Smarter Than the Machine

Thinking of trying this one out. http://www.inhabitots.com/diy-wrap-baby-carriers/

I am not a seamstress by any means but I have been increasingly irritated with myself that I can't sew something simple. I think it is ridiculous to pay someone $10 to hem a pair of pants for which I only paid $24. There are just a few little jobs here and there I would like to do and I have a machine. I just don't know how to work the damn thing.

Anyway, like I need a new baby carrier. But it seems really simple and Tommy loves being on my back like a monkey baby ("Bobo, Mama, Bobo! Please!"--- a reference to the Hug book during which Bobo and Mommy find each other again--- it was the first book he could "read" out loud so all monkeys are "bobos" in our house.)

We still use the mei tai carrier sometimes but as he gets heavier and my right shoulder gets more and more jacked up, the straps become more painful. We also use the big ole honking Kelty backpack for walks in the snow but that is so damn bulky.

The point is not necessarily that I need another carrier. It just seems like a project I could actually do and if I mess it up, I can still use it. It is basically sewing a big trapezoid. How are can that be? HA!

I will report back when I manage to turn the damn machine on successfully. Wish me luck! Or patience or something like that.

Other projects:
Sewing cute patches on clothing (I got one for Stephen for Christmas and promised I would attach it for him).
Making fleece mufflers for kids and me. ****(might start with this one. it would be timely to finish this before the crocus come up and maybe it would be easier than managing 6 yards of fabric all at once.)

End of an Era

I will never nurse anyone again. All of a sudden, it all feels very final and sad to me. While I think T and I had both been ready to give it up for a while, it just seems like it happened so fast. I think I need some sort of closure--- a funeral or celebratory cake or something.

For the past year, he has only nursed at night and first thing in the morning. There have been MANY nights when I have said to myself, or sometimes out loud, that I was "so over this nursing shit". But then the sun would come up and my sanity would return. I would get to stay under the covers longer than Papa nursing my little man and I would be so filled with love and joy and pride all over again. I know some of it is purely hormonal but the difference in feeling and emotion when it is the dark of night and the early morning dawn is the difference between, well, night and day.

For the past few months, he would sometimes skip a morning nurse but usually still want to nurse around 1 or 2am. Sometimes Stephen would go get him and bring him to bed. I would pretend to still be sleeping and T would just snuggle up and fall back asleep. I had been wanting him to stop night-nursing, right?

Then why am I so sad about it? I think it just happened without me noticing and that makes me sad. I just realized on Saturday morning that I couldn't remember the last time we had nursed. He hadn't asked for it, with his little sweet finger to lips bubbly sound, in many days--- at least five. So, I figured, that's that. I guess we are done and I am OK. I talked about it a bit on Saturday and started to feel more and more sad about it throughout the day.

I was completely unprepared for his sweet little bubbly request mid-day Sunday just before his nap. He hadn't nursed in the middle of the day for months. He looked up at me as I rocked him and asked. I took a deep breath and for a moment, thought about nursing. Then I realized it had been such an easy transition for us and I would only be going back to it to make me feel momentarily better. The transition might be much for painful next time. So I told him that Mama's Milk was gone and that we couldn't nurse anymore. I am certain that I talked and talked and explained it way more than I needed to. He seemed completely fine with it, snuggled up to me extra tight and fell fast asleep.

Sigh... He hasn't brought it up again. He seems completely fine with it. It just all seems so final. No more kids--- we made that decision. But now it feels like my baby has just moved right on. I am happy, proud, ready. And still a little sad.

True Feminism

I am rereading Anita Diamant's The Red Tent. I read it long ago, before I was a mother. Rarely do I write down quotes from books and things but I had one from this book up in my house for ages. Something about "life's hardships are like the knots holding the jewels in place on a beautiful necklace." Obviously, the first time I read this book, this is what I needed to hear.

This time around reading it, I have such a different perspective. I remember very little of the story but I am captivated by the discussions of childbirth and attitudes about women's bodies and cycles and relationships.

This is the phrase from the book that is sticking with me now, as a mama: "Why did I not know that birth is the pinnacle where women discover the courage to become mothers?" and "Until you are the woman on the bricks, you do not know the power that rises from other women--- even strangers speaking in unknown tongue, invoking the names of familiar goddesses."

I can get pretty worked up about the over-medicalization of childbirth. Evidence shows there are many negative results for health and relationships--- trouble nursing, struggle attaching, longer healing rates due to C-sections as the result of unnecessary interventions, etc.

This quote stirred something much greater in me. I feel like a generation or two of women struggle to feel confident as mothers. They lack the inclination to follow their "Mother's Intuition" and I feel like that phrase speaks to the very core of that.

Until women are in charge of our own childbirth process and TRUST ourselves--- our bodies, our hearts and our minds---- to birth our babies as naturally as possible, we will lack the courage to aptly parent our babies, children and teens.

We need to trust ourselves and right now, our society's about childbirth do not honor this need. I often lack the confidence to do what I need to do. If I can remember to think about birthing my babies every time, I will have such a surge of confidence and power. I have never felt so powerful as when I gave birth.

Old Parents

I have old parents. Really old. My mom will turn 71 tomorrow. I was recently reading her recipe for pie crust ("It's the easiest thing in the world, Sarah. Just like this and like that and there you go!") In the recipe, which she wrote out last year, she calls for "Sticks of Oleo". I have never even seen Oleo but I know what she means. What I don't know is if I can use butter, not margarine. It did get me thinking about all the things that were said in my household growing up, some of which I say all the time. I wonder how that will work when I am 71 and my kids are this age. (I promise to leave out all the racial slurs/terms used by my family in the nicest way possible.)

Oleo = margarine
Davenport = couch
Afghan (before I had ever heard of Afghanistan) = throw/blanket--- not for your bed but for when you are on the couch reading.
Ottoman = footstool
Pocketbook = purse
Supper = dinner
Dinner = lunch


Having my daughter in school often makes me think of the Famous Angie Thompson Story.
My mom had me when she was 35. Although she still has beautiful, almost wrinkle-free skin, she had quite a bit of gray hair by the time she was 40 and I was in kindergarten. One day my mom was there helping manage the chaos that is kindergarten pick-up and one little girl came up to her. Angie Thompson, whose own mother was probably not yet 30, asked my mom, "Are you Sarah's Grandma?" My mother still tells this story so it obviously affected her. I had my kids at 30 and 34 and I am also getting quite gray. Thank goodness for this greasy skin I have hated all my life. Maybe I will be be smooth-skinned like my lovely mama. I wonder if any of Luna's classmates will ask me if I am her grandma? I have seen some of the other parents and I won't be surprised if it happens.

The System

This is Luna's third week of school. I have cried. She has cried. I have cried some more. She started a new school this year. She is in the First Grade at a public school located in our neighborhood. She seems to be finally settling in and I cry less these days. We are trying to assimilate into this new world.

I am the Secretary of the PTO. I met with her teacher last week and her passion for teaching makes me feel much better about all sorts of things--- not everything though. Luna has had homework--- ridiculously stupid homework that required me reading the directions three times to explain. I tried to convince her she didn't need to do it. My daughter would have none of it. We compromised by having her do it but then I got to write a note at the bottom about how confusing it was.

Luna has been on "green" everyday. This means that she is sometimes rewarded with candy for doing what she is supposed to be doing. I am conflicted. Most of the time, I think this is a stupid system designed to treat to children like dogs and steal all of their intrinsic motivation for learning and doing the right thing. The rest of the time I want more than anything for her to be on "green" so that she feels good about going to school and has something of which she can be proud. On Fridays, the teacher sends home a paper that has a check for each day and says whether your child was on green, yellow, orange or red. Parents must sign it and return it on Monday. While I appreciate the idea of more communication/ not less, I am certain that when and if Luna ever moves off of green, I am going to need more information from the teacher than a check. What about those parents whose kids are all over the place? How do they know how to support their children to make better choices. I hope that the teacher is communicating with those families.

The other main issue I have with the system is that it does not reward students for being inquisitive and independent. It rewards them for being quiet and still and quiet and more quiet. Suffice to say that this mom is having a hard time adjusting from the free-thinking and exciting Montessori classroom to this traditional setting. I know that everyone will say that kids in the public education system need more structure and you can't possibly have that kind of freedom and autonomy with "these kinds of kids" but I still am not convinced. We do have a public "Montessori" school. Somehow it has been certified by AMI but the on-the-street knowledge I have of the school is that the teachers often revert to the reward/punishment system that is so common in American schools. Rather than blame "those kinds of kids", I would place the blame on system which requires public school teachers to do so much of this ridiculous testing and teaching to the test. I saw firsthand in Luna's classroom at Montessori that left to their own devices, the kids challenged themselves and learned new things all the time. How that would translate to these ridiculous tests, I can't say. Luna did have some children with special needs in her room. They received a little outside help and did require some extra attention from the teachers. Overall, though, I think these children were just as capable of functioning in the Montessori room and it was beneficial for my child to slow down and help others. It helped her learn things on a different level. It just makes so much sense. If we teach them at age 3 where everything goes and how to use things, they will be respectful of the materials and take pride in their work. If we, as adults, decide when they can pee, when they can look at numbers, when they can stand up and when they can look at letters, we are undermining their natural love of learning.

Obviously, I am still in mourning. Luna is doing fine. She is a rule-follower. She likes to make other people happy (which also terrifies me but that is another post altogether). She will work hard to do the "right" thing in her classroom. She is bright. She is already way ahead of the other children in her reading skills. She will do fine... She will do fine... Her mama on the other hand...

The Thinking Mom

It constantly amazes me that otherwise tight-lipped, "polite" people think it is OK to give their opinions about your parenting. Complete strangers who would never talk about farts or burps or, heaven forbid, something interesting like sex, think it is perfectly OK to ask you all sorts of things like: "When are you having another one?" and "You should have had them closer together," and "Just you wait, you say you will never spank them now..." and "Breastfeeding is so much work. You should just open a can of formula."

Ask me about religion or politics, folks, and I am detached enough that I can listen to your drivel. But DO NOT tell me your stoopid thoughts on parenting my children. Trust me, I have thought about this one... and I am doing it quite well thank you.

Our Backyard

These pictures are all taken in our yard and I especially love the ones in the woods. These are taken just a few feet into the woods behind our yard.
The other day, Tommy and I were hanging out in the sandbox in the yard and he started waving at someone in the woods. I turned around to see who it was and there were 3 deer standing right up where most of these pictures were taken--- right near the jack-in-the-pulpit.

Yeah, I said jack-in-the-pulpit. Luna and I were walking in the woods sometime last week and she said, "Are these jack-in-the-pulpit? They are one of the first signs of spring." I was surprised that she even knew what those were. I glanced around quickly and said no. I looked a little closer and saw that she was RIGHT! Where does she get this stuff? We were standing in the middle of dozens of them and she identifies them somehow by the leaves, NOT the actual jack-in-the-pulpit. I think it is hilarious because she has no idea about a pulpit or a preacher. I am sure I was 27 before I knew this plant even existed.
The kids have been really having fun together lately. Luna reads to Tommy all the time. I am still at home and loving it. I am so lucky to be able to spend my days digging in the garden, looking at worms and reading books with these little superstars.

Yesterday, Tommy laid on the sidewalk on his belly for over ten minutes watching ants work. I stopped what I was doing and squatted down next to him. I love that the my kids remind me to slow the f*** down. What an amazing life I have.

Raising a Renegade

A week ago I read about an amazing idea on my favorite blog, Sweet Juniper. I then did a little research and decided to do it right here in lil ole Kalamazoo. I posted the blog entry on my Facebook page and received a lot of positive feedback and organized a seed bomb party for today.
Apparently, back in the day (like the 1970's), folks used to pack plastic easter eggs and holiday ornaments full of seeds and compost and throw them into abandoned lots and yards. They called themselves Guerrilla Gardeners. Today's versions of seedbombs seem to include far less plastic but the idea remains the same. There is a ton of information out there about the best way to do this but the one I enjoyed watching the best was this kooky Brit who seems to be at the "cutting edge" (so says Chad Boarman) of modern-day guerrilla garden-fare. Yes, despite what you might assume based on his hair, Richard Reynolds is, in fact, modern-day. The video is only 3 minutes long and worth it as I quickly fell in love with him and his grubby hands and Member's-Only jacket.

I began collecting seeds last week. I bought a few in bulk at our little local garden store and also started gathering up all the bits of seeds I had leftover from the years. I had a ton of sunflower seeds from the past decade. Who knows if they will sprout but this seemed like the perfect project in which to take the gamble.

I spent this morning calling around to all the craft stores in town as well as the big box home improvement stores but no luck. No one carries dry clay powder, apparently. I went back to Sweet Juniper's idea about using kitty litter. I was turned off by this originally because I have a strong aversive to touching anything cat-related but I decided that I needed to get over this--- for the sake of Green Things!
I bought the cheapest box of kitty litter I could find. Who knew that there was ENTIRE aisle at Target dedicated to such a product? As it turns out, not too many of the initial excitement carried folks over here on a gray Monday afternoon. It was me and the kids and our friend Matt. We worked diligently with 1 part seeds, 1 part compost and 5 parts kitty litter. The kids did a great job of making little balls closely resembling chocolate donut holes. Tommy only had to taste the mixture twice to decide he didn't want to eat it.

After we made a ton of donut hole seed bombs, we "delivered" a few. Luna isn't the best at being stealth so we had quite a few conversations about why we had to be quiet and whether or not what we were doing was legal and/or right. I think she is well on her way to being a force to be reckoned within the world of social activism. The girl has some VERY clear ideas about what is right and wrong.

Here are a few photos of my kids committing their first act of civil disobedience. Go to hell, Mr. Waner.

Hot Breakfast-- Served Daily... Somewhere

This morning Suzy Homemaker (me) made the family oatmeal. I made the real kind that you have to get up a little bit early for and measure out and all that. (Admittedly, not a complex recipe but ANYTHING is complex for me before 9am--- I am NOT a morning person). I set out four colorful bowls. I scooped each person the appropriate serving size (biggest for me). I crumbled the correct amount of brown sugar on top, according to age and height. Then I topped each bowl with the tiniest bit of milk-- for flavor and to cool it down.

I served the bowls to the kids; they began eating heartily. Then I started working on my tea. I hustled around and put a ton of white sugar in my cup and the perfect amount of milk. Ummm.... then the milk curdled in my tea.

I looked at the kids' half-eaten bowls of oatmeal. I called Papa over for consultation. Yep. He dumped his immediately. I nonchalantly (yeah, right) took the kids' bowls away and tried my best to salvage the non-contaminated part of the oatmeal. I placed in in a new bowl and topped it with fresh milk from the unopended one in the fridge. Things started to get blurry. Seriously. I was so low on sugar. I only have about 15 minutes from when I first stand up to when I need food in my system and we were WAY outside that window. Of course, the caffeine headache was screaming at me too and here I needed to start a completely new kettle of water. Eventually, I sat down with my salvaged bowl of oatmeal. We ate it. We all seem OK.

The moral of the story: Thank goodness for my addiction to Lyons tea, for without it, I would have continued serving my kids spoiled milk and then who the hell knows what would have happened!

Adult Ed

Education is lost on the young.

Here is sit trying to fill out paperwork to get an unemployment deferment for the student loans I still owe listening to Studs Terkel's Hard Times radio program on the Great Depression and thinking about how much I didn't learn back then. There are so many emotions contained in that very long run-on sentence.

I am thinking about these idiots from the Tea Party and wondering if they have ever met someone like me. I am sure they would think that a stay-at-home mother of two kids who has had her kids on Medicaid and has received WIC benefits must just be a loser. I am thinking that if we didn't have insurance and one of our kids got really sick, we would never be able to get out of debt. As it is, our deductible for our current insurance policy is $3000 so we would be hit pretty hard by anything other than a regular trip to the doctor's office. We pay $400/month out of pocket for our current plan--- apparently, we make too much to get Medicaid now that I receive unemployment benefits and my insurance coverage was cut off. We work so hard. We have everything we need. We really do. We are happy and I am not complaining. I do wonder who the hell these people are and what bubble they live in. In the past year 3 of my parents' 4 children have been unemployed and the 4th went to Colombia for a job! I want to spit in the faces of those ignorant Tea Party fuckers. That would prove to them that I am, in fact, not a loser at all. Ha!

I am thinking that I wasted so much time in college when I should have been educating myself by actually reading Studs Terkel. He came to MSU and James Madison students had a private audience with him and I might now even have gone. I was high as a kite at Noam Chomsky's talk with 15 other students from JMC. I was too young to know how important these people were and didn't care about history. DIDN'T CARE ABOUT HISTORY! I thought history was boring. Here I sit listening to stories recorded in the 1970's about the Depression. Here I am watching history repeat itself in this fucking country and feeling helpless and ignorant. I wrote about my recent obsession with old M*A*S*H episodes. God dammit if we aren't repeating that history over and over again. Let's send a bunch of young people across the world to get killed and maimed (inside and out) and why again? Why?

So, I married a guy with a passion for history (and a degree in it, too). Every so often I hear these pieces on NPR or read a novel about a time in our history I am completely ignorant to. We have these great talks about the books I was supposed to read in college that covered these topics and I start my education all over again every day. Today, I put The Grapes of Wrath on hold at the library because of what I just heard.

I am just kicking myself because I feel like I had some AMAZING opportunities for knowledge at James Madison, I really did. A short list of people who came to MSU and/or James Madison while I was there: Studs Terkel, Angela Davis, Sistah Souljah, Noam Chomsky, Tim O'Brien, various members of the Black Panther Party. Alas, I was 17 and can't feel too badly. College is wasted on the young. At least, this young one who is not so young anymore but is still paying loans for the education which she didn't receive all because of her lust of Oberon or the beach or road trips or sleeping in or silly boys. Of course, I married one of those silly boys I skipped classes with while drinking Oberon and sleeping in and taking road trips. That makes it all worth it.

History will repeat itself. Our children will most likely do some of the stupid things we did. God help me.

The Way to Get a Brownie

"My mom needs wine! My dad needs beer! Why can't I have a brownie?"

We both had a drink in our hands. She got the brownie.

How Tommy Got That Phillips-head Screw Scar OR "Do you think he wants a boy band-aid or a girl band-aid?"

It started like many weekend mornings-- all of us padding around in our jammies while Papa read the newspaper. I started getting ready for the day and packing up all of our cold weather gear. The day before, it had been sunny and 65. We planned to head out to Kellogg Forest for their annual Maple Syrup weekend, even though it was only 30 degrees and gloomy. After some parental crankiness (towards each other) about our expectations for the day, we set off. It started snowing. In an attempt to maintain my idyllic version of our "family day", I suggested we turn around, stop at Mackenzie's for a sweet snack and head to the museum.
All sugared up and happily playing at the museum, things seemed perfect. Then I heard it. The loudest THWACK I have ever heard followed by... wait, wait... WAHHHHHHH! In the one place on the planet completely designed for small people--- the preschool room at the children's museum--- our little guy bashed his head. He was in the small planetarium reading room area (really just a circular room smaller than our coffee table with a starlit ceiling). Apparently, he tripped over one of the reading pillows and stopped his entire body weight by ramming his forehead into a rounded screw on one of the beams. I grabbed him and knew he was REALLY in pain. It started bleeding immediately and as head wounds are known to do, bled and bled and bled. Before the blood really started gushing and getting stuck in his hair and dripping all over the floor, I looked closely at the wound and saw that it was the perfect little cross found only on a Phillips-head screw. There were a few minutes (seconds maybe) of wondering about going to the hospital and a concussion and all that. As it was, it bled a lot but was a relatively small wound so there was no need for stitches. Within a few minutes wherein he would NOT let me apply an ice pack, he wanted to go back to playing. He was fine, really fine.

Big sister and the rest of us, on the other hand, were obviously in shock. Luna just started screaming and did this on and off for a few hours. She did that terrified (not shrill) scream I associate with the subconscious screaming people do during nightmares. Even after we all knew he was OK, she was still struggling to cope. Stephen kept disappearing into one of the other rooms and leaving me with two screaming children. This idiot supervisor came to ask me a bunch of questions for her incident Report (I know her to be an idiot having nothing to do with her report). I finally told her she had to ask Stephen while I continued to attempt soothing both kids.

The other museum worker (the one in the kids' room who saw it all go down) was actually quite helpful. I liked her, even. And then she went and did it. "Do you think he wants a boy band-aid or a girl band-aid?" WHAT THE FUCK?! First of all, he is screaming and bleeding. I am looking for usefulness at this point. Second, he is a baby and has never watched any of your trashy shows that one finds on gender-specific everything. Third, what the fuck? Luna has been known to request the Cars Pull-ups. My 5-year-old knows enough about the use of language to say "the Pull-ups with the Cars on them" instead of "boy Pull-ups". Well, at least, she knows how to avoid a long lecture from her mother about such things.
In the middle of screaming children, I start saying, "There is no such thing as a boy or girl band-aid. He is a baby with a head wound for God's sake!" (Could this be why Stephen left the room? Hmmmm....)
After Tommy had settled down and I was trying to round up our things and get Luna calm, this idiot dad (he had proven himself an idiot several times in the previous hour I had watched him interact with his own children) stops Luna and me and starts in with some attempt at a joke. It was some stupidity about how Tommy will be fine because of the "guy motto". I just interrupted him and said, "That's not even funny at all." Luna and I just walked away.
It was an action-packed day for us. It has been 4 days and Tommy's head looks great. A nice clean cut. Luna still gets weepy about it whenever we change his band-aid or look at it. She has said several times that she wishes she had fallen instead of her. This freaks me out on some Catholic guilt level but that is another blog entry entirely.

Tommy got to wear a ponytail all week--- mostly to keep his hair out of his wound but maybe just a little bit as a "fuck you" to all those "helpful people" we met last Saturday.

So this is what it means to be a mother...

This morning, I got smacked in the face--- figuratively. In a matter of seconds, I became acutely aware of exactly what my mother felt for years, and may still. No matter how hard I work, no matter how giving I am, it will never be enough; it will never be appreciated. I realize this sounds very melodramatic and I don’t mean to do the whole martyr thing. However, it is true.

Let me back up. The kids were in bed with me this morning. At some point in the night, Stephen must have snuck out of bed to stretch out luxuriously in Luna’s twin bed. Granted, he doesn’t quite fit in it, but he did get it all to himself. He didn’t have to worry about someone waking up and falling out of bed if he had to go to the bathroom and he certainly didn’t have to sit up and nurse anyone on demand in the night. I digress.

There we were. In the early morning light, the kids were playing in bed while I tried to stay warm and horizontal as long as possible. Luna got the flashlight out and that was tons of fun---under the covers and on the ceiling. At some point, things started to get a little more exciting and I should have made the call at that point to get up. I didn’t. Tommy started swinging the flashlight all about. This is no ordinarily flashlight. This is a big black Maglight--- a 3-cell, weighing in at least 3 pounds.

Mind you, the kid has a huge gaping wound on his forehead from yesterday which all of us are much more concerned about than he appears to be. There were several audible gasps from Luna and me as he swung the flashlight closer and closer to the wound. I envisioned blood gushing all over again and my stomach did flip flops as he casually wielded this huge wand as if he were a kendo master-in-training.

I finally said something along the lines of, “Be careful, Tommy. I don’t want you to smack anyone with that thing, including me.” Without missing a beat, Luna replied calmly, “You are always just thinking about yourself, Mama.”

What the fuck? I repeat, WHAT THE FUCK? We were all just hanging out. What did I do to deserve that kind of shittiness? I’ll tell you what I did. I woke up early and played quietly with the kids while their dad slept soundly in the other room. I cut up the fruit last night for a huge fruit salad for breakfast. I planned out a healthy menu for the week while their dad looked at hockey scores on the computer. Can you tell where this is going? While Stephen slept, he became culpable in an anti-mama coup. Under attack, I felt like crawling under a very big rock and staying there and letting them all eat undercooked pancakes and go out with snarly hair and dirty teeth and wrinkled clothing. I wanted to stay under said rock while the bills piled up and the kitchen floor got filthy and the refrigerator got bare and the thank you notes were left unwritten and unsent and the lunchboxes remained empty and the children ran around in winter boots because no one else would dream of digging out the spring clothes.

I know my dear readers know that I am married to an awesome man. So… this entry will not be devoted to this. This is devoted to the idea that he is always, and will most likely remain forever, the good time guy. He is the fun one who never demands that anyone brush their teeth or put on clean underwear or a long-sleeve shirt on a very cold day. He is not the one who sorts through the ill-fitting and out-of-season clothes. He is not the one who plans the menu or goes to the grocery store or cooks the food. He is the one who “does the dishes” but is not the one who wipes down the counters or the table or scrubs the pots and certainly is not the one who puts them away.

Poor man is under attack himself and he was not even the one who lobbed the first grenade; the five-year-old with too much power did. He slept through the whole battle, which is, in fact, a reason for court-martial.

Back to the exciting battle. I will be honest. I pouted for a few minutes. I didn’t even respond. I got up and went to the bathroom and then she said something else: “C’mon, Tommy. Mama isn’t being very kind, is she?” Again with the WHAT THE FUCK? I hadn’t even said anything back to her but apparently, my pouting was loud. I turned then and did something so stupid and not at all in line with the communication skills have tried to teach over the years. I told her some dumb shit about how all I ever do is think about other people and I never get to do anything for myself and as this is coming out of my mouth, I am thinking that I have gone and done it. I have turned completely into my mother with the woe-is-me-aren’t-I-a-horrible-mother crap. My mother is a great mom. For real. In so many ways, I have learned to emulate what she does or has done. Every once in a while, she turns out this drama and makes things all about her. An example was when my oldest brother decided he was an alcoholic and needed to stop drinking. It was serious. We all knew he was an alcoholic and I saw it as a great thing. My mom, apparently, had been in complete denial and was SHOCKED by the whole thing. She went on and on for weeks about what a horrible mother she must have been to raise an alcoholic. Again with the WHAT THE FUCK?

Hmmmmmm…. I think I am digressing again. Suffice to say that a few hours and a long, hot shower later, I think I have a decent perspective on it all. My little stinker is in the business of testing her parents. That is her job. My job is to love her unconditionally. I know that I need to let her know that I have feelings and she needs to be careful with her words. However, I do not need to let her get to me like that. I do not need to pout or fly off the handle on her. I need to tell her that she hurt my feelings and that in our family we don’t talk to each other like that. I also need to be confident in my mothering and in myself (my Sarahing). I need to actually think of myself once in a while so if she says that again, there can be some truth to it. I need to hire a sitter once in a while so I don’t feel so overwhelmed all the time. I need to do yoga and I need to go for walks alone sometimes. I need to take better care of myself so that I am a better mama. So that on a Sunday morning when someone says something hurtful, it does not consume me completely.

At Home With the 4077th

We don't really have TV. We get a few weird stations but I do most of my TV watching online. I also check out items from our library and then there is no pressure. If I watch them, great. If not, I just return them.

I checked out Season 7 of M*A*S*H from our library last week and have been torturing myself with episodes here and there all week. If there is one television show that was a constant in my younger days, it was M*A*S*H. I watched it in "real time" when I was too young to know what was going on. What I did know was that it was something my entire family did together--- a show that my parents AND my teen-aged brothers liked. Later, I watched it in syndication. It seemed like it was on 4 times a day. As I got older, I got the humor (I now realize how much I missed) and the heaviness (thank goodness I missed a lot of that). I understood that it was funny and dark and a really well-made show. Mostly though, I understood that it was something all my siblings did together. We watched M*A*S*H before dinner (it ran at 5 and 5:30). While I whined about some of the other TV battles I lost (to crap shows like Gunsmoke), I genuinely liked M*A*S*H as well as any little 8-year-old could.

By the time I was in middle school, I embraced my dorkiness and challenged anyone I could find to a M*A*S*H quiz. Not surprisingly, I didn't find many takers. Nor did I find many people who could stump me.

This same dorkiness continued as an adult, as has my love affair with this show. I started watching it again a few years back on TVLAND when we had bootleg cable. It seems they often had M*A*S*H marathons and I would settle in with a box of tissues and my bag of pretzels. As an adult, I began to realize the depth of the show and the serious anti-war stance the producers took. I was amazed at the current-day relevance of so many of the topics tackled. The show just reminded me how fragile we all are and I just couldn't believe we had found ourselves in another one of these wars across the world for reasons lost on those fighting. Why do we keep doing this?

I have been watching them again (as our library recently acquired the entire collection, it seems). I keep going back to this feeling of being "at home". Hawkeye and B.J. feel like older brothers to me--- partly because I so closely associate this show with my own older brothers. It is a strangely comforting, yet melancholic feeling I get when I watch these old episodes. Last night I watched "Our Finest Hour". It was an episode which was done as a newsreel with a war correspondent featuring the 4077th. It ended up being a sort of "best of" episode. One minute I found myself laughing hysterically at the slapstick pranks they pulled on each other (shoe polish on Colonel Potter's binoculars so he had two black eyes). The next moment I started bawling my eyes out when Radar says he will remember one day when he goes home. Before he even starts to tell the story, I know he is going to remember the day Colonel Blake was discharged only to be shot down over the Sea of Japan. I cried and cried.

Tonight, I opted for a few more episodes of this weird mix of light-hearted laughter and depressing homesickness. I randomly chose this episode called "Dear Sis" wherein Father Mulcahy expresses feeling of uselessness in a Christmas letter to his sister (a nun). Of course, Father Mulcahy puts together a wonderful Christmas celebration. Hawkeye asks everyone to toast him and to show their gratitude, they had rehearsed a Latin hymn. Which Latin hymn, you ask? Oh, just the one that makes me cry every time I hear it. I just take it so literally. I sang it on a bus with Dominican nuns on our way to a peace rally in D.C. (BEFORE the Iraq War, if you can believe it). I sing it as a lullaby to my babies. I sang it lifetimes ago with my girls, Bridget and Becky, hoping for peace from that wacky Mr. K.

Here is the 4077th's version of Dona Nobis Pacum

Give Us Peace

Sweet Sweet Sunday Morning

The sunshine was coming through the blinds earlier than yesterday. Spring is officially here in Michigan. Luna scurried in our room and climbed in our bed as soon as she heard Tommy call out, "Oooonnnna."

Stephen and I kept our eyes closed trying to eek out a few more minutes of rest. Luna read Tommy's favorite book to him--- cover to cover. Although it was her favorite book for a long spell (clear mailing tape to prove it), this wasn't from memory. I heard her slow down and stumble on the more challenging words like "excited" and "brush". She even corrected herself once," Wait, that doesn't say 'I take off", it says, 'I take them off'."

Our little girl is reading--- reading to our little boy. I couldn't be happier. It was just one of those sweet sweet Sunday mornings.

Itchy Fingers

Old Organic Gardening Magazines stacked next to toilets and on nightstands. Stealing little moments here and there to look at square foot garden plans and varieties of sweet potatoes. Colorful photographs of zinnias of every shade. Sketches of vegetable gardens on scraps of paper. Imagining dirt under fingernails. Planning kids' playhouses made from giant sunflowers and morning glories.

Kentucky Wonder Pole Beans
Beets
Kaleidoscope Mix Carrots
Broccoli
Cucumbers
Baby Salad Greens
Basil
Dill
Mint
Parsley
Cilantro
More Carrots
More Beans
Heirloom Tomatoes


In lieu of a spring break trip to the Virgin Islands, I can get myself excited about seed catalogs and worm bins.

Yoga Baby

Ever tried to do yoga with a 14-month-old before? I try to squeeze it in during nap time but rarely manage after tidying up, checking Facebook (colossal waste of time-- might give it up for Lent even though I am not Catholic), getting something prepped for dinner. The other day, I thought to myself, "I will just do yoga this morning when he is awake. It won't be nearly as relaxing but it will be good for him to start practicing with me."

Hehe. My little one is really keen on banging his head on things--- sometimes he does it when he is upset or frustrated. Sometimes he does it because it must feel good (needs a completely separate blog entry).

I put on my favorite yoga DVD, dimmed the lights, turned up the heat and got the water bottle handy. After a few minutes of him trying to bang with all of his might on the keyboard, it seemed he settled in to what was going on and joined me on the mat.

Has anyone tried to relax into a downward dog with a toddler crawling in and out of your arms and legs with his head inches from yours? With the possibility of a headbutt looming, it is not very meditative, to say the least.

I deserve to do yoga during nap time. Dishes, laundry, bills, dinner prep, phone calls can all wait. Right?

Tomorrow, I promise, Sarah.

A Proper Date

We went on a date. Tis true. My brilliant friend and neighbor suggested a while back that we do a date swap for Saint Valentine's Day. Sounds wild, huh? She meant swapping the childcare :-)

Stephen and I got to go out the night before V-Day... Saturday. Since we rarely leave the house together, we decided to go somewhere we could actually sit and be served rather than wait for 90 minutes in the February cold at one the more popular places in town. We settled on the downtown sushi bar (mainly because they have a wait list system similar to reservations). I had never been there and it was full of people under the age of 23. Neither of us knew a soul there so it also had that cool effect of making us feel like we were in a completely different city.

I hadn't had sushi of any sort in years (since leaving Arizona, I believe... well, maybe once or twice in Chicago). Although this place has a good reputation, I still stuck with the safety of rolls. I got my old eel roll standby and tried a few new things. I washed them all down with several seven and sevens (try saying that when you've had several).

All in all, we had a really nice time. We talked about the kids. We talked about Stephen's work. We "gasp" talked about other things. We laughed coquettishly at each other's jokes. We eavesdropped and judged people. We made up stories about people based on what they ordered and their tattoos. We laughed a lot.

We still got it baby. Still got it.

Bad Mommy Moment #347

He is finally asleep. As he gets more and more active, going to sleep (especially naps) are becoming increasingly difficult. In the past few weeks, there have been days it has taken 45-60 minutes to get him to sleep. Needless to say, I am furious for a good amount of that time and do and say things I shouldn't.

It is a sunny February Sunday. I have nothing planned for the day. Really... nothing. I am not in a rush to get to the store or to run errands. I have no appointments or plans of any kind.

He was tired and yawning. We did lunch and headed upstairs at 12noon. We read some books. He threw a fight because he wanted to hold the books. This prevented any real reading from happening. At 12:20 or so, he seemed to be settling in. We laid down to snuggle him into dreamland. He wasn't having it. Up and down, trying to get off the bed, jumping up and down again, bumping head against wall (this weird pastime deserves its own blog post), scratching me, snuggling, smacking my head, jumping again, snuggling.

Patience left the building. I could feel the ire building in my body. I was tense and furious. I kept lying him back down but could feel myself being a tiny bit too rough that last time. I picked him up and snuggled him on my lap and decided.

Today he was going to learn to go to sleep on his own. My 14-month-old son who has taken to joining us in our bed earlier and earlier each night (after he goes to sleep initally, we carry him to his crib) was going to learn how to put himself to sleep.

I have never tried "crying-it-out" with this guy. I tried it once with Luna and I couldn't handle it. I have never done with him as I knew I was not cut out for it. Today I felt like it was a safer option that Crazy Mommy losing her shit.

At 12:41, I carried him to his crib with his blankie. I assured him he would be fine and I loved him. I put him down in his crib. I walked out of the room. I left the door open. I went around the corner to my room and I curled up in a fetal position with a view of the clock. I find watching the clock to be very important in moments like this. It helps me stay connected to this world. It also helps me realize that my kid has only freaked out for 3 minutes and NOT the 32 minutes it feels like.

He whined and whimpered but didn't really lose it.... until the phone rang. It was Papa. I picked it up. He heard my voice just one room away and cried. He never got hysterical. I told myself I could go get him if he got hysterical. He cried a bit and stopped. He cried a bit and stopped. It was tough. I watched the clock. I considered whether or not this was the way it was going to be. Was I going to do this from now on or was this just a coping mechanism on a gorgeous sunny day when I almost lost my cool?

I haven't decided but he is asleep. I feel like a horrible human being. I know he is fine but I still feel like an ass-- partly for putting him in this situation and partly for not snuggling him when he cried.

P.S.-- Papa got home. Tommy woke up 34 minutes into his nap. Papa went upstairs and took him to bed with him for a nap. I am furious, this time with a different young man in our family.

Get Outside Every Day

I read this or heard this a long time ago. Lately, it is imperative that I remember this and act on this bit of advice. IMPERATIVE.

It is February. Although this is a short month, it has been a tough month for me historically. 2010-- I am staying at home with a little one. I do not have a car most days and even when I do, I am home from 12-3 every day for a little one's nap. On top of that, it is crazy cold and who wants to drag a little kid in and out of a car seat and into Target and Meijer's for the sake of a bargain on baby butt wipes all the while sweating profusely in a down coat? Not this mama.

Solution: Get Outside Every Day

The big one usually has a rough transition at the end of her school day. Even when I greet her at the door with a smile and favorite snack in hand, there is inevitably a certain amount of shrieking and tears. Yesterday, Little Bro and I met her at the door in our snow gear and ready for some serious snow play. It was not as cold as it had been (a balmy 28 degrees) so we pulled the old wool socks up to Tommy's elbows and tackled the crunchy sticky snow--- the best packing and sledding snow I have seen yet this season.
These photos were all taken in our backyard. Yes, our very own backyard.

After 7 years of life on a nasty, pot-holey alley within spitting distance of one's neighbors, the magic of having a small stand of woods in our own backyard is not lost on me. We go "adventuring" and "hiking" all the way to the top of hill (where we meet the backyard fences of the mansions at the top of the hill/other side of the tracks). We have picnics in the snow. We look for fairy houses and toads.

And on cold gray days in February, we build tiny little snow people with baby carrots for noses.