prayer."

Michelle, my friend who describes herself as "more 'fuck you' than diplomatic," showed me how God can inspire us in the most contentious of moments. Thank you, Michelle. Thank you, God.

An Open Letter to the Woman Who Approached Me on Sunday at Tulley's Coffee in Irvine

2005-07-11T21:18:00.000-07:00

Your strategy, (if that's what that was) aside, could you explain to me what was so offensive about my 3 month old baby being hungry and me nursing her at a coffee shop? Were you offended because you could see my breast? Well, you couldn't see it. Even when you peered over my shoulder when you came in the coffee shop (I assume to confirm that I really was doing THAT), you couldn't see any more of my breast that you could a woman who was wearing a strapless dress or a spaghetti strap top. In fact, I was more covered than a woman wearing one of those, since my shoulders were covered. My baby's head, which is much larger than my breast (not that you'd know, since you COULDN'T SEE MY BREAST) was totally covering my breast. So no, you couldn't see my breast.

Is it that nursing, itself, is indecent to you? That nourishing a baby with God and nature's perfect "formula" is wrong in and of itself? That can't be it; after all, nursing is the purpose of breasts.

Is it that nursing might be provocative because it draws others' attention to thinking about my breasts? Well, then, even if I were to "get some decency and at least cover myself up or something," as you so ignorantly implored me to do, men in the coffee shop would still know what I was doing, and if that made them think about breasts in general, so be it. Think of all the provocative dressers there are out there, enhancing their bodies with a push up bra showing more cleavage than you could ever see from a nursing mom. Think about the short skirts that draw the eye up a woman's leg. Would you angrily tell those women that they are being indecent because their dress may encourage some men to think about sexual things?

Like my friend Rebecca said, we really do live in a bipolar society. It's okay for scantily clad women to be on every bus stop billboard. We see more cleavage by flipping through a magazine than at any breast-feeding support group! But heaven forbid a woman actually discreetly uses her breast for nourishing her baby, because then, suddenly, breasts are indecent.

Perhaps your issue is that, as my husband proposes, you are insecure and are worried that your husband might have tried to sneak a peak at my breast since I was nursing in public. Well, if your husband might do that, then he probably sneaks way more peaks at other women wearing less than I was wearing at the time. And you shouldn't be so insecure, if that's what it was, since you are a beautiful 30-something woman with a very friendly smile and a nice, athletic body (I could see a lot of your body since you were wearing very short shorts...hmm...). In fact, you seemed so warm when you came up to me that it took me several seconds to stop smiling as it dawned on my that you were actually insulting me.

So I implore you, don't be offended by the chance of seeing my breast when it was completely covered. Don't be concerned that nursing is indecent when it is how God designed my body to feed my baby. And don't be worried about your husband thinking of boobies when he saw me nursing; he likely didn't think of it sexually anyway, and sees more of other women's cleavage anyway.

And I also would like to suggest an alternative strategy. If your goal was to get me to stop nursing in public or to wear a parachute over my body while doing it, next time try this. Approach me and ask how old my adorable baby is. Ooh and ah as I tell you a little bit about her. Then say, almost apologetically, "You may not be aware of this, but sometimes other people feel uncomfortable when they see women nursing in public. I don't mean to embarrass you by bringing it up, but I feel I should tell you that I was uncomfortable when I came in and saw that you were nursing. You obviously seem to be a good mom and I know you are just trying to feed your little (don't forget 'adorable') baby, but I can't leave without at least making you aware that others are uncomfortable." Then I might have been able to have a conversation with you about it, instead of you running out after assaulting me with your insult (I have no decency? Do you even know me?) leaving me no time to even apologize or defend myself.

I disagree with your intent (to get me to nurse in private only) but I disagree more with your strategy, since it cut off all possible dialogue between us and ruined the potential for either of us to change our behaviors to be less offensive to the other person. Perhaps as you are navigating through the internet one day, searching for other people who hate breastfeeding in public as much as you do, some key word you type in will deliver you to my blog, where you will recognize yourself in this letter. If that happens, please email me so that we can have the dialogue we should have had on Sunday morning--a conversation where actual change might result, as opposed to more bitter resolve and hurt feelings.

Sincerely, Sarah Roby

Meet Grace, my best friend.

2005-07-01T14:48:00.000-07:00

For the first month that Natalie has been on the outside of my body, Grace tried to "cut" in the nursing line at our house. She could have been reading a book, eating cereal, running in circles around the lamp post, etc., but when Natalie cried, needing to be fed, Grace would holler, "MAMA!! Nurse! Gracie nurse!!" Now, I am still nursing Grace, so it wasn't a problem that she wanted to nurse. The problem was that she was intentionally interfering with my nurturing of Natalie, in an effort to lay her claim to me, I suppose.

Things improved as we lay down the ground rules for nursing in Casa Roby.
1. Babies nurse whenever, wherever. Toddlers nurse once in the morning, once after nap, and maybe once at night if needed, but never right before bed (we can't have her still relying on me to get to sleep or we'd be back to square one).
2. Baby crying always trumps a toddler's desire to nurse, but a latched-on toddler pretty much gets to finish if baby cries mid-session. This happens so rarely, that I allow it.
3. Mommy will nurse two at a time when at home (why would we be given two boobs otherwise?!) but will NOT nurse a wiggly worm. Nursing toddlers must have a calm body at all times around baby.
4. Toddler must make eye-contact and say "thank you" after nursing. Babies need only gurgle and smile.
5. Mommy tries to avoid nursing the toddler outside of the home (except for La Leche Meetings!); I don't lie about it, but neither do I want to advertise that I nurse an almost-2-year-old.

Fast forward to this morning. I hear Grace call for me at 6:20 am and I stumble into her room, giving her a good morning hug.

"Nurse, Mommy." She demands.

"Can you say, 'Good morning, Mommy?'"

"Good morning Mommy Nurse."

"Nurse please." I suggest.

"Nurse please." She implores.

I take her out of her crib, sit down on her big-girl bed, and she begins to nurse. After about one minute, we both hear a sudden cry from my bedroom, where Natalie and Daddy are. I wait a moment to hear if there is a problem. Natalie cries again. I deduce that she has awoken and needs to nurse. See the second part of rule #2: A latched-on toddler gets to finish before Mommy responds to baby. I take a deep breath, prepared to wince while listening to Natalie's escalating cries as Grace takes her own sweet time enjoying mommy-time when it is in demand by the upstart new sibling.

Grace, full of surprises, jumps off my lap (now milk is squirting everywhere) and shouts,

"Mommy! Nurse Na-lly! Nurse Na-lly!"

I find myself fleeing Grace's room, being pulled down the hallway by Grace. I try to stop the flow of milk with my hand as we race into my room where poor Scott is holding a very hungry Natalie. (On a side note, it is totally unfair that I have two functioning lactating breasts while Scott has none!) Grace continues her look of panic until I actually sit down, take the to baby to my breast, and calm her cries. Satisfied with Natalie's contentment, Grace crawls onto the bed, comes over to my other breast, looks up at me, and asks, "Gracie nurse, too?" Not even two years old, she has learned that the "haves" should share with the "have-nots."

As I pull her head to latch-on, I think to myself that I have the best best-friend in the whole world.

Bubbles in the breeze

2005-06-17T09:22:00.000-07:00

Speaking of "moments that go right," Grace and I spent 20 minutes the other day chasing bubbles in our backyard. It can actually be quite good exercise when there is a breeze. While enjoying this child-like moment, I also sensed that this game involved a lot of frustration, since upon catching a bubble, we would pop it. We were trying to capture something that was only beautiful if we left it alone. But then leaving it alone meant letting it float away, irretrievably. What a conundrum for myself and almost-2-year-old Grace.

This makes me think of why people are recording their intimate or not-so-intimate thoughts online in these blogs. What's the deal with public journaling, anyway? I came home last night from errand-running and my husband had already read my blog. Day one, already public. That is the point, isn't it? Because we all know how to march ourselves down to the nearest Toys R Us and buy a diary that locks. We can hide the key in our underwear drawer with our favorite garbage pail kids cards (the Pokemon cards of Gen Xers).

Perhaps the masses think that something about their private life is inherently interesting to strangers. Perhaps we all secretly want the people in our lives to read blogs about them so that they can be alternately flattered and pissed. Perhaps we just want to start recording the moments that matter before they flitter away from our memory like bubbles in the breeze.

Aware Now

2005-06-16T15:37:00.000-07:00

The stage lights have been brought down in my brain by the receding post-partum hormone levels, and I feel like I am the one who just was born. Born into full motherhood, born into loving that motherhood, born into dwelling in a place of peace with it all. True, you say, I've been a mother for 22 months and 4 days now, but I am only recently a mother of two (2 months exactly) and this is just....well, different. Since dd#2 was born, I feel like there have been these glaring lights on me and my kids, the kind that illuminate you to others but make it hard for you to see anything clearly yourself. But things changed this week due to my realization that I am dependent on alcohol.

Yes, I am a nursing mom; no, I am not an alcoholic or a crazed/unhappy/middle-aged desperate housewife. It's only 2 drinks a night, but I rely on them as though my life depended on it. I actually called my husband, who was at the store, to tell him to pick up wine or beer or something, when we actually had plenty in the house. I was afraid of getting through dinner and the rest of the evening without a drink or two.

So I realized all of this about a week ago but did nothing about it. Continued life as normal. But it struck me earlier this week that my reason for needing the drink(s) was that my life was stressful. Well, this is true; it is. Because I let it be. You know how you have days where all these little things go wrong and one more thing happens and you start yelling or crying? Motherhood was feeling like that every single day to me. But then I awoke one morning and realized that my response to all the moments that go right needs to be at least as strong as my response to the moments that go wrong.

Moments that go wrong =

Losing my keys for the 3rd time in a day
Natalie crying in the car
Grace crying just because Natalie is crying
Forgetting to reload the diaper bag
Grace dumping her snack all over the park
Natalie not sleeping

Moments that go right =

Grace climbing to the top of a ladder, turning around, and shouting, "I did it, Mama!"
A parking spot opening right in front of the center where La Leche is meeting
La Leche League in general
Natalie lying in bed next to me, and smiling at me after nursing
Coming upstairs and seeing Natalie asleep cuddled next to a sleeping Scott
Both girls sleeping long enough for me to start blogging

So my new goal is to become addicted to seeing and pointing out the moments that go right. This should ward off any other unhealthy addictions that were brewing. I am aware now.