Is Thing On?

I have been mostly absent from this blog since the beginning of the year. I didn't plan for it to happen, but life changes that way. Since the election and the subsequent installment of the new administration (and all that has come along with it), I have found it difficult to sit down and write about light hearted outings or wax poetic over another of my children's milestones.  It all just seems SO unimportant when there are babies being attacked with chemical weapons in Syria or a climate change denier is heading up the EPA. The truth is, I'm overwhelmed. On a macro and micro level, 2017 has been a real shit storm. Josh was laid off from his job a few weeks back, and although we are doing fine and new job opportunities are on the horizon, the uncertainty and sad feelings surrounding the situation are another hurdle to face every day. It's exhausting to keep up with the day to day routines of life when the world seems to be falling apart around you. And it's especially hard to justify sitting down to write a blog post when my anxiety about the world is telling me that there are a million other things that would be a better use of my time and energy. That said, I do miss having a keeping place for the good memories and little things I don't want to forget.  I don't want to look back on this time in my life and see that I let the bad parts completely eclipse the everyday beautiful moments that ARE here. So I will try to get back to this place a little more often, I know down the road I will be glad I did.

In the mean time, here are a few life updates to catch everyone up:

Oren turns SIX in a couple weeks. That is crazy to me. That kid should be no older than two and I have no idea how we've gotten to six already.

Ever is completely weaned. Josh had a vasectomy. So, no more babies in our house ever again. 

I have been reading so many books on race in America. There is so much information out there and so much to learn that I feel infinitely behind. I'm hosting a discussion group at my house Friday, May 12th at 7pm to review two of these books. I'd love if you could join us. We're reading The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander and Hillbilly Elegy by J.D. Vance. If you live too far away to join us or book discussion groups just aren't your thing (but staying woke is) I'd still love if you'd give these a read and let me know what you think.

Josh is the new chairman of the Wadsworth Democrats. I'm really proud of him. Change starts at the grassroots level and he is already doing great things.

My mom and I launched a new website for our bow/headband company. (So long Etsy!) Yes, this is a shameless plug. Go check it out, maybe tell a friend? #ad

https://www.everirisdesigns.com/

Also, Easter is this weekend? I really and sincerely hope to be back here with cute egg hunt pictures soon. In the mean time, it feels good to be writing a bit again. Depression is real y'all, and so is self care. I just wanted to throw that out there in case anyone needed to hear that today, Do what you have to do to take care of yourself and don't ever be ashamed of it. 

xoxo

To Leo

I am sitting here late on a Thursday night, unable to sleep. Unable to sleep because tomorrow I have to attend the calling hours for my grandfather who passed away on Sunday night. I can't sleep because memories of him keep washing over me and I feel like I need to write them down. So here I am. 

My grandparents have 11 children. An Irish catholic family through and through. My mom and her siblings tell me that my grandfather was strict with them growing up. He had a lot of rules and was a what-I-say-goes kinda guy. My grandmother never worked outside the home and so I can imagine being the sole provider for 11 children on a carpenter's salary could not have been easy. It could not have been easy at all. Being a working parent to only three children myself, I can only begin to imagine the stress and sense of responsibility he must have shouldered all those years. His tough exterior bore not out of unkindness, but necessity.

But aging must have softened those rough edges of his personality because, as his grandchild, I never saw that side of him. The man I knew was easy going, incredibly funny, a little bit ornery and adored by every single person who knew him. 

Being only one of many, many grandchildren it was not easy to get a lot of one on one time with either of my grandparents, so I'd be exaggerating if I said we were exceptionally close. But even so, he was a constant in my life that I don't think I ever fully appreciated until now. During my life growing up my mom, sister and brother and I never lived more than a two minute drive from my grandparent's house. An easy walk on a nice summer day. My grandma used to babysit us kids while my mom was at work, and my grandpa was never more than a phone call away when the washing machine stopped working or a bat got into the house and needed catching. One middle of the night phone call and there he was, 10 minutes later on our doorstep with a broom in his hand ready to rescue us from the nocturnal nuisance. 

I remember he liked apple pie and milk. He liked swordfish steaks. Coffee with a splash of irish cream in the morning and wild turkey - no ice - in the afternoon were his drinks of choice. I remember big brunches at my grandparent's house on Eastland Avenue, Leo in the kitchen at the helm. Polachintas with cottage cheese and cherries, omelets with bacon and mushrooms. On thanksgiving he always carved the turkey. His homemade stuffing was my favorite. I remember him always joking, always smiling. I never heard him raise his voice. I never saw him truly angry. 

I remember as a little girl standing beside him in church at his brother's funeral and seeing him cry for the very first time. I remember my stomach sinking and the sight of my grandfather in tears shaking me to my bones. I remember looking straight ahead, unable to watch him cry for one second longer. I remember slipping my hand into his and his fingers squeezing me tight as we held on to each other for the rest of the service. I know I'll be thinking about this moment on Saturday when I'm standing in that same church, in those same pews, listening to his funeral mass.

As a teenager, before I had a car, I used to take the bus to work. And as a typical teenager with poor time management skills I would often find myself running to the bus stop, breathless, just in time to see the back of the bus disappear down the road without me on it. On those days I would curse myself, run the two or three blocks back home, dial my grandpa's number and there he would be, five minutes later, in the driveway. My savior. My ride to work. 

As an adult I remember Josh and I buying our first house, having him over and showing him all the things I needed done that I, frankly, had no skills to do or money to do it with. I remember him coming over with wood floor boards that he just happened to have as well as some base board and quarter round and fixing up my living room floor. I remember watching him set up a table saw on my deck and go to town cutting and installing. He was 70 some years old and strong as a horse, I remember watching him work and thinking how toned his calf muscles were in his work shorts and tennis shoes. Nothing ever stopped him, nothing ever slowed him down.

Until now, at 83 years old cancer finally got the best of my old grandpa. Watching him deteriorate over those last months and weeks and final days was heartbreaking. Seeing him whittled so far down from the man he once was - it wasn't right. 

That's not who he was. 

So I will choose to remember him with the broom, with the tool box and the truck. With the glass of whiskey and the strong legs and the warm hand that held mine when we both needed it most. 

I love you grandpa. I already miss you so much.

The state of things

I am sitting on the floor surrounded by piles of unfolded laundry and an empty suitcase that still needs filling. The boys are using my phone to watch minecraft videos in Weston's room and Ever is walking around with her baby doll shushing it and patting it's back. Downstairs I can hear the sound of men working in our office, finally fixing the wall and ceiling damage from a leak that we've been procrastinating over for months. They need me to pick a paint color. Shit. "Just paint it all white", I say. I've just gotten off the phone with the freight company who needs to reschedule the delivery of materials for our new kitchen floor. The driver was here earlier today and didn't have the right equipment to get it off of his truck, so I watched him drive away, my beloved slate tile still buried somewhere inside. So close, but so far away and dangit, I was really looking forward to unboxing it and pulling out some pieces to ogle over and fondle today. But whatever, I've waited this long...what's a few more days? I still really need to pack that suitcase because I'm leaving for Nashville in the morning for a long weekend visit with my brother. (But not before stopping by a client's house to supervise a delivery on my way out of town). And now the boys are hungry and we're meeting some family for ice cream in an hour and a half so it will have to wait. By the time we get home it will be baths and stories and bedtime and packing after the sun goes down and the day will be gone. This life is good, but full. And a little out of balance right now. So I'm just doing the best I know how to keep the babies fed and the clients happy and birthday cards mailed and the toilets clean and mostly trying not to drop all the balls.

 

Let's be honest, some balls have definitely been dropped.

 

 

*****

 

 

Nashville pics soon, I hope?

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

 

My mom and I are pretty different people. Where I long to hop on a plane and see the world, she would much rather stay home. While I love having a house full of people or a weekend packed with family and friends, she's more comfortable doing her own thing on her own terms. I have always been one to question the rules and status quo and she'd rather not rock the boat. Where I tend to expect too much out of people, places and experiences, she expects maybe too little. I want the world, she's happy just hanging out with her kids and her cats.

As you can imagine, these differences have caused us to have a complicated and sometimes difficult relationship over the years. It's only since becoming a parent, and now a parent to three little ones, just like she had, that I can finally begin to understand life through her lens.

My mom grew up in an Irish catholic family. The epitome of a middle child with five older siblings and five younger siblings. As one of eleven, she and her brothers and sisters had the bare minimum growing up. A room she shared with various siblings, two outfits to call her own (worn in rotation), one pair of shoes and just enough food on the table to get by. Life was hard, she felt invisible. Wanting desperately to begin her own life, she married young, (too young) she never got to go to college, had her first baby at age twenty and two more in quick succession. She was twenty five and had been working half her life already. At twenty six she was divorced and the single mom of three. From then on she did everything on her own, working two jobs and had no help at home. She did not remarry until I was well into adulthood with a husband of my own.

When you are a kid you don't see the whole picture. Where I was always disappointed that she never volunteered for school field trips or took me out on mother daughter dates I didn't understand then that it's not because she didn't want to. It was because she couldn't afford to miss work or hire a babysitter. When I wondered why she never seemed to want to go do anything fun, it's because she was too busy worrying about if she had enough money to pay this month's bills and keep us off public assistance (though we certainly would have qualified for it). Maybe things would have been easier if she would have gotten help through the welfare system. Maybe she would have had more time to play with us kids and been less stressed and had more fun. But in her mind accepting public assistance would have meant she was a failure (it wouldn't have). She thought she was doing the right thing by doing it all on her own. Even though it meant working two jobs and spending less time with us, she never asked for help.

I ask for help all the time. When Josh has to go out of town for a week I feel like I'm going to drown in the responsibilities of parenting on my own. I lean on our siblings for babysitting, my mom for picking up Wes from school, Josh for doing half the household chores, half the cooking, half the baths and bedtime stories. And you know what? I'm still dead tired at the end of the day. HOW did she do it? How did she get up, get three kids off to school, work all day, come home, cook dinner, keep the house clean, help us with homework, do the laundry, give us baths, cut our fingernails, brush our teeth, get us to sleep and THEN sit down at her typewriter to start her second job doing medical transcription from home. No wonder she didn't feel like playing with dolls or taking us to the park. No wonder she sometimes yelled and sometimes cried and definitely slept a whole lot less than she probably wanted to. No wonder she didn't think to paint my nails or read me Anne of Green Gables. She was in survival mode for most of my childhood. The whole time I was feeling sorry for myself did I ever think to stop and wonder what it was like for her? Where was her fun? If I was in her position I would have fallen to pieces long ago.

Now when I look back at my childhood I can see all that she DID do. Though the small trips we did take to the local pool or SeaWorld might not have seemed like much then, looking back on it now the fact that she pulled off those outings on her own and in her financial situation they seem damn near miraculous. The fact that she never once asked for or expected a single cent of help from the government or her family tells me just how hard she was working to keep the lights on and clothes on our backs. I had more than two outfits. I had plenty of shoes. We even had snacks and soda, plenty of toys under the tree Christmas morning and probably countless other luxuries she could only dream of having as a kid. The fact that she told us she loved us every single day, the fact that she still managed to bake us cookies and throw us birthday parties. She was providing more for us than her parents were ever able to provide for her. She was doing her very best with what she had and she still is.

So today I wanted to tell you, mom. I see you. You are not invisible. Everything you did, it did not go unnoticed. It is not unappreciated. You did everything you could. You did more than enough. You did more than anyone should have to.

Thank you. I love you and I see you.

Happy Mother's Day.

Well, hello there October

“I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.”
― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

Things have been quiet around the internet lately, haven't they? Well except for E. Ivie who came back from her blogging hiatus with quite the bang. All these new posts from her have me terribly spoiled and I've been so enjoying getting to dig into her writing again. But unfortunately for me, I can't say the same. Things have certainly been quiet over here in my corner of the web. I have been working on the house, cleaning and organizing and nesting, I suppose. We've been getting into our new school routine with Wes, and into the hang of homework and sight words and lots and lots of book reading. 

Now that Wes is in school five days a week, I've been savoring my Mondays with Oren. After Wes was born and it came time to transition back to work after maternity leave I changed my schedule and began working four ten hour days (taking Mondays off to have an extra day home with him, just the two of us). This has been my schedule ever since and when Oren was born it became another day I got to spend with the two of them together. When Wes started Pre-K at age four, I still kept him home on Mondays with me (selfishly hanging onto our Mondays together for as long as I possibly could). But now that he's six and officially in kindergarten, four day school weeks are no longer optional, and off to class he goes on Monday mornings. I was (and still am) mourning the fact that our Mondays together have finally come to a close. I know he feels it too, and knowing he has to go to school while Oren gets to stay home with me has been a tough pill to swallow for him. But we're adjusting.  We're always adjusting and then re-adjusting to new schedules, routines, growth, life changes. But in Weston's absence I have been trying to really focus on these brief weeks where my Mondays are for Oren and Oren only. In between school starting in August for Wes and the birth of our newest babe at the end of this month (hopefully) I have these few, precious weeks of Mondays with my second born. If I stop to think about it, Wes had over two years of Mondays being the only child where all my attention was devoted to him and only him. And when Oren goes off to kindergarten in a few years, baby number three will have me to themselves for the few remaining years of their own toddlerhood before he or she begins school. But Oren? All he gets is this handful of weeks with my total, undivided attention. The plight of the middle child, I suppose. But what can you do?

So I have been spoiling him extra good, with breakfasts out and trips to the pet store and ice cream shop. Lots of couch cuddling and movies of his choice. Trips to the park and a few too many glasses of soda. He probably won't even remember this time we have spent together, but I certainly will. I am clinging to him for all it's worth for these next few weeks and enjoying every last moment while he's still my youngest and still my baby. And as much as I am looking forward to meeting our newest little one I will try my best not to wish away these last few weeks. I will enjoy this last small part of what will soon be my old life. I will savor this October.

Last Night of Five

This is how I will remember this night. Tissue clenched in fist because he cried himself to sleep. Six years old tomorrow and starting kindergarten at a brand new school. He doesn't want to go. I don't want him to go. He still sleeps with the animal blanket he's had since he was born. He is older, but he is still so little. He still wanted me tonight when he was scared. His body curled tightly around mine and I stroked his hair and told him everything would be ok. I held him in my arms until sleep finally came and I was grateful. Grateful for how much he still needed me tonight, because I still need him - and tomorrow isn't going to change any of that. Tonight we were scared, but tomorrow we will be brave. 

On Birthing Third Babies and Facing Fear

I am 26 weeks pregnant and I am not sleeping. At night in bed with all the pillows crowded around me I dream and I wake and I toss and I turn and I fret. I am agitated. I am always agitated. I can't even put my finger on why. There is a fear simmering inside of me waiting for attention. Wes starts kindergarten at a new school in three weeks and transitions like this are always hard for me. But I don't know if that's it, because when the worried thoughts come into my head I push them out and I haven't allowed myself much time to dwell on them. He starts school 20 days from now regardless of how I spend the next 20 days. I can spend them full of dread, slowly killing off our last few weeks of summer with nervous anticipation or I can ignore that date that's looming over my head and cross that bridge the day I come to it. So I've been doing the latter and soaking up these last few summer days for all they're worth. The agitation, I suspect, comes with the impending fall season for other reasons.

****

One more birth. I have still have to go through one more birth before I'm done. I don't have great experiences to look back on. In fact, the days my boys were born were two of the most gut wrenching, terror fraught days of my life. I WANT to remember them with fondness, because after all, they do have a happy ending. I have two beautiful and healthy children as the result, and for that I am so, so grateful. But. They were painful, not just physically, but emotionally unsettling and disturbing. I foolishly thought I could breeze through my first labor with an epidural and when that didn't work out it rocked my world. When the drugs weren't working and Wes was born transverse after intense back labor and no pain relief with the cord wrapped so tightly around his neck that he had to be taken away and resuscitated, I thought that was just a fluke. Surely the next time would be better. Next time I would take more control of the situation. And the next time I studied everything there was to know about laboring drug free. I took classes, I listened to relaxation tapes and practiced deep breathing. I had a birth plan and I was prepared this time. Until, I wasn't.

Until son number two came barreling out faster than I could even comprehend. Until my water broke and it was obvious there was meconium in the fluid. Until there wasn't time for an epidural or deep breathing and I lost complete control of absolutely everything. Until Oren came out blue and limp and unresponsive. But this time he wasn't so easily resuscitated. This time they took him from me in an ambulance to another hospital before I'd even laid eyes on him. Once again I found myself in a hospital bed, tired, wounded and with empty arms. Later they made it clear to me that we were very, very lucky Oren's story had the happy ending that it did. That he only had to be hospitalized for four days and that he suffered no long term effects from his rocky entrance into this world.

So when I think of doing this again, I don't have the naïve optimism I once had. I no longer assume that things will work out fine, or that I have any control or choice in the way this birth goes and I am terrified. And so, I ignore it. I haven't done anything to prepare for this birth. I have taken no classes, read no books, formed no plan. I have no idea if I will want to try for pain relief this time or if it will even be an option. I feel lost and anxious and instead of looking to that day with happy anticipation I am dreading it. At this point I no longer expect, nay, even bother hoping for a beautiful, serene birth and a magical moment of meeting my baby and holding them to my chest. Instead I am reduced to the most basic desires. I hope to make it to the hospital and I hope for a breathing baby this time. I am scared even hoping for these most basic things means I am sure not to get them. I worry about giving birth in the car, I worry about breech presentation and emergency C-sections. I worry about blue babies and all the things that could go wrong instead of right.

So, how do I change this? What do I do to let go of all this fear? I am SO excited to finally meet this baby and I feel like I have never wanted a baby more than I want this one, right now. But I just wish there was a way to escape the birth. I wish I could just go to sleep and someone would wake me when it's over. But I can't do that. It's coming for me, no matter how much I try to fight it. And so, I am trying to let go and looking for a way to be able to feel the way Amanda did when she so eloquently wrote, "I feel a calmness, similar to labor, knowing that what is ahead will come regardless of how I respond." I need to find a way to get to that place where I am comfortable handing over any modicum of control. There is a calmness I am so desperately seeking. I just need to find it. I am trying to unstrap this fear from around my heart and breathe, breathe, breathe.

April Sunshine

This weekend felt so, so good. The weather on Sunday was absolutely perfect. We woke up to sunshine streaming through the windows and birds singing "wake up, wake up" and it just felt like spring had really arrived. We put a tray of muffins in the oven and made for the front porch, still in our pajamas with a blanket and cups of tea in our hands. I told Josh as we swayed slowly on the porch swing that if every day could start out this way what a difference it would make. That little lazy hour of sunshine and fresh air with no where to rush off to and nothing we had to do was such a shot in the arm. Vitamin D to the rescue! It seemed to set the whole day off on the right track and with that extra little boost of energy we decided to use the rest of the day for spring cleaning and finishing up some small projects around the house that had been slowly accumulating over the winter. Josh fixed the part of our back fence that had fallen down and finally took down our exterior Christmas lights from the front of the house. He switched out a couple more light fixtures with new ones and we finally finished up the last few punch list items for our back entry/mudroom project (pictures coming soon!) I scrubbed and scrubbed and vacuumed and dusted with the doors open and sun on my face and music in the house and it was just really nice.

We have a few family get togethers that will be happening at our house in the next couple of weeks and now I feel like the house is really ready for people after such a long and dismal winter. What a difference some fresh air and clean sheets can make. We've got a steady forecast of temperatures in the 60's to look forward to this week and I have never been so happy to pack up the snow pants and winter boots as I was yesterday. Spring jackets came out of storage and the hats and mittens and scarves got tossed in a bag until next year. I'm so excited for the birthday parties and Easter egg hunts and bare legs and green grass that I can hardly stand it. So, welcome spring, let me get you a glass of lemonade, put your feet up, relax, and please stay as long as you'd like. We've been expecting you.

Some late winter ramblings

 

I think life has seasons, you know? Much like the four seasons we are all so familiar with by now, the months and years themselves seem to take on certain feel. A certain energy.  Some phases of life are busy and full of action - go! go! go! While some have a much slower pace. One of reflection and work and preparation for what's to come. A mental and physical break to gather your thoughts and start making plans. To be quiet. A time to appreciate the comfort and solace in the every day normal before it gets turned on its head as it always, enevitably, does. A chance to experience so much of the routine that you're left itching for the changes. And this is where life is for me right now. As winter coughs out it's last, best effort and sputters to a close, I can feel the changes coming because spring is right around the corner.

 

These last few months have been quiet ones. Lots of books and meals at home. Lots of thinking, not much doing. Staring at these same four walls. But I'm ready to throw open the windows again. To get out and feel the sunshine on my skin and stay out late and forget the routine. To come out of hibernation and seek out new adventures and stretch our wings a little bit.

 

As they say, some years ask questions and some years answer.

 

And to that I say I'm all ears.

March

The days have been bleeding together for us, one after the next and into another. This dogged winter carries on and so do we. I haven't found many words to share lately and life has just been a slow and steady practice of our patience. One by one we're crossing the days off the calendar and with each triumphant X we feel like maybe we're actually getting somewhere. It's March now and that's something, I think. So we read another book, we snuggle under our covers for a little while longer. We drink more hot chocolate than we probably should and we take as many steamy baths as our little hearts desire. Because sometimes that's all you can do. Wait. Wait until your fingers are wrinkled and the water grows cold. 

In Response to Mrs. Hall

I'm sure many of you have seen the recent blog post being shared all over facebook and twitter from a mother of teenage boys addressed to teenage girls. The post is here and reading it will give context to this post if you haven't seen it already. The people sharing this in my feeds (and there have been MANY) are all women, most mothers, and some even mothers to teenage girls. The people sharing this post are my friends and acquaintances and I know and like them all. These people have good hearts and I don't doubt for a second that they only want what's best for their families. However, I wonder what message a post like this is really sending.

The gist of the post is that the author, Mrs. Hall, disapproves of the female friends her boys have on facebook posting sexy photos of themselves. She writes that her family often sits around the dining room table perusing her sons social media feeds and blocking any girl who posts anything she deems too provocative or unworthy of her sons attention.

Look, I get it. It's got to be uncomfortable being a parent to a teenager and knowing they're having all these new thoughts and feelings as those hormones start coursing through their brand new maturing bodies. I wouldn't necessarily like knowing my kid was looking at (and probably enjoying) that sexy selfie taken by the girl from his chemistry class. It's just weird and awkward as a parent, right? But is deleting the girl from their list of facebook friends really the answer? Do we even need an answer? Is there even a problem other than our own parental discomfort with watching our babies grow up and find their sexuality?

You won't find me posing bra-less with an extra-arched back taking duck faced pictures in the bathroom mirror anytime in the future. But I'd like to think I'm not so far removed from that age that I don't remember a time when that would have been appealing. These young teens are new to these bodies of theirs. They're trying to figure out what to do with these new boobs and hips and long legs. It's all a part of growing up. I may not like it if my teenage daughter were to take a picture of herself in her "scantily clad pjs" but I can still understand why she might want to. This is a right of passage. This wanting attention from the opposite sex, this wanting to be noticed. It's nothing new and it's perfectly normal.

And if this is how we treat our girls, why do our boys not get this same treatment? Why did Mrs. Hall find it perfectly acceptable to write an entire scathing post about underdressed girls vying for the attention of innocent boys illustrated with pictures of her own teenage boys, shirtless, soaking wet and doing muscle poses in their bathing suits? No really, those were originally the pictures she had in the post. I can't even make this stuff up. She has since switched them out with fully clothed versions instead. But the hypocrisy remains. How is it any worse for a girl to stick out her boobs and do a "red carpet pose" than it is for her own sons to flex their muscles and pose for the camera half dressed? Why are adults so afraid that these evil dominatrix 14 year old vixens will spoil the perfectly proper and innocent minds of their 14 year old male counterparts?  Let's get real here, they're all the same, they're all doing the same exact things. Boy or girl, they're just teenagers trying to be noticed and trying to show off their new adult bodies. They're proud of them, and why shouldn't they be? What's so wrong with embracing our bodies? Why are we always trying to shame our girls? Hey you, 14 year old girls... your boobs are perfect. Good for you! (If anything I'm just jealous.)

So if teenagers are all the same then why are the girls always to blame? How about each person is responsible for their own morality, and how about trusting your sons just a little and not policing every piece of media they will ever encounter? Do you think blocking these girls from their facebook feeds will block them from their lives? They'll still be in chemistry class monday morning, Mrs. Hall. They will still all be proud owners of their brand new adult bodies so let's start treating them like adults even just a little. Let's teach our sons that girls may dress however they want to dress  and it is not up to the girls to dress and act and look however the boys need them to dress and act and look so they won't be viewed in a sexual way. And  sons, even if you have to look at a million pictures of your scantily clad peers you are still expected to treat each and every one of them like a person. Do you think you can do that? I believe in you! And I think you shouldn't blame your thoughts and feelings and behaviors on anyone but yourself.

Instead of keeping our boys from seeing anything that they can't "easily un-see" let's let them face those challenges and help them navigate this rocky teenage period of self discovery with compassion and understanding. Let them learn from these challenges and let these experiences form them into mature, respectful men. Keeping them away from photos and posts is just babysitting their morality for them. Let them stand up and own it. Let them be responsible and be expected to act with integrity no matter what situation they are in. Stop babying them. Stop being so afraid. Teenage sexuality is not inherently evil, so please let's not make it out to be.

Two other links I love that relate...

slut shaming

a letter to a daughter from her father

On Being A Feminist

A friend posted a link on my facebook feed yesterday (thanks, Meryl!) to an article about a student run feminist society at an all girls school in the UK. The link is here and I really think everyone needs to read it. Besides being appalling and disgusting the article was most of all, heartbreaking. But at the same time I was so proud of those brave girls for standing up for themselves and having the courage to proudly claim their feminism in the face of such ugly backlash. Articles like that and this one and this one run across my facebook or twitter feed every single day in passing, like it's no big deal.

What the hell, you guys? Is this not 2013? Are we not better than this, still? After all these years? This is a big deal, it's a really big fucking deal.

Why are more people not stepping up and saying quite matter-of-factly that this is simply unacceptable?  How do you mothers and fathers of daughters face the challenge of raising women in an environment that is still so overtly sexist?

This topic has been simmering in my (admittedly overflowing) pot of worries ever since the Steubenville rape case and after yesterday's article it finally reached a boiling point. The Steubenville case was as sickening and awful as all rape cases are, but the most disturbing part to me was the complete nonchalance the boys showed regarding their actions. Freely tweeting pictures of their victim and boastful, joking texts about what they'd done because they DIDN'T THINK THEY HAD DONE ANYTHING WRONG. It apparently never crossed their minds that what they saw as a night of partying and hilarious jokes could possibly be an actual crime. And that, my friends, is what horrifies me.

I sympathize for you parents of daughters out there, I really do. But me? I have sons. And after all of this I fear I may have the bigger task after all. How do you raise conscious, empathetic, respectful young men? How do I make sure they don't become the next Trent Mays or Ma'lik Richmond? How do I make sure they know right from wrong and that "NO" means "NO" not "do whatever the fuck you want to do anyways"? (And seriously, if the person is unconscious, it's a "NO" by default, ok?)

I don't have the answers yet, I hope I find them. I do know my boys have good examples in their father and grandfathers. I do know I plan on having very candid, yet apparently necessary conversations with them about women and sexual boundaries. I know keeping an open dialogue and using examples like these to teach them right from wrong should help guide them as they form their own values.

Today I am starting by standing up and proudly stating, I AM A FEMINIST.

And I need feminism because I am raising sons and I want them to be feminists too.

Let's Talk About Hormones

Shall we?

Because, I'm sick of thinking about work and buying and selling houses and Josh is sick with the flu and the boys are in bed and so why not? I mean, I'm just sitting here alone in my pj's with a pint of Ben & Jerry's half baked when I should be sleeping, so I might as well, all things considered.

To begin, I think it's safe to say Oren is officially weaned. We stopped nursing on the 1st of this month and haven't looked back since. One week later, bam! Everything is back in working order. The human body is an amazing thing, I must say. But this also means I'm back to my old, pathetic, emotional, cry at EVERYTHING self. Allow me to illustrate:

Exhibit A. This post made me weep. Not just cry, WEEP. I'm telling you what. I haven't sobbed that hard since I read the Joy Luck Club. (omg the part where she has to abandon her babies on the side of the road because she's too sick to go on? Forget about it. FORGET. ABOUT. IT. I'm still traumatized.)

Exhibit B. Abby and I were discussing my instagram feed (as you do) and we realized about 90% of the people I follow I do so solely for the purpose of oogling their cute babies. That's pretty much all my instagram has become useful for. If one considers an on demand supply of random stranger-baby photos useful, that is. (p.s. If you're not following Amelia's blog and/or instagram feed you are missing out on literally, and I do mean literally, because I've checked, THE cutest baby in the world. And I'm allowed to say that because I don't have any babies any more (wahhhh!) But, oh that Ralphie, he's a dreamboat!)

Exhibit C. I bought some baby girl shoes off the internet. No, seriously. And I know what you're thinking, because then it would make sense (!) but I'm not pregnant, nor will I be anytime soon. I think with all the house stuff going on if I were to become pregnant Josh might actually have an aneurism. I'd give it a good 80% chance of happening and since I love my husband dearly, no. No plans for that anytime in the near future. But, in my defense, these shoes were ones I first saw made by a blogger/shoe designer I follow as a cool little design challenge she did for her blog. They were never meant to be for sale but I loved how they looked so much that I even emailed her and suggested she sell them. Well, apparently so did a lot of other people (they're that good!) and now, over a year later, they suddenly popped up in her shop and were 25% off! How could I resist? I don't know if I'll have another baby someday, particularly a girl for that matter, but I had to get them juuuuust in case. Besides, I would like to let it be known that this is also a bribe I'm throwing out there to all of our brothers and sisters so that they know that whichever one of them has the first baby girl in the family and finally makes me an aunt gets the shoes if I'm not using them. Let the races begin! Anyway, yeah, I'm now the proud(?) owner of a pair of size 4 toddler girl shoes. And that's where my hormones have taken me this month, folks!

No wait, actually this where they've taken me.

but, I mean, pretty cute though, right?

On his four and a half year birthday

Today he's officially a half. Which means tomorrow he will be closer to five than he is to four. Which really, can't possibly be true, can it? I've been all kinds of heartsick over this boy of mine lately. The pictures from my last post have me missing that roly poly baby he once was with his bulldog cheeks and those rubber band wrists. And it's strange, you know, missing someone who's sitting right next to you. But that's how it feels with these kids, man. They're one person one minute and you fall head over heels in love and then the next thing you know they're walking and talking and someone completely new. And then I wonder, what will I miss about this Wes a few years from now? With all this pining for the past I sometimes forget that this Wes, this four and a half year old Wes, is only temporary too. And this Wes is completely, positively marvelous. This Wes asks me to snuggle him to sleep every, single night. And so we lay on his pillow face to face in his tiny twin bed where I scratch his back and guide him safely to his dreams. But most nights, after his breathing slows to heavy sighs and I think he's finally asleep I will try to inch my way out of the bed. To which he cracks open an eyelid, throws an arm over me and and lets me know it's not quite time yet. And so I stay.

This four and a half year old Wes is a running, talking, non-stop eating ball of energy. But he's also sweet and sensitive and thoughtful, and funny too. He's my listener, my nurturer, my rule follower and the most darling big brother I have ever known. The other day we were all upstairs, folding laundry and doing miscellaneous chores when I noticed Oren had gone missing (as he does). Wes told me, "I'll go check on him!" and raced downstairs to find him. A minute later he called up, "Mom, you better come see this. Oren's standing on the toilet with a box of tissues and it doesn't look good."

This is what I'm talking about. The kid kills me.

This Wes, who loves knights and dragons, star wars and adventure time and C-A-N-D-Y more than anything else. This Wes who will still be just as content with a pile of books as he is with an ipad. This Wes with the big imagination and big ideas and even bigger heart? Yeah, this Wes is pretty, darn great. And I'm going to miss him someday.



An old favorite post about Wes, here and a post on two and half year old Wes, here.

oh, and also, this. Just for funsies ;)

Sandy Hook, Kindness and New Years Resolutions

I haven’t been writing since the Sandy Hook shootings because I haven’t known what to say. I haven’t had the words and there are so many others that can say it better than me. I can write that I’m scared and angry and heartsick, but I don’t think any of those words are enough to describe the way this has made me feel.  

I haven’t written because, what is there to say? Those babies are gone and those families are hurting and nothing I say or do is going to change that. I keep imagining the scene, imagining what it would be like if that were my baby. How those parents must feel. I can’t even. I can’t  even imagine it. As much as I’d like to forget the whole thing, erase it from my mind and not know it anymore I simply can not. I’ve just been allowing myself to feel it. To marinate in the sadness and grief and fear. It’s the least I can do for those families. Their babies will not be forgotten.

I haven’t written because there’s nothing I can offer to make it better or make it go away. It’s here and it’s real and am I even really writing this? HOW IS THIS REAL, GODDAMMIT?

But then yesterday I was reading a post by Elizabeth and she referenced the #26acts of kindness initiated by Ann Curry. I hadn’t heard about this until yesterday but it’s beautiful and brilliant and finally here is something I can do…

To participate you pledge to do 26 acts of kindness in memory of each victim in Sandy Hook Elementary. Some people started it by doing 20 - one for each of the kids, then some upped it to 26 for each child and adult in the school. Some have even pledged 28 to include the shooter and his mother. I am pledging 28, because if this is about kindness, let us truly start with kindness and an open heart.

People have been tweeting and instagramming their acts of kindness with the hashtag #26acts (or 20 or 28) and not because they are trying to gloat or show off, but to fan the flame of this warm, wonderful fire. It’s meant to light a spark of kindness and encourage it to grow and spread in to a full on movement. Now that is something I can get behind. That is something I can do.

And so I’m pledging 28 acts of kindness, in fact I’ve already done my first one. One of the other Pre-K moms has been collecting money to get gift cards for Wes’s teacher and her teaching aid for christmas. I figured I’d send in a twenty dollar bill, ten dollars toward each one and call it a day. That’s what I was planning on doing before Sandy Hook. And so I did, I still sent in my envelope with twenty dollars in it. But I also sent in a pretty wrapped gift that Wes picked out especially for his teacher with a card and another fifty dollar bill inside and thanked her for doing such an important job.

I’ve seen some people tweeting that it shouldn’t take a tragedy for people to do kind things, and they’re right. It shouldn’t, it should  just be how we are. And that’s what I’m going to be working on. My new year’s resolution this year is to be more kind. To do my 28 acts of kindness and then to just keep going, to make it a way of life. That is something I can do.

And so, I’m encouraging all of you to join me, to pledge 20, 26, 28 acts, whatever you can do, because if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that this world needs more kindness and a lot more love.  So be kind, be generous with your time, your money, your compliments. Go that little extra step to make someone one’s day or maybe just make them smile. Because that is something we all can do.

 

(If you pledge, tweet your act or instagram a picture and @ me so I can see! @_iamemme)  

It's not all rainbows and sunshine

Sometimes it can be really hard. The days can be long and brutal and really, really hard. Too much exhaustion, too little patience. Too many needs, too few hands or hours in the day. The state of being constantly on call. The hat you never get to take off. And I wouldn’t want to, not really. The reward reaped absolutely eclipses the struggle on most days. Most days I feel like  I’ve risen to the occasion and earned my title. But some days, some days I just fail.   

Oren has two cavities. Well, he did have two cavities. They’re filled now. But did you know that frequent nursing can lead to cavities in babies? I didn’t. I knew you shouldn’t put them to bed with a bottle – we never have. I don’t even nurse him to sleep and he’s been night weaned for months. I knew letting milk sit on their teeth while they sleep was bad news and I’ve always avoided that. He doesn’t take a pacifier and we’ve been brushing his teeth twice a day since his first little one popped through. And yet,  he still has two cavities. I did not know that just nursing him on demand (which for Oren is very, very frequently still) throughout the day was so bad for his teeth. I had no idea.  His pediatric dentist (which, bless his heart for doing that job by the way) said it’s as bad as letting him sip on juice all day. Which he doesn’t get either…for this very reason.  Milk or water.  Those have been his only choices. Ever.  But even so, I still had to drag him kicking and screaming in to that dentist chair because I let his teeth start to decay. I still had to hold him down while they drilled and filled his cavities as he cried and shook and gagged and could not understand why on earth we were doing this to him. That day I failed.

Yesterday I failed too. He’s been needy and whiny and crying and fighting a cold for days. Yesterday I couldn’t stand to hear him say “mama” one more time.  I was literally at the end of my rope. We both spent the afternoon crying. We both only slept 2 hours last night.  I spent the whole day and night angry and frustrated with him. Today I am angry and frustrated at myself for not having more patience and compassion. For resenting that he needed me so much. And that’s not even me. I hate that I felt that way, I am ashamed.

I know we all do this, at one point or another, right?... Right?! I know no parent is perfect and we all make mistakes. But we also don’t always talk about the hard parts. The stumbles and falls and failures. Because those are important too. Those are the parts that really test you and teach you and ultimately make you a better parent, a better person. So here I am. I am telling you that it is not perfect. I am not perfect. Life is not perfect. But I am learning and growing and humbled every day to get to do this job and have those two little ones in my life. Some time s you just need to say it out loud to really hear yourself.

What to do when you live in Ohio on election night

 

step #1. VOTE!

 

 

step #2. order swensons and stress eat while waiting for the polls to close

 

 

step #3. watch election coverage obsessively even though

nothing of consequence will be reported for hours still

 

 

step #4. distract yourself with the apple product of your choice

 

 

(you might need to remove your pants for step #4)

 

 

step #5. take an election night photo with wes for posterity

 

 

step #6. celebrate!

 

step #7. be incredibly grateful that you've been given the priviledge to live your life and raise your family in this beautiful place we call america. a place where the things you care about most; women's rights, the environment, marriage equality and the basic belief that food, housing, healthcare and education should be regarded as fundamental human rights have won out over big money and corporate greed no matter how impossible it seemed that mountain would be to climb. be proud that the values the people of this country hold dear have proven to be overwhelmingly those of  freedom, love, compassion and respect for our fellow citizens.

 

step #8. cry a few tears, hug your husband and fall asleep knowing your children will inherit a much better world for this.

 

*****



 

always forward. never back.

 

 

On What's In a Name

There were two defining moments for me in my pregnancies. One for Wes and one for Oren. Moments where all my silly concerns and senseless wondering and worries grew quiet and I knew, somehow in those moments I just knew with absolute certainty, that things were exactly how they were supposed to be. I could see the bigger picture of my life and the whole, complex and distant path stretched out ahead of me. I could see beyond the immediate details of my life and my current, temporary place within it. Moments of clarity where I was certain I was becoming exactly who I was supposed to be and my babies were exactly who they were meant to be. Moments where I knew life was unfolding just as it should. One piece at a time, pieces of a greater whole. And those moments both came to me with the names of my babies. It was always their names that solidified who they were for me. Who they always were, even before I'd ever even met them. Our babies were coming to us according to plan, precisely in their own perfect time. When I close my eyes I can slip right right back to those moments. Right back in to my pregant skin and there I am again, as if no time has passed at all.

*****

We moved in to our first house in the fall of 2007 and by christmas I was pregnant. The house was still in a bit of an upheaval, the soon to be baby's room still lay untouched. I remember leaning against the door frame to the nursery, surveying all the work that needed to be done. The room still painted in the colors of the little girl who once inhabited it. Touches of her everywhere I looked, her pink curtains at the windows, a stray barbie doll shoe long forgotten in a corner of the closet. I remember staring in to the room in disbelief. I remember thinking "This is going to be my baby's first bedroom. And it's going to be a boy."

The thing was, I'd never really considered a boy before. Josh and I had a girl's name we'd long loved - Iris. It was always going to be Iris. There was never anything else. But a boy? We'd never even discussed it. How could we have a boy? Who was he and and who was he supposed to be? What would we call him? What name would we be shouting through this house? What name would garner the reply of tiny footsteps running down the hall?

I remember agonizing over this. Agonizing over something that seems so silly and superficial now. But at the time nothing seemed good enough and nothing seemed right. I wanted to name him Silas, it was my favorite boy's name. But I felt certain our Iris was still out there somewhere and when she got here she might not enjoy having a name that rhymed with her brother's. I couldn't picture giving a daughter any other name and so I saved it for her. We'd have to come up with something else for a boy. I liked the name Wes, but not Wesley. I considered naming him just Wes but that was too short with our last name, it just didn't fit quite right. When I spoke it the sound of the name felt abrupt and harsh in my mouth. I drove home from work one day ruminating over this. Playing with different names and combinations. Speaking them out loud in the car. I turned on to our street, Westvale.

"Wes-tvale" I said out loud. There's that Wes again. There was something about that name. It was almost right, but what was missing?  I pulled in to the driveway and just sat there. I stared through the frosty windshield, hands still on the steering wheel, the car still running. I was so close, I felt like it was on the tip of my tongue. "Wes" I said out loud. "Wes Booth, West Booth, Weston Booth..." And there it was. Weston. It was perfect.

At the time I thought I'd made it up. I've since discovered plenty of other Westons have come before our own and even more have come after. But at that moment the name was his and only his. If he was a boy, he was going to be Weston. I felt the smile creeping over my face and I rushed inside to tell Josh. He loved it too. If this baby was a boy, he had a name! After that I felt such relief, such lightness and certainty that this was right. Now we were ready for him. And in August, Weston Silas Booth joined our family. "Sir Weston of Westvale" was home with us, right where he belonged.

When it came to Oren, I had no premonition about his gender. I was never totally certain one way or the other, but I thought about it constantly. I have to admit, having had a boy already, deep down inside I was secretly hoping that this time we might get our little girl. For this reason especially I decided against finding out the gender ahead of time. It's one thing to find out the gender in a doctor's office via an indiscernible black and white image on a screen. In that setting, I felt like it would be too easy to feel disappointed. Too easy to feel let down if we were told our baby was another boy. And I never wanted to feel that way about my baby. Never, ever, in a million years. But when you find out at delivery, when you welcome your new baby in to the world and see them for the first time...well, how could you ever be disappointed then? How could you ever wish your child to be anything other than that perfect little person in your arms right at that moment? So, I went the surprise route again, just in case.

Late in the pregnancy, I was driving again, alone in the car on an empty stretch of highway with thoughts of the baby clouding my head. I was playing the guessing game on the gender again and thinking what it would be like to have a little Iris in our lives. Thinking about how this could be my last ever pregnancy and what life would be like with two kids. One girl and one boy. The more I thought about it, I started to feel a panic rising in my chest. With one of each, why would you ever need a third? What would even justify it with how much work and expense children can be?
But at that moment I was sure I wanted a third. I thought about the boy's name we had picked out - Oren Henry Booth. I thought about how much I loved it and how I would feel if I never got to use it.

Suddenly, all my thoughts and hopes and wishes for a girl turned in to, "Not yet, please not yet. Not this time." I had to have my Oren, and if this baby was another boy there would be reason to try for a third. I wasn't done having babies, I just couldn't be done already. If this baby was a boy I could have my Oren and hopefully an Iris too some day. And that's when I knew, that was what was supposed to happen. I felt it in my bones. So that's what I hoped for every day after that, my Oren now and a someday Iris. I guess I'm still hoping for that.

*****

Yesterday, we were sitting around the dining room table with Josh's sisters and the boys. We were eating dinner and Josh was talking about cameras and showing everyone his new lens. I was looking at Oren, cutting up his food and not paying much attention to the conversation around me when I heard Josh say "iris." He was talking about his lens of course, but hearing that word, that name, it felt like one of those moments where it means so much more. Just like the moments before with each of the boys.

We've been debating the question of a third child for some time now. I wrote about it here once before and it's a frequent topic of conversation between Josh and I. It creeps in to my thoughts just about every day - gnawing indecision that I can't seem to get a handle on. The thing is, there are a million reasons to stop at two and just be done. And there's really only one reason to try again - because I want to. Maybe all of this is foolish to write about and maybe none of it really means anything at all. Maybe I'm making too much out of the whole thing and I'm only hearing what I want to hear. Maybe we will decide to take the plunge and maybe we'll end up with three boys, and that would be okay too. Another baby, any baby, would be a dream come true. Or maybe in the end we will stop at two and I can just be happy with what I have.

But what if she is out there? Why do I feel like she is? How much do you trust those feelings, those moments, to dictate your entire future? Do you follow your head or follow your heart? I don't have the answer. I don't know when I will. But this is where I am.

Thank you, Natalie

one of my fave bloggers dropped this little gem on me today. and you know, what? it was exactly what i've needed to hear lately.



how often do we despair unnecessarily? if we could only see the mere inches that stand between us and our goals, do you think we'd try even harder to get there? or just better enjoy the journey?



so thank you, natalie.

new goal: relax. stop worrying about the future and all of the what ifs. life's pretty good right now.

enjoy it.

Enough

Have you guys seen this picture? It's hard to believe you haven't. It's all over the blogging world, call in radio is having a field day, and it's clogging my facebook feed. As much as I've tried to avoid it altogether, it seems pretty much impossible.

My problem with it?

Not the picture. And not the story on attachment parenting. My problem is the sensationalization of the whole topic which seems to be doing nothing more than pitting moms against moms. The title alone, "Are You Mom Enough?" suggests that if you're not attachment parenting you're somehow not as good or dedicated as other mothers who are.

Ahhh, just in time for mother's day. How nice.

This whole article is just a ploy to sell magazines. To stir up controversy and to make moms on both sides of this issue get defensive. And their use of modelesque mothers shown breastfeeding their kids in these awkward and unnatural poses does nothing but sexualize something that is not in the least bit sexual or unnatural.

...aaaaaand here comes the drama. Just what they wanted.

Look, attachment parenting is fine. Those moms are good moms. There's a whole lot worse going on in the world to get stirred up over than extended breastfeeding. You know what else? Moms that don't practice attachment parenting are good moms too. And those that formula feed. And those that just breastfeed for a month, or a year. What I'm trying to say is, as long as you're feeding your kid one way or another - you're doing your job. And kudos to you, because this parenting thing is by far the toughest job you could hope for. Can't we just agree that we're all good moms? We're all trying our hardest to get what is impossible, right. We're all doing what works for us and our individual family's needs. Let's not get caught up in some competition to prove who is doing it best. Our way is not the only way.

Goddamn, being a mom is hard enough. Everyday we wade through these uncharted waters, trying to keep our heads above water, trying to find our way. Sometimes just trying not to drown. Everyday, we're learning and changing and evolving as mothers. Whether you breastfeed or formula feed, work or stay home or something in between. We all love our kids more than anything in the world. We should hold each other up, support one another. When will we figure out that we're all on the same side? Because it's sink or swim out there and hard as it is, we're all still swimming.

Happy mother's day.

You are trying your best.

You are doing a good job.