Another Parental Episode Waiting to Happen

Where have all the friends gone?

You hear about how children will change your life. True. They also change your body, outlook, sleep patterns and attention span. Nobody tells you that your friends will - in a seismic shift - disappear. It's as if a crack opened in the ground, swallowed scores of people, and then snapped shut, leaving me to wonder what the hell happened.

Or maybe I am the one that has been swallowed alive. Swallowed by Parenthood. And I'm floating alone in this place saying, "where is everyone?" And even when I do run across a friend, the script goes, "Hi! I have three minutes to make a meaningful connection."

On top of that, I'm apparently annoying and impossible to relate to. I so love that state of being, but again, I've got about three minutes to worry about it before the next parenting episode begins.

I'm sad about my usual friends, but I'm also distracted, trying to keep up with my everyday life which has been steadily getting That Much Harder while I wasn't looking.

It's not that I'm not connected to other moms, it's just that they are not my usual set of friends. I do have a lot of people I kinda know in a friendly way. That's good, right? And I'm meeting a few new people, and they seem nice as we are exploring avenues of mutual sympathies and conversation. It just feels odd to find myself trying to get to know a new set of people who may or may not really be my new good friends, when I know perfectly well that my old friends are out there living their exciting lives. Going to concerts, staying out late, having long meaningful conversations with other people. I, on the other hand, am restricted to a few moments a day for socializing, or up to an hour of fragmented lunch time conversation. My husband and I take turns going out dancing. I've missed dancing and socializing, so I really love this, but it's still so odd to be there without him. Why yes, we are still married, we're just... parents.

My husband says I'm just in a different place in my life now. Well, nobody told me it was going to eat my old friends!

I wonder if my usual friends are not used to taking advantage of whatever moments we have. Many of my parent friends are used to working quick conversations or projects into any little space in the action. My non-parent friends are perhaps too leisurely to mesh with my sped-up life these days. By the time they are feeling like enjoying an activity, I'm all like, "Oops, that's all the time we have for that today! Gotta go for lunch and nap." Even on social arenas like FB, my frequent interactions are with friends who are at a distance, as if we've learned to not take communication for granted. If you want to keep in touch, ya gotta seize the moment.

The up side is that I am finding other people to relate to. I do have people out there who are happy to see me. But getting people to talk to me in the few moments I have... it's not been easy. Even when I am not in a hurry, my brain is scanning for trouble.

Well, some new and old things I've been doing recently:

Taking turns going dancing.
Plodding along on quilt projects. That's a seam or two per week.
Reading books (at night).
Walking to the park farther into the neighborhood so I get more exercise.
Making an effort to chat with some of the other parents I see.
Going to church services again, listening to music and sermons, seeing folks.
Attending a friend's bi-monthly play group where the little girl is comfortable with the other parents and kids.
Cooking more meals with local food.
Writing more (short) letters.
Trying to have more real conversations when I do see people I know. "Hi! I have three min- errr, seconds!"
Writing blog posts between parental episodes. "Hi! Time for bed!"
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Mid-Summer's Ode to Breastfeeding

Baby, you gave me curves, I got 'em.
Baby, I've got curves, top 'n' bottom.
Baby, those curves are just hors d'oeuvres
for all I've got to give.
So cozy up tight and give a squeeze.
You've got to eat to live.

--

I thought the little girl was starting to wean herself. One day she nursed only once for a mere eight minutes, a minuscule amount compared to the 500+ minutes per day she was chugging at the peak of her nursing. Then she realized she was going to have to ask for it was indeed going to go away forever. Now she asks to "nuss" when she wants to snuggle with Mommy, and reminds me to "sing" while I'm at it.

Our nursing time is down to less than thirty minutes a day. I find my curves gradually shrinking nearly to my old proportions. Except now everything is a bit saggier and bulgier. No, no, no. I prefer to think of them all as curves! I've still got 'em. Thanks, little girl!

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Shedding Perfectionism

I've come up against perfectionism again recently. Not that I feel so beleagered by it myself, but I've been seeing it come up in discussions by leaders and performers.

We want our work to be the best it can be. We don't want to fail our clients or our audience. We want them to have the ideal experience from our efforts as best we can envision it. We don't want to admit that some of that is outside our control or realm of reasonable influence.

I still believe that the best way to nurture and guide others is to nurture and guide ourselves. How we treat ourselves informs us how we treat others.

I'm always delighted when beginners tell me they feel from me that it's okay to make mistakes and feel encouraged to continue, because I have tried hard to let go of beating myself up over imperfections in my own life.

I practice being forgiving of my lapses and flaws. I practice doing my best and letting it go at that. So while some callers joke about "working out their control issues," I am working out my perfection issues. I want the dancers (and my students) to feel supported, encouraged, and inspired. The last thing I'd want to do is to mutter or complain at them, or imply that their inevitable failings were in any way serious.

I am not a perfect caller. I love creating a program and guiding the crowd to learn new things, and supporting them while they lose themselves in the joy of the dance. But if I goof up or misspeak, I try to first apologize - just briefly - and just go on, just let it go.

After an evening is over is another story. Every little detail comes floating up in my mind's eye, and I evaluate each one for failings. Successes, yes, those too, but it's the failings that get me. In that moment, I should have... I should not have... Oh, why did I....?

But most of that is from living in the moment. I am responding and evaluating each moment according to my larger vision and the demands being thrown at me. It's almost completely improvisational! And as performance improv, one has to learn to float on the moment.

Ones control of the situation is almost like playing a fine but unpredictable instrument. One can coax transcendent music out of it, and the next moment, have embarrassing squawks emanating throughout your space. Rather like life, one might say.


When can one stop agonizing over ones improvisational life? I can almost laugh at myself at how predictably this happens. Two to twelve hours later, ones mind starts to process the events and throw down judgement. It's a harsh existence. I'm proud of myself for learning to mitigate the effects.


In my larger life, I have found myself pushing back against outside perfectionistic pressures. Someone preaches the ideal way to do something, and while I might agree, I protest against having that hung over ones head rather than encouraged as a goal. A friend sniffs at my imperfect endeavors, and I realize that they really have no understanding of, much less appreciation for, my creative goals or process. Another friend tries to call me to account for things left imperfectly done, and I explain that I've given up perfectionism. Who are they to crack the whip at me? I am giving up perfectionism!

It's an interesting balance. How to take care of my life without being too rigid. (My systems and structures are invaluable in helping me accomplish anything.) How to explore and be creative without fearing to make a mess. (Prepare, prepare, put down a drop cloth and don't worry. Have fun.) How to be the best I can be without succumbing to regret. (How can I regret my process?) How to float on the moment with all my training and prep supporting me, without being dragged down by someone else's impossible standards. (Encourage oneself like a friend.) I've discovered I'm done with impossible standards, and yes, still they snag me sometimes.

Performing is bungee jumping for shy people. Make sure you've measured twice, test the wind, run a trial. Double check the knot, and then let yourself float. You could fall ka-thump, smash your ego against the rocks. You could embrace the rushing air and the tightness in your gut as you fall and rise.

I reject the voices - internal and external - that tell me I should have been better, neater, smoother, more facile, closer to perfect. I embrace the freedom to fail.

The ideal does not own me, I own my ideals. Heaven forbid I should be imperfectly imperfect!

Okay, that's a good place to stop as any. Don't mind me as I float. Have fun!
--

The End of The Nursing

It took so long and so much effort and frustration to get this little girl nursing in the beginning. Weeks of tears and frustration. Months of tracking every ounce we could estimate. Hours of forcing her to learn how to lower her tongue and latch, how to suck, how to snuggle in and avoid distraction. How to figure out - hey! There's milk in them breasts! We watched her eyes get big over that one.

Once we got her to latch, it was eat, eat, eat. Let me show you our eat-poop-sleep diary. It was solid numbers.

See, I'd had in my head that I'd aim for nursing for at least her first six months, her first year, even two years! Why mess with a good thing, right? We'd just keep nursing for as long as it lasted. Nutrients! Antibodies! Skin-to-skin contact! No allergies for this little girl, we said.

Eventually, she started eating solid foods and we cheered her on. And still she nursed. And we did meet her first birthday with an apple muffin. And she was still nursing.

It's been a routine, a way of life. Although when she stopped requiring regular nursings, it certainly made traveling easier. No more stopping every two-to-three hours for hours of restless nursing routine.

Then she got into drinking cow's milk. She was gung ho from the start. Milk! Milk! Or as she would say, Mak! Mak! That means cow's milk in a cup. She knows what breast milk and nursing means, but it's not the way it used to be.

The last couple months, she has been nursing mostly in a wake up session first thing in the morning and the last thing before bedtime. I kept trying to hold on to the nursing because, after all, I'd worked so hard to make it happen to begin with. One does not keep nursing without a commitment to the cause. I remember one particular morning that I got myself out of bed and upright during a bout of food poisoning. It wasn't to be strong, I tell you that! It wasn't even out of guilt or obligation. It was to nurse the baby because she needed me and I wasn't about to give up nursing over a little incapacitating nausea. I persist.

And then came the day(s) that she giggled and ran from me rather than nurse in the morning. Mak! she says, and she doesn't mean me. Still I persisted. I even picked up a little nursing time in the afternoons before her nap. A new solid sleep ritual. It worked reliably, and I welcomed my shifting role. I still had my milk.

And then she missed this or that nursing and we kept on some kind of track, but it wasn't very regular.

And it has slowly occurred to me: I don't need to keep doing this. The little girl doesn't *need* to nurse any more, either physically or emotionally. She likes it, sure, but really, she's moved on.

She's been nursing a year and a half, ya'll. We've passed the point of useful antibodies.

And still I persist.

But I'm thinking I need to let go. She's ready. I think I might be too.

I worry that if I give up all but one nursing that my milk will disappear. But that's silly, as the piglet might say. Because it will disappear, someday. And then I will have to bid a brave but tearful adieu to one of my favorite mommy superpowers: the ability and the dedication to make mother's milk. Not to mention the warm snuggly feeling of the little girl on a good drowsy pull.

Not that I haven't looked forward to returning to a few currently forbidden things. Peppermint tea. Combination cold medicines. One specific medication that helps me deal with sun exposure. Fitting into my dance dresses again. Mammograms! Oo, yeah. Well, maybe not that one.

I have a feeling I will miss this terribly once it's gone. The nursing, I mean. And a little bit, not. I won't be tied to the schedule quite so tightly. In fact, those mother's aprons-strings have been loosening for a couple of months now. It won't be much longer before they inextricably loosen and fall away without my even noticing. Yeah, sure. (pause to sniffle at my keyboard)

I am so grateful that I took a few video clips of myself nursing when she was still a small baby. I just melt, seeing those small baby hands flexing as she sighs and gulps in contentment. How will I ever afford her that measure of security again?

I will have to invent new and meaningful bonds and rituals, new opportunities for snuggling and security. I will have to discover new ways to connect to the little girl she is becoming, to comfort and delight in the same Mommy-is-your-rock way. I will have to persist.


The nursing chair, our little recliner, has been moved back to into the living room. It looks nice there; we'd almost forgotten that. We brought home our new glider rocker today (new in the sense that we bought it used from craigslist), and placed it next to the bookshelf in the little girl's room. These days the little girl is all about reading books on our laps, and rocking, sometimes both at once. Or one then the other, having her Daddy rock her to sleep. He's her Daddy-is-my-rock now.

The new glider supports me as I support her, floating back and forth, rocking. "Kiss" she says, and brings her face close, smiling, then smacks her lips close to mine before pushing me away.

Mwah. Back atcha, little girl. Mommy loves you too. sniffle
--

Right Number, Right Purpose, Right Place

The Unclutterer blog has a great post up contemplating a one-versus-many idea of possessions.

"In theory," he writes, "we only need one pair of scissors." But in practice, we find that it's more convenient to have multiple pairs for multiple purposes and in multiple locations. The comments have lots of fun discussion about how people like to purpose their scissors.

Yes, you can get by with only one, but more of one can be very convenient. Convenience is valuable too.

I am very happy to contemplate this idea that sometimes more is better, at least to the degree that you have what you need, when and where you need it.


I've also experienced a well put-together work bench or project station, and how beautifully it contributes to productivity.

For instance, one place and career I worked, I had my own station and my own set of tools, one of everything I needed. I could reach out almost without looking and grasp exactly what I needed. After I was done, I put everything back in its place, ready for the next job.

Sure, there were more than one of most things, and specialized tools for particular jobs. The specialized gear was located in a central location, each in its specified spot, so that any of us could retrieve and put away as necessary. Everyone had at least one of the more basic tools so that no one would have to hunt or trade off while in the middle of a project. Of course, some people had more than one of a thing, and the bosses regularly borrowed one, leaving it who-knows-where. (Cue the screams of frustration: aaaiiigh!) My coworkers were not so picky about the organization of their stations, but I would growl at anyone who tried to run off with my tools (before, not after, they might have lost it). I'd rather not to waste time thinking about tracking down each thing as I needed it.

I find that a similar approach at home keeps me happy there as well.

Over the years, I've steadily moved items to the location where they are most likely to be used. So things like my tape, stapler, stamps, scissors, pens, thumbdrive, etc are right there in front of me within arms reach. No need to "dig them out." Other office supplies are stored in descending order of need. The printer, address book, and screw driver only require that I stand up. I bend down when I have to retrieve more paper for the printer. Any electronics chargers are in the closet in their designated spot - no getting lost in some dark corner. Also in the closet is a modest but highly organized caddy that keeps everything from paperclips and extra pens to watercolors and craft tools. My massive canvas stapler and ink brayer are stashed waaaaay back in a box of art tools I might need in the next couple of decades.


So. Back to the scissors. Yes, I've got 'em.

Three pairs in the kitchen. One for general papercutting and mucki-muck use. A second for food-related cutting tasks, such as cutting open a package of cheese or whatever. Then a heavy-duty kitchen knife that I use for cutting anything tough or stinky (because I can take it apart and send it through the dishwasher if necessary).

I have at least three pairs in the office. My fav is a very nice mid-sized pair of Mundial sewing scissors. I keep them in the pen-and-tool cup on my computer station. I have a pair of those Fiskars edgers that give a neat pattern edge to a piece of paper. I have a pair of nail scissors from my childhood, just because, and a little bitty pair of old fashioned scissors that came from one of the family farms. Plus a big box cutter and random blades from my art&design years.

In the bathroom, we have two pairs of scissors - my husband's mustache trimmer that I also use for trimming my hair, and a pair of "bandage scissors" with blunt ends.

In my stash of sewing gear I have three pairs. My really nice fabric scissors (Mundial again), a tiny thread trimmer pair (Mundial rocks!), and somewhere, my very old pair of fabric scissors that I acquired when I was a youngster first learning to sew. I suppose I should get rid of them, or maybe save them for when my daughter wants to start her own sewing projects when I'm not willing to let her use my good fabric scissors! (My mother was picky about the scissors designated for cutting fabric versus paper; I picked up that from her.) I also have a fabric cutting wheel blade.

Somewhere in the basement is the pair of medical scissors in the first aid kit we take backpacking.


So I feel content with this number of scissors in my life because I have just what I need where I need it. I don't have to go hunt down a particular pair for a particular purpose - it is already where I need it. And I don't foresee needing any new scissors except for a kid's version when the kiddo gets old enough to responsibly hack up construction paper.


I don't feel content with the number of flashlights I have.

Flashlights are one of those items that we always feel we need more of, only to realize that we already have too many! I think it's partly that their roles are NOT well defined, other than having a couple in a certain drawer (in case of power outage), bitty ones on our keychains (for dark driveways), and a headlamp (for camping and doing work in the attic).

That doesn't count the flashlights that people keep giving us as gifts (so useful, so cool! I can imagine them saying), and the cool stuff that we find ourselves infatuated with. Compact book lights are a particular weakness; I've told myself I have the best one already, No More! So we have a moratorium on flashlights.


I can imagine it would be a useful exercise to write out the number of a given item and the purpose of each. Is it indeed what you need? Does it fulfill its purpose? Is it where it will be best used?

Although some people are put to sleep by such details, I find this kind of meta-contemplation incredible invigorating.

Shoes: eleven, closet. Melon baller: one, kitchen drawer. Tents: uh, do we have to go there?

Self reflection gives me feedback about how I am living my life. So it's not only useful, but it's fun! (Bonus - I often get blog posts out of it. Wait - that might actually account for most of my blog! heh.)


I enjoy discovering new ways to streamline and enhance my life. So yes, I am working to get rid of clutter. Indeed I've got an extra set of kitchen knives in my donation box right now. And that pair of shoes that doesn't fit anymore, etcetera.

Clearing away what is not especially useful allows me to see what really works, not just in my kitchen or in my office, but in my life. And sometimes that means I need more of something. But in just the right place for just the right purpose. Cool. Must go contemplate some more.
--

We've spent the last couple of weeks on the road, visiting folks.

We stayed in a hotel and several housefuls of children and dogs. We had visits with uncles and aunts and cousins and random relatives from several sides of our families, and an old college friend to top it all off.

We went through seven-plus sleeping venue changes and forty-four people in less than fourteen days.

That count included four uncles, three aunts, five cousins, one niece, two nephews, at least fourteen children, my in-laws, a college friend, and various spouses, relatives, and associates. Oh, and not to mention three dogs, two baby pygmy goats, and approximately twenty-three cats and kittens.

It was a full trip.

The last morning on our way home, I started feeling kinda peckish. My stomach growled and gurgled. I put it down to being absolutely starved. We stopped for a late breakfast, and I ordered some of everything. But the food turned funny in my mouth, and the spinach in my omelet in particular tasted rotten. I didn't finish more than half. As we progressed further down the road, I felt more and more ill. Several hours later, we were finally home.

DH unloaded the car while I languished from room to room feeling disembodied. I felt compelled to sweep the floors, clearing out the dirt and grit that had accumulated while we were gone, but made little headway on the stack of mail or our luggage.

I did rouse myself to nurse between bouts of nausea, but then fell asleep at some indeterminate early-late hour on the couch with a small bowl in my hand. Even when my husband roused me in the wee hours to shuffle back to a real bed, I had to make a pit stop to heave into a wastebasket.

I fell into a deep, semi-dreamy sleep after forcing myself to visualize the faces of friends and family instead of the plate of spinach-laden omelet staring up at me.

When I woke, it was to the tune of cats vying for my ankles and my husband puttering in the front room. The little girl thumped her way down the hallway and into the bedroom to poke her head over the edge of the bed to smile at me. She saw the cats and started mewing at them. Miao, miao.

My husband came in the room. "She keeps saying appul or appun, and I don't know what she means," he said. "She's trying to say 'open,'" I muttered sleepily. She's using the cap on her new water bottle to learn about open and closed.

I sat up and felt, if not well, tolerably vertical. I sipped water, gingerly walked down the hall, and nursed the little girl.


I looked around curiously at the piles of baby toys and shoes, bags and boxes, and the stack of letters and bills still waiting for me. The suitcases hadn't even been unpacked yet.

Everything looked odd. It looked like somebody else's home. The next stop on the road.

Where was I again?

If it's Wednesday, it must be home. It is Wednesday, isn't it?
--

Mees and Mon'ee Are Friends

The little girl has a new pair of favorite toys, a mouse and a monkey.

The little brown monkey is one of those beanie-baby types that I brought out from my stash of Toys People Have Passed On To Us. The little girl had been learning the names of animals, and as soon as she saw it, she recognized that it! was! a! Minkey! I remarked to my husband that I didn't know where she would have picked up a Belgian accent* (hoho!), but the Minkey was soon transformed into a Mon'ee. And that was when she really learned to make monkey noises.

*Maybe from my habit of announcing "A bimp! There's bimp in the rhoad." before we go over a bump in the road. (Inspector Clouseau)

The mouse arrived several weeks later. I spotted it amid the huge pile of stuffed toys at the thrift shop, and something about its garish aqua green color yet sweet fabric-lined ears spoke to me. I plucked it out and showed it to the little girl. What do you think of that? What is it? She lit up and made the sign for mouse, flicking her index finger back and forth across her nose. That's right, it's a mouse! By the time we got home, it had become Mes or Mees.

So now we have the wonder twins that go everywhere together. Mon'ee! she'll demand. And once she has it in hand, she'll say, Mees! or vice versa. My husband thought for the longest time that she was mispronouncing the name of whichever she already had, but no, she was asking for them by name. If she has one, she wants both of them.

Perhaps it's that they are weighted nicely so that they sit up well. Perhaps they are just the right size and heft for easy snuggling with toddler arms. Perhaps they both begin with M? I think it's as much that she knows what they are, and knows that she knows what they are, that make them so irresistible. Before the animals arrived, she could make noises or signs to name them, but once she attached verbal name to animal, she was enchanted.

So now before we start our bedtime nursing, she has to have first one, then the other as well, clasped adoringly in her arms, possibly wedged under her chin or squished into my stomach. It makes no matter how they get in her way. There may even be a hand or two left for a cup or block. She'll leave them behind when she falls asleep snuggling with her daddy, but at least we won't roll over onto any hard edges if they get lost in the bed.

My husband came in to the office this evening after bedtime holding one in each hand like a pair of juvenile delinquents he had found stirring up trouble. What do you want me to do with these? he wanted to know, quirking his eyebrows. I grinned and reached out to take them. They can sit by my computer 'til she asks for them tomorrow.

Mees! Mon'ee! She'll rejoice, and hug them to her like her best two friends.

Before Mees showed up, we once took Mon'ee hidden in the diaper bag to the last doctor's visit. It was my trump card distraction after the little girl's lower lip started poking out in distress. Not more poking and prodding! Scary people - aaahhhhh! She clutched that monkey to her neck with no hesitation. I think hugging a little friend helped her bear the scariness in a way that even the presence of Mommy could not.

She used to suck her thumb; now she clutches the monkey. I'm thinking it's not a bad idea to cultivate a few love-transference objects. We could all use a few snuggle friends.
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