Remembering Dr. Maya Angelou, Mom-spiration

Not enough can be said about Dr. Maya Angelou and the impact she had upon the world and particularly this country in her 86 years of living.  She led a rich, full life and was an activist, actor, singer, dancer, writer, speaker, poet, teacher. ..the list goes on and on.  She was also a mom.  A mom who once wrote that "[t]he birth of my son caused me to develop enough courage to invent my life" (Letter to My Daughter).  It's pretty safe to say that Dr. Angelou was never fated to live an ordinary life, and by the time she was 42, she had already been an activist with the Civil Rights movement (working with both Malcolm X and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.), traveled the world as an actor, worked in foreign countries, raised a son who was then a man who was 25 years old, and led a very full life.  What she had not yet done was publish I Know Why the Cage Bird Sings, the work she is now most famous for.  Had she not published that book and the many she would go on to publish afterwards and taken full advantage of the opportunities that arose from them, it is likely that while she would have been a rich person in history and a colorful friend/mentor to those lucky enough to be around her, she would not be the iconic voice of wisdom that she became and that we lost last week.  It is awe-inspiring to me that much of her success was due, she believed, to her experience of raising her son, Guy.

Much is made of the way motherhood takes us "away" from who we are and what we want to accomplish.  We do "sacrifice" a lot, particularly to the early years of parenting, however, there is also inspiration and motivation and reinvention inherent in being a mother that was, perhaps, too emphasized in the past and not mentioned enough now.  Now that we know how many years we were fated to have Dr. Angelou, I suppose it is only natural to wonder how much better off we all might have been if we could have had those first 42 years she spent with a semi-private life (I mean, how private can I really call the life of a performer and dedicated humanitarian and civil rights activist?).  However, much of those years were spent experiencing what would become the material for her writing and her life's work. She was raising her son into manhood, and she was also raising herself beyond the limitations she never knew she had placed on herself before learning who she really wanted and deserved to be (and also who Guy deserved her to be).

I wonder if, during those years, she felt many of the frustrations I feel as a mother of young children.  How many books did she compose in her head only to lack the time to write them down?  How much of her wise counsel to the world was lost in  a world of scraped knees, stomachaches, and sleepless nights?  I can't even seem to get my weekly blog done on time, not from lack of ideas, but from lack of opportunity to get my ideas down.  Entire novels have been born, flourished, and died from lack of time (and increasingly) lack of talent.  My fiction skills are rusty from lack of use.  The metaphorical number two pencil in my brain has a cracking, dried eraser and a broken tip.   I am not comparing myself to Dr. Angelou who clearly surpasses me in all things, but I am drawing a parallel between the life a woman leads while parenting young children and the life she can lead once her children are grown.  I don't think Dr. Angelou would disagree with me as she writes in one of her autobiographies, it was only after her son grew up and said to her, "I love you, Mom.  Maybe now you'll have a chance to grow up" (The Heart of a Woman) that she felt released to really focus solely who she wanted to be and what she wanted to accomplish (much of which was for the benefit of us all).

The truth is that Dr. Angelou might have been able to be more productive (incredible thought!  a woman who was so productive could have produced even more!) had she never been a mother, but who she was and what she had to say might not have been as wise.  She let being a mother not only define her, but also refine her into the woman we would all grow to love after she was in her forties.  I am no Dr. Angelou, but I am inspired by her.  I know there are women out there who do it all and I am inspired by them, too, but I'll bet if I talked to those who I think are "doing it all," I will learn that they feel that they are not doing everything as well as they would like, either.  I do not know how much time I will have on this earth and if I had to make a choice between raising my young sons or honing my skills into be a great writer, I will choose my sons because the experiences I am having raising them and learning from them are making me a better person and (I hope) making them better people, too.  However, it is my hope that I am not choosing one over the other, but rather choosing one first and then the other.  I am taking the chance that while my skills may be getting rusty that I am keeping as sharp as I can with the writing I do manage to accomplish (as flawed and rife with embarrassing typos such as it is) and, more importantly, I am using my experience as a mother to grow as a human being and to develop a wiser, kinder, and sharper mind.  God willing, I, too, will have a second act in me and I will get all of the cobwebs and dust out of my mind and begin to write again perhaps better than I ever did before because of all my sons and family have given me to experience.  Not all of us can be a Dr. Angelou, but all of us can learn and be inspired by her and the way she used motherhood to inspire her to be a better person.

Rest in peace, Dr. Angelou.  You were a mother, friend, and teacher to us all.
Thanks for reading,
Shawna

Parenting: The Ultimate Destruction of Perfection

I had 38 weeks of almost perfect mothering.  I didn't scream, yell, or scar my child in any way.  I may not have eaten has healthy as I should have, but other than that I was golden.  I remember thinking about that.  I remember savoring what it felt like to be a perfect mother with a spotless record, knowing it was all going to end because my water had just broken the night before.  The next day, I gave birth and I immediately started making mistakes.  This is what being a parent is really about: giving up any chance of perfection.

As a child, adolescent, and even young adult, I was a bit of a perfectionist.  I only did what I was really good at and if I wasn't fairly sure I wouldn't be pretty good at it, I didn't do it at all. Sometimes, it held me back.  There were things I wanted to learn, but I *knew* that I wouldn't be great at them, so I was too embarrassed to try them too often.  I used to watch the food network and Top Chef and I desperately wanted to learn how to cook, but really cooking stressed me out so I stuck to very simple meals and became very edgy and grumpy when I did try to stretch myself.  If it didn't turn out like the recipe, I panicked and felt incredibly embarrassed.  I only cooked things for people I knew I could cook reasonably well, and when in doubt, I'd suggest we go out or order in.  In college, I majored in something I loved, but also that I knew I could succeed in.  Partly it was because of my passion, partly it was because of my fear of failure.  Before anyone ever came over, I cleaned feverishly.  I agonized over what I would say when I met people or what we would talk about when we spent time together.  (Actually, that was a waste of time because I always felt afterward that I had said all the wrong things, anyway.)  I always wanted a clean slate and to do things right.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that motherhood is the antithesis of all that.  With children, you learn quickly that no one can ever be "on" 24 hours a day.  There is no planning what you can and will say for every situation because children are completely unpredictable.  You can mess up horribly, horrifically, in ways that are sure to lead your children into years of therapy, but you can't even allow yourself an hour to obsess about it because they still need you to take care of them moments later and there is no escaping the mess you just made.  You have to face it and move on, immediately.  Everyday, I feel like I live a thousand books or movies on parenting and about half are tales of triumph and the other half are cautionary tales like "Mother Dearest."  My first year as a mother was demoralizing because I had to let go of any idea that I ever would be "great" or "perfect" again.  Even in my physical body!  I have never had a very attractive appearance ("okay" would probably be my highest rating) and, honestly, I probably have a better chance of getting in shape now than I ever did in the past, but there were features I liked about myself back then, my hair among them and wouldn't you know as soon as I had my first baby, I found I immediately had some gray hair!  And saying/doing the right thing all the time and trying to be the "perfect" mother?  Forget it, I could barely function at all on the ten minutes of sleep it seemed like I was getting at night.  I was so sleep deprived by the time I reached the six month mark that I lost my ability to make short term memories.  People came to visit and we went places with them and less than a year later, I DIDN'T REMEMBER anything about the visit because I had not been able to form any memories I was so sleep deprived.  My quest for perfection had to end and the world actually got a little better when it did.

For one thing, I can cook now.  After having to change my diet dramatically to nurse both of my sons, and having to juggle multiple food allergy issues, I had no choice but to cook.  My meals aren't always glamorous or perfect the first time out, but they have gotten better and, after working through what was a surprisingly short period of mistakes and unimpressive entrees, they have become not only healthier, but actually quite good.  I'll never be a chef-testant, but I am probably a better cook than a great many people out there and my food (even with all its food allergy restrictions) tastes a lot better than what I was eating before.  For another thing, even though I probably mess up more on a lot more important things, I'm much better at letting things go and starting over.  Are there days when I miss those fantastic 38 weeks of mothering perfection?  Sure.  I was an excellent mother before I had kids, full of patience, wisdom, tolerance, and creativity.  But like all perfect things, it wasn't real.  It wasn't tangible.  I could think about it and plan for it, but I couldn't snuggle up with it and kiss away tears with it like I can real motherhood.  So, as much as I might romanticize making a new start to parenting and doing it better this time, I know in my heart that I've done the best I can with who I am every step of the way and that has involved some pretty stomach wrenching mistakes and some serendipitous triumphs.  Everyday, I learn a little better how to embrace them both and lessen the former while enjoying the latter.

I used to dream of accomplishing great things and leaving a legacy that could stand for years.  I was obsessed about it.  Motherhood has taught me to accomplish small things with great love.  My new goal is to try to create ripples of kindness that can echo throughout the lives of my children (and if I'm lucky) their children and maybe their children's children.  Even if no one remembers my name anymore, I hope that I can pour enough imperfect kindness and love into my children so that they will feel empowered to pour their own imperfect kindness and love into the world.

Now, I'm off to make a few hundred more mistakes today. . . and if I'm lucky, a few hundred and one more miraculously good moments.

Thanks for reading,
Shawna

the gifting dilemna

We love holidays in my household. Any excuse to get together with family for great food, celebrating, and together time is fine by us. Our favorites are Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, all for their own reason. But Easter has its own charm. Its just starting to warm, and the weekend is often spend enjoying some egg hunting outside. What is not to love?

However there is one thing we struggle with a little. Presents. Specifically how to find that balance between not having the holiday be all about what our daughter is going to get, while still treating her a little. Finding the balance of enough, but not too much.

My husband is very much a gifter. He loves finding things that his family and friends will really enjoy and treating them. There is something really special, for both him and the giftee, about opening something that reflects just how well a person knows you and values you. I love that too. I love giving!

BUT I don't want my daughter's biggest associations with these holidays to be getting "stuff," and frankly, she doesn't need anything more anyway! She has plenty of toys, and our house is not large. Plus, we have lots of family that we know she will be getting things from as well. So what do we do?

Well first we reduce: get rid of this idea of quantity being important, and focus on quality. One or two main gifts that we know she's going to adore.

Second, we advise: if we know that certain friends or family will be gifting Gwen we something we will offer gentle guidance. We don't force, and we aren't offended if they buy something else, but we've found that most people who don't have 4 year olds are grateful for a little guidance!

We think beyond toys: Gwen loves getting new clothes, which most people might think would be an unappreciated gift. So we often advise people of what her current sizes are and what gaps her closet has. She loves having fun new items to pick from (superhero anything is a BIG hit right now), and we appreciate not having to break the bank clothing our ever growing girl! We've also had people take Gwen for fun activities instead of gifts, which its been proven provide longer lasting happiness thing things do!

So far we've managed to stick a good balance. Gwen has always been happy and appreciative for what is given to her, without it being the main focus. I hope we can keep this going for all the years to come.


What is your happy medium with gift giving?

Broken Toe Mothering: How an Unfortunate Accident was Actually Good Fortune in Disguise

I remember the moment like it was yesterday even though it was three weeks ago.  I was rushing around the house and felt completely overwhelmed.  Both boys were crying.  Everywhere I looked was covered with things I needed to put away or clean.  I had dishes to do, a meal to cook, the floor to clean, bathrooms to scrub, a diaper to change, and I was fairly certain my four year old and I had not done a single educational thing together all day.  I felt like screaming and I had been a bossy, grumpy, mama all afternoon.  Then, things got worse.  While vacuuming with my youngest on my back, I took a step forward just as my other son called for me and I stubbed my toe on the vacuum and broke it.  Not the vacuum.  At least one bone in my toe.  I felt the crack and the pain after you've felt it once is undeniable.  This was the last thing I needed.  It was also the exact thing he needed.

You see, I learned something the next day as movement of any kind caused agony.  My problem wasn't the number of things on my to do list or how little I was accomplishing or even that my kids needed more than I could give.  My problem was what I was expecting myself to accomplish and my way of trying to make those accomplishments.  With my toe broken and in pain, I relaxed my expectations for myself because I had to rest my foot.  Imagine my amazement when I discovered that even though I was able to do much less, everything seemed less stressful.  My eldest son, whom I'd been randomly attacking with educational ideas that he would then push away, suddenly began to come to me with educational ideas.  "Let's do puzzles, mama.  Let's do mazes.  Let's build bridges.  Let's build houses.  Let's do tangrams."  It turns out that he was dying to do fun learning activities with me, he just didn't want to do it when I was in a hurry.  Likewise, because I was spending less time running around the house attempting to clean like a mad woman and more time sitting in the living room or playroom with my children, my youngest became a lot less demanding because he had what he wanted, my attention.  Dinner still got cooked every night (although admittedly at the end of cooking more complicated meals where I am on my feet all the time, my toe is killing me).  The clothes still got washed and folded.  Chores still got done, but sometimes things had to be shifted to the next day in order to give my foot time to rest.  Surprisingly, while my house has not gotten cleaner, it hasn't gotten any messier, either.  It turns out that the more time I spend in the room with my boys, the less time they have to make ridiculously huge messes because I'm there helping them to clean as we go instead of there some of the time and then missing while I frantically clean stuff in another area of the room.

I think what I finally realized is that this is a "Broken Toe" period of mothering.  It is a time when expectations of myself, my house, and my life need to get a little more relaxed so that I can appreciate the hard work that is going on.  All mothers of young children are a little handicapped by the circumstance of being mothers of young children.  Young children cannot be independent.  The job of taking care of them is messy and time consuming and it precludes perfection (or even really good work) as a housekeeper. It is also rewarding and time sensitive.  While I will have the rest of my life to scrub dishes, floors, windows, laundry, etc.  (although hopefully in decreasing amounts as the years go on!), I only have a few years to be a mom of young children and when this season ends, it ends. Never to come again.  I can either relax my expectations of what "accomplishment" looks like right now or I can be constantly disappointed when I don't measure up, because my kids' needs are not going to lessen for awhile yet and they will always come first.  They might was well come first with me smiling and watching and (occasionally) resting and healing.  After all, it's better than if they come first because they have to demand it from me when I'm grumbling, preoccupied, and frenzied.

So, lesson learned, Universe.  Now can I please have my toe completely healed in the next week or two?

Thanks for reading,
Shawna

10 Days in the Loony Bin--or, Spring Break 2013

Ah, spring break. For NYC public school kids,  it's an unusually long one this year. Seven whole school days off.

As with any major break, I made a plan for what we were doing each day. This way we make the most of the break and we don't spend too much time idle, which starts to drive us all crazy after a while. We are in the middle of our spring break right now, except we haven't done anything on our itinerary, because my two older kids are sick, and the little one has consistent diarrhea (yum. Aren't you glad you're reading this?). No one is seriously ill, just low grade fevers and yucky cold symptoms. But it's enough to keep us quarantined for a few days.

When you're stuck inside with three sick kids, you can get tunnel vision and forget that life exists outside of what's happening right now (which for us thus far has been: fever. Barf. Sneezing. Coughing. Diarrhea. Repeat). I'm all for a little "mommy needs a cocktail" humor, but as I've found myself actually needing a cocktail the last few days, I've decided that I need to change my outlook and my attitude. And I've realized there are many reasons that I'm grateful to be stuck inside with my sick kiddos.

For one, we are getting to spend an inordinate amount of time together. There are tough moments throughout the day, but I genuinely miss my two older kids when they're in school, and it's been so nice to have them at home. They're funny, smart, and endearing, and the days are never dull when they're around. The wonderful way they play together makes up for the amount of fights I have to break up between them. I love hearing them play on their own, too--just yesterday there was about an hour where they were each completely engrossed on their own made up worlds, playing separate imaginative games.

It's also been great not having to run around anywhere. None of our regular classes are running because of the break anyway, but we had social engagements scheduled that would have definitely necessitated that we be up and out the door at a certain time. We have an incredible amount of activities during the school week. In my quest to enrich my children's lives, I run the risk of doing too much. Sometimes it seems as if we never stop running. Much as we love our friends and activities, it's been a relief not having to *be* anywhere but here this week.

The baby has diarrhea, yes--but at least she's still safely in the land of diapers, which means that I don't have to do much except change her. OK, I have to change her three times an hour, but the other plus is that since she's in cloth diapers, all I have to do is wash them--no running to the store for more disposables. Bonus!

When life gives us lemons, we make crafts. We have a whole host of crafting activities that we've been saving for a rainy day, and now we have a week of rainy days! Both the older kids adore crafts and they're always so proud of their creations.

Since I don't have to rush around in the morning, I've shaved my legs twice this week! Yes--my legs do not resemble those of a grizzly bear's. You may not care, but I assure you my husband does. (The older kids watched a show this morning and V hung in the bathroom with me while I showered. Judge me, I don't care. My legs are smooth).

Being home, I've had a chance to do some self-evaluation. The last few months have been a challenge, and admittedly, I haven't been handling the adversity well (see cocktail comment above). I've had plenty of time to think and regroup. Things aren't going to get easier. I just have to adjust my expectations, my reactions and parent my children with love, respect, and remain connected to them, even when things are running amok. I'm grateful to have had the restful time I've needed to make those realizations. There's still a whole week of the break left. I'm still in good health, and will hopefully remain that way--though now that I've pointed it out, I will probably get the plague tomorrow.

If I don't, however, this means that we have plenty of time to get out of the house, see our friends, and go to the park. And when the crazy hustle and bustle starts again next week, I know I will miss these few days when we just hung around and did nothing.

Because sometimes, we need to do just that.

On Letting Go

I’ve just registered my second child, my lovely little girl, to start pre-K in September. When she goes, our entire world will change, much as it did when my son, now in first grade, went off to school. Though we have (many) challenging periods, I often find myself on the verge of tears at the thought of my babies growing up, and so quickly.

I sometimes struggle to remember my son’s infant days. From the moment I saw him everything about my life was different, and I am a better human being as a result. But sadly, even before he was born, I had already begun letting go. It started with my pregnancy, which I gave over to tests and results and being poked and prodded by strangers with cold hands. It continued with my labor and delivery, which I gave over to lawsuit-fearing doctors and students, and pitocin and magnesium.

I spent my son's whole first year in this state of letting go. I have difficulty explaining it, but everything I did, from formula feeding to using swings and jumperoos to the car seat cradle my son spent an inordinate amount of time in, served to take me further and further away from my baby.

So many times I have wondered, now as a breastfeeding, baby wearing and attached parent, how much easier my son's first year would have been for both of us had I just breastfed him, or worn him, or read his cues a little bit better. So many times nursing calmed my daughter and I remembered being in similar situations with my son, where no amount of holding or rocking or binky or anything helped him the way nursing would have. So many times I have wondered how many painful, raw diaper rashes we could have avoided with my son if only we had cloth diapered him.

Now that my children are growing, I really understand how short this period of time is, how little precious time we get to truly be with our children. And so much is becoming clear. I always had such a hard time reconciling my feelings for my son with what I was actually doing. The need to attach was always present in me, but I didn't listen to it. I took the mainstream advice, the road everyone I knew at the time was taking, and it did not serve us well.

There's a small amount of time that we have as parents to start things off the better way, and give our babies the tools to deal with life and its ups and downs, with grace, humility, and love. I do my best to give my children those tools, as we all do—but I wish I had more time to make up for what I lost during my son's first year. I wonder if any of the battles we are having now would be different if that first year would have been different.

I’ve had no choice but to move on. I've had to mourn the time we lost, and move on to what we can do now. I am trying to fill each day with experiences and events that I hope my kids will remember forever. And yet, no matter what I do, how many pictures I take, or how many pages I scrapbook, I feel the days go by, the time slipping through my fingers with an almost cruel finality.

Perhaps because I am feeling this loss of time, both past and present, so profoundly, I wish I could tell the newer parents, the ones that can’t wait for their kids to learn to talk, to be potty trained, to go to school—all exciting and wonderful milestones; if only they didn’t come so quickly—how fleeting these first few years are. Should I tell them that each time that one of my children acquires a skill or learns something new, as excited as I am, my heart breaks a little? Sometimes I wish that I could magically extend my arms to reach around my son and daughter forever—so that they be protected and loved in my embrace no matter where they go. I’m trying desperately to hold on to this period of time when I am still attached to them somehow.

For me, attachment is about being close to your child. It's about teaching, about guiding, and about compassion. I’ve found that attachment doesn't have to be all or nothing. Ultimately, it’s not about how long you baby wear or breastfeed or co-sleep.

I bristle at the idea out there that in order to be an attached mom, you have to come last. Not true. I am not harried, nor have I left myself on the back burner—in fact, I take great care of myself. It took some time, but making myself a priority has been the best thing I could have done, and it allows me to be even more attached to my children and more attuned to their needs, because my needs are being met.

I also think we have to be realistic about expectations and just how joyful attachment and parenting in general are “supposed” to be. I’ve always had the most difficulty remaining attached to my children when I feel that whatever is happening in the moment is falling short of my expectations. When I let go and relax, things turn out alright for the most part.

I read Glennon Melton’s “Don’t Carpe Diem” a couple of months ago, and though a lot of it resonated with me, it also served as a reminder that I want to strive to be more positive during my day-to-day grind. In general, I want to be able to take the difficulties in stride, and recognize that most things are just a phase. I’ve talked before about my temper and the difficulties it presents for me, and I find it easiest to control myself when I keep things in perspective. I've made a point, in the last six months, to decrease outside stress and noise and focus on myself and my family, and it's made a huge difference for me.

The only thing that remains constant in life is that time always passes. My husband will eventually come home, my kids will eventually go to bed, and I will eventually get through the day, no matter what happened or how frustrated I got. As tough as things can get with small children, I don’t ever wish that we were anywhere instead of being right where we are now—together, appreciating and loving being together. Again, all that takes time, and it is the gradual realization of all these little things that helps during the bad moments.

Sure, there are unglamorous things involved—leaking nipples, boogers, butt-wiping, and the like. Honestly, for me, those things are par for the course. It makes me sad to hear moms lamenting about what important jobs they had in the corporate world before children, and the current feeling of having been reduced to nothing but a heinie-wiper. I wish we didn’t find this type of work, the work of mothering, to be so demeaning. There’s nothing demeaning or shameful about raising another human being. And well, yes, these little beings are going to need their nails clipped, their snots wiped, and you will have to get down on your hands and knees more than once to clean up the mess they’ve made on the floor.

When the day seems never ending and my frustration has reached its peak, I’ve started to give myself a pep talk. “Hug your babies and keep them close. Time is fleeting. Savor it, cherish it. Appreciate the challenges as much as the joys. This precious time will be gone before you know it.”

And then I’m off to wipe someone’s heinie.

A Year In The Making

It's that time again, where we are forced to sit down and reflect on the year. This year I reflect not only because we are entering 2011, but also because Holliday will turn 1 on January 4.

I truly cannot tell you how quickly this year has flown by for me. It seems like just yesterday I was huge and pregnant, whining about how I wish this baby would make his appearance. Bouncing on an exercise ball in attempts to lure him out. Promising him handsome gifts if he would just be done already. After an unsuccessful VBAC, a legitimate emergency c-section brought my baby, Holliday, into the world. He was big, beautiful and healthy.

Over the course of the year we have climbed mountains. We worked through postpartum depression, feelings of inadequacy, breastfeeding challenges, hospital stays away from my boys, finding our groove as a family of four, poop showers, pee baths and serious sleep issues. We made it!

Almost a year later, Holliday is a big, happy, brilliant, incredibly cute, funny, loving little boy. He has a smile that can make grown men weak in the knees. He is cuddly and affectionate. He knows how to make his older brother laugh.... and cry. He's strong willed and stubborn. He is both a mama and daddy's boy. He is particular in what he wants and likes. He is amazing. Truly amazing.

I never in a million years ever thought I would be a mom. I didn't think it was something I wanted. I was perfectly content living a care free lifestyle with my husband. Things change and people grow, thankfully. I can't imagine my life without these boys.

Hours of rocking, burping, nursing and soothing. Sniffing his fuzzy hair. Smooching his warm, chubby cheeks. Playfully biting his pudgy hands. Pinching his beefy thighs. Battles on the change table. Hearing his contagious laugh. Having him kick his wonky, sweaty, salt tasting feet up to my mouth for kisses. I have enjoyed so many incredible moments watching this little man grow. My heart swells with love and joy when I think of how lucky I am to have him. He has made me grow not only as a mother, but a person. He taught me great patience and understanding, things I desperately needed to work on. I truly believe he was sent to me for a reason. He has brought so many laughs, tears and WTH moments to our lives. I wouldn't change one thing; not one.

Thank you for the great ride, Holliday. It has been absolutely amazing. I feel privileged to watch you as you grow and blossom into an impressive little man. I love your everything.

Happy Birthday Holliday!