the audacity of parenting

our daily bread

2010-04-03T10:34:00.000-07:00

it should be no surprise that C's first culinary accomplishment is making toast. he is the grandson of a Pioneer bread man, who daily delivered fresh bread to his children, which was usually prepared as toast. now this was no ordinary affair. firstly, the toast was considered raw until at least 1/3 was blackened, and the toast-maker could be found staring intently into the toaster's orange glowing holiness. Indeed there were two holy figures in the Lennon family -- the Virgin Mary and the toaster.
When i married into the Lennon family, their clan obsession with bread amused me. now i confess that i have become one of their proselytes. when children say they're hungry, i offer toast without a second thought. i stand before the toaster in patient reverence or listen for the expectant spring of toast popping, then hurriedly, in a state of complete focus, i smear thin slabs of butter on my piece of perfection--a black/brown crust fading into golden oblivion. no edge forgotten, no surface overlooked as my butter knife works confidently beneath the subtle sizzle of butter on hot toast.
needless to say, eating the toast is a matter of sacredness. if the bread can make it from toast to mouth in under 4 minutes (depending on toaster of course), the toast-maker has earned a medal of excellence and the silent approval of the Lennon's who have been buttering toast since they were toddlers -- about C's age, to be exact. So, Mr. Cbear, welcome to the rank of third generation proselyte of The Lennon Toast Affair. you're on your way to excellence.

wean

2010-02-27T16:30:00.001-08:00

i weaned hazel on tuesday, february 23rd. it came like a mysterious wind that signals the arrival of change, so i was gifted the confidence to make this significant transition. i didn't know i would feel all the ways i've been feeling in the last four days since i stopped nursing. i had been waiting for that very wind to blow and relieve me from the obligation nursing had become to me. ultimately i continued nursing because i believe in the lasting benefits of such a strong mother bond, but at some point it felt like i was giving that nourishment grudgingly, and this is no way to give to anybody.
on the first day, with my breasts engorged like they hadn't been since after labor, i felt such a tremendous sense of gratitude for the earth, our mother, for giving to us so tirelessly, without question or condition. i crossed my arms over my chest and, like a ceremony marking the closing of a womb, i thanked my body for giving to our children for the last 4 1/2 years of uninterrupted pregnancy and nursing. but i wept in secret as my daughter became aware that our relationship was changing. she asked to nurse again and again, as if hoping to awaken from a sad dream. maybe i'm just interpreting her experience, or maybe some cellular part of me understands. so i quickly direct her to the sky and the birds and ask 'where did nursing go?' -- a limitless question with any number of answers. i remembered when i weaned C and the process of reinforcing our connectedness by quiet times of reading; or swooping him up in my arms and dancing with him, whispering that 'mama still holds you soooo close...' and so it goes again with miss louise, my little gumdrop girl.

my daughter

2009-12-19T21:06:00.001-08:00

H stays with me in the bathroom when i shower and mimics my beauty routine. brush my teeth -- and she clumsily brushes hers; apply lotion to body and face -- she holds out her tiny hand, and i give her a tiny squirt of lotion, which she then spreads on her legs and arms; put on my makeup -- if i don't give her something from my makeup bag, she erupts into a true female fit, face pinched, reflecting the pathetic truth of how i feel without my blessed beauty secrets; apply chapstick -- she puckers her cutest-baby-mouth and i give her a dab of burt's bees.

it's all these things that make me feel so blessed to have a daughter. it's just plain fun!! she naturally wants to smell flowers without my beckoning. she somehow already knows how to play games, and i don't mean childish ones (or maybe mine are!) -- if she's not given what she wants, she knows how to withdraw her love and affection. then she lavishes me with her tiny kisses when i don't ask for them. she's already a "Rule's Girl" at 1 1/2!

i can already see us as friends as she becomes an adult. i look to my relationship with my mom and think how amazing it is to have generations of women, with a friendship so unspeakably close.

siblings are overrated

2009-11-09T09:22:00.001-08:00

siblings are overrated. this coming from an only child, mind you. i wasn't one of those only children that felt some deep longing for a brother or sister. i never knew the difference; i was comfortable with adults. my dad likes to tell the story of when i was a child, maybe 4 years old. apparently i would look people square in the face and ask them how they were doing. "it would freak people out!" my dad would say with a chuckle. "you used to talk to people like you were an adult, really scared people."

it has been fascinating to watch my two children as siblings. i'm in awe of their natural connectedness, having grown in the same womb and nursed from the same breast. when they get into a groove and start playing together, i have such gratitude that they have each other and will be friends for life.

but it's the fighting that makes me say (with a just a touch of sarcasm) that siblings are overrated. the screaming from my little girl over every minor infraction, every bump from her older brother. the possessive nature of my little boy with each and every toy at any and all times. sometimes i don't interfere just to see if they resolve it on their own. they usually don't and from the next room i hear the most cacophonous screams -- i half expect to see a bloody murder scene when rush in to play referee. 'what is it with you guys?!' i hear myself saying daily. they seem innately bent on torturing each other most of the time, so what's so great about having siblings? as an only child, you get all the toys to yourself all the time; you get your parents' undivided attention; and have the added perk of being their only benefactor (jk -- totally morose, i know :).

then again, as an adult you have to adjust to being only a star amonst stars, instead of the ruling sun in your parents' world. this is something i'm still getting used to. sometimes i think some of my most severe woes stem from only child syndrome.

2009-05-07T12:36:00.000-07:00

once upon a time, there was a little boy who loved to chase the chickens. he would sneak up on them at their midday shade and gallivant around with a stick, prodding with little feathers flying about. the chickens didn't like it, needless to say.
so one day, they got together to talk about it.
"i don't like it, i don't like it one bit," said blacky.
"nope, not me neither," said another and they went around like that saying how they didn't like the little boy to chase them.
they made a plan to get the little boy back for scaring them all those times and this is what they did:

the next morning when the little boy went out to the coup to let the chickens out, they all huddled together and when the latch was opened, they flew out one by one, landing on the little boy's head, until all five chickens were perched on the little boy while he scrambled and clucked. "yeelp! yeow!!"

then on the chickens whispered "one, two THREE!" and with that they all pooped on the boy's head! now was he mad or what? the chickens hid in their boxes and rejoiced.

the little boy went inside and told his mom what happened and she said,
"i guess you won't be chasing the chickens anymore--you scared the poop out of them!"

2008-12-29T22:04:00.001-08:00

i didn't know i'd do the whole santa routine...but i really quite enjoyed it. i like the moral manipulation of 'you better watch out, you better not cry'. it was actually effective a few times in calming C from a few point-of-no-return fits.
"oh, charlie? you know, santa needs you to be good so you can get presents? uh, uh uh, no crying--you better not cry!"
mark that up on my list of things i never thought i'd do as a parent. the list is becoming an epic novel. but there are some redeeming qualities about the santa claus myth:
1) although slightly twisted, it does demand a certain level of decency from children.
2) children love ritual. i felt like i was making an offering to a hindu god when C and I set the cookies and milk out for santa to eat.
3) it develops a sense of faith and deepens imagination. we don't really get to see santa in the flesh. we just have to belief that he's there and knows our whereabouts and whatabouts at all times.
so when C fumbled through his expanding vocabulary to describe to my mom on the phone the whole santa scenario, i didn't feel one ounce of remorse for having lied to my kid about where his presents come from. i love the sense of wonder bubbling in his voice when he imagines santa squeezing down the chimney and his sincere concern that santa doesn't get his bum bum burned by the fire.
i've even thought about the moment of truth and how i'll handle the accusation that i have indeed lied to C about santa. but it's late now and my mind is doing that tapioca end-of-the-day failure. to be continued...

working vacation

2008-12-18T10:42:00.000-08:00

well it's back to work for me. not that i haven't actually been doing the most difficult work for three and a half years now with raising our two children, but today i will be stepping out into the work force for two whole hours. my brother- and sister-in-law opened a restaurant called papa lennon's, a fantastic italian restaurant with a european feel. i haven't waitressed in quite a while, but i look forward to mingling with the public and forming whole sentences with ease instead of pecking through each word slowly so that my son can understand :)

i used to judge housewives as lazy and unsuccessful. i pictured them posting up in front of 'days of our lives', drinking diet coke and painting their toenails while the kids played in the next room. life consistently teaches me not to judge. if i have judgment in my heart toward anyone or thing, i will certainly be placed in their shoes. and in the case of being a housewife, i've been running a marathon in these shoes and i owe a sincere apology for every slanderous thought i've ever had about the domestic woman. hands down, the most challenging job a person could have, and yet the most rewarding. what could be more important than raising functioning, conscious human beings?

i take it all back--today i'm going on vacation and i will return home after my two-hour shift in eager anticipation of my children's smiles.

in-grown grown-ups

2008-12-05T11:55:00.000-08:00

reckoning with our inevitably-flawed childhoods is tough work. i got some insight recently while reading a book called 'the drama of the gifted child' by alice miller, PhD. one of her patients described the way her mother was so anxious to return to a professional life that she was silently instructed to 'be a big girl' and take care of herself while mommy got back to her life. she was unconsciously expected to suppress her feelings of longing for her absent mother and commended for her remarkable maturity beyond her years. when she had her own kids, she felt imprisoned by them and her own maternal instincts were left dormant until she discovered that she had been raising a child her whole life--her self.

my heart did that quiver signal of recognition when i read it, not because my mom had to work (although she did, and i was one of those early 'latch-key kids'), but because for as long as i can remember, adults were always commenting on my maturity. my mom's mom died when my mom was only 9. when i came into this world, i think i picked up where my grandmother's mothering left off and became an emotional caretaker for my mother. which isn't to say that my mom was emotionally unstable. i remember my childhood with fondness and my mother with much admiration. but there was an unmistakable sense of responsibility that i assumed at a young age. it was complicated by the fact that my mom had seizures and so i had the additional sense of taking care of her in a very literal and traumatic way.

so i was never one of those teenagers who had their picture-perfect story completed for getting married at such and such age and having x number of kids. in fact, i swore i didn't want kids...and yet when love intoxicates a person, the most natural manifestation (for me) is in the form of creating children. and now i have two beautiful kids that inspire my greatest good every day. but i struggle constantly with feeling overwhelmed by their demands, which i know is natural to some degree. yet how many mothers have the almost-constant support and participation of their husbands? i do...and i still need more.

when i read the example in 'the gifted child', i knew that i was getting some instruction. i searched my heart and saw the wounds--tender, unaddressed and quietly bleeding. best not to draw too much attention to my own needs when everyone else's needs take precedence. i find myself romanticizing the pre-child life, the freedom, the lack of responsibility...but now i know that the unhealthy dwelling upon this impossible utopian dream derives from the fact that i have been raising children my whole life--myself and my mother's 9-year-old child within. so the additional responsibility of my own children became unbearable.

until now. with the light of awareness and the knowledge that i can mourn the loss of my childhood, i have the chance to live vicariously through my children and give them the fantastic playfulness i missed.

i'll be the mommy, you be the daddy

2008-11-15T21:21:00.000-08:00

freud says that boys sexualize their mothers. if this is true, then it can also be said that men maternalize their wives. i'm all for designated roles and duties--it really makes a lot of sense as far as running an efficient family machine. but in these days when it almost always takes a double income to support the inflated cost of living, i think men need a little contribution to the double duties of home life.

my husband is actually quite evolved in this regard, and i am thankful every day that his career allows me to stay with the kids. even better is that he has been afforded this rare time as well, so that the kids and i have his constant support. however...something happens to a man when he continually views his wife in the mothering role, some kind of unconscious regression to elementary days of total care. in some ways it's cute when my husband asks for a turn nursing (lol--just kidding!!). no but seriously, i've noticed that by default he leaves his dishes at the table and resumes whatever he was doing before dinner; he takes for granted that every sock and jockey underwear was hand-washed (hand to washing machine) by me. i must concede though--most men wouldn't be able to hang with the co=parenting he accomplishes daily. but please, dishes to the sink at least.

then i must check myself and ask if i too am paternalizing him as my partner. in some ways i suppose i do count on him to be my rock, my protector, etc. but then again, freud's emphasis wasn't so much on girls sexualizing their fathers...but in many ways, i guess i do idealize the father's role. the ability to choose when they are available for the needs of kids; the freedom to pursue career; the satisfaction of making money.

maybe we both revert to our childhood when we get married. we get to play the roles again with (hopefully) more awareness and climb yet another rung on this generational ladder, ascending the heights of consciousness through our children, grandchildren, great grand children, great, great grand...

meet me in the park

2008-11-13T13:44:00.000-08:00

am i the only one who feels the profound absence of community, particularly the elders? in italy, neighborhoods congregate daily in the square, around a fountain or by a church at the close of the day. debriefing, drinking beer, wine, water or coffee. the elders sit with their hands folded over a cane; the toddlers squeal as they run and trip over cobble stones; the mothers chat and gossip; the men complain and admire the women. when the last ember of sun is finally extinguished, everyone returns to their homes for dinners and wine, for more talking with extended family, fights and jokes. the households are not quietly subdued in front of televisions, thoughts weighed like wet butterfly wings by the steady stream of electronic voices.

some ancient part of me longs for this scene, knows it deeply and wishes to see it return to my life. i live in a small town of lovely people interested in their spiritual cultivation and furthering the peace of the planet. i'm grateful for my brief passing interactions with them. but i want to see us all gathering in libbey park around the fountain at dusk. i want to see elders assisted by the youth to their loosely-designated benches. i can hear the music of our talented townsfolk and the symphonic tune of children laughing. who could we become if we took part in such a beautiful daily ritual? what global changes could we make just by acknowledging our connectedness right here in our little town?

genetic lottery

2008-11-10T21:40:00.000-08:00

my daughter is an even lighter sleeper than i am, if that's possible. it's amazing to see which traits our children inherit. more like a nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat suspense psycho-thriller. did C get my bullish, hot-headed stubbornness? or will H be handed the same blushing shyness of group situations that caused me to fake knee injuries so i didn't have to compete in HS track, even though i practiced every day with the team?

i know now that H for sure inherited my hyper-vigilant sleep patterns. today i was putting her down for a nap, and giving her a little pinky suck. our faces were mirror images--the young and the aged--inches apart. through the narrow slit of my squinting eyes, i saw that she too had her eyes barely open. i opened mine to see if she was just falling asleep, but as soon as she saw the dark hole of my eyes widen her eyes fluttered open. so i closed mine again to their peeping position. and so did she. it wasn't until i all but fell asleep myself, eyes fully closed, that she followed suit.

then, when i leave the room, i must leave ever-so-slowly, lest she sense the pressure change in the room. no joke! if i leave quickly, her acute senses stir and she's looking about to see what in god's name is going on, as if a tornado just tore roof off the bedroom.

get lost

2008-11-07T14:47:00.000-08:00

i wonder if every woman has the same expectations of themselves as i did before i became a mom. home birth, no sugar, no television, nursing until a ripe age, wooden toys, organic food, soaps and clothing...never raising my voice, never longing for the childless life lost, always patient and kind.

my husband has a song that says, 'it won't be the place i dreamed it would, it can't be the way i thought it could, when i get there...so get lost..." i've found it's true of dream travel destinations, and new homes and love and now, children. we never know what something is until we are in the thick of it, like ants pushing through dirt or birds pushing through wind and then we are acutely aware of what is actually involved and the gravitational truth that no matter our circumstances, we are always putting forth maximum effort.

so my kid has the occasional chocolate. and his love for dora makes beatles fans look like coma patients. he has those annoying plastic toys that make repeated blasts intended to institutionalize parents. but i'm learning to let it go and to accept that i'm doing the best i can with the tools i've been given. plus it is yet another of life's irritating ways of leveling my judgment of others.

i'm learning how to get lost

vacation

2008-11-04T09:51:00.000-08:00

well, i'm going on vacation today. i'm so excited. i get to go all the way to ventura and, drum roll please, trader joe's!!! without the kids!!! who would have known that the grocery store would become an oasis of pleasure and relaxation, a moment of thinking only my own thoughts and taking my time perusing the aisles, planning meals and snacks and trying to satisfy everyone's needs within a limited budget. now that's what i call vacation. eat your heart out fiji. you've got nothing on grocery store getaways.

sleep conspiracy

2008-11-02T09:19:00.001-08:00

today's tiredness is not the eye-stinging, drowsy kind. it's the sort that originates somewhere behind my eyeballs in an aching pain that then radiates to the rest of my face. i'm not sure what my kids have planned for me. i know they've been conspiring, a tag team of total sleep annhialation for mom. the infant--understandable. i know she barely knows daytime from night. but C, come on. you've been at this for over two years now, this sleep adjustment thing. i would think that you've got it a little more figured out.

maybe it's because we just moved C into his own little bed finally. which hardly means much since the toddler bed is siddled up right next to my side of the bed so that we no longer have a california king, but more like an american monarchy that spans most of the western wall of our bedroom. C has been so excited about his big boy bed, but between nightly rolls onto the floor (or turtle beanbag) and generally flipping every which way, he awakens many times in the night to reacquaint himself with his surroundings with a slightly panicked 'mama!' so i reposition him and he monkey latches onto my arm so that i'm doing mommy yoga poses at 4 am.

all work and no sleep makes mom a crazy person.

mom in camo

2008-10-31T14:04:00.000-07:00

Becoming a new parent is like getting thrown into the deep end of the pool to test your swimming skills. My initiation took place in the wee hours of morning when my colic son would awake hourly in discomfort to scream out whatever ounce of sanity I had left from the previous night. I always pictured the gurgling, cooing child; half-asleep, wiggling beside me to signal that Junior Pants is ready to eat and go back to sleep. Imagine my expression when I practically somersaulted out of bed at the Level 4 alarm of our son's cry. He would be quiet for five seconds and I would think that maybe he had calmed. But that little pause was only a soundless cry that caused his little lips to turn shades of berry. Then he proceeded to erupt in half-second intervals of screams. My dear God! What is wrong with my child? My husband and I operated on the full amperage of wide-eyed sleeplessness and shock. When I was at the University of Arizona, I took an “Adventure Training” class without knowing it was offered through the ROTC program. Turned out that my instructor wore combat boots and insisted that we respond with a hearty “Sir, yes Sir!” But I stayed in the class because it challenged me. My most memorable moment came not from rappelling off a 100-foot fire tower or getting dropped off in the Tucson desert with only a compass to lead me back to camp. Instead it came one chilly November morning at the Olympic-sized pool. We arrived to find our army fatigues and combat boots lying out on the cold cement, and at first glance, one might think that the previous class had met their doom and now lay dead beside the pool. There was no size selection, so most of us were already swimming in the excess material of our attire before we ever hit the water.
“Okay. The purpose of your mission is to swim to the other side while holding your rifle above your head. You WILL take your twenty-pound rubber rifles in both hands. You WILL ascend the high dive and then proceed to single-file jump into the water below WITHOUT dropping your rifles. If you drop your rifle--” and here a perverse smile smeared over the sergeant's face, “--you WILL swim down and retrieve your weapon!”
“Sir, yes Sir!”
The boots were like lead on my feet, and my poor imagination could only liken the experience to tying cement blocks around my ankles so I would have no chance of surviving the swim. Jumping off the high dive would have been enough of a thrill for me. This was plain suicidal. I could sense in my other classmates the same trepidation that made my heartbeat visible all the way through my camo. Somehow I got jostled to second in line, and I stumbled my way up the steps until I wavered on the plank in the early morning breeze. I could hear the sergeant somewhere beneath me yelling, “On the count of three, jumper...”
I closed my eyes, clutched my rifle and thought of every person I loved. Then I jumped, feeling the weight of my fatigues, rifle and fear pulling me down farther into the icy water. Instinct and adrenalin kicked in, and I wiggled my way to the surface of the water, fighting against the net my clothing created around my body. One gasp of precious air and I was flicking my boots and mermaid swimming with my legs, and one thought occupied my mind. “Only a little farther.”
When I reached the other side and plunked my rifle on the cement in victory, I simply floated for a moment on the feeling of accomplishment. My fatigues ballooned out in the water, creating a kind of body life vest, and I looked up at the pink dawn smiling.
“Swimmer! Exit the water and proceed to the lap pool!”
What? There's more?! Is my son really awake again screaming? I swear I've only been asleep for three and a half minutes! Remember the Three S's: Swaddle, Static, Suck! He's quiet; he's blinking—oh! He's sleeping again! Quick, close your eyes...and...rest...
Parenting is Green Beret training in such virtues as patience, perseverance and unconditional love. It's a moment-to-moment process that starts with the fear of not knowing how we will do what is being asked of us. Then the jump and exhilaration of risk, the burden that seems too great to bear, and the numbing peace of a job well done. This last moment is brief before the cycle begins all over again, but the intensity of that satisfaction is fuel to keep trying.

weening the nums

2008-10-31T13:44:00.000-07:00

day two of official weening has gone fairly well considering that my son (C) has a louder cry than a regional emergency alarm, and he's been fine tuning it for 2 1/2 years. he protested, he kicked, but then he submitted to my gentle persuasion that this is still our time together (ie without his little sister--H). He wanted to take a 'little walk', so i rounded the block slowly, admiring the ocean of clouds in the sky and telling him that mama still holds him so close and loves him so much.

i thought C would be one of those kindergartners you see snuggling up to their mother's breast while the teacher reports on his social and learning skills with a look of pukey disgust. i didn't quite know how the process would go or when it would ever come. i know that two days ago a feeling of anger--no, not anger--but resentment surfaced, while he was nursing one of the two times he still got to (nap times). my thought was 'you shouldn't be nursing.'

that night, after walking with a dear friend and venting about charlie's latest tantrum patterns, i told C that tonight he could have the nums but very soon the nums will be all gone for C. he cried because in his purely zen way, that meant that this very moment where he always dwells, there are no more nums. but he latched on contentedly and nursed himself to sleep that night and i lingered longer than usual thinking about the closing of this particular kind of relationship between us, and i felt so confident, so grounded as i stroked and smelled his curly hair.