IN A BAD RELATIONSHIP? [DON'T] BLAME MOM

I woke up tired this morning. I was up late the night before doing what I call "my own stuff" -- writing a questionnaire to access the latent parenting insights of my childless friends, pressing 'refresh' on my facebook window, eating chocolate chip ice-cream and arguing with my husband about the virtues of particle-board. Very important stuff.

I went to bed at the scandalously late hour of midnight and the baby began his morning cluster nursing around 4:30 am. You can bet Cinderella wasn't breastfeeding a 10 month-old. We dozed/nursed until 8:30, when he began to whack his pudgy little hand against my cheek. Secret code for: OK Lady, Time to Haul Ass Out of Bed.

Cinderella, sans milk stains

So I did, and we ate breakfast in the kitchen. Well, I ate breakfast. He smeared it. I was frantically leafing through the Globe and Mail searching for some non-local news (the problem with Canadian news is that if it's happening in Canada, it's never very interesting), when I came across this cute little headline: IN A BAD RELATIONSHIP? BLAME MOM.

Shame. Shame, shame, shame. Shame on the mother-blamers.

IN A BAD RELATIONSHIP? BLAME MOM is by Wency Leung. She writes for the Globe and Mail Life section, addressing such difficult topics as why swearing is "good for you" (it ups your pain tolerance by releasing stress hormones), Starbucks closing its toilets to customers (only a few in NYC), and "The prettiest bean you'll ever eat" (cranberry bean). To be fair, she's not all fluff. She's also got some articles on nurses refusing to perform abortions and the Canadian penchant for Spam.

Cranberry Beans (pretty!)

The article in question is really just a summary of a press release from University of Minnesota researcher Jeffry Simpson. Simpson and his colleagues conducted a review of the literature on mother-baby relating and attachment styles. They also studied 70 low-income mothers and their babies. It was a longitudinal study, so those babies (now young adults) are probably still coming in to the lab to answer questions about their intimate encounters, relationships with their peers, the length of their left ring fingers, and other questions psychologists like to ask.

Doc Jeffry Simpson

Simpson and co. have found that the quality of the mother-child relationship between 12-18 months has some bearing on the child's future relationships -- in exactly the way we would all expect: a good relationship with mama leads to better relationships (specifically, more positive interpretations of others' actions) later in life.

I kind of don't even know why they have to do a study on this -- isn't this exactly why we don't just farm our children out to be raised by machines? I'm tellin' ya, when it comes to the motherhood game, I'm not really in it for the poop. It's all about relating. The authors of the press release seem to agree, acknowledging that the literature on infant attachment has been around for a long time, but "solid evidence for it has been lacking." (Freud's nanny, who nursed him, disappeared suddenly when he was a toddler -- that should be evidence enough, no?)

Doc Sigmund Freud, poorly attached fellow

The most interesting finding of their research -- and the thing Leung's admittedly small article fails to mention -- is that the relationship with the mother was only a small (but significant) predictor in the young adults' future behaviour. There are a lot of other factors at play. Are your actions exclusively the reflection of your parents' attitudes? I hope not, because then we can't be friends.

The thing is, people change. Adults are responsible for their own actions. We can't just blame our mothers for our relationship problems, and we can't accept blame as mothers ourselves. It's not helpful. And it's not right.

When I tell people I'm studying to become a psychotherapist, they often think my job is to find out what bad things someone's parents did and then allocate the blame like servings of birthday cake: Oh no, not too much for you little Johnny. Alice, you need to take a bigger slice. Susy -- you want one of the icing rosettes?

But it's not true! The work I do involves digging deep to the personal 'truth' of  someone's past, looking for its relevance to the present day, and processing whatever emotional baggage has been barnacling onto its hull -- to use a mixed but somehow attractive metaphor. We often work on gaining some understanding of their parents' actions and letting go of the need to blame them. Sometimes this requires confrontation, but more often than not it requires insight and empathy: stepping into the parents' shoes and trying to get a sense of where they came from.

So where was I? Oh, right: not blaming mothers. I think mother-blame is a special form of woman-hating, particularly virulent because it's self-righteous and wears the guises of self-exploration or 'care' for other people's children. It takes the one realm that's exclusively female (but it's not exclusive, trans people can be mothers too) and loads it with stereotypes, voodoo powers, and conflicting directives. The result? Fear.

Fear in the hearts of mothers who are just doing their best but can't be honest about their child rearing practices; who instead pepper anonymous online forums with such pressing questions as: What are too many head-bumps per day? Is my baby normal for eating with his fingers? How much should I play with my baby? Mothers who have seen motherhood dissected and criticized throughout our culture (Teen Mom, Sixteen and Pregnant, Dance Moms, anyone?) and who struggle on the daily to gain a sense of wholeness, intuition and peace surrounding their parenting.

Don't get me wrong. Information sharing is important. I wish there were more of it. But I wish there were less judgment, too. Although mothers make horrible mistakes, I've never met one who didn't want the best for her child, however she perceived it. OK, I did meet one -- she smiled as she explained to me the horrendous abuse her daughter had suffered as a child and how she "knew nothing about it". I felt like I was going to throw up. But aside from the requisite sociopaths, the vast majority of mothers are relating to their babies as best they can. We don't need more blame, the kind of judgment that sends women who are having trouble relating with their babies into hiding.

I refuse to hide. Yes, there are days when my mothering is vastly imperfect. But not only do I try my darndest not to dole out blame to mothers, I also refuse to accept it. Sorry, Sweet Baby James: though I take raising you as the greatest gift and responsibility, though I endeavour to cradle you in the arms of lovingkindness, the world is a big, bad, beautiful place. When you grow up and make mistakes -- break hearts, cheat and lie, wear tapered jeans, whatever -- I will be there to comfort you. I will not fall at your feet to beg for forgiveness.

I keep searching my soul for anxiety about the way Sweet Baby James will turn out but I just don't feel it. Yes, I know it's early days and he can't even talk yet -- not even to say, "I always felt invalidated when..." but mother-guilt has yet to plant its seed within me. Perhaps it's the sweet confidence of youth. Or maybe just the ugly arrogance of privilege.

I'd go on about my privileged circumstances but that would just be bragging (yes, I've got it that good!). Let's just say: I am joyously monopolizing the affection of the best husband/father in the world. I have more than enough money, food and time to spend with my baby.

And it's still tough.

Being a parent is the most important thing I've ever done. It means the world to me. That wouldn't change if I lost my socio-economic status. But the time I could spend with my baby probably would. And the ease of breastfeeding. And the energy I'd have to carry him around in a sling. Almost everything would be... harder. I saw the strain and grief in my mom as she raised us on her own with precious little income. She always cries at these lines from The Invitation (by Oriah Mountain Dreamer):


It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.


I don't presume to know what low-income mothers need. But I'm pretty sure it runs more along the lines of healthcare, childcare and recognition than condemnation and further academic study. Le sigh. I know studies need to be done, but how about some class analysis?

And, getting back to the article, how about some personal responsibility? If our relationships are shitty, why not set the blame aside for a minute and go talk to our mothers? Let's ask them what was going on in their lives when we were born. Let's find out how they felt about being a mom and what they did -- or didn't, or couldn't do -- to connect with us as little kids. Let's find out what their early childhoods were like. Maybe if we can stop criticizing them and start listening to their stories we can give each other a break, too.

-----------
Ed.: The past few weeks (decades?) have seen a rise in posts along the let's-stop-judging-mamas lines. Here are some of my favourites: When Mean Girls Become Mommies from Brooding, Lesson One in Mother Blaming and Shaming from Blue Milk, and I'm a Good Mother, You're a Good Mother from 6:30 and a Glass of Wine.

Product Review: Muddy Buddy Waterproof Overalls by Tuffo

Product Name: Muddy Buddy, designed by Tuffo
Made in: China
Cost: $35
Supposed to be used for: Outdoor mud and dirt escapades, indoor messy craft escapades.
Actually used for: Keeping baby warm, immobile
How many M's: MMMM (4/5)

When I was 17 and pretty sure I wasn't going to have a baby until I was at least 35 ("probably more like 38"), my friends and I used to sit in the Naam restaurant talking about Russian literature and the elusive female orgasm. The Naam is a vegetarian restaurant, a Vancouver landmark that's been around since the 1970s. It was the only all-night place in our neighbourhood.

There's a building across the street from the Naam. One night we realized that there were only men -- but lots of them -- going in and out of it. We looked a little longer and saw two women in high heels leave through a back door, reluctantly drawing the attention of the men loitering outside. The sign on the window said 'Hair Salon' but the shades were always drawn. What we were looking at was surely our very first brothel.

But wait, isn't this supposed to be a review of the Muddy Buddy?

Fast-forward ten years: I'm waiting in line at the Naam with baby on my hip, and I look across the street only to see that the 'Hair Salon' is gone. What's replaced it? 'TJ's The Kiddie Shop'. I kid you not. I couldn't make this sh*t up.

But this time it's a bona fide business, you can tell because there's a bunch of strollers in the window. Also, men are not high-fiving as they drunkenly peel out the door. The next day I decide to check it out, see if they have any outdoorsy type clothes. Now that Sweet Baby James is crawling, there's no reason that he can't crawl around outside -- except that we're in Canada and it's kind of cold and all he owns is pajamas.

I take a gander through the store and fing something that is exactly perfect. A big yellow rain suit. Waterproof coveralls for year-round play, as the package says. It comes in yellow and in pink and is sized by weight. The nice saleswoman tells me they tend to fit large so I put the 2T (29 lb) size back and go for the 18 months (24 lb). She says that's a good idea, that I might find it 'quite voluminous' on my nine month-old.

I take Sweet Baby James to the park nearby and suit him up. It fits perfectly (a little big, with room to grow) and I think it's great: in this Beastie Boys of the '90s meets astronaut suit he'll be free to roam through the soggy grass and brown leaves I remember from my own halcyon days in Tatlow Park.

But SBJ fusses as I put him in the suit. And then he just sits there with his brow furrowed, poking at a single yellow leaf.

I try to tell him that he's free to explore, to crawl, to jump, to walk, even! But like that poor polar bear who'd never had more than a few feet to pace, he can't seem to look beyond the confines of his (yellow polyester) cage.

He was tired that day so I thought maybe he'd like it better another day. But so far, the suit seems to have some kind of demoralizing -- maybe soporific -- effect on the baby. I zip him into it and he struggles and then just sort of... lies there. This is the same baby who tries to crawl and nurse at the same time, whose pre-bed antics include energetic mounting and dismounting of the bed whilst attacking it with an egg beater.

I don't know what it is about the Muddy Buddy that makes him feel this way. Is it the slipperiness (it's polyurethane-coated polyester)? The colour? Or simply its voluminous nature? I don't know. So far I just use it to keep him warm when he's in the sling and we're outside. I figure he'll grow into it.

Other benefits: It has a (huge) elasticized hood with a duck bill brim. It has two front zippers, which is supposed to make it easy to change in and out of. Its seams are sealed and the knees are reinforced. And it comes with its own little bag for you to lose carry the suit around in once it's gotten wet. This is a good, solid product. It doesn't claim to do something it doesn't do. It will keep your baby dry (and possibly depressed).

On Eating

" We use knives for cutting our food - not sawing the table..."

The Tuesday Photo: 41 Weeks

This week's edition of the Tuesday Photo comes to you from Vancouver, British Columbia. Everyone knows Vancouver's a city of bankers and snow-bums, beaches and bubble tea. We discuss the contrasts and paradoxes that make Vancouver all it is.

http://thetuesdayphoto.wordpress.com/2011/12/11/41-weeks/

(The Tuesday Photo is our baby blog. It is not written in baby's voice, though sometimes he makes a guest appearance).

Updates - and Poop

Some of you may have thought I dropped off the face of the planet. Although sometimes I wish I could say this were true (or at least dropped to a well hidden area of the earth with bathroom doors that locked and silent bubble baths all to oneself...), in this particular case its not - I am still here. Just in a lesser capacity.

The past month I have been hit with a shitstorm plethora of events, appointments, final exams and sicknesses that would rival the schedule of any superhero overstressed, under slept, possibly over-caffienated parent with three children, two jobs and a master's degree underway. So as such, and to prove that I am not completely negligent of my blog updates, and because its one of the all time favorite topics of parents, I have decided to include a post specifically dedicated to poop. Yes poop. Just a few things I learned along the way, spanning 3 lovely spirited children.

1. Poop at certain points has the velocity of a fire hose: And yes it can almost reach the same distance. I kid you not. This is something you may particularly want to watch out for when unsuspectingly opening a diaper in the only existing, very small, very cramped, Doctor's office bathroom after doing the sniff and check test. Imagine something similar to the projectile vomiting scene in the Excorcist - only poop. Everywhere. Including the ceiling.

2. Use your pooptuition: You know that little voice in your head that tells you that there's a chance that a poop is on its way? In the particular case in which blueberries are involved, I would say its a good chance you may want to listen to that suspicion - especially when you might happen to have your baby on a newly installed fresh, lush (expensive looking) green carpet of a newly renovated bed and breakfast you might happen to be visiting while celebrating your anniversary.

3. Poop makes a great medium for creating artworks: Usually these types of creative endeavours are self restricted to the walls and floor of ones bedroom, and appear to mainly be inspired by the rising sun (or nap time creativity spurs). On the plus side poop murals tend to be a sign of creative genius.

4. Poop Floats: Generally speaking, if during the traditional bath time hair rinsing you see something akin to a brown submarine float by and are unsure where that bath toy might have come from - don't pick it up, its not a toy....

5. Poop Travels: Poop travels everywhere, and it doesn't care how it gets there either - coach or first class, you can be sure that you will encounter a poosplosion at some point in your child's life. The kind that blows the diaper off and continues up the back of the shirt to the hair (yes hair), and out the pant legs (or at least you hope your child is wearing pants and not a sleeper when this happens....)

6. You cannot escape parenthood without being pooped on: Are you one of those people that post baby got squeamish and never owned a dog because you hated the thought of picking up dog poop? Ha! Welcome to parenthood.

The funny thing is, once you become a parent you can tackle anything because it's the poop that helps you overcome adversity. Yes it has that ability. Once you've cleaned your umpteenth diaper, or your 5 millionth poop mural, or had the joy of the baby farting while taking a bath together (only it wasn't a fart), you can conquer the world! The best part: there's a whole community of people just like you. To talk about and be just as excited, shocked, dismayed and horrified by the enigmatic nature of poop. At least all the cool kids are.

On being the dog

"Oh, so this is the game. You throw something to the floor and I pick it up. It's called fetch. I've played this before. Except this time I'm the dog..." -- Jessa

On making friends

"Baby, what's that in your mouth? WHAT'S THAT IN YOUR MOUTH? ... Um, sorry, I thought he was just pulling her pig-tails but actually my son was stealing your daughter's barrette. Here ya go. It's kind of wet."

Une Vache à Lait: Milk Banks, Co-Operatives, and Corporations

I overheard a conversation today. I was sitting in the sweet little Le Marche St. George with my sweet little friend Le Jessa when two mothers came in. One had a babe in arms and the other had two kids under five.

"She had an undersupply issue," said one.
"Yeah, so that's what I'm saying. She just went to the milk bank." Said the other.
"I heard it's so expensive."

Nobody ever seems to like it when I butt in on their conversations so I just kept my questions -- and my excitement -- to myself (and Jessa). The thing is, I'd forgotten all about this little stream of alterna-parenting: not-for-profit human breast milk cooperatives.

It's no secret that many women in the West (15% of women who breastfeed) as well as a small percentage worldwide (less than 5%, more on this later) have difficulties producing enough milk for their babies. Any breastfeeding difficulty can be physically trying; this particular one has an intense emotional impact. Sarah, my co-blogger, wrote about some of these challenges (and her success!) in this post.

So what happens if you want to have an EBF (Exclusively Breast Fed) baby but your milk supply doesn't seem to be high enough? At first, mama and baby work on the problem themselves with more frequent nursing and maybe a Lactation Consultant's suggestions. But if baby isn't gaining weight or soiling enough diapers, it's time to supplement. Most mamas supplement with formula. Some are happy with this. But many aren't. Isn't there an alternative?

There are mamas with the opposite problem: oversupply. That was me for the first six months of Sweet Baby James' life. Milk, milk everywhere, and not a drop to drink (thirsty?...). Compared to undersupply it's a blessing. But it wasn't fun. I went through four pairs of the best (and most expensive) nursing pads every day. I shoved clean cloth diapers in my bra at night and soaked through them. I actually broke into tears one morning when I realized that no matter what I did, I was going to wake up with my pajamas plastered to my skin with sticky, smelly milk -- and I'd worn my last clean pajama top three nights ago.

The worst part was the run-off. I poured dozens of bottles of expressed milk down the drain and every time I did I felt a twinge of guilt: here I have so much while some have so little. I guess you could say I was the 1% of milk producers.

Thinking there must be some better way, I looked into donating to a milk bank. There are only a handful in the world. There is one in Canada -- it's in BC and if you want to donate you have to pay $ to ship your milk there. Glad to see we have a bank but I'm not in a position to pay to be generous these days.

There's also the International Breast Milk Project which pays for all shipping and has set up a free milk bank for orphaned babies in South Africa... Only problem is, they have also "partnered" with Prolacta Bioscience, a for-profit corporation that charges American parents big bucks to provide their premie babies with breast milk -- the same breast milk that has been donated by American women. Only 25% (10% if the amount received exceeds 400,000 oz.) of the milk donated actually gets to the bank in South Africa. The rest is sold for profit within America.

Prolacta 'invests' $1 per ounce they sell within America in humanitarian aid projects in South Africa. The fact that they can donate that much just shows just how valuable breast milk really is. Feeding a baby on milk bank milk costs about $100/day (EBF babies take in an average of 25 ounces/day). Way to be generous with the proceeds from sales of a material you acquired for free with sanctimonious preachings about helping the needy, Prolacta BioSCAMience.

So I did nothing, and bags of milk I had conscientiously stored in the freezer got chucked in the garbage when we moved. I'd done my research, but not very well. Because tonight I found this site, Milk Share, which hooks up donor and recipient families. Not a milk bank, not a big corporation (you can tell from Milk Share's ugly website -- Prolacta's is way sexier), though recipient families have to pay $20 to sign up. Just a little 'missed connections' messaging board for the lactationally yearning.

In fact, I could make some pretty good cash selling milk within the US through sites like this one, Only the Breast. I'll wait for my Green Card to come through first. But since it's only the state of California (where Prolacta is based...) that consumer-to-consumer sale is outright prohibited, we'd better move to New Jersey. You know, where they're more into this kind of thing.

The ickiness factor, however, kind of ramps up when I think of being paid for my milk. It's not that I'm against being paid for a product of my body (I worked damn hard in a lot of crappy jobs in my day -- what else is elbow grease but a bodily fluid?) but I'm a bit put off by the buyers. 48 of the 204 'Milk Wanted' ads on Only the Breast were posted by people who admit to being men.

Not that men can't be looking to buy breast milk for their babies. You just have to admit it's kind of unlikely. Take this guy whose ad claims a "low vitamin D level" for which he's willing to travel up to 75 miles to get FRESH breast milk. He says he found his vitamin D levels rose while "helping my wife with producing enough milk to feed our child" and he'd like to, you know, uh, get those levels up again.
HINT: Breast milk doesn't contain Vitamin D, that's why we Canadians have to give our babies Vitamin D drops.
HINT: People who do this don't have "a child," they have "a baby".
HINT: If you're a mom working on your milk supply, you're probably pumping a lot and letting the baby comfort nurse a lot, and not generally offering up your mammaries like an extra-handy Gatorade bottle to your thirsty, needs-to-get-out-in-the-sun-more husband.

Ladies, if you want to deal with mail-order fetishists, just sell your panties on Craigslist and be done with it. You'll benefit from a higher profit margin. And there's no need to refrigerate.

Like everything to do with bodies in our society, the issue is complicated. The ethics of buying, selling, and donating are complicated. The logistics are complicated. But it's great that breast milk is becoming more available to mamas who need it. Supplementing with formula doesn't work for everybody -- all babies have a (minor) dairy allergy, and some have a severe one; some babies are allergic to soy. They've gotta eat something. But keeping the digestive tract clear of everything but breast milk for the first six months is supposed to help the villi in the stomach lining to develop.

If you're comfortable with it, breast is best. Even if it's somebody else's.

First Class, Baby (Part III)

Air Canada flight 137, Toronto to Vancouver. One hour delayed.

The day begins with both mother and baby cranky, tired, feelings still smarting from our big fight the night before. It was all the baby's fault. My patience is wearing as thin as the two threadbare tank-tops I've been rotating (exchanging?) throughout this trip. It's also looking a little stained. One of its straps has broken.

He fusses at breakfast, at a hipster-only cafe on Dundas Street. I find this especially frustrating because they don't have a highchair or a changing table -- and Sweet Baby James' behaviour is only going to encourage them to keep not having these things. I tell the waiter that not having a highchair makes it hard for me to patronize them. He gives me a nonplussed look as Sweet Baby James lets out a wail (no, you may not wield the fork). I leave my friends to chat (about art! about our generation! about a really interesting conversation!) and stand outside with the baby. A cold wind blows. He's quiet for a minute and I take a deep breath. "SBJ," I say, "We have to pull together. Today is going to be a long day." "Hrgh," he replies.

I'll take that as a yes.

We take public transit to the airport since I'm not traveling with the carseat. It's not all that hard on TO's transit system, especially since I've packed so light (two tanktops, people. Two!). We check our bag and head to security.

About to get on the streetcar (who's bigger, baby or suitcase?)

At Toronto's Pearson International Airport, there are two security line-ups. One is for important people, and the other is for cattle. I approach the young woman guarding the VIP security section. "Excuse me," I say, "Can I go in this line?" I gesture to the baby on my hip who, for once, is using his cuteness to my advantage. She glances at me, gives an imperceptible shake of her head and looks back at her list. I am tired, I am hungry, I am cranky, and now, I am enraged. So I say what any normal person would say while pure feminist outrage coursed through her veins. "Well that's unfortunate!"

(and here I'm reminded of the time my friend was groped while running along the Lachine canal. The guy copped a feel and then rode away on his douchebag low-rider bicycle. "I can't believe it, out of all the things I could have yelled, you know what I said? 'There's something the matter with you!' Yes, that's right. [laughing] I wrote him a strongly worded letter.")

So I walk to the other line. The two gentlemen monitoring this line give us big smiles. They expedite us to the front. Then they transfer us to the Big Person's line. Their generosity only serves to incense me further. How dare she treat me so poorly? How dare she brush me off like a speck of dirt on her (polyester) lapel?

I march up to her. "You know what?" I say, "Actually, I can go in this line. So thanks a lot." I'm stalking off when she says,
"Excuse me, Ma'am, what's your name?" And I think Oh shit. Oh shit, I'm one of those people who yells at airline employees.
"Svea." I say.
"Oh, well it's not like I'm going to risk my job just to put you in the line."
"Well that's fine," I say, "But there are nicer ways of saying that. You could say, 'I'm sorry, you need to go in this line over here.' But instead you just looked through me."
"I was talking to someone else," she lies.
"Well, whatever the case, I felt like it was rude. I hope you have a good night."
"Well, I'm sorry" she says, in the least sorry voice she's ever been not-sorry with.

I'm actually shaking as I struggle to untie my laces to remove my boots for the X-ray machine. "Watch the baby's head" someone says and it's true that he's keeling to the side like a slice of tomato slipping out of an over-stuffed sandwich. But he's silent, somehow awed by his mother's kickass assertiveness. "He's so cute!" says the security guard. "Thanks," I say, "I think so too."

I stop at a family washroom/nursing room on the way to the plane because I want to write about it for my blog. A small sign on the door says "occupied". I reach out to test the handle and a woman in a suit jacket breaks the monologue she's speaking into her cell phone to bark at me. "Occupied!" she says. Yes, I sigh. Rude, rude, rude. I really have to do something about that kick-me sign on my forehead.

We get to our gate and although they're already boarding I run to the washroom to get in one last pre-plane couche change. They have a nice stainless steel changing table (of course) in a nicely sectioned-off little bit of the washroom. Too bad there's not a shelf or even a hook to hang your stuff on. I pile coat, sweater, passports, boarding passes, changing kit, all atop our little backpack, which goes on the floor. The baby voices his disapproval as I change him. I am feeling seriously fed up. Or maybe just hungry. I have no time to stop and pick up a snack, since I spent that time picking up a (seriously overrated) copy of Ondaatje's most recent book.

"What a beautiful child," someone says as she walks into a stall. I try to feel that way, like I am the mother of a beautiful child, the kind of child who shines light into the lives of people (most frequently, myself), who is lovely and enthusiastic and most certainly not going to scream for the next five hours.

It's all about positive thinking, right?

As we're boarding the plane (the last to get on), I count six strollers in the entrance. That's a lot of babies. This is the baby flight. Suddenly, Sweet Baby James' chances of survival are a lot better. I sing to him as we get settled in. The flight attendant comes over to instruct me to hold him facing me during take-off. Which would be fine if he were a little baby, but he's not, and he doesn't fit in my lap like that. So he ends up standing on my thighs, playing a one-sided (his) peek-a-boo with the lady sitting behind us. Probably not what the flight attendant had in mind, but... Quietly, quietly.

He's kind of a grouch for most of the flight but, then, so am I. We watch a little bit of The Wiggles on mute. In case you don't know, The Wiggles are a group of Australian men who like to squat. They perform squatting song-and-dance routines. I hold one earphone up to the baby and the other to myself. As I suspected, they have no rhythm. But this is the first time our baby actually seems compelled by the TV, and this compels me to stretch my own preferences.

The only other notable events of this flight are reflections of the flight attendants' genuine interest and affection: one of them looks ready to take Sweet Baby James home with her, since "My ex-husband was Muslim, I'm Native, it didn't work out." (to which the other attendant replies, "But it's not too late, is it?") I promise to bring the baby in to her restaurant; and the lone male attendant comps me a bowl of oatmeal. Win!

My mom's there to meet us at the other end, and what joy, she has also remembered the carseat. She treats me to the $22 parking lot fee and pulls out onto the highway. I sing the baby some ants as he whimpers his way through the streets of my hometown for the very first time in his very short life.

On time zones

"You know, I really love coming west from being out east. Because of the time difference my baby goes to bed at 9:30, not midnight. It totally makes me seem like a better mother."

10 Signs You Need to Find Yourself Some Mama Friends

Can you still be close after you've had a baby and your friend hasn't? The featured article in my La Leche League magazine says Well, not really. But that's bullshit. It has to be bullshit. I love my old friends and since none of them have kids yet, I refuse to become a self-made social pariah just because I have a totally new life with drastically different priorities baby.

But there are differences. I don't have the time I used to. I don't have the patience I used to. And I definitely can't give my friends the kind of attention they're used to. I'm too focused on getting Sweet Baby James to stop eating that french fry he peeled off the cafe floor.

The writing's on the wall. I'll never leave my old friends but I need some Mama friends to share my pain /germs. Maybe you're in the same boat.

Here are 10 Signs You Need to Find Yourself Some Mama Friends
1. Your baby's been to the bar more times than he's been to the playground. He plays better pool than you do. He thinks the bartender is his father friend.
2. The bartender actually is his friend.
3. You discuss defecation at all manner of social functions. In fact, you discuss it at all social functions. The bartender knows if baby's pooped today.
4. Pregnant women cross the street when they see you coming. Your desperation to bond is only exceeded by their desire to get to yoga.
5. You sit down for lunch with your friend the party animal. She says she's 'exhausted'. You quash an urge to gouge her eyes out.
6. You update your status to say you're putting the baby to sleep. Your friends think this is a good time to call and say hi.
7. You refuse to have a conversation with anyone before you know their stance on vaccination and crying it out. The letter-carrier and cashier at your local grocery conduct their services in silence.
8. You start advising your friends to stick with Mr. Wrong because you're secretly hoping they'll get knocked up.
9. All those people who said they'd babysit when you were pregnant now define your baby as "the best form of birth control."
10. Your milk lets down and the only thing you can find to catch it is your friend's half-drunk martini. You call this ground-breaking. She calls it "a waste".

*strange scratching sensation on legs*

Me: "Oh what's that you have there Scooter? A plastic rake?"

E: "He thinks its a brush. Look! He's brushing your leg hairs with it!"

J:"Maybe he's trying to tell you its time to shave your legs?..."

First Class, Baby (Part II)

Last week I wrote about our adventures with poop in the first class washroom of an Air Canada flight. This week the odyssey continues with a business class ticket to Toronto aboard the once-illustrious VIA Rail.

In booking my ticket I was pleasantly surprised to find that the first class ticket on Saturday cost the same as the economy class ticket on Friday (OK, it cost ten bucks more). I wasn't sure about the social etiquette of traveling with a pre-verbal infant who hates sitting still so I asked my aunt.
"Philippa," I said, "Do you think it's rude for me to take a baby in first class?"
"I wouldn't think so," she said.
"I mean, I'm pretty sure he'd be quiet, but... It's just not done, I don't think."
"Well, Svea, you should do what you're comfortable with," she said.

I decided to do it. Because, hey, what I'm comfortable with is riding in the lap of luxury. And I wanted to see if it was still a luxury experience with a 25 pound baby on my lap, several stains down the front of my shirt (milk, OJ, unidentified black shmutz, more milk) and a bag full of diapers safely stowed in the overhead compartment. I have no idea how I forgot to add "infant" to the reservation.

As usual, the afternoon of our departure I'm running late. My lovely aunt helps us to the train station. Due to some lucky metro timing we arrive with ten minutes to spare. I give her an emotional farewell (oh, the pain of saying adieu to childcare from trusted family members!) and trot down to the platform. "Oh," says the ticket-taker, "You're in Business Class!" I mean to ask him what the hell that means but instead I ask which car.

As I hurry inside trying hard to look like a Young Professional who just happens to have an infant-like goiter on my chest, the attendant comes rushing up the aisle. Certain that she's going to ask me if I'm in the 'right' *ahem* car, I try to hold my head up high while shoving our suitcase into the luggage rack. I needn't have worried. "Would you like some help with that?" she asks.

Rachel the attendant is in love with Sweet Baby James. Sometimes it's easy to tell a childless woman. The kind of woman who loves kids but would never have them, whose well-rested face lights up at the most mundane of baby tricks... Often slim, pert, looks young for her age. Let us all take a minute and pray to be assigned such an angel to watch over us during our travels.

She brings me fruit juice and extra chocolates, smiles at Sweet Baby James every time she passes and by the end of the trip is holding him as I happily rest my arms. She also brings me a pillow, a blanket, and a massive bottle of water that I still haven't finished. To my surprise, having the baby with me seems to make her like me more. I notice the curt tone she uses with other punkass-looking passengers (the drug dealer sitting behind me discussing deliveries on her cell -- also, it turns out, a mother of two -- or the inexplicable couple in front of us who never seem to say anything above a mumble) is kind of sharp. But to us she is lovely.

Rachel the attendant wanted to take a picture of us. She was that nice.

Rocked by the train's steady sway and no doubt exhausted from what has become Svea and Baby's Excellent Adventure, Sweet Baby James goes down after only 10 ants and sleeps for at least half the ride. I was not expecting this. I have come unprepared sans books, magazines or music to pass the time. I stare out the window pondering life and its vicissitudes, the beauty of a baby (my baby!) sleeping on my chest. The first time I've had nothing to do for two straight hours since I don't know when. He wakes up in time for dinner which is mashed potatoes off our complimentary roast beef entrée though what he really wants is the blueberry cheesecake (or perhaps its lid).

No poop has emanated thus far, but it's time to change the 'couche' (diaper in French, or portmanteau of c*nt and douche in street parlance, thanks urbandictionary.com) so I take baby to the restroom. What luck, there's a baby sign on the door! We make use of a decent-sized fold down changing table inside. It takes babies up to 15 kg. At 11.3, Sweet Baby James might be pushing it by the time he's out of diapers, but that won't matter because we'll be in San Francisco.

Sweet Baby James on the fold-down changing table. WIN!

I gotta say, it was pretty great. I've always enjoyed train travel and I think Sweet Baby James does too. I love it for the scenery, he for the people. What a sad day it will be when he grows up to realize that not every stewardess wants to hug you, gruff old men don't just break into smile when you start blowing raspberries, and sometimes strangers are not just friends you haven't met yet.


Tomorrow we fly to Vancouver. I'm working on a '10 Things I Learned About Traveling With a Baby' post so let me know if you have any tips. Happy trails!

The Tuesday Photo: 40 Weeks Old

This week's essay, TOYS: An Evaluative Report, was authored by my son. Sweet Baby James is nine months old and has a lot to say about the stuff he finds around the house (including his mom).

It was only after this post went up that I realized that out of all the ten toys Sweet Baby James reviews, a 'traditional' (e.g. meant for babies) toy is not among them! They're all regular household objects. Toy manufacturers, take note...

On Damage Control

"Asking you to take care of her ceramics and be careful not to damage them is like asking you to not have any more children." - A R-P

Mona Lisa Smile, Signs that Your Child May Have Bell's Palsy

Intuition is defined as: the power or faculty of attaining to direct knowledge or cognition without evident rational thought and inference. It also goes by many different descriptions, including, inkling, hunch, "a feeling," or that little voice in your head that alerts you to something.

Whatever name you choose to call it, we have it for a reason.

Motherhood bestows you with many things. Some good, some not so glamourous, some you wish you could take back (lack of sleep, the decrease in your grey matter). Perhaps the most handy thing that we receive as mothers is Momtuition.

Momtuition is that special power that brings with it eyes in the back of your head, and the ability to know that your child is up to something. It also alerts you when something is not right. Even when you are not entirely sure, always listen to your momtuition. I say this because mine is quite possibly responsible for saving further nerve damage to J's cranial nerve.

Let me back up a bit.

Yesterday morning I left to run some errands and work on some school related things. When I saw J in the morning, things appeared normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. When I returned late in the day, I noticed while speaking with her that something was slightly peculiar about the left side of her face. It was ever so slight, but that little voice kept nagging at me. So I questioned her. "Does your face feel okay?" "How are you feeling today?" "Is anything bothering you?" She assured me everything was fine aside from a bump on her tongue, which we thought might just be an swollen taste bud.

An hour passed by and J came to help me with dinner. She started talking about how she thought the bump on her tongue was causing her not to be able to taste her food properly. As she was talking I noticed her eye and half of her mouth as she spoke was disproportionate to the other side of her face. Something was not right. I could feel it. I couldn't put my finger on what it was though, and in order not to create panicdemic as a result of my own fear, I opted to stand calmly and let her continue speaking while trying not to lose my shit. Then she smiled, and there it was. My feeling had been confirmed. Her eye and face were drooping on one side entirely, the other half of her face- paralyzed.

Some people don't believe in fate. I do. I am a firm believer that every person we come into contact throughout the course of our lives is there for a particular reason. Whether it be to learn a lesson, to offer us lifelong companionship, or just impart a piece of knowledge that will become indispensable at a later time. A piece of knowledge that might not be clear at that instant, but will reveal itself eventually.

I was fortunate to have met a very wise, very kind woman who came in the form of a prenatal yoga instructor. A woman who also happens to have a severe and resistant form of Bell's Palsy. A woman who, had I not met and learned her story, I may not have recognized the same symptoms in my daughter the moment she smiled. For this I feel fortunate. Some people are not so lucky. As such, I would like to pay it forward and relay what I know and have learned of Bell's Palsy for those who may be faced with a similar situation.

See, the thing about Bell's Palsy is - its a weird and baffling disease that a lot of people are unaware of. It can strike at any time, though generally happens overnight, and if undetected or left for too long untreated, can turn severe and irreversible. It presents the same facial paralysis and drooping of the face that is indicative of strokes, but is not a stroke. It is caused by inflammation or damage to the facial nerve also referred to as cranial nerve 7. The real kicker is, this disease most commonly affects adults starting around age 50. Extremely rarely do cases appear in children under the age of fifteen- J is twelve....

It is also referred to as "Mona Lisa Syndrome," as its thought by some in the medical community that her enigmatic smile is in fact a result of Bell's Palsy.

(Mona Lisa)

Other famous people have had Bell's Palsy and recovered fully, including:

George Clooney (in high school)

Perhaps the most famous case for Canadians, is former Prime Minister Jean Chrétien

Even James Bond has been touched by the disease. And today appears neither shaken nor stirred by it...

Pierce Brosnan (In his dressing room before an appearance on the "Tonight Show")

The most immediate and noticeable symptoms include:

• Loss of taste,
• Irritated eyes
• Inability to properly close eye
• Drooping eye or corner of mouth (or both)
• Inability to smile properly on both sides of the mouth
• Inability to raise eyebrow on paralyzed side,
• Distorted features (usually more present on one side of the face)

The good news is, that if caught early enough and treated immediately, there is a very good prognosis. Most people fully regain facial function.

After 7 and a half hours at the Children's Hospital it was indeed confirmed, this is what J has. She has begun her round of medication and the doctors are confident the treatment will result in a positive recovery in a few weeks to a couple months. She remains in good spirits. She is not in pain and in the meantime, has gained a new appreciation for staring contests - using her open, non-blinking eye to her advantage and dominating the playing field.....

On Speeding Up Time

ME: I wish I could make this go faster. Unfortunately I can't.

J: That's okay. You only have Mommy powers, not super powers. Mommy powers are a whole other set of powers...

First Class, Baby

I always wondered what it's like to travel first class. I've done a lot of traveling spending as little money as possible. Well, not exactly. I've done a lot of traveling spending as little money on extraneous things like plane tickets and breakfast as possible. In Sweden I pitched my tent in a city park and stole food off someone's reject cafeteria plate. I also bought this gorgeous canvas coat and took weekly trips to Copenhagen. Anyway.

I got upgraded one time after spending the night in the foetal position under a desk in the Colombo airport (take pity on a poor white girl). There was someone working for an international aid agency in the seat beside me. She had nice hair and a perfectly modulated voice. I had so many questions to ask her but instead I slept through the flight -- a full nine hours. I still have the complimentary eye-mask.

I've most certainly never traveled first class with a baby. Now that I'm on the road with Sweet Baby James, hitting up all my favourite cities on a Last Hurrah/Give Me My Green Card, Bitch cross-Canada tour, I'm willing to give it a try.

Our introduction to the Executive Experience happens on Air Canada flight 758 to Montréal. It's an early morning flight and I begin the day exhausted, tripping over my own two feet which is kind of obscene when you're carrying a baby. I've always felt I should dress up for air travel but today my hair is still damp from the shower, pulled back into a drooping bun. You could say 'drooping' is kind of the unifying theme here: bleary eyes, sagging jeans, and somehow also the once-trusty ring sling which Sweet Baby James has learned how to wriggle loose.

I am constantly readjusting it, tightening it around him for some semblance of safety as we go through baggage check, security, washroom pit-stop, airplane boarding, minuscule airplane washroom pit-stop... It's driving me crazy. And my pants are falling down. I am that mom. That harried mom with frizzy hair and a kid who looks like trouble. The passenger no one wants to sit beside.

What nobody knows is that the last time we took a flight, I kept this baby quiet like my life dependend on it. I walked him up and down the aisles. I took him for a poop in the bathroom. I comfort nursed him whenever he looked a little peevish. I sat paralyzed, staring straight ahead as he slept because I couldn't quite reach my magazine. I tied disposable cups to strings and hung them from different parts of the plane, creating a beverage-themed mobile for his batting convenience.

God dammit, I kept him so content and entertained, no one had cause to complain. No, instead they complimented my husband when he came to pick us up at the gate. "He was so quiet the whole flight! What a good baby!" I don't know why they congratulated him when they should have been thanking me. Anyway.

This flight starts off well with Sweet Baby James relaxing into my arms in our Economy Class seat during take off. I'm a bit on edge because although I took him to the washroom a few minutes before, he hasn't had his morning poop. And he didn't have one yesterday.

For the first ten minutes, it's clear sailing. The man with the aisle seat has begrudgingly consented to switch with me if the baby starts crying and I have to walk the aisle at some point. I'm thirsty. We hit some minor turbulence and the captain turns the seatbelt sign on. I put Sweet Baby James back in his sling and wait for the sign to be turned off. He fusses a bit so I sing him some ants.

The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah.
The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah. The ants go marching one by one, the little one stops to suck his thumb --
and they all go marching down, to the ground, to get out of the rain.

(bum ba-bum bum)

And then I sing him some more. And some more. We're up to ten ants (the little one stops to pet a hen) and still the seatbelt sign has not been turned off. There hasn't been any turbulence for at least fifteen minutes. I'm not the only one getting antsy. Poopageddon seems also to be nigh for several middle-aged men, who jump out of their seats in a desperate bid for the washroom, only to be turned back by a sour-faced stewardess. She comes onto the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has left the seatbelt sign on. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelt, for your own safety and that of others around you, or I will publicly humiliate you in ways only I know how. Thank you."

Sweet Baby James is looking at me like, "Mom, I really have to go..." 

He's a little disturbed by all this. Not so much the seatbelt sign, which I have now come to believe El Capitan has forgotten to turn off, but the accusatory voice emanating from the ceiling. She clicks off loudly and that's when I hear it: the unmistakable sound, the sound I would know anywhere. It is the sound of a pooptrastrophe in the making. Sweet Baby James looks at me, not altogether displeased with himself. I check his diaper and see the tide rising. I quickly snap it back and press down, not wanting to invite our new friend to further explore the terrain of his lower back.

I should take a little time-out here and explain something. Some of you may be wondering what the big deal is, because I have a baby and babies poop their diapers all the time, whatevs. The thing is, we practice 'Elimination Communication' (or Natural Infant Hygiene, as Isabelle Bauer calls it in her inspiring book, Diaper Free: The Gentle Wisdom of Natural Infant Hygiene). Most of Sweet Baby James' poops actually happen on the toilet when we cue him to go. I'll write more about this in another post, but for now I'll say that I do not feel good about letting my baby sit in his own crap. I also prefer not to be its intermediary processor, especially not in confined spaces 30,000 feet above sea level.


So we subsist for a while, me singing more ants and trying to keep Sweet Baby James in a standing position, his twists, turns and dives reduced to a minimum. He complains greatly at this new restriction, lunging for the earbuds of the woman sitting next to us who is watching an old Seinfeld episode and politely ignoring the aroma wafting out of my baby's pants.

At long last, the captain remembers us and pushes his benevolent finger on the off-button. Cue the sound of 300 seatbelts unbuckling. This is my chance. I should be the first in line. I should be running down the aisle as fast as those pudgy middle-aged guys, I should be -- there is no way. Fifteen people line up on each side. In my sleep-addled brain I do the calculation. If they all take an average of three minutes in there (and let's be honest, some of them are going to take a lot longer than that), we're looking at 45 minutes of waiting.

A stewardess approaches me. She must have seen the desperation on my face because she's smiling and suggesting I use the washroom "up there." I can hardly believe my ears: where? In First Class? You want me to take my poopy baby up there into the dimly lit foreskin of the plane, where men in business suits are drinking Sake and... watching old Seinfeld episodes?

I saunter up the aisle, baby on my arm. Apparently people in First Class don't have to pee quite so often because, Hurrah, hurrah, I'm at the head of the line. I slip into the washroom, eager to unclip the changing table and get the baby out of his padded fecal bag when my hand grazes against... nothing. Nothing at all, save the bare beige wall, mottled airplane plastic. There's no changing table.

NO. CHANGING. TABLE.

I do my best. We do our best, Sweet Baby James and I. He cries as I set him down on the toilet seat, perhaps out of surprise at the cold metal on his back, perhaps out of fear at the precarious nature of his position. I can't protect him from rolling off, though I try by straddling the seat with my legs, my hands busy with the task of un-sticking the diaper from his bum. And how the hell am I going to get a fresh diaper out of the case without getting poop on his pants, which are also in my hand? I do it, we do it, and when we exit the washroom to walk back to our seat, not a few of the passengers are smiling at us.

I smile back. No poop to be seen here, folks. Just your average mama with your average adorable baby.

----

Is there something inappropriate about having a baby in First Class? Or is it just that no one does it, and that's why there are no changing tables in those washrooms? Could it be that most First Class passengers are male, and therefore much less likely to be traveling with a baby? I don't know. I took a picture of the changing situation for the 'I've changed my baby...' project. Next time I'll be putting up a sticker.

In a few days we're taking the train to Toronto. I just booked the ticket, a five hour trip. First Class, baby.

Sunday Brunch with Anne Celila, Mama of Two

I met Anne at the alternative elementary school I attended for eight formative years. She was my teacher, though I never called her that. At Wondertree all 'teachers' are Learning Consultants and if someone asks you to call them by their last name, you ask them to call you by yours – even if you're seven years old.

Anne was a wonderful mentor. She was ever-kind, generous, compassionate, and exuded warmth with a twinkle in her eye. I remember long walks through the woods by the school and her loving tolerance of the special needs boy who demanded most of her attention. She also had two soft-spoken teenage daughters, one of whom has recently had her first child. I reconnected with Anne through facebook just around the time I was pregnant with Sweet Baby James. I knew she was someone whose story, especially now that I could relate to her as an adult and a mother, I needed to hear.

I always saw Anne as a 'natural' or 'born' mother. As she says herself, early-years parenting was a breeze for her. I've never really heard anyone say this before. We have this assumption that parenting is tough and watch out your kids will take over your life; it's easy to forget that it doesn't have to be that way. To me, Anne is a beautiful example of surrendering to the journey: embracing motherhood as a teaching and her children as her teachers. In sharing her voice here, and in her current work as a 'Village Granny' in small-town British Columbia, she continues to be a Learning Consultant extraordinaire.


– Svea Boyda-Vikander

*                 *                 *

How old were you when you first started having kids?

In some ways I've always had children.  I was 6 when my youngest sibling was born and there are a lot of pictures of the 4 children in my family (I was the oldest) with me holding my little brother.  I began babysitting as soon as I could and always wanted a family.  I was 30 when my first daughter was born, and my other daughter was born 19 months later.  "My girls" K&K are 31 and 29 now, in the fall of 2011.  I would have loved to have a larger family, but my husband only wanted two.

What was your household like during your kids' younger years?

From when K&K were born until they were 9 and 10 years old, we homeschooled. I tried to have other children around as much as possible.  It was challenging to be doing this in the suburbs - hardly anyone around us was home during the day and the culture of the community was pretty traditional.  I gotta confess that often felt like it was me alone with K&K…   My husband was supportive of all this, but wasn't really a "little kid" dad and was away during virtually all of their weekday waking hours. While my heart was definitely in my parenting and being with my children during their young years, my spirit got battered a lot. 

I was an educated left-leaning hippie earth mother who was more informed than many about pregnancy, childbirth, parenting, and educational choices.  I had a bachelor's degree which I never used after moving to Canada.  Before marriage, I worked in offices, retail and direct sales (Tupperware).  I did extensive volunteer work with Planned Parenthood and in fact, have spent most of my working life as a volunteer. 

So.  When my daughters were pre-schoolers, I was involved (a few hours a week at most) in a local home birth support group and later, in the home schooling support group.  Later, when the youngest was 5, I became an active (10-15 hours per week) member of my chanting and meditation group and served in many capacities within this organization, both locally and nationally.

When K&K and I finally were ready (they were 9 and 10 years old) for more traditional schooling, we found a very alternative system that revolved around empowering the children to be in charge of their own learning, facilitated by "learning consultants". During this time, I re-entered the paid work force working at different retail jobs and eventually within the "school" system of my daughters as a learning consultant.

Have you since become a single parent?

I finally divorced when my daughters were 15 and 17 years old.  But I'd emotionally been isolated and alone for most of their lives.

What are your best memories from raising children?

(1) Birthday parties with lots and lots of children and parents around (community).

(2) Watching talents crystallize in my daughters -

• SEWING from playing with paper dolls (at 5&6) to making paper doll clothes 2 or 3 years later, to sewing or crocheting clothing and household items these days
• COOKING from sandbox cooking at 4&5 to making "5 Cup Peanut Butter balls" at 6&7, to making a surprise birthday cake for me when they were 9 and 10, to master-level cooking (older daughter)
• SINGING off key with me at 3&4 to taking voice lessons and learning a couple of instruments beginning at 6&7, to hearing their beautiful and intricate harmonies today
• BUSINESS SKILLS from writing stories and newspapers and making their own library system at ages 6&7, to informally developing system analysis and behind-the-scenes assistant skills (younger daughter) and being a co-business owner specializing in the financial management (older daughter).

(3) Another best memory is figuring out how to manage 3 preschool aged children (I was doing part time childcare for another young girl).  I still laugh when I remember how I figured out where I could walk with three very different little girls who wanted to walk in different directions while I wanted to enable them to do so safely.  (we walked down the back alley) 

(4) I also recall fondly co-breast feeding my second daughter and my friend's little girl who was the same age… as one or the other of us had a husband & wife night out.

If you could summarize your parenting philosophy into one word, phrase, or sentence, what would that be?

My operating philosophy is probably best summarized as Laissez-faire.  Laissez-faire and TRUST.   As much as possible, watch and enjoy.  Our children - even the very youngest ones - know so much more about what they need and want than we do.  As much as possible, support their wisdom.

What do you wish you had known before you had your first child?

Mostly, I would like to go back and tell my younger self,

"Anne, you can't do it alone.  You can't.  It takes a Village.  And you need time off or else your work, your self-image, and your ability to be the person you want to will suffer.  Get the help you need.  And be gentle on yourself for any "mistakes" you feel you made.

What is the absolute worst advice anyone has given you about parenting?

"Let her cry" when my older daughter was 6 months old, was waking me up 6 times at night and I was so sleep deprived I was at the end of my rope.   What I'd tell my younger self today?  (1) Give up the idea of sleeping with your husband for a while and sleep with your daugher… if you feel you can't reconsider co-sleeping in a family bed. (2) Give up the idea that you don't need help, and look for a La Leche League meeting.  Do it!

And the best advice?

Well just about anything I read in Mothering Magazine was advice worth taking.  I really didn't know anyone doing parenting in the gentle style I was.  I'm sure they were there, I just didn't know them.
 

What are your relationships with your kids like now?
My daughters are loving, generous young women who don’t seek out my advice (who does? these days in our society?).  They do let me tell my stories though, we spend quit a bit of time together…  My older daughter just became a mother herself a few months ago.  She watches what I do with her son, and she shows me her own style and competencies… we do this without speaking about it.  My younger daughter lives in another town, and she calls me several times a week and we visit back and forth when we can…
 

What is your relationship with their father like now?

My former husband, their dad, and I have been separated and then divorced for more than a decade.  We get together when we're in the same town for family events.  We sometimes do things together, we have a good relationship.  We acknowledge that we're still each other's longest friends and we know more about each other than most anyone else knows about us.  We have our children and grandson in common, some strong shared interests and we have similar intellectual, political, educational, and ideological beliefs.  We respect each other.

What were your births like, and were you happy with the care you received?

The childbirths of my two daughters happened in 1980 and 1982. 

The one in 1980 was a planned home birth attended by two midwives and a couple of other people. It was a great experience, although I'd say it fell short of my "spiritual midwifery ala Ina May Gaskin" dream.  My husband is not a very spiritual person, my main midwife was a compassionate, trained professional, and my dream remained a private one… 

Active labor was about 10 hours long and I was well-attended.  I remember it pretty clearly 30 years later with the help of pictures and some notes I made.  I had a second-stage complication: a retained placenta and I was transported to hospital for it's manual extraction (very sharply painful but only seconds long.  I stayed overnight and came home the next morning.  I loved my pregnancy, I was fully present for the birth process, and was immediately in love with my daughter at first sight…  My husband cut her umbilical cord, we followed the Laboyer birth process to a great extent, even having a memorable Laboyer bath for my baby, where, her dad said she was doing the backstroke.  I was still waiting for my placenta to come out and couldn't watch.   She was 9 lbs 10 oz.

The early motherhood period was a breeze for me.  Really and truly.  I loved the breast feeding, the diaper changes… everything. 

My second childbirth was virtually painless and very quick - maybe 4 hours in total.  A breeze.  My daughter was born in the car on the way to the hospital (we'd planned a hospital birth due to the second-stage complication of #1).  She was 9 lbs big.  We went home a couple of hours after the placental came out nicely all by itself and in one piece.    

I was happy with the care I received during both births - it was the kind of care that allowed me and my husband to be the decision makers. Supportive.

Can you share with us some of your tricks and tips about staying sane as a new mother?

 Well, as I mentioned, I was a bit isolated and it was definitely a sanity-challenging period.  I had no car access and didn't choose to bus around with small ones.  Here's what I'd do.  I knew about 5 women who were staying home with their little ones.  I called a different one every day and ask, "teething yet?" or "how's the colic?" or whatever I knew was going on with them and their children.  I just wanted to talk to an adult who was experiencing similar things.  It worked for me!  Oh and (this was before home computers) I read Parenting Magazine.  The magazine was cheap - i.e. I could afford it, the articles were only one page long (I could read them between "crises") and they covered topics that were interesting to me (although not in any depth that would have deeply satisfied, but I didn't have time for depth anyway.)

If I could give my younger self some advice, I'd say, "give up on the idea that you don't do buses.  Take the kids and go somewhere on a field trip every day or two.  Get outside and do SOMEthing --- ANYTHING."

How did having kids affect your relationship? 

Our challenge was this: we didn't have good communication skills.  Our one and only technique was to talk until it felt done.  This was compromised with the time demands of children, and never really resolved.   

 

What kind of sleeping arrangements did you have?

My first choice was family bed.  My husband was a chronically poor sleeper and so I compromised.  My newborn was in a little bassinet by my bedside for a short while.  It became clear that that was still to hard for him, so she moved into a <painful to say this> crib in an adjacent room.  I believe this was my worst parenting choice.

What mistakes did you make as the mother of small children? What did you learn?

Well these are mentioned in a number of other places in this interview, but I'll summarize some of them here.

1. Not sleeping with my daughter.
2. Thinking I could do it all.  Baby-parenting was possibly easier for me than it was for other mothers, but it still is an incredibly demanding job and I really needed help. 
3. Not taking care of my own personal and relationship needs.  My priorities were
1. Kids - always. 
2. Self - maybe a walk sometimes. 
3. Relationship - How do I do this even if I had time?

In terms of what I learned... I am still figuring out the answer to this one.

Were you able to and interested in breastfeeding? At what ages did you wean?

Yes for both daughters.  They seemed to wean themselves at about one year.  (I got pregnant with my second  when the first one was 10 months old.)  Here is where La Leche League could have helped me.  I would have loved to feed them longer.

How did you feel about your changing body as a pregnant woman/new mother?

I absolutely loved being a hugely pregnant woman…

Addendum:

It's fascinating to me that you're collecting Elder Wisdom, Svea.  First of all, I had virtually no elder wisdom to go by.  My mom died about a month after my first daughter was born, but she wasn't someone who was involved in my life anyway, and certainly my extended family (German Catholic - stand on your own two feet and don't complain about anything) were not forthcoming either.  Plus, I lived 3000 miles from the nearest relative. 

So part of me is very sad not to have experienced any of this wisdom sharing when I was younger.

On the other hand, I'm very conscious of the idea from First Nations community in my area of Elder Wisdom, and I'm very aware that I DO have some life experience that is valuable.  I'm so touched to have been asked these questions and to have been given time to reflect on them.

Love to all of us who love our children…

 – Anne

On Playing With the Baby

"Tessa and I were fighting over that box with our teeth last night... After a while the baby wasn't even watching anymore." - Sister's Roommate