Unexpected Things about Parenthood

I have a great group of Mama friends, whom I met online. We're friends in "real life" too now, but since we are spread far and wide, our interactions are still mostly online. One day, one of them, a freshly born Mama asked the rest of us a great revealing question. We all know there are plenty of things that aren't exactly like we expected, or that we imagined would be one way but are a bit different, but she wanted to know about the things we didn't expect at all. So here are my top 4 things I didn't expect about parenting:

1. How hard coparenting could be.
I love my husband, he's a good man, but parenting together is so so much harder then I thought it would be. Reassuringly, this was a common one amongst my Mama friends too. Parenthood, especially the first time around, can be such a pressure cooker of emotions and expectations. As much as you try to prepare, you can know what its really going to be like until you are in the thick of it. And when you have two distinct individuals, trying to work as one to raise a third distinct individual, well its just not always easy.

2. How insanely different it is when its your own baby. 
I'm 7 years older then my brother, have been around kids/babies my whole life, I've been babysitting since I was 12, taught vacation bible school to preschoolers for multiple summers, was a mother's helper to quadruplets all through college, and was not the first of my friends to give birth. I was also dying to be a Mom, feeling it through every fiber of my being. Yet, all that experience went out the window when Gwen was born. I had the knowledge, I had tools in my arsenal that others didn't, but it is just different when it is your own. Each baby is different anyway, but add into that the biological response your body has when responding to your own child, well I was just unprepared for it.

3. That we'd still be breastfeeding at 3 years old. 
and 4. That we'd bedshare (full-time for the "fourth trimester", then part-time for a long time). 
I knew I was going to be an AP Mama, its how I was raised, and its what I felt the most pull towards. However before Gwen was born I wasn't completely comfortable with the idea of bedsharing, and it was only when Gwen proved that she had other ideas that my husband and I decided to give it a go. And while I always knew I would breastfeed, I didn't realize how strongly I would feel about fighting past the mastitis, the clogged ducts, the supply dips to make it past a year... and how much Gwen would love it, to the point of deciding to keep pumping until 2 years, and wanting her to self-wean. I guess this boils down to the idea that before I was a Mama, I thought I would be the one with the answers; once Gwen arrived I realized that we would figure this out a lot easier if I let her be my guide on a lot of things.


What things did you not expect at all before you became a parent? 

 

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.

What's Sex Got to Do With It?: Learning to Appreciate Your Baby No Matter What

Recently, I overheard a family at a restaurant being asked about the sex of their newborn baby while their beautiful (and I mean GORGEOUS, curly haired, obviously very spirited) preschooler proudly stood near by. The mother sighed and said "It's another little girl. We tried for two boys and we're stuck with two girls. What can I say? We're cursed." I know that little girl heard every word her mother said and although her mother may not have meant it literally, I couldn't help but wonder if this was the first or even the last time these sweet little girls would hear such a "joke" from someone that they have the right to believe will love and protect them the most. It also made me really examine myself and some feelings I've had during this pregnancy.

You see, before I ever got pregnant the first time, I had dreams of having a little girl. I knew what to call her. I knew the talks I wanted to have with her. I daydreamed about what life would be with her. But then I got pregnant and almost from the very beginning, I had the strong feeling I had a little boy. So strong in fact, that when I was told at 23 weeks that I was pregnant with a girl, I couldn't stop crying because I felt like someone had stolen the little boy I had bonded to away from me. For five weeks, I tried to make peace with the news that I was not having a boy, but was having a girl. Then, at another ultrasound, a different technician asked me if we knew what we were having. Wishing to know her unbiased opinion, I asked her what she thought we were having and she replied, "Well, I can't tell for sure because this baby has a foot in the way, but I think these might be testicles." My husband was shocked and dismayed to find out that we may not, in fact, "know" for sure what we were having, but I was thrilled. The little boy I had bonded with was back in the picture. A little over four months later, our son was born.

After having my son, I loved him to pieces, but a part of me still dreamed of having a little girl. I'll admit many of my dreams bear the gender stereotypes of wanting to go dress shopping, bond over sewing/cooking, and just engaging in "girl talk" as well as finally getting to visit the larger half of the baby section where all the really cute baby clothes are. (Which of course, depending on the daughter might never come true or might even come true with a boy just as well as a girl. . . a son could love sewing and shopping just as much as a daughter.) When I felt overwhelmed by motherhood and worried that maybe I couldn't handle another baby, I would look at my friend's daughters and think, but if I quit now, I would never have a daughter!

This time, when we finally got pregnant, I felt for sure I knew the sex again only to go into the ultrasound once more and be told the opposite. Once again, I felt it difficult to make peace with the new information. Because the ultrasound had been wrong before and we are likely having no new ones this pregnancy, I have not made the information public in case it is wrong again, but privately, I struggled to make peace with what might prove to be a dashed expectation. The baby I thought I knew so well early on, might not be who I thought this baby would be!

Yet, hearing that mother complaining aloud about the sex of her children, made me really think about how much sex really doesn't matter in the long run. My dreams of having a little girl pre-children were quickly surpassed by the wonderful reality of life with my son. The early "knowledge" I felt I had about this baby, should it prove wrong, would do nothing to surpass the blessing I have in having another little soul entrusted in my care no matter what sex s/he turns out to be. With so many would be mothers struggling out there to have any children, how can I or any other lucky parent really complain about getting a child of a sex we were not expecting or (in case of the mother in the restaurant) maybe didn't want initially? After all, child's personality is far more important, interesting, and compelling than just whether or not s/he is declared a boy or girl at birth. We become obsessed with finding out whether or not a child is a boy or a girl because we think that gives us a shortcut into knowing what they are going to be like growing up or as grown ups, but honestly, sex is no more indicative of who our children are than their birth weight or height proves to be. It is just one piece of the information. It would be my honor at this point to birth another boy, a girl, or even a hermaphrodite because what is most important is the soul inside and the bond that we will build together. I hope that everyone who ever wants a baby is "cursed" the way that lucky mother was "cursed" in that she dreamed of having a family and now she has one. I only hope that wherever she is, she soon learns that her two little girls are just as precious and as wonderful as her two dream sons would have been, maybe even more so because they are real, they are here, and they are more than just a box marked "female" on their birth certificates.

Thanks for reading,
Shawna

That's Life with a Toddler.

Sometimes I get things done way early. Most of my posts here at Connected Mom are queued up and ready to go not long after I post the last one. Honestly I'm a procrastinator, so I try to get it done the moment I get an idea for a post, while those creative juices are flowing... because otherwise its too easy to let anything else in life take preeminence, then suddenly its Monday at noon and I'm staring at a blinking cursor line with no words coming.

I'm a little behind right now, squeaking this one in just under the line. Life, gets in the way of the perfect plan we have. Balance is hard to come by, and when you are thrown off your game, it can take a number of good days to feel back "on."

Two and a half, almost three, year olds can get in the way of great plans too. Gwen is fun and loving, funny and silly, cute and crazy. She's also a handful, full into the stage of boundary testing, button pushing, and "I do it myself." Normal, age-appropriate, completely and utterly frustrating.


So here are some tips I've shared before, but are worth sharing again... even if only because I could use the reminder! These are what I use to try and have more of the calm days and less of the frustrated ones, to take what "gets in the way" and turn it into "what makes our day different and fun."

1) Age realistic expectations. At 33 months, she is only emotionally able to handle so much. She's still learning what appropriate reactions are and how her actions cause reactions. And you learn by trial and error. So, respond kindly, and move on.

2) Expectations that match with what I want for Gwen in the future. A friend once told me about a very trying morning with her spirited, energetic, intelligent daughter. She delivered her to daycare and asked the teacher, "How do I raise a daughter who is strong, determined, independent, comfortable with her feelings and voices her opinions, but who also listens and always does what I ask her to?!" The answer, of course, is that you don't! But a few tiffs now, as we figure all this out together, is well worth it to foster the independence and determination that will serve her so well in the future.

3) Name the emotion, for both of our sakes! When Gwen is frustrated or sad, I say as much... "I see you are frustrated/mad/upset because of xyz..." I do it to help her figure out her emotions, but I do it to remind myself of them as well. Do I love crying because she wants something she can't have? Nope. But I do know what its like to be overly tired after a long day and have something be extremely frustrating and almost too much to bare. Naming her emotion helps me put myself in her shoes.

4) Evaluate if I really need to distract/dissuade/say no. Gentle/AP parenting is not (contrary to what some media might have you believe) permissive parenting in the negative sense. But at the suggestion of a smart mama, I started looking at the why I didn't want Gwen to do certain things. Is it because of a safety reason? Then stay the course! Is it because it will be a little messy and I don't want to clean up? Hmm, there are times this is valid, but many when its not a great reason.

5) Teach respect by modeling respect. Gwen is an equal member of this family. Yes, her dad and I have the life experience, and as her parents we will ask her to defer to our judgement many a time. However she deserves our respect as fully as we deserve hers. So we listen when she talks, we say excuse me and thank you and please, and we try to give our reasons/explain our actions when we do need her to defer to us. "Because I said so," or "because I'm the mom," are not explanations, and in the long run they don't help her understand that the "no" she just heard isn't a no just for that exact moment, but is a request not to repeat a particular action.


Its so easy to get overwhelmed when life gets hectic, there are deadlines to meet, and this little person just doesn't seem to want to play independently even though they do it at this time every single other day. Or they don't want to go to sleep even though you know they are exhausted. Or...

I'm not perfect. Not by a long shot. I do get overly frustrated, slip up and yell sometimes. That can be a learning time for us both though too, because when I catch myself, I excuse myself to calm down, then come back and apologize. No one is perfect, including this Mama, and I want my girl to know that. People make mistakes, and the fact that we can apologize, hug, and still love each other afterwards, just as much as we did before, well... I think that's one of the best lessons I can give us all. Hopefully it is the one that will keep her coming to me when she makes her own mistakes.

In the meantime, I'll do my best to enjoy this toddler life. And take advantage of every free moment this crazy life allows me.

Victoria's Birth

As promised, here is the birth story of my third child, born in April of this year. 

I was 22 weeks pregnant with my third child when my midwife told me that she would be retiring effective a few weeks before my due date. “Just give me another month,” she said. “I know I can get coverage in time to be able to deliver your baby.”

I live in New York, where certified nurse midwives (CNMs) can’t attend births in hospitals without a written agreement for backup with a licensed OB/Gyn. My due date was in mid-April, and my midwife was retiring at the end of March. She was hopeful that she could get someone to agree to cover her just for my birth, even though technically she would be retired. But there was no way I was going to wait a month to see if she could get coverage, and then making it even more difficult for me to find an alternative if she couldn’t. At the time, I adored my midwife and I was so upset that I would have to switch care, especially in the middle of my pregnancy.

As it turns out, my former midwife did me a favor. Never one to sit on things, I started calling midwifery practices as soon as I left her office, going in and out of a corner Starbucks to protect myself from the drizzling rain that chilly evening. I was incredibly fortunate to get a slot with a group of midwives I had considered with my previous pregnancy, and after the orientation, I knew I had made the right decision.

Being with this group of midwives meant that I would have a chance to deliver at the ever popular, and notoriously difficult to get into, Birthing Center within St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital. It was an amazing opportunity to finally have the birth I was hoping for, and one I would not have had with my former midwife (she was attending births at another hospital).

I tend to think that location is not as important as your support system. I think if you trust your birth attendant, for the most part the location comes second, though it also matters, of course (there are always exceptions). I knew a fair amount about this group of midwives from researching their practice and as I got to know each of them, I felt a great sense of relief and trust that they would be my advocates no matter where I ended up giving birth. Now that the Birthing Center had been dangled in my face, however, I wanted in.

This is a birth story, not a midwife recommendation, but I cannot write about this experience without discussing the fantastic care I received from this group. They advocate for, and trust, women. I commented to my husband after each visit what incredible listeners each of the midwives were and how comforting their advice always was. I was never rushed, never felt disrespected or stupid for asking any question, and my concerns were always addressed. Not a hand was placed on me without asking my permission—I was treated like an intelligent adult and my opinions and instincts concerning my pregnancy mattered.

It occurs to me that all of the above should be the standard—the fact that it was a new experience for me speaks to how much in need of improvement our medical system is, in particular our maternity care.  After years of “hand on the door” treatment, after the birth of my son, which left me emotionally and physically broken, after feeling essentially dumped by my former midwife—the type of care I received this time around was honestly something I had never expected.

Getting ready for this birth had meant I had to reconcile my feelings about my last birth. Though wonderful and life changing in its own right, it was also extremely stressful. Having your water break in the car somewhere in Manhattan while your husband is cursing at pedestrians is not exactly peaceful. This time my hope was to have a natural birth, but also a peaceful one, where I could appreciate the sensations and emotions. I knew I wanted to sit on a birthing ball and labor in water for as long as possible. I had bought a birthing gown, had a relaxation CD loaded into my iPod, had plenty of snacks, a picture of my kids to use as a focal point, good smelling lotion for massages—I was ready.

As I said in my previous birth story, each of my pregnancies and births has taught me something, and this one was no different. My darling Victoria took her time coming, making my pregnancy with her the longest and testing my limits and patience (both of which are very short).  She was in position for a good two weeks, moving down and pressing on my pelvis, making me feel like she was going to drop out any minute.

I had “pre-labor” symptoms from week 35 on. Then, I had almost two weeks of prodromal labor. I woke up every night around 3 a.m. with intense back pain and pressure, and would get a few good contractions that always made me think, “This is it.” No such luck. For an impatient control freak, this was a lesson. I was on an emotional roller coaster, up and down, up and down. Excitement, then disappointment. Incredible anticipation and elation, then restlessness.

Then there was the looming clock, the silent alarm imposed on my pregnancy by the almighty powers that be at the Birthing Center. The rule was, if you go over 40 weeks, 6 days, you automatically move to the regular Labor & Delivery floor. There are obviously many opinions on this matter, and my opinion is that this was the worst rule ever.

Many could chime in and say how ridiculous and wrong it is to have this sort of rule, and I would tend to agree with that. However, I’m sure the hospital has its reasons for instituting it, and whether I agree with it or not, I knew this going in, and I knew there would be no way around it. As a midwife whose blog I follow once said, “You buy the hospital ticket, you go for the hospital ride.” One note, since I’ve named the facility, this had absolutely nothing to do with the Birthing Center itself, nor its staff, nor the environment. It was wonderful.

My hope is that talking about this aspect of my experience will not overshadow my birth or the great facility that the SLR Birthing Center is. Risk out rules and all, they provide something that for many women like me is an opportunity to have the best of both worlds—birth without intervention with medical equipment and personnel close by.

Thankfully, the word “induction” was never even uttered by my midwives, and they had no problem with the pregnancy continuing so long as both baby and I were healthy. This time limit for the Birthing Center did, however, have a profound effect on my mental state (and that is the number one reason I oppose this rule). As the days passed and I got closer and closer to the “deadline,” I started to feel depressed. Once again, not good enough for the medical establishment. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t give birth within their parameters? Why wasn’t this baby coming already?

Then I got angry. There was nothing at all wrong with me. In fact, I decided, even if I did go into labor in time, I would show them and refuse to enter the Birthing Center! Besides, I reasoned that even if I did make it in time, the Birthing Center could be full, or closed. There was no guarantee I would make it in anyway. I would choose L&D and take control of my own destiny. No one was going to tell me where to birth, damn it.

On the morning of April 16^th, at 40 weeks, 5 days, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. with the same backache, the same sporadic contractions. Here we go, I thought. Another sleepless night.

Only this time, after I had a snack and laid down on the couch around an hour later, I felt what I knew was a very real contraction.  About 15 minutes later I felt another, and then another 13 minutes after that. I woke up my husband and we timed a few together. Around 5:30 a.m. we called the midwife, and she called back with good news: the Birthing Center was open and awaiting our arrival. And of course, that’s exactly where we went.

Though I obviously was there for my births, they were all surreal, each for different reasons. With my son I was on various drugs and barely aware of what was happening. With my first daughter I had back labor and felt like I had one 45 minute continuous contraction. This time it seemed that I was actually going to get what I had hoped for, in the place I had wanted to be in for so long. I slowly got dressed, still in disbelief that it was happening. My husband picked up my mom and she stayed with our older kids. I woke my son and told him we were going to the hospital and gave my daughter a kiss as she slept.

In the car, I breathed through each contraction and chatted happily with my husband in between. Contractions were every seven minutes now. The last time we were in the car together and I was in labor, I was screaming at the top of my lungs and my husband was driving on sidewalks and running red lights.

We got to the hospital, parked the car, and up in the elevator we went. I couldn’t help but feel as if this was my first time—and in many ways it was. It was the first time I deliberately walked of my own accord into the place where I was to give birth. It was the first time I felt conscious, sane, and aware of what was happening. It was the first time that I was excited and full of anticipation, and I knew what the general progression of things was going to be.

We got to the labor floor and there was the sign, with an arrow: “Birthing Center.” Just seeing it now in my head brings tears to my eyes. We were here, we were going in, and I was going to have my baby in my arms soon. I don’t think I can adequately describe the sweet feeling of “knowing” that comes only from having this experience more than once.

We got in our room, I changed into my birthing gown (whereupon my midwife told me I looked like a goddess—bless her! I truly felt like one.), and sat for the blood test and fetal monitoring. Twenty minutes flew by, and I got on the birthing ball for a while. While I was on the ball, a woman I can describe only as the Best Nurse in Creation came in and after a pleasant chat suggested I get up and walk (contractions had spaced out just a bit). My husband and I went out to the blissfully quiet and private hall and walked. My midwives changed shifts but both ended up staying around, chatting with me about my birthing gown between contractions.

Best Nurse in Creation filled the jacuzzi tub, and then began the most awesome part of my labor. If you are reading this and considering laboring in water, consider no longer. It. Is. The. Best. I would do it a thousand times over. I labored in that tub, with my husband at my side, with the jets providing the utmost support and relief, for two hours. I don’t know how the nurse and midwife knew it was what we wanted because we never specified it, but they gave us privacy to labor, only coming in to intermittedly check the baby’s heartbeat and to see how we were doing.

I ate and drank to my heart’s content. I continued to be happy, relaxed, and in a positive state of mind, bowing my head and giving in to the flow of each contraction, making the sounds my body led me to make and visualizing opening and having my baby in my arms (though every time I did the latter I started to cry, interrupting my zen state). Contractions are likened to waves, and rightly so. Each one would start off low, then heighten and reach a crescendo before retreating and leaving me in an almost meditative state.

Once my “birthing sounds,” as they called them, started to get intense, my midwife came in and said we should probably check and see what’s happening, and then I’d either walk around or get back in the tub. Getting up and out of the water was like being pulled from a dream. But I was already nine centimeters dilated, and after two more hard contractions on the bed, I was ready to push my baby out. I remembered the sensations of the baby moving down from the birth of my first daughter, and I knew she would be here soon.

I pushed four times for only eight minutes—but it felt like an eternity! My husband said my face turned purple and broken capillaries would later confirm his observation. The physical sensations were at their most intense at this point and I was reacting to them. My midwife kept telling me to stop clenching my legs because I was holding the baby in and I said, “I can’t!” That’s when Best Nurse in Creation said, “Yes you can! Do it now!” And I did.

And then there was my baby, slimy and gooey like the others, looking exactly like her brother did seven years before. And I cried harder than I ever had at seeing my squirmy little one, another soul to love, another life to cherish. She was so beautiful and small and quite simply a miracle.

I’m still somewhat in disbelief that it happened this way. I’m indescribably grateful and I feel so lucky. Not that my body did what it was designed to do, mind you—I’m thankful to have had a healthy pregnancy that resulted in a healthy baby, and getting the birth I hoped for is the icing on the cake. After my first high-intervention birth, I felt like I had gotten robbed of the most amazing and miraculous human experience. And after having two intervention and drug free births, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I wish more women would look upon labor and birth as a gift rather than as a cross we have to bear. As difficult as it can get, as intense as the physical sensations can be, for me it has been an immense privilege—to be able to communicate with my baby before she ever made a sound outside my womb.

Will we have another child? People are already asking. As we were getting ready to leave the hospital I was sad because I didn’t want to leave my birth behind. I knew I wanted to write about it as soon as possible, to be able to process it and remember the details. I almost want to have another baby so that I could get to relish just one more birth.

Time will tell. But if we start on this journey again, it will be a blessing and an honor once more. In the meantime, I look at my new little love and I thank her for giving me a sense of completeness that I never knew was possible.

A Person's a Person, No Matter How Small

“There is no justification in human nature for treating children, from birth, with any less respect or equality than that accorded to older people. Children are people, fully and without qualification.” –Daniel Greenburg, author

I remember one of the first times I realized that my son was more than just an extension of myself. He had started pre-K and his teacher described to me an incident where he was holding on to a little boy’s arm and wouldn’t let go, despite the other child’s tearful protests.

I was a helicopter parent for much of my son’s first few years (sorry, kiddo!) so I knew that I certainly didn’t teach him to grab other kids. I was both amazed and somewhat embarrassed that my child clearly had a mind of his own and did what he wanted, completely separate from me and beyond my control. It took time and lots of practice to not become irate every time I got a report from a teacher that deviated from what I thought I had drilled into my child’s head and what I assumed he would do—because, after all, I told him to do it!

Now that he’s older, the things that come out of my son’s mouth are sometimes brilliant, other times side-splitting funny, and occasionally, because he is a human being, and a small one at that, can be inappropriate, and even hurtful. As stunning and jarring as that can be, I’ve come to terms with it. He lives in his own world and I feel lucky to be able to be a part of it, alternately conversing with him, laughing with him, and correcting him. My husband and I are enjoying my daughter’s emerging commentary and sense of humor immensely, and know that she’s well on her way to letting us in on her own world as well.

If there is one aspect of my parenting that I can say has most definitely evolved, it’s realizing that children are their own people. From the time they were very small, my children have had their own feelings and thoughts, and as they’ve gotten older, those have turned into very real ideas, opinions, and even values—and there is a good chance that many of them are, or will be, different from my own. Even though my kids are only seven and three, they have made their likes and dislikes very clear. Their interests vary and they have mood swings and many different emotions, just as adults do. Even my newborn is able to communicate her likes and dislikes quite clearly.

Well, duh, you may be saying. Obviously children are their own people. Obviously their needs have to be met and respected, just as any adult’s needs would. But you know what I’ve noticed lately? The rest of society doesn’t seem to agree. From families being kicked out of airplanes, to kids being banned from restaurants, to shaming of breastfeeding mothers, to stores and eateries having “no stroller” policies—I’m starting to get the feeling that many people are anti-kid.

First of all, I’d like to say that obviously, not every moment spent with our kids, or around other people’s kids, is a joy. They cry, they scream, they poop, they puke—and often at the worst times. I know what it’s like to be in front of a toddler kicking my seat at the movies, I understand wanting to eat a meal without a screaming child next to you, and I definitely would not choose to be seated in an airplane with an unhappy child for an extended period of time.

My problem is the fact that children are discriminated against. They are treated like second-class citizens, and people seem to be completely comfortable with that. For example, which of the following criteria would make it okay to ban a human being from a restaurant? Could it be someone’s race, religion, gender, weight, sexual orientation?

None of those would be acceptable. Yet children are increasingly being treated this way, simply because they are small and helpless. And often the parents are blamed, for not being able to “control” their children. Oh, how I despise that word! Parenting is not about control. It is about teaching and guidance. Any time I try to control my children, I regret it, and I fail miserably.

It’s especially difficult when the only reason I am trying to exert control over my kids is because I fear someone else’s judgment. I resent society’s judgment of my children and how I parent them because in the past, it’s caused me to react more strongly and more angrily than I would have if I didn’t feel like all eyes were on me—whether it be at the checkout line, or at an eatery, or at a coffee shop. I have to make a concerted effort to ignore those people and stay calm, because ultimately, this is about myself and my children, and the relationship and communication I’m trying to establish and nurture with them. Worse yet, my children always pick up on my anxiety and it causes them grief, as well.

What amuses me (and alternately puzzles me) is people’s seeming intolerance for children while simultaneously, adults are allowed to behave in ways that I find rude and unacceptable. No one seems to bat an eye when adults engage in excessively loud conversations, both in person and on cell phones, while sitting at a casual restaurant. Or when the constant chime of texting or game playing or whatever makes it difficult for me to hear what my eating companion is saying. Yet, my three year old daughter makes one loud (and happy!) exclamation, and a dozen heads snap back to look at us as if we are disturbing everyone’s peace. I have to be subjected to strangers’ musical tastes on their ridiculously loud headphones while sitting on the train, yet my fidgety son is looked upon with disdain, as if he is dirtying the environment simply by being there. I’ve seen people clip their nails—clip their nails—on the subway, yet I still get various dirty looks when I get on the train with my active kids or nurse my baby in public.

We were at a restaurant recently where I confronted someone who was very anti-child. Let me be clear—it was Friday, at 6 p.m., at a family restaurant that we frequent, with a kids’ menu, and my kids were perfectly well-behaved. This patron and his friends not only chose to sit at the table right next to ours instead of choosing one of the dozen or so other empty tables in the place, the man then proceeded to make a comment about not wanting to sit by my daughter because children make “weird noises in restaurants.” As if that wasn’t bad enough, later in their meal, the two other people he was with used our family as an example to discuss what their parents did with them as kids when they went to restaurants. They were inches away from us. Not only was this conversation audible to myself and my husband, but my children, as well.

If we had a child that was disabled, or one of us had some other type of unusual physical trait or ailment, would it have been acceptable for those patrons to discuss that, even if it wasn’t directed at our family? Would it have been acceptable for them to have a discussion based on our race, weight, hair color, what we were eating?

No. No, it would not have been acceptable. Yet these folks decided it was fine for them to discuss children, loudly enough so that those children could hear them, because, well, children don’t matter.

I don’t think so.

I kept my calm and confronted the rude patrons, made sure my children heard me, and then explained to my son on the way home why what that man and his friends did was unacceptable.

I wonder if people forget that they were once kids, too. If we expect kids to learn proper public behavior and become successful adults, then we have to allow some margin for error. There is no magical age that children come to when they suddenly sit up, sit still, and stop playing with their food. There’s no certificate that comes with turning 18 that says, “Congratulations! You’re now a contributing member of society!”

Sure, kids go through phases, and as parents, we are responsible for recognizing what situations have the potential to be disastrous and avoid them—but for ourselves and our children first and foremost! When my daughter is throwing a tantrum, I’m not concerned with the comfort level of the person behind me. I’m stressed out and concerned about my child, why she’s screaming, and trying to find a way to get through it. When my son drops his fork repeatedly while eating, my first thought is not about how disturbed the person next to him is. I’m thinking that we’ve run out of clean forks and he’s starving and where is that darn waiter? I lament about the fact that my meal is stone cold because I have spent the last 10 minutes rescuing my son’s utensils. When my newborn is crying, I’m not going to worry about offending the person next to me if I flash a nipple as I nurse her.

And we’re going to make mistakes. Sometimes we’ll go to a place that’s not entirely appropriate for families, and maybe our kids will be overtired and cranky and maybe they will act out as a result. We may get on a plane after waiting three hours for a delayed flight, where we’ve run out of snacks and activities and one of our kids may need to fuss for 15 minutes until she falls asleep. Sometimes, my child may have a coughing fit while sitting next to you, and you may be inconvenienced or even grossed out. Society has to allow for those types of situations.

We talk so much about tolerance and acceptance, but when it comes down to it, we don’t practice what we preach. Children are human beings—little, un-evolved, clean slates. I take joy in showing my children the world and teaching them about all it has to offer. I don’t want them to be looked down upon, disrespected, or undervalued simply because they are little.

“Because, after all,

 A person’s a person, no matter how small.” –Dr. Seuss

Motherhood Changes Everything

Motherhood changes everything. Even when you think that things couldn’t possibly become any more different—they do, and you are once again plunged into the dark unknown, completely against your will; completely unprepared, yet again. I’ve been a mom for seven years, and each age and stage my children have gone through has been harder, and better, than the last.

Such was my life during my son’s first year. The first six months, when my days were spent trying to decipher Alex’s cries, settle him to sleep, feed him, bathe him, all while trying to squeeze in a shower and maybe a glass of water for myself, seemed like a cakewalk when I returned to work and post partum depression reared its ugly head. It was as if nothing in the outside world was different. Other than the occasional query about my baby, people’s lives went on, unchanged. How was this possible when my entire world had become impossibly twisted? The earth had not stopped spinning because I had become a mother, at least not to anyone else but me.

It felt odd to walk around without my big belly after almost a year of being pregnant. My body was different. I’d been through so much in labor and delivery, and in addition to pregnancy weight, I’d gained stretch marks, a lingering baby pouch, and so much guilt-- about, well, everything.

I had expected motherhood to make me feel confident, invincible, and happy. Instead I was unsure of myself, vulnerable, and miserable. I felt so guilty for working, and that emotion consumed me. I was constantly exhausted and emotionally drained. I missed my baby intensely and I felt like I never saw him. I had enormous amounts of confusion and uncertainty about what my life was about. All this was such a blow to me, as I had thought motherhood would bring about all the opposite. I was also confused because since I had experienced the normal baby blues immediately following Alex’s birth (and come through them easily) this new set of feelings was unexpected.

The whole world suddenly seemed different; bigger, more dangerous—and having produced a human being inside my body that was now out in that same world, I felt intensely protective and helpless. A car could hit me on my way to work. My baby could die of SIDS. In the mornings, I made sure to memorize what color shirt my husband was wearing, just in case I had to describe him to the police later on because he disappeared. I recognized these thoughts as irrational, but I couldn’t stop them. The very thought that we were not going to be in this world forever to protect our baby filled me with despair.

Could I ignore the changes to my marriage? It was as if we had never existed as a couple before our son. What did we used to talk about? What did we do on our dates? Would we ever have a date, or time alone, again?

I also eventually had to admit that the difficult labor and delivery I had with my son had a lot to do with how I felt that entire first year. My experience was emotionally devastating, to say the least (and that’s another blog post!), and left me feeling helpless, scared, and not trusting of myself and my abilities as a mother.

Looking back, I should have asked for help. I spent too many days feeling despondent and unhappy, crippled by emotions that I couldn’t describe to anyone. Why is it that so many new mothers experience some form of depression or anxiety yet so many are unwilling to talk about it? The first year is so hard. There are infinite changes, and it’s normal to feel ambivalent about motherhood, resentful of the new responsibilities; even trapped. Not discussing it, or hiding it, is in part what leads to depression. I’ve never heard any new parent say, “yeah, we go to sleep at the same time we always did, take long showers daily, and eat dinner together every night.” Why is it that we can so easily discuss the logistical changes in our life as we knew it, but not the emotional ones? We all try to lose the pregnancy weight, go back to work, get back to normal, so quickly—as if we’re in a rush to prove something, as if we don’t want to admit that we’re not so sure about this new life as a parent—that everything is different. And it always will be.

Susan Maushart discusses this very thing in The Mask of Motherhood: How Becoming a Mother Changes Our Lives and Why We Never Talk About It. Says Maushart, “Experiencing ambivalence about motherhood is one thing. Expressing it—and by extension, legitimizing it—is quite another. The mask of motherhood ensures that the face of ambivalence, however widely or keenly felt, remains a guilty secret.” She found that the women who were able to be honest about their emotions were the ones least likely to be depressed.

Slowly, my life returned back to normal. Or, I should say, we all found a new normal. I am not who I was before I had children—I’m better. My husband and I now date regularly—even if it’s just a bowl of popcorn and a rented movie. We eat dinner together every night, and we talk, a lot. His compassion, patience, and support make him a wonderful father and an amazing partner. Years have passed since those early foggy days, but certain things will bring me back; a smell, a lullaby. I remember where I was and am proud of myself for how far I’ve come.

I know my feeling better was gradual, and the depression I experienced was relatively short-lived. But I honestly only noticed how different I am now compared to a few years ago just this past summer. After an afternoon out and about, as I was walking home with my children, I happened to notice how blue the sky was that day. Then I noticed the leaves blowing in the trees, and heard the birds singing.  And as I lifted my head up, I closed my eyes, felt the warm sun on my face, and I took a deep breath--I thought, my god, finally, I am happy. And it was the most amazing feeling. 

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.

Accepting the Mother I Am

Here's something that I don’t readily admit: I make a lot of mistakes with my children. I lose my cool, I bribe, I second-guess myself, and I clean my house while they watch TV.

I know my children well. I know when either of them needs a cuddle. I know that they don't like to be hassled and asked questions right when they wake up. I know my daughter will cry if the lights are too bright first thing in the morning; I know my son will be upset if we are out of his favorite granola bars. With nearly seven years of mothering under my belt, I know what my kids want without words; I understand their idiosyncrasies and habits like no one else. I know which cry means what, and I empathize with and I feel their pain. But with other things, I sometimes feel like I’m still groping in the dark.

I’m a perfectionist, and I tend to expect a lot of my kids. I expect that my son won’t forget his eyeglasses at school yet again. I expect that he’ll stop doing something after I’ve asked him to stop ten times. I expect my daughter’s appetite will be the same every day, and worry when it isn’t. I expect that this time, she will eat her yogurt without spilling it on the table, without getting up at least a dozen times.

I expect even more of myself. I expect that, as it often does, life will remind me that my kids are just kids. I expect that I will find a balance between child rearing, housework, and marriage (some days I do, some days I don’t). I expect I will stop wasting time, hiding in silly tasks to avoid thinking about the big things.

I expect I will learn to control my temper.

The one thing I have the most trouble with on a regular basis is my temper. It’s awful and it’s the hardest thing for me to admit or talk about. My anger comes on in a flash, goes on like a switch, and is gone just as quickly. Unfortunately, what’s transpired in the interim is harder to get rid of. It goes against everything I try to do with my children in terms of parenting and disciplining them gently.

I wish so much that I could learn to breathe, refocus, and not be angry, for good. My anger is hard to let go of because it makes me feel strong and in control (the irony is not lost on me here—when I’m angry, I am absolutely not in control—my anger is). It’s my security blanket, the one thing I know I can go back to at any time and feel like myself. I grapple with it every single day of my life and am working so hard to let it go.

Most days are great. But some days are bad, and as many excuses as I make for allowing myself to react in anger (I’m pregnant, I’m sick, I didn’t get any sleep, my kids are being difficult, etc), the only person that can make this better is me. I don’t run from it. I talk to my kids about it and I don’t hide my struggle with it. I’m lucky and grateful that my family is loving and forgiving.

Time and time again, my children teach me invaluable lessons. They trust me, and so they believe whatever I tell them. My son knows that I will always be at school to pick him up; my daughter knows I will always be outside the bedroom door whenever she calls out “Mommy.” I have been “one of those mothers,” with “one of those children,” everywhere—the supermarket, the doctor’s office, the playground. No matter how dirty the floor is, no matter how loudly I’ve yelled at them, my babies hug me, and kiss me, and say, “I love you.” They are always happy to see me, and always want more of me.

At night, before I settle in, I go into my kids’ room. If my son’s head is off the pillow, I move it back; if my daughter’s leg is hanging off the side of the bed, I ease it onto the mattress. I fix his blankets, tuck her in, and whisper sweet words into their ears. I stroke their soft hair and little hands, still so much smaller than my own. I marvel at their even breathing, their peaceful, warm, sleeping little bodies.

I have to accept the mother I am: imperfect, sometimes impatient, a yeller. Even though those negatives are what stick out in my mind during my worst moments of self-evaluation and criticism, I mother with so much more than that. I love, I cherish, and I agonize. I worry, I nurture, and I appreciate. I give thanks for and am in awe of my children every day. Late at night in the dark I think of all the things I could have done differently and all the things I did that I wish I hadn’t.

I’ve realized something: like life, parenting is a journey, and a work in progress. I’m going to make mistakes—many of them. I will feel a tremendous amount of guilt every time—there is no doubt about that. I feel a sense of hope that I’ll know better with each kid.

Then one of my kids looks at me, looks into my eyes as intently as I look into hers, and I know that she adores me, just the way I am. You could say it’s because she has no choice, but I say that maybe she loves me with my flaws. Maybe my imperfections are teaching my kids more than perfection ever could. Maybe watching me make mistakes and learning from them will teach my children tolerance and acceptance, and maybe they will allow themselves to make mistakes, and learn from them too.

I’m not the mother than always speaks softly. I’m not the mother that doesn’t get angry, get moody, get disappointed. I’m not the mother whose children don’t scream, whose children eat all their vegetables, whose children always listen. But I am the mother who is loved by a precious little boy and girl. And that is the best mother I can hope to be. 

Savoring the Undone

As a parent, I learn over and over again to give up my expectations and mostly my expectations of myself or events and holidays. I am reminded frequently, that even with organization and planning and being prepared (and the kind of prepared that comes from being raised by an Eagle Scout and then marrying one), things still don’t go as expected.

On Christmas Eve morning, my husband took my son to the Farmer’s Market and playground, so I could have some “alone” time for writing and blog posting. “Alone” these days means me with a nursing baby who ideally will nurse to sleep and will stay asleep while I work on my laptop next to her on the bed. Except my baby has an intense Mommy radar and knows instantly if I have moved farther than 3 feet away or if I have turned my attention to something other than her. This can be frustrating at times when I want to get something done, but really, I don’t mind all that much. She loves me more than any other human being ever has. I’m sure of it. I can see it on her face when she sees me. It can be easy to just sit play, talk and look at her rather than do anything else. When my husband works from home, I’m constantly distracting him with the baby, because I can’t simply believe he just doesn’t want to look at her all the time.

Other people don’t get anything done with a baby in the house because they’re going without sleep. Sleep has never been an issue in our family (thank heavens). The four of us could medal in napping if the Olympics ever decided to officially make it a sport (which it is just in case you didn’t know). But we don’t get anything done in our house, because we’re playing and flirting with our children. (This is kind of why my blog posts are always late these days).

Back to the writing time I was supposed to get that I actually spent nursing and trying to put my baby to sleep while reading Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield, my son and husband didn’t stay out that long. It was too cold for the playground. (In the beginning of Winter, 45 degrees is too cold for the playground; by the end of Winter, 25 degrees is acceptable playground weather.) My son has had a cough and cold the last couple of days. He’s been in that in between sick phase, where at home he thinks he feels better enough to go out and play, and then he gets out and realizes it’s better to just rest in the stroller.

I thought we’d spend Christmas Eve making more Christmas cookies. My husband and I have gotten addicted to having gingerbread cookies with our bedtime cup of tea, and we’ve already eaten the cookies we made. My son didn’t want to do anything baking related. He wanted to play planes. My daughter wanted to play with the wrapping paper left out. We let her do this because watching a 5 month old play with paper and ribbon is as hilarious as watching a kitten play with a paper bag. It’s endless fun honestly. But I suddenly remembered that I had to make my husband’s favorite Christmas treat: pumpkin roll cake with cream cheese frosting. I managed to make this cake, though now as I’m writing this I am remembering I still have to frost it and after the late night Christmas Eve wrapping that happened on the kitchen table, I realize now I don’t actually know where that cake is. Crap.

My son, thanks to not feeling well, ended up taking a three-hour nap. During his nap, I was able to finish wrapping his stocking gifts. I knew I had to, that even with not feeling well, his nap meant he’d be up until close to midnight. I was right about this. After dinner, instead of a bath, he played some more. We decided we could finally assemble the gingerbread house we had baked the weekend before. We made the royal icing to glue the house together. My husband and I had made up our own gingerbread house pattern. We had wanted to make a gingerbread Eames-like house. Once my husband figured out how to get the right consistency of icing and got our house iced together, our house looked more like a Flintstones house than an Eames house.

At 9:30 pm, my son showed no signs of slowing down. We decided to watch A Miracle on 34^th Street. When my son finally did get tired, he refused to go to sleep until he had seen the end of the movie. My daughter had nursed herself to sleep in my arms. As predicted after naptime, my son was up until 11:30 pm. He finally fell asleep as my husband read him The Polar Express, while I filled his stocking downstairs. I was about to head to bed with the baby, when I remembered we still had our son’s Santa gift in the upstairs closet. Luckily for me, my husband took care of it.

As I fell asleep, I thought of the things I had hoped to get done. I’ve always hoped to be one of those people who has dozens of gingerbread, sugar and shortbread cookies laying around the house. Toffee seems easy enough to make, but I have yet to master it. The only way I can think of to save this year’s batch is to take a hammer to it and crunch it up to make ice cream with it. I’d like to have the house cleaned with all the laundry done before going to bed Christmas Eve, yet this year just getting the living room and kitchen cleaned up was enough.

I don’t feel like I’m one of those people who wants perfection. I feel more like the mom who’s barely keeping it together – with a son who at three has already pointed out that Santa coming into our house while we’re sleeping will probably wake the dog and is slightly invasive, not to mention that presents actually come from the post office. Oh yes, and my husband’s favorite pumpkin roll cake is still lost somewhere in my kitchen.

Recently, an older mother said to me, “You can have everything, dear, but you just can’t DO everything.” Wise words. I have a lot to be thankful for this holiday. The things that didn’t get done? Kind of defeats the point of the holiday to beat myself up over those.

Children should be seen! And heard!

The Internet has been flaring up about the current trend of making restaurants and other public places child-free. It may come as a surprise that I fully support child-free restaurants. I would much rather know the expectations ahead of time than show up unaware and get the stink-eye from staff and customers for the entire meal. What concerns me is that there are some who expect a child-free experience everywhere--even in places where families are generally expected.

I have shared my opinion about the issue on a few Facebook discussions, but I had never had personal experience until today. Today I was reprimanded by the staff at a particular fast food Italian restaurant for my 2-year-old daughter's behavior. Yes, you read that right. A fast food place!

I had just spent the morning shopping at rummage sales with my friend and her little girl. We decided to eat at this particular restaurant, where we have eaten numerous times over the past ten years. We ordered our food, sat down, and enjoyed our meal as usual. Throughout the meal, my daughter chattered and laughed. When she is happy, she tends to repeatedly say something that sounds like "heeeeeeeey" (think Fat Albert, only cuter). She was very happy today. Could she work on regulating her volume? Sure, but what 2-year-old couldn't? She never left the table, ran around the restaurant, or made a mess.

Still, when we had almost finished our meal, an employee approached us and told us, "Everyone can hear him." (Yes, he guessed the incorrect sex. Because we know that all girls are quiet, demure little princesses, right?) I got the distinct impression that we were no longer welcome. Perhaps he was just responding to a complaint from another customer, but I am just as concerned about what that implies. What does it mean when someone is disturbed enough by a toddler's happy vocalizations to complain?

If we concede, and support some child-free options, isn't it only fair that we welcome children into other areas of society? Where do we draw that line? Casual restaurants? Grocery stores? Or do people with young children just have to hole themselves away in their homes? I say NO! Let's get our kids out and about! Let them be seen, heard, and hopefully, one day, accepted as important members of our society.

The Price of a Broken Will

Some popular parenting books encourage parents to "break the will" of their children. The main method of doing this is to spank the child until he shows an attitude change. Some call it "shaping the will," which sounds less harsh. Whatever you call it, they claim this results in children who are obedient and submissive to authority. According to this philosophy, when a child has a strong will, it is a disadvantage. A "strong-willed child" might do things he is told not to do or challenge something an adult has said. Sure, these offenses may be frustrating. But are the consequences of a broken will really worth it just to obtain complete obedience? A strong will is invaluable, and very difficult to repair once it is broken.

First off, what exactly is the will? The New Oxford American Dictionary defines it as "the faculty by which a person decides on and initiates action" and "control deliberately exerted to do something or to restrain one's own impulses." When we break a child's will, we are destroying her motivation and ability to control her actions. Sadly, these methods are most prevalent with "willful" toddlers who have not yet developed impulse control. So we take a person who developmentally has no impulse control, insist that she control herself, and enforce that by crippling her ability to do so. It just doesn't make sense.

And what is the price of a broken will? Maybe kids who exactly as they are told make for a less stressful life in the present, but how does it affect them in the future? I can speak to this issue from personal experience. I don't wish to blame anyone in my past. Most people were doing what they thought was in my best interest, but a combination of circumstances resulted in my having a weak will. Here's what a weak will looks like on an adult: I am a horrible procrastinator. I have a difficult time finishing projects I start. I fail to advocate for causes that I believe in because I fear a conflict. I act stubborn, but that's all it is--an act. Any time I face a real fight, I back down. This has caused me to compromise to my child's detriment. Once, afraid to challenge a doctor, I allowed my son to receive eight vaccinations at once! Within a week, he developed a reaction, but there was no way to tell which vaccination had caused it. I still carry guilt for that to this day. That's the worst consequence. The guilt. Guilt for things that have happened or not happened because of my weak will.

So should you tolerate disrespect from your children? No, but nor should they have to tolerate it from you. The best way to foster respect with your children is to model it. Respect your children, your partner, and everyone around you. Show them how it's done! Please, leave their wills intact. Maybe someday your son will face temptation from his peers to try drugs. Maybe your daughter will need to stand up against unnecessary birth interventions. When that time comes, you can be confident that you have raised an adult who can stand on conviction and say NO! To me, that's worth hearing a few dozen "noes" from a toddler.

Does Pregnancy Have to Make Us Sick?

In general, as a pregnant woman, I'm that woman who doesn't talk about her experiences being pregnant because it generally causes other women to hate me. I can't help it. I have stellar pregnancies. Part of this may be genetic, but I also think the fact that I heard positive things about pregnancy from my mom and aunts has something to do with it. My mom didn't talk so much about enjoying her pregnancy, just how she continued to ride her bike, and laughed when my in utero baby kicks would slam the pencil drawer of her desk shut, but I never heard her talk about the endless list of suffering that people associate with pregnancy (varicose veins, swelling, back pain, being so sick and so tired that you can't decide if you should throw up or go to bed, and all the rest). One of my aunts absolutely loved being pregnant despite having a few issues; another aunt still tells me how much she misses the feeling of a baby inside her.

So it never occurred to me that when I got pregnant that I might actually be hopping on the roller coaster of hell. And when I told my aunts I was pregnant, they were thrilled, not just for the arrival of a baby, but for me, and that I got to have this experience that they so loved and cherished. One of my aunts instantly pulled out a post-it note and made me a list of her favorite pregnancy foods (she's the one who enlightened me about popsicles being the perfect pregnancy food - except her favorite flavor was banana. Mine ended up being those lemonade ones from Trader Joe's).

Then we told the world at large I was pregnant.

And I had my first encounter with how the rest of the world views pregnancy; mainly that it is actually a roller coaster of hell.

My husband and I went to a friend's wedding, and when I went to the bathroom in between the wedding and the reception along with every other woman who was attending, I found myself surrounded by what felt like a gaggle of chickens. I felt like the unfortunate soul who finds herself in the girls' bathroom in high school and surrounded by the mean girls who proceed to beat the crap out of her. It was there that I was stormed like the Bastille by pregnancy horror stories of the women present.

First, they asked how terrible I was feeling, because I must be so sick I could hardly see straight and so tired I could hardly stand.

I said I felt fantastic. I mean it took me seven months to get pregnant. By achieving pregnancy, I felt like I had won the Tour de France.

But no, I was informed that actually, pregnancy meant the end of my life. My feeling great would be short lived. Because essentially, I would be miserable and uncomfortable the last four months, I wouldn't be able to sleep or find enough pillows (I still don't know what pillows have to do with anything), I would swell up like a balloon, my shoes would never fit again, my legs would be covered in varicose veins that would end up looking like the Mississippi River after all the swelling, I would hate my husband, and my entire body would ache, then my beautiful baby would arrive after a labor that would leave me feeling like I had a truck jammed through my pelvis, I would never sleep again and I would certainly never lose the weight I had gained, and my beautiful baby would grow into a child that would proceed to wreak havoc on my entire life.

According to these women, a seasonal bout with cancer would be preferable to pregnancy and the children it resulted in.

Maybe I have good genes. Maybe because I ate well. Maybe because I took hour long walks with my dogs through Griffith Park in LA and did yoga four to five times a week. Maybe I’m in denial about being Pollyanna. Maybe I won the pregnancy lottery, but none of the predicted horrors happened to me. I felt great, until the day my son dropped and wedged his head into my pelvis. Three days later, I went into labor.

My labor was like my mother’s, which was predicted accurately by doctors and midwives alike, in that it was six hours long.

I have been told that my pregnancies (and labor) are abnormal, atypical, and not real. Yet my abnormal, atypical and not real pregnancy produced a baby who’s turning into a pretty cool kid (as we say in our house). My abnormal, atypical, and not real pregnancy didn’t actually result in medical intervention or treatment. It didn’t have some tragic or horrific ending.

It turns out my pregnancies are normal, typical and real for me.

What I find baffling about this (because I do have a point – I’m not just bragging about finding pregnancy lovely) is that the women who get so angry at those in medical community for viewing pregnancy as an illness often end up being the very same women who tell me that my experience is abnormal, atypical, and not real.

If pregnancy is not an illness, why am I supposed to feel so flippin’ awful? Why is there the social assumption, that when you become pregnant, you become the victim of your monstrous body and the only thing you can do about it is suffer? Why is an abnormal pregnancy one without complications?

For the most part, in my second pregnancy, I have avoided the horror-and-death predictions. Occasionally, when I’m by myself out in public, a woman will lean over to me and say, “You know, first borns are always late.” To which I then say, “My son was actually three weeks early.”

Except recently, as I’ve been in my third trimester, those closest to me, i.e. my husband and sister, have recounted to me that when people ask them about me and my pregnancy, they don’t ask, “Is she getting excited?” they instead ask, “She’s not too uncomfortable and miserable, is she?” or “Is she so ready to be done being pregnant?” Or people say to me, “How do you wear heeled sandals in your condition?” (because pregnant or not, I think great shoes and great earrings are mandatory – besides my heeled sandals are made by the clog people, so I can walk all over Manhattan in them and still be comfortable) or “How are you doing in this heat in your condition?” (pregnant or not, I don’t do well in the heat) or “How are you feeling?” which is the same question they ask me when they hear I’ve had the flu. I often want to point out that I’m pregnant; I haven’t had a leg recently amputated.

Don’t get me wrong. I know all these people mean well and are just making conversation and want to hear how baby and I are doing, but the underlying assumption in all of these questions is that I have something to complain about. When I say, “I feel great” relief and surprise washes over their faces, like, “Whew, so glad I don’t have to hear one more pregnant woman complain about the summer…”

And I admit, I am really excited to meet my new baby, so in a way I am looking forward to the end of my pregnancy.

And I also admit, that this baby started off lower and dropped into my pelvis sooner, resulting in some uncomfortable cramping, pelvic pressure and lower back ache. But I also realized that what worked so well in my last pregnancy – walking and doing yoga fairly often – I wasn’t doing. As soon as I went back to a regular yoga and walking habit, the aches no longer ached.

And yes, I have had some rather extensive and painful contractions that fall outside the norm of the run-of-the-mill Braxton-Hicks, but my midwife said to take these as a sign my body is telling me to maybe relax, have a sip of wine, take a bath, and maybe when I feel a contraction while walking around town, I could take the subway.

And I still like being pregnant.

There’s a funny phenomenon, that’s rather effective in the treatment of many ailments. It’s called the placebo effect, in which a person perceives whatever they are suffering from to improve when they haven’t actually been given anything to improve their condition. It has one think about how the mind can determine or alter one’s experience. I don’t want to suggest that a simple placebo can lessen the pain of a baby pushing its way through a woman’s pelvis, but I do have to wonder if the few of us who have positive experiences in pregnancies (aka abnormal, atypical, not real pregnancies), how much of it is related to our expectations of the experience that we will have or our attitudes about pregnancy?

I had two friends who had very similar pregnancies in terms of the things that arose for them to deal with. Both spent the last 8 weeks of their third trimester on bed rest with prescribed dietary restrictions and both had caring and nurturing husbands who threw themselves into coming up with finding and cooking nutritious and yummy things for them to eat. One saw her bed rest as an opportunity to do as much work as possible in her pajamas, and in her spare time to learn how to knit and catch up on her reading as well as revel in the attentions of her loving and devoted husband, while the other got bored quickly and essentially spent the last 8 weeks of her pregnancy complaining about being stuck in bed, that she had run out of movies to watch, she missed her sodas and potato chips, she felt like she was missing out on life, that bed rest made preparing for baby hard, that she wish she wasn’t so swollen, etc. The two had the same circumstances, but completely different experiences. But, given that our perception influences our reaction which then colors our experience, it’s no wonder, is it?

Thanks to the social assumption that pregnancy is a miserable and uncomfortable experience, we can’t really be surprised that many in the medical community still do view pregnancy as an illness. I just find it funny that we blame them for it, when women are also the ones who perpetuate it.