I'm Not Ready (The Hard Things)

Hard parental discussions are framed in my head by children than are ages 10 years old and older.  I figure my crowd, the under 5 crowd, should be filled with questions about where candy comes from, when can we ride a tractor and when can I get married.   Can I get an amen on this one?

Things I didn't bargain for?  A 4.5 year old that is far too perceptive and inquisitive for his own good.  So perceptive, in fact, that he asked me yesterday morning in the car why there were so many flags out.  Seriously?  This is where my commitment to be honest about all the things to the point it's appropriate seems questionable (I'm looking at you Mom, Ms. I-don't-know-what-bastard-means).  Turns out 9-11 is a tricky thing to explain to an anxious, perceptive, sensitive kid.

Time will tell on if I gave the right, or enough, or too much, information.  I told Ell that some bad guys killed a lot of people because they didn't like our country and that the flags are the way we can remember them. He accepted this, we moved on to discussion of Goofy throwing up in my car. . . until this morning.

"Mommy, why do some people have to die before us?"  Death is a common source of questions in the mind of a 4.5 year old, so I answered that we are all going to die someday and no one knows when that might be.  "Why did those bad guys have to kill all those people? What happened to the bad guys?"  Twenty-four hours later and his wheels still turning, trying to make sense of the unreasonable.  Raising children in a world of uncertainty is tough, but the world is no more uncertain than it has always been.  The question is how to balance protection and honesty, to raise bold & brave children not cowed by fear of coulds and might happens?  Right now my answer is simplified honesty.  I don't know that it's right, but it's right for right now.

Pumping, Permission & Parenting

It's my first Theme Thursday participation. Breastfeeding. Every woman seems to have their story to tell: it was hard, it was easy, it didn't work, not appealing, painful, wonderful--on and on. I've never shared my thoughts or experiences in written form. Likely because it can be kind of controversial and because so incredibly personal. It's time.

Breastfeeding 101: it hurt. Like toe-curling, draw in a deep breath, and work through the pain for the first minute or two of each nursing session for the first three-ish weeks. I'm pretty sure that having anyone sucking on any part of your body for hours--hours--a day is going to hurt. THAT'S natural, not that whole "it comes easy and feels great"--that stuff is a myth that likely stops lots of people from nursing.

So I nursed. Two kids who had major difficulty gaining weight (the 3rd fits that category, too, in case you were wondering). And the first pediatrician we saw left me feeling guilty, like I failed. That my breastfeeding had caused a problem. And like many first-time nursing mothers, this crippled me, wounded my faith in my ability to feed my child. I gathered my courage (armed with knowledge & encouragement from a knowledgeable Lactation Consultant) and I left that doctor. Empowering and freeing. You can read about why that might work for you here.

This LC helped me perfect my pumping regimen (can you say hands-free?) and off to work I went. Faithfully closing my doors and eee-err, eee-err, away I went. Three or four times a day. Here's the thing: three or four pumping sessions led to maybe one bottle for my baby for the following day.

At six-ish months with Monkey, I was done. I gave up the pump. Freedom. Rinse and repeat with my sweet baby girl. I hoped and prayed that my boobs would suddenly learn the pump was friend, not foe. Nope. Dismal pumping results with a baby who gained weight slowly. Depressing.

Enter Bonus Baby. I did something empowering. I divorced the pump. I gave myself permission to leave that evil contraption behind. AND I continued to nurse my baby at home. I know that there are plenty of people who say that I'm probaby just not doing it right, but let me tell you I gave it a good college try with the first two and I was done hooking myself up to the milking machine. I AM SO GLAD I DID. I found a way to make formula-feeding during the day and breast feeding at home work.  My boobs adjusted because our bodies are amazing.  Win.

I had a friend tell me, after sharing her own experience with the breast pump (read: bloody milk) and she said the most profound statement to me, one I have shared with every new mother in the years since.

She said, "My worth as a mom is not soley defined by how I feed my child, but that I feed them when they are hungry and nurture them with love."
 

I try to keep this in mind, as the weight of not doing the 'best thing' weighs on me. I did breastfeed and I like it, but I did it on my terms. Breastfeeding at home in the evenings, the wee hours, first thing upon waking and then letting the natural formula do it's magic during the day. I wish I was like my sister, super milk-producer, but that's just not me. And that's okay. I'm no less a mom. I share of of this in hopes maybe, just maybe, another mom is freed from the weight of the pump when the cost isn't worth the return.



If you would like to see what others have written about breast feeding, please click the Theme Thursday link below.

I'm Beautiful (Eek!)

Today a friend on my Facebook wall posted a link to this: I've Started Telling My Daughters I'm Beautiful.  This is not a blog I have ever read before, but holy moly did this post resonate.

You see, I come from at least 2 generations of self-image issues.  My Nanny (my maternal grandmother) was unsatisfied with her skin color (too dark--she was 1/4 Cherokee), her lips (too thin), her weight (she dieted into her 70s).  My mom, well, my mom has a long list of things she would describe as problem areas:  eyes too small, a chin too many, a waist too large, hair too frizzy, upper arms she doesn't like.

The truth is this:  as a child there was no one that I loved more than my Nanny.  I didn't see any of those things she complained of.  It just wasn't in my consciousness.  As a matter of fact, when she was wasting away from an undiscovered recurrence of breast cancer in her liver, my cousin boldly stated, "I just want to remember Nanny fat and happy."  Twelve and a half years later, that sticks in my head.

Another truth?  I remember my mom dressing up to go out with my dad, putting on dark lipstick and fancy-ish clothes and I wanted nothing more than to look like her when I grew up.

Truth #3 (this one may sting a bit):  the poor concept my mom has/had of herself did get passed down.  You see, the more she listed her faults, the more I listened, especially when she (and everyone else) said that I looked just like her.  Add to that being a painfully self-conscious child, taller than all of my peers and hairier, too, and whammo! you've got an adult that isn't feeling so hip on her appearance.  Taking a compliment, even from my husband, no, especially from my husband, is painfully uncomfortable.  The little voice in my head is none to kind when it comes to body shape, lemme tell ya'.

BUT.  BUT here's the deal:  when I found out I was having a girl, I was determined to stop the cycle.  For that matter, I also determined that it was important for my sons to feel good about themselves, about women, not expecting magazine perfection.  So I just stopped speaking of my appearance at all.  Problem solved.  Until I read this damn blog post.  I think I may have just stumbled upon a New Year resolution.  Calling myself beautiful.  Out loud.  Even just one time will be a victory.

In that spirit, I give you a picture I took of myself today that I actually like.  It took 3 tries, but I like this one. 

Do you know how hard it is not to make self-deprecating comments and just let this be?  Sheesh.  

Now that you've read about my challenge, my insecurities and my bold attempt to find beauty, do it yourself. Let's start a trend, brought to you by the original post at Offbeat Mama (who has no idea I exist. ..only now maybe because I sent her a message).

Perfect Home = Perfect Family?

Is a perfect home the measure of a perfect parent?  Does a messy house = failing to provide for my family?  How did I even come to have this standard of success?

As much as I am constantly trying to battle the perception that my size determines much of my worth, I have come to realize that I am constantly coming up short when I continue to measure my worth as a mom by the perfection of my house.  Basically, I am lazy.  I own it.  I would rather relax than mop, rather cuddle with my wee ones than dust and rather nap than fold laundry.  Yes, clutter and unfolded laundry makes me crazy, but when Elliott says from the couch, "Mommy, will you sit wif me?," I briefly weighed my options and found those three year-old cuddles won the prize.

I'm not sure how I fell into the trap of measuring my ability to be a grown-up by the status of my laundry baskets, but I'm trying to cut myself a break.  Instead of choosing to ignore chores and then feel overwhelming guilt and disappointment in myself over what is left undone, I am vowing to try and accept this as a phase of particular busyness, when the moments of a full-time working mom devoting full attention to child-raising are precious and certainly more important than a perfectly decorated house, cleaning up Laundry Table (yes, this matches Laundry Chair at my sister's house) and even folding the never ending river of laundry.

I have to tackle this challenge.  To be real with myself and with my family.  It seems certain to me that it is incongruent to match my ability to parent with my ability to keep a tidy home.  Love & tidiness aren't hopelessly intertwined, right?  I can only bet that my children would rather live in a cluttered home with parents who choose to let chores go undone in order to give them more time, rather than parents always focused on the appearance of a home.  Maybe this is finding ways to endorse my laziness & procrastination. But maybe, just maybe, this is allowing myself to own the challenges of having a full-time job outside the home along with the hardest, most important job around--Mom, while still trying to carve time for relaxation, a marriage and a wee bit of social life.

Now where's that remote?. . . .

Exorcism Needed?

I generally think, as every mom does, that I have the cutest, sweetest, most handsome boy around.  Not to mention smart.  I mean really.  Look at this:

I rest my case.

Only not really, because despite repeated warnings from more seasoned moms that "three is worse than two," I refused to believe that this would happen to my sweet boy.  I was wrong.  Incredibly, totally wrong.  This weekend he in turned charmed and cursed us.  Turned whining up to a new level.  Learned to selectively ignore me.  Started yelling that he wanted something "now."  Jumping on his bed after being put in bed for the night.  Beating on the wall after his father had reminded him to go to bed not once, but twice.  Refused to pick up his toys, only to then have a complete meltdown when said toys were removed from his bed because they were Mommy's now.  We've put him in his room more the past two weeks to gain his self-control than in his whole life.  Had to place the toilet paper on the high shelf in the guest/kid bath because of excessive TP abuse (Beware if you are visiting to think ahead before sitting).  Blue Blank (treasured blanket made by my aunt) moved to Mommy's room because it was just too much for him to pick up.

Chris looked at me tonight and said, "So he's just testing his boundaries, right?"  I'm wondering if I had answered no, if he might have asked to give him away to the highest bidder.  So the whole "It Gets Better" isn't just a campaign for LGBT teens--it's for parents of three year olds, too, right?

So Now What?

I have gotten more response from my post  about my experience with bullying than any other in my little blog's history.  Not necessarily in the comment section, but some heartfelt responses on Facebook and in person.  I must say that if any post were going to garner attention, I am both quite pleased and uncomfortable.  Pleased because with a rash of suicides, I can't think of anything more important.  Uncomfortable because it is an episode that caused me much pain in shame and writing about it required quite a bit of vulnerability and openness on my part.

Someone whom I admire quite a bit, commented yesterday about how much he liked the post and felt it was important.  Important because perhaps our work as adults shouldn't be on eradicating bullying--it has existed since the dawn of time--but more about equipping our children with the support systems to weather this pain.  He cut so quickly to the heart of what I was trying to say:  that the bullying occurred because of the unfortunate choices of others, but that I survived thanks in large part to my parents and the sense of connectedness.  My parents couldn't save me from the cruelty, but had planted the seeds from my earliest days to know that they were interested in me, invested in me, and in being so, surrounded me not just with their love, but with other people who appreciated the me-ness that made me, me.

That is our challenge, not to let our youth slip down the deep hole of anonymity and be buried by dirt of pain.  Finding a voice for our own empathy so they can learn.  Finding joy in our own friends, so that the importance of being connected is modeled.  Appreciating quirks in each other, in order that they can appreciate differences in others.

My Own Bullying Experience

I was bullied.  I can openly admit it.  It wasn't one isolated incident. Nope, I was what my mom called an "easy target."  She coached me on every possible response to ward off these attacks, to no avail.  My young age (I was a year younger than my classmates), combined with rule-following, know-it-all, teacher's pet, crybaby tendencies just made me that easy target.  The incident that could make headlines today occurred was when I was in eighth grade--just 12 years old.  My family acted on what we felt was the right thing over cheerleader try-outs, trying to act in the spirit of integrity.  I was horribly uncoordinated (still am), but wanted nothing more than to be a cheerleader, for in a small town this was the penultimate accomplishment.  Finally, I would be liked.  When the score sheets showed evidence of changed numbers, my mom acted in good faith.  It is quite easy to look back in hindsight and for either of us to second-guess that decision, but it happened and second-guessing doesn't change that.

The outcry in the school was over the top.  People I had previously considered friends stopped speaking to me on a dime.  Someone I didn't know took the liberty of handing out our family phone number at the high school, with instructions to either hang-up or make foul comments.  Trust me, people followed directions well.  We shared a phone line with my grandparents--a party-line, which is truly an archaic concept these 20 years later.  The prank callers said mean, vile things to my grandfather, a man with more integrity in his pinky finger than these kids would ever know.  I distinctly remember running laps in gym class, only to look up and see 'friends' using their hands to mimic a hand-gun, and aiming it at ME.  At me.  The message was that my life was worth nothing over a complaint about cheerleading? It made no sense to me.  I withdrew into myself, my self-confidence taking a hit beyond belief.  The entirety of my high school career, I looked sideways at my classmates when they were unexpectedly kind.  I no longer socialized with people with whom I had spent hours on the phone, going to the movies, spending the night at each others' houses.

Painful is an understatement, but I didn't kill myself.  I never even considered it, to my recollection.  What made me different than these kids of today's headlines, bullied until suicide seemed the only option?  I can think of several possibilities, but 22 years has dulled me saying for certain.  Some things seem to be quite obvious and must play a part.  My parents were, and remain, married.  My parents, both of them, were what some might call intrusively active in my life--they knew my friends, knew my school assignments, knew my teachers.  I heard daily how proud my family was of me.  My grandparents and aunt, uncle and cousins lived down the road from us.  We were active in our church, members of which couldn't have cared less about the insults being hurled from small-minded peers.  I maintained my participation in softball (I wasn't very good at that, either).  I had several friends who remained by my side, not caring about the hullabaloo at school.  All of this is to say that my parents had made my village quite strong.  Interwoven in many directions, my pain was buoyed by support in many directions.

That bullying left its impact on my psyche, I can't say that the impact is erased, even now.  BUT I know my parents taught me integrity, demonstrated it, and acted in best faith.  I went on to make other friends, participate in other activities, earn a Master's Degree, get married and parent my own children.  Even with age I don't understand the mind of a bully--I don't understand finding joy in causing someone else's pain.  My parents may have made mistakes along the way, but somehow it all worked to keep my sister and me going, persevering and succeeding.  It is overwhelming to take on the challenge of doing the same for my children.  I read the devastating stories of these children who see no option but to end their lives and hope with all my heart that the village my husband and I are constructing for our children will be enough--enough to see the worth in their lives and carry-on no matter the disappointments they may face.

Spaghetti! . . . and Watermelon?

My baby loves to eat.  Everything (except sour milk).  Seriously, the girl shovels food into her mouth by the handful.  I hope her "high metabolism" sticks around if her appetite remains on track.  The week?  Spaghetti.  Those eyes of hers are killer, and despite the fact that she sucks her bottom lip in, it is actually quite full.  I am a mom, which is confirmed by staring at my child in awe, amazed by her perfection.  I also figured I'd have a passel of brown-eyed kids, so to have a child with startlingly blue eyes is mesmerizing to me.

What?  Do I have something on my face?

Watermelon and spaghetti?  Why yes, those do go together.

This is her raspberry face.  She's good at making that noise.  

On Perfection.

Today was one of those rare, close your eyes and make a wish, hold your breath, perfect kind of days.  Rare.  Rarer still with an almost three-year-old consumed with a case of the whinies.  I can expound upon that another time.  Back to perfection.  I should add to my raving that it was a balmy 78 degrees.  In January.  Really.

We decided to embark upon the virgin journey for our chitlins to the Fort Worth Stock Show (no rodeo this year. . . I mean there is a rodeo, we just didn't attend).  I was excited.  Even after departing our home at least an hour and a half past our goal departure time.  So we off we went.  Brooklyn missed her morning nap.  She didn't cry.  Elliott didn't whine.  No really.  He didn't.  We saw horses. We saw pigs.  We saw chickens.  We saw lambs.  No whining.  We (Elliott) sat on tractors.  No whining.  We visited a petting zoo, where Ell declined to actually pet. . .anything.  We wrapped up our trip with a jaunt down the giant bumpy slide, complete with burlap seat, for Daddy and Ell.  Oh, and a trip on the motorcycle carousel.  NO whining.

This day then moved into another study in perfection by dining outside at Joe T. Garcia's.  No margaritas, but still perfection.  Oh, and did I mention that it was 2:00 and neither of my children was crying AND that they still hadn't napped?  Yep.  Stupendous.

We go home.  We napped.  We painted.  We played.  We laughed.  This is one for the record books.

Snack break. Yes, I did remember the hand sanitizer.  

I was impressed with the hard work and cheerful, friendly attitudes of the teens there to show their animals.  They didn't seem to mind stroller-pushing, camera-wielding families with toddlers wanting to pet their animals.  I never did the ag-thing, but it made me think I would be proud to see my kids work that hard at something. . . I mean, without considering the slaughtering-thing at the end.  I couldn't handle that. 

One of the rare acutual petting moments.

We loved the baby chicks and the ducks.  I am fairly certain Ell would have been happy to spend all day in the Children's Barn.  

Tractor-sitting is always a big hit.  

Creepy-eyed goat and Brooklyn.  She was far more willing to actually pet the animals.  

Takes me back.

Loving the "motorcycles."

Will Rogers Colosseum on a perfect day.

I love the Art Deco inspired art architecture.

Brooklyn checking out her feet at lunch.

He's like my own Jackson Pollock.

At the end of the day, Ell told me that his favorite animals were the piggies.  Can't you see why?

Perhaps my favorite picture of the day.  I mean, of the ones sans children.

And did I mention that when we returned home, our cleaning service had been to visit?  I know.  I'm a little spoiled.  We would live in squalor if not for the cleaning service with both of us working full-time.

And THAT is how you spell a perfect day.

Making the Switch

So today I'm waxing poetic on exercising my parental rights.  I mean, seriously, aren't we conditioned to think that the words of a doctor are just to the right of God?  Right?  In my world growing up, doctors were pretty fancy, not people who moved in our social circles or went to church with us.  Heck, there wasn't even a doctor in the nearest 4 towns until sometime around the year 2000.

But I'm on a roll, y'all.  Granted, the roll is moving at a snail's pace, but I've moved on from 3 different doctors in less than 3 years since I've been a parent and I feel like a rebel.  (You can laugh, I know I'm not really a rebel.)  I made the call and cut the ties with the third doc today. . . I write that like I marched into his office and gave him what-for and fired him.  Yeah.  That didn't happen.  I just followed my instincts and called another ENT for my Monkey.  Old ENT none-the-wiser, but mama feels a whole lot better.

I guess the point of this post is to say, do it. If something doesn't feel right, don't swallow it and think that maybe you are blowing things out of proportion or are being too sensitive or expecting too much.  What I've forced myself to think?  The doctors once so infallible?  I realize now that they work for us.

The "You Should Switch Doctors IF _____" list 

(in the vein of Jeff Foxworthy's "You might be a redneck if. . .")

1. You tell the pediatrician that your child might have reflux because there is spit up on every.single.item. in your home.  About 50x per day and the doctor responds, "Oh, that's NOTHING!  My sons were way worse than that!"  Not. Helpful.
2. You get into the car after an appointment and burst into tears because the doctor made you feel worse instead of better about something.
3. The doctor is in the examination room for less than 8 minutes while discussing a surgical procedure (albeit small) on your CHILD.
4. Questions feel like an imposition.  You know, like if you ask questions you are somehow implying they don't know anything when really you just want to make sure every possibility has been explored because, I don't know, it's your CHILD?
5. Diagnoses don't come with a discussion.  Like when the specialist looks at the notes and says, matter of factly, "Oh, so we have a purple-horned unicorn disease here" with no respect or concern that purple-horned unicorn implies that there is something seriously going on with your child that perhaps you've missed until now.  
6. Even though you explain that you actually have experience in child development, the answer is "hmm" and then they move on to the next topic.
7. If you call because the plan suggested by the doctor is leading to a side effect, say stopping up of 'pipes,' suggesting a small explosive to clear the clog might be failing to individualize care.  
8. Not to say appearances are everything, they aren't, BUT there comes the realization that every doctor is getting the same reimbursement from insurances.  So when you are a factory for small surgical procedures,say, removing purple horns from unicorns, and your office hasn't been updated since 1986, I wonder where the money is going.  I'm guessing it isn't being invested in state-of-the-art equipment. . . or even state-of-the-decade equipment.
9. The office staff is rude.  If you forget your insurance card, yet everything on file is current and they still threaten to cancel your appointment, then chances are they hate their job.  
10. You feel rushed.  Last time I checked, doctors are still part of the helping professions.  Helping takes at least two people to be involved.  Every family is different.  Every body is different.  Of all people, a doctor should know that.  Minimizing my child's difficulties because there are kids much worse off doesn't make me feel anything but neurotic and pushed aside.  I am there because I'm worried about my kid and health and well-being, how this will affect them later-- and on and on.  And the thing is?  I want the doctor to be worried about my kid, above all else, in that moment, too.  

I'm confident and brave enough to say that if my needs aren't met, I'm out.  Sionara.  Check ya.