Advent 2011: Sunday of Hope

Today was the first day of Advent. After dinner, we began our Advent family activity. We read verses from Luke 1:

There was a priest named Zechariah. His wife's name was Elizabeth. They both lived good lives in God's sight and obeyed fully all the Lord's laws and commands. They had no children because Elizabeth could not have any, and she and Zechariah were both very old. One day Zechariah was doing his work as a priest in the Temple. An angel of the Lord appeared to him, standing at the right side of the altar where the incense was burned. When Zechariah saw him, he was alarmed and felt afraid. But the angel said to him, "Don't be afraid, Zechariah! God has heard your prayer, and your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son. You are to name him John. How glad and happy you will be, and how happy many others will be when he is born!"

We talked about waiting, about how challenging it can be to wait for something we really want, like a baby, but that the good things that come after waiting are worth it. Peanut said it was just like having to wait for a chocolate cookie.

advent 2011

Last year I planned to do a daily Advent reading with Peanut. But then our apartment filled with mold, we temporarily evicted ourselves to a hotel and then my mother's house, and I had some pretty horrendous nausea and fatigue on top off all that stress. We tried to stay focused on joy, but..well, it was hard. This year, though, I'm feeling extremely determined.

It took me a while to figure out precisely what I wanted to do to mark the progress of the Advent season every day, but after reading this and having a conversation over Facebook with Katie Munnik, I found my direction.

We start with the theme of Waiting. Advent is a season of waiting, of expectation and anticipation as well as preparation. We prepare ourselves for The Gift but we also acknowledge The Wait. The long wait for the sun. The long wait for a son. The long wait for a Saviour. Reading through Luke, there are scores of players in the story who are waiting. Zechariah and Elizabeth wait for a child. Zechariah waits to speak. Mary and Joseph wait to be married. Mary waits for her child to be born. Israel waits for the Messiah. The shepherds wait for the nightwatch to end. The Magi wait for the star to show them where to find Him. And of course there's Herod, futilely, malevolently waiting for the Magi to return.

And we: we wait to celebrate again. We wait for the days to lengthen once again, for our Northern world to begin its turn back toward the sun. We wait to sing out joy to the world, the LORD is come! I can understand waiting. Moreover, a 3 year old can understand waiting. She can understand anticipation: she is, in fact, a master.

Here's what we'll be doing: we start with a branch and some yarn. I happened to have a branch painted gold from a long-ago dance recital, so I used that. I have suspended the branch over our dining table from a shelf on the wall using  some twill tape. Onto the branch I've draped several random loops of yarn to create a sort of web hanging over the table. Before dinner tomorrow I'll clip 29 very small clothespins or paper clips onto the yarn. I'll also have 29 squares of coloured paper, as well as a few slips of plain white paper, sitting on the shelf above the table. On the table we'll have a candle.

So that's the display we'll have set up for the season. Every evening we'll light the candle and we'll read a short passage, talk about what it means, what part of the story it represents, and about the waiting within that passage. Then we'll take a square of paper, decide as a family what shape might represent that passage (or just what we feel like seeing that day) and we'll cut it out. Stars, hearts, people, doves, snowflakes...We'll cut out the shape and then clip it to the yarn. Every day more and more of the clothespins will be filled up. Some days we'll add some written words as well. By the end we should have a colourful, joyful little array above our table.

I'll be posting the reading for that evening here every day, so feel free to follow along with your family.  And I'd love to hear how you are marking this season of anticipation.

Friday Follow

I was planning to do a different theme this time around, but I'll save it. This week we're looking at some of my favourite feminist blogs.
In days gone by, I followed blogs like Feministing religiously. But then I married and had children and, frankly, my tastes changed. Feminist mothers who blog aren't few and far between (there are LOTS of us, in point of fact) but finding them can be somewhat challenging. So here are some that I follow:

1. Bluemilk - I love this woman. I mean, I absolutely adore every post she writes. She is made of awesome. Her post, Don't Get Raped is the sort of anger-driven brilliance to which I aspire. Check out her extensive list of feminist blogs in the right sidebar if you are looking for even more to read.

2. The Mamafesto - Another golden one. Her series This Is What a Feminist Looks Like is a study in the breadth of identity and definition of feminism. Check out her post But What About the Rest of Us? to see a short round-up of some notable feminist parenting blogs, as well as the comments.

3. PhD in Parenting - Annie Urban is local and prolific. Her blog is primarily focussed on parenting, but within a feminist frame. So much to read here: go check it out.

4. Raising My Boychick - Gender norms, parenting, feminism...it's all in here and it's brilliant. Check out this post on facilitating the co-existence of work and parenting, particularly in light of my post from yesterday.

5. The Unnecesarean - The intersection of informed consent, with regard to pregnancy and birth, and feminism is about a mile wide. Jill Arnold does a fan-freaking-tastic job of illuminating both, all while maintaining her sense of humour.

6. Hugo Shwyzer - He's a guy. He's a dad. He's a professor. He's an author. He's a youth minister. He's a feminist. Who's a big fan? This woman!

So there you have it: six feminist blogs that are full of awesome, heavy on the meditation, free of man-hating, and food for much thought. Did I miss anyone? Did I miss you?? Leave a comment if you have a blog - or know of a blog - I should be reading.


Happy Friday, lovelies!

early years at home with mommy

Canadian news media have been picking up on a recently published paper which, ostensibly, addresses changing and ever-pressing childcare needs. The Early Years Study 3 of 2011 promises to address "the social, economic and scientific rationale for increased investments in early childhood education." 

But make no mistake: this paper is not entirely focussed on early childhood development. This paper has an agenda, one cleverly couched in language of parental and feminist guilt.

The gist of the proposal found here is this: formalized education can and should start as early as age two. Toddlers should be in a classroom setting. One of the co-authors of the paper, Dr. Fraser Mustard told the Toronto Star, ""I would come down to three-year-olds, then two-year-olds and one-year-olds."

Yes. 12 month old babies in a classroom.

Studies of this sort make my brain hurt. They make my very heart and soul hurt. Because while some have responded to this, saying, "Good: something for those of us unfortunate enough not to be able to stay home with our kids," that is not what this paper is about. To those who say, "This will support a woman's choice to return to the workforce after maternity leave!" I say, "Bullshit." This paper is not about supporting choice: this paper is about making choices for parents. This paper doesn't have a feminist objective: this paper is the very antithesis of feminism.

This paper is anti-family.

The authors go so far as to say that families with only one working parent are bad for the economy. This is hard enough to hear at the best of times but in the midst of a global recession it is positively dripping with guilt. The authors even condescend, stating, "Most women want to work." They repeatedly talk about growing children to be "contributing members of society" while positing that opposite the elderly (who are a terrible financial drain, they note) and at-home parents, particularly mothers, who do not earn, therefore do not work, therefore do not contribute.

The authors of this paper note the prevalence of maternal depression but then argue that a key to reducing the rate of maternal depression is social time with others and a comfy chair. Seriously. So thank you, dear researchers, thank you. The cure to my PPD is not vitamins and minerals or prescription medication: the cure is a comfy chair a good chat with some 'gals' at my local school. And I should get right on that since, as they make a point of noting several times, stress "drips down" onto my children, and a stressed or depressed mother isn't good for her children. If my PPD hadn't already made me worry about the quality of my parenting this paper certainly cleared things up for me: now I feel like a downright failure.

But what about the children, you ask? Yes: what about the children. The authors use anecdotes to describe two year old children who haven't yet learned to regulate their emotional responses to stimuli as an example of...well,they never come right and state the purpose of that particular little story, exactly, but when viewed within the context of the paper as a whole the implication is clear: our children might just grow up 'wrong' if a trained professional isn't there to manage their development.

The phrase "levelling the playing field" has been tossed about in describing the objective of this paper, but such a claim holds no water. The authors make it very clear in the first chapter of the paper that the children about whom they are most concerned are not the very poor or otherwise typically disadvantaged: the children families they are primarily targeting are middle and upper-class households. 

So what is the purpose, then, if it isn't to assist already-struggling families? It's to get parents - fathers, but if we face facts, mostly mothers - like myself out of the home and into the workforce. The only reason I'm home with them is because I don't have access to a viable and reliable option for childcare, yes? The only reason I'm not contributing is because I'm stuck at home with the kids.

No.

My children are home with me because they belong here. I am home with them because I choose to be, because my partner and I know that it is the right choice for our family. It may not be the right choice for every family, but it is for ours. I do not begrudge the women who dedicate years of their life and enormous effort to achieving the career for which they feel destined who then feel compelled to return to work after a few months or at the end of their year of paid maternity leave (as we have federally legislated in Canada). Not at all. Had I had a career to which I was dedicated, to which I felt drawn, which was vocational, my choice may have been an entirely different one. 

This is what so thoroughly enrages me about this paper. Though they couch it in feminist language ("if [women] did not work, the economy wouldn't function'), the assertions are most definitely anti-feminist. My feminist foresisters worked long and hard to have the value of women recognized. Before women were routinely employed outside the home, that was the goal: for women to be valued as contributing members of society, not because they generated income but because we are people and people are always valuable.

While it may seem commendable that the authors of this study show such concern about the development and care of the children in this nation, they do so at the expense of mothers, of women, and indeed of the children themselves. In discouraging at-home full-time parenting they are demonstrating the lack of value they place on such a role. And who typically fills that role? Women. There are lots of stay-at-home-dads out there (I know a few myself) and I applaud them uproariously for turning those hetero-normative gender roles on their ear and caring for their children. But the fact is that there are more SAHMoms than SAHDads. As far as we have come in attempting to equalize the genders, the fact is that biology has a leg up in this situation. I lactate: my husband does not. While that doesn't entirely preclude him from being the full-time parent, it certainly simplifies the question for our family. In their dismissal of the importance and value of at-home parenting, in their argument children as young as two years old should be in school lest they be "disadvantaged" for life, in their implication that children who are at home with a parent before attending kindergarten are less likely to graduate high school, they are demonstrating the sheer lack of regard they have for a role typically filled by women.

How dare they? How dare they shame women and families? How dare they fear-monger, all while backhandedly saying that at-home parents "perform quiet acts of heroism, day in and day out"?

A woman's place is wherever she damn-well feels like being, including in the home caring for her children if that's her choice.

And it sure as hell is mine.

“The homemaker has the ultimate career. All other careers exist for one purpose only - and that is to support the ultimate career. ” 

― C.S. Lewis

plans

It's a bright and cold Tuesday. Let's take another look at that list, shall we?


1. Plan a daily advent activity for our family. Something nifty but reflective to help us focus on the season.
I've got ideas percolating. My wonderful and dear friend Katie Munnik shared with me her plan for her family's advent activity (which involves craft foam and fishing line! How awesome is that!!) and I've been thinking about what we'll be doing. We're going to focus on expectancy, the wait. Once it's all figured out I'll be sure to share.2. Get out of the apartment. We've been cooped up in here for days and, to be quite honest, Peanut is starting to get a little wrangy (this is a word I use. I think it's a real word. Just go with me on this one) as a result. Kid needs some air!
We picked up Jon at work last night. We have a scheduled errand this afternoon so we might head to the park then, too.3. Build a fort. We've never built a fort in the living room and I think this might be the week for it.
We're expecting snow tomorrow. I think that fort building is on tap for the snowy day.4. Decorate. Ooh, baby, I love Christmas festoonation (again with the non-real words. Consider it a theme).
Ibid.
5. Dig out the sewing room. Remember how it looked back at Easter? Well, I bought some shelves, put all sorts of stuff on them...and the room still looks no better. Where does all the stuff come from?! Maybe I should also...
Oh who knows. :) Maybe tonight?
6. Get rid of some stuff. Or not. Whatever.
Ibid.
7. Christmas sewing! I'm very excited about this. I have fabric for a new dress for Peanut and fabric for a Christmas stocking for Bubby.
If this happens this week I'll be extremely surprised.
8. Find the final piece to my new toy (I'm saving this for a whole separate post: it's also very exciting). Then commence playing with new toy (you'll actually benefit from this one: just wait for it).
This! This I've halfway done. This afternoon's errand will finish this. And then I'll share an elated post about my new toy. 



So, what are you up to today?

Looking ahead

Now that Peanut and I are solidly mended I am able to look ahead at the coming week. Things to do in this next week (in no particular order, and with no room for self-shaming if I don't accomplish everything):

1. Plan a daily advent activity for our family. Something nifty but reflective to help us focus on the season.
2. Get out of the apartment. We've been cooped up in here for days and, to be quite honest, Peanut is starting to get a little wrangy (this is a word I use. I think it's a real word. Just go with me on this one) as a result. Kid needs some air!
3. Build a fort. We've never built a fort in the living room and I think this might be the week for it.
4. Decorate. Ooh, baby, I love Christmas festoonation (again with the non-real words. Consider it a theme).
5. Dig out the sewing room. Remember how it looked back at Easter? Well, I bought some shelves, put all sorts of stuff on them...and the room still looks no better. Where does all the stuff come from?! Maybe I should also...
6. Get rid of some stuff. Or not. Whatever.
7. Christmas sewing! I'm very excited about this. I have fabric for a new dress for Peanut and fabric for a Christmas stocking for Bubby.
8. Find the final piece to my new toy (I'm saving this for a whole separate post: it's also very exciting). Then commence playing with new toy (you'll actually benefit from this one: just wait for it).

Hrm. My list is looking kind of big. Well, maybe the sewing room stuff won't happen this week. That's fine, there's plenty of time. But getting outside and building a fort will have to happen. Priorities, you know.

Baby, in lieu of thinking

We're currently enjoying the company of a cold. Common it may be but it still sucks the life right out of a person. So far only Peanut and I have it and I'm crossing my fingers that neither Jon nor Bubby come down with it (I'm also engaging in a lot of handwashing and calling out "Don't touch your sister's hands! Keep your hands off her face!" in an effort to keep our germs to ourselves). In lieu of a proper post with, you know, coherent words and thoughts and reflections and stuff, I'll ply you with pictures.

Bubby's been lunging at food and staring - particularly at Peanut - while we eat while making chewing motions. Oo-kay, time to give baby some food! Roasted sweet potato wedges it was, since the samosa of Peanut's she was attempting to snag seemed sort of unwise, especially since it's covered in nice, gluten-y dough.





I think she enjoyed it. She seemed perplexed, but not unhappy. But hey! I'm just happy she's willing to taste stuff before her second birthday, unlike some older sisters of hers who we won't name (*cough*Peanut*cough*).

And I made Bubby a hat. I think it may have been a mistake. I may have inadvertently made our baby too cute. Whatever will we do?

Friday Night Follow

I was recently asked by a family friend for a list of a few blogs that might appeal to a fellow stay-at-home-mum. As I was compiling the list, I realized just how many of the blogs I follow are maintained by fellow dreadie moms. I thought a little Friday Night Follow post was in order and that it might be fun to profile the sites of dreadheaded women.

1. *e* - This transplanted Australian dreadie-momma is earthy and fun. She has three gorgeous kids, a jubilant spirit and a kicking Etsy shop full of upcycled goodies.

2. Bohogirl - I really adore this woman's words and images. Lots of beauty. Their adoption story will absolutely warm your heart. And she lives in a home where deer wander up to the front door. Magical.

3.::life inspired:: - I had the good fortune to "meet" this momma on TheBabyWearer.com some years ago when Peanut was just a wee peanut. In fact, I knew her on TBW long before she and I had dreads! She and her husband live with their four beautiful children in Utah and her photos make me want to move there. Seriously. To Utah.

4. MilagroGirl - This lovely woman may not currently have dreads, but up until very recently she did, so I'm counting her. Her blog is a great, great read. Reflecting on the beauty and truth in every woman, her posts are really worth reading and carrying around in your heart and your head through the day. Lots of food for very good, deep, life-giving thought here.

5. Walk Slowly, Live Wildly - Ah, Sara Janssen. I first encountered her through my birth junkie friends on Facebook when the photo montage of her second child's birth went around and I've been following her blog ever since. A person of great faith, conviction and exuberance, her enthusiasm for living outside the box - even literally: they're nomadic! - is deeply inspiring to me. Currently situated on a Colorado mountainside while expecting their third baby, her blog makes me want to sell everything and live in an RV. And then drive to Colorado to play in the mountains.

6. The Organic Sister - Tara Wagner's blog is about as close to self-help as I get. A life coach, Tara writes about connecting with ourselves, our partners and our children in a truthful, authentic, whole-hearted way. Affirming, reflective and spirited, her words almost never fail to get me really, really introspective. Lots of soul-searching with this one. Plus, another nomad! She, her husband and their son have been travelling for over a year.

So those are six of the blogs I follow, all written by dreadheaded mommas. Why do I seem to gravitate to other dreadies? It's an interesting question, one I've asked of myself a number of times. I'm not quite sure I have the answer, but I have some ideas. I'll save them for an upcoming post. Happy blog-hopping!

Coming up for air

I've second-guessed writing and posting this countless times. But I erred on the side of writing it: it feels like the thing to do.

I have a very good life. We have a very good life. A loving husband; two beautiful, clever, amazing children; a warm, safe home; close, supportive, nearby family; a strong church community; and dreams and the vision to achieve them. I am very happy.

Except that, lately, I am not.

Despite my best efforts, despite a surprisingly positive birth experience, despite breastfeeding, despite bed-sharing, despite babywearing, despite placenta encapsulation, despite all the positive things in my life and despite my concerted efforts to denydenydeny the fact that things are how they are...post-partum depression is very much our reality.


I've dealt with depression before. When I was 19 I struggled long and hard with this black monster seeking to pull me under. For a time, it did and I only surfaced for brief, sustaining gasps of air before continuing to flounder. It was months of struggle.

But at least then I could explain it.

High school had, secretly, been very rough for me; university, while glorious and exciting, was stressful with friends scattered across the province and beyond; and then my family effectively fell to pieces, and those pieces scattered very far, indeed. I could explain it then: "I am sad because...". But this? This seems entirely without reason. We have a great life. I have a great life.

There is so much for which to be thankful, and more importantly, I am thankful.

I know how blessed we are. I look at our children and am absolutely floored by how unbelievable it is that I get to be with them and watch them grow and learn. They are wonderful. So why am I not rejoicing in that 24 hours a day? Why am I short-tempered and impatient and exhausted and just...sad?

A week ago things came to a head. We had what was, essentially, one of the worst days I've ever had. And I've had some doozies. The next day I came out, so to speak. No more pretending. No more putting on the cheery, blissful-mommy face:

things are not ok, I am not ok.

I need to acknowledge that and accept the support of my family and friends. It's helping. It helps to know that I'm thought of, that I'm cared for, that I'm not the only mother who feels or has felt like this. It helps to know that I'm loved.


But it's not enough.

I - or rather, we, because this is going to involve our whole little family - need to make a pretty dramatic shift. I need to start taking care of myself. It would be a total lie to say that I don't think about myself. I do think about myself.

I'm not taking care of myself.

I worry about growing our children. We worry about giving them opportunities to learn and experience and thrive and rejoice. And I? I...don't. I'm not learning. I'm definitely not thriving. And I'm not rejoicing with the sort of frequency I would like.

It isn't that I want my life to be better: it's that things are good and I want myself to be better in it.

a better goal

This morning I read this lovely post from Alicia on Milagro Girl. When I first read it I thought it was a valuable sentiment and gave myself a little mental pat on the back because, lately - finally! - I've been making a real effort to establish and voice my own boundaries. Later the girls and I went to the park and met up with friends of ours from church. The two big girls played, our two babies nursed and slept, and the mommies got a good long visit. It was grand.


I always feel like my parenting is really put to the test when other children are around. Sure, taking Peanut out on an errand to the store can be a challenge and certainly puts my parenting on display - particularly if it should happen that she should become a screeching, noodle-legged version of her normally-delightful self while we walk down Bank St. - but when other children are around, and when Peanut is playing with them, I really feel tested. It's a good kind of tested, though: I find myself thinking a little more 'big picture' in such a circumstance, considering not only what is happening in the moment but also about what lesson or example I'm setting for the other children around. 



I want to be Nice Mommy, not Mean Mommy and, some day, it wouldn't be so bad to be Cool Mommy (I've already got Hippie, Dreadlocked Mommy locked up*). But, that said, I don't want to accidentally turn into Doormat Mommy. So today, as Peanut was playing with and near other children, I was thinking about how I was interacting with her and what message it was sending the other children there. Was I showing my daughter respect and in turn demonstrating to those other children that children deserve respect? Was I showing my daughter kindness and consideration and in turn allowing the other children there that adults ought to be kind and considerate? 


Was I demonstrating healthy, respectful boundaries for my daughter and in turn demonstrating those boundaries for the other children there?



As I was watching her play, occasionally calling out to her when necessary to remind her of what the boundaries of kind, respectful and safe behaviour are, it struck me that Alicia's words relate to parenting:

And in it I learned what a boundary was. I’d always thought that it meant a rule, and in my mind rules are meant to be broken. But it’s not a rule, it’s a circle around yourself that brings peace to your heart and world. It’s the knowing what your spirit is capable of.

Traditionally, parenting has been presented as a series of rules. Lots of focus on what children can not do, what they must do. The goal, when it is rarely mentioned, is generally expressed as a desire for children to obey, to follow the rules. 



I think that's a lousy goal.


My goal isn't for my children to obey me, but to do what is right. My goal isn't to raise rule-followers, it is to raise kind and gracious souls. 


My goal isn't to teach them right and wrong but to teach them to discern that themselves.



So I help Peanut learn boundaries. Because it isn't that throwing sand is an inherently evil pastime, it's that the consequence - sand in an eye or mouth - is unkind and disrespectful to her playmate. And so: "Peanut, we don't throw sand...and here's why:..." 


And hopefully, as she learns how to respect her playmates, as she learns the intricacies of friendship, she will also grow to understand where her own boundaries are. Hopefully she will demand respect, now and when she is grown. Hopefully she will grow to understand and know with surety that being a grace-filled and forgiving person does not mean she must simply suffer at the hands of those are not, whether it's from nasty words on the playground when she's 10 years old or nasty words from a partner when she's 30. 



Hopefully she will learn to keep her heart and soul healthy at an earlier age than her mother, willing and able to say, "Here is the space that I need."




*totally unintentional pun, but once I realized what a pun it was I had to keep it. Parent humour, you know. 

6 months old

Bubby is two days into the second half of her first year. She is such a blessing! She is an unbelievably happy and joyful soul. Most days she is simply awash in smiles.


Look at those cheeks! At 17lb she's a strong and healthy little munchkin. And on nothing but Mommy's milk. We're so wonderfully made.


She's definitely getting ready to crawl. She  s l o w l y and invisibly creeps around the floor. We're not sure how she does it, exactly (some heretofore undiscovered form of baby peristalsis?) but she's looking to move, that's certain. She pushes up into upward-facing dog with strong, sure arms. As soon as she gets her knees under here, she'll be off and away.

She is dearly loved. Everywhere we go, someone will comment on how happy she is and how social and interactive. I like to think that all the loving she receives throughout every day has played a role in that. She never goes long without kisses or hugs from someone. Who could resist that little dumpling? Most mornings I wake to Peanut leaning over me, gently stroking Bubby's hand as she sleeps and cooing, "My tister...my tister baby..."

allergen-free soft drinks

There aren't any. Psych! But seriously: take a look at this list and then try to imagine eating, well, anything. Even produce can have corn-based waxes on them to preserve them and make them look nice. Unfortunately, they have the opposite effect on my baby.

But! I will not concede defeat that easily. No, sir! I will find something fun to drink other than water (obviously), tea and coffee. Enter the home-made soft drink.

Home-made corn-free soft drink recipe


1tbsp of cane sugar (I used a dark cane sugar) or more to taste.
2tbsp very hot/boiling water
1/2tsp lime juice
1/2tsp lemon juice
1/4tsp orange juice
soda water

Spoon sugar into bottom of a large, sturdy glass (a wide mouth mason jar works beautifully). Pour boiling water in and stir or slosh vigorously to dissolve sugar in the water, then add juices, adjusting to taste. Add soda water to fill glass.

It's not particularly sweet. In truth, it's pretty tart, so if you really want a sweet drink double the sugar, which may require a slight increase in the amount of water to dissolve the sugar. Also, it's not pretty: it looks like swamp water, which is why I opted not to include a picture (which is a lie: I drank it before I thought to snap a pic).

Happy corn-free soft drinking!

turning violently inside my chest

Some time ago, I learned something terrible. A friend of mine, a dear woman who lives a quarter of a world away and who I have never met, lost her baby before he was born. Without explanation, he simply...stopped. I learned this terrible news on Saturday morning. There is nothing to do or say to relieve such pain. It's an unbearable weight, yet she and her family had no choice but to bear it.

Sunday morning I sat in church. Jon had taken Peanut down to her class and I sat holding Bubby in our pew. And I fell apart. I dissolved. Huge, racking sobs shook my body and simply clung to my sleeping baby, warm and vital and so very alive in my arms. I was heartbroken for my friend who would never hold her child this way, never know the swell of his chest against hers as he breathed, never hear him make a sound or see his eyes open.

But more than that, I was heartbreakingly thankful. God has been so gracious to us. We are so blessed. Time and again we have met enormous challenges, tragedies that could easily have utterly ruined us, fearfully bad situations that could easily have been catastrophic, and time and again God has been merciful and providential and protected us. And I don't know why.

I don't know why I get to watch my baby grow and laugh and blow raspberries at her sister and my friend does not. I don't know why not one possession of ours came out of that house with even a whiff of smoke, let alone burned while our neighbours lost absolutely everything. I don't know why, as sick as I was, Bubby and I were totally safe and we had an entirely normal, healthy birth. I don't know why this family doesn't wear the scars of the things we've faced. I don't know why we have persevered so entirely. I don't understand why God has preserved us.

He loves us. He loves all of us. And it makes me ache. I ache through to my very fingertips with the knowledge that I have only begun to comprehend the breadth and length and height and depth of the love of God. That Sunday morning my heart turned violently inside my chest, it was so swollen and overcome with love and the sheer impossibility of entirely grasping just what it means to be loved like this.

She has masses of love. Oceans of grace.

voices

Sitting in my living room, at this moment I hear Peanut's voice laughing and screeching as she chases our dog, singing nonsense songs while she 'cooks' her pretend food in her play kitchen. I hear Bubby, lying on her belly and spinning in pre-crawling circles, cooing and babbling to herself. I hear the clatter of toys and the crunching sounds of our dog eating her breakfast.

Somewhere, under all that happy din, is my voice. It's somewhere buried in my head. It is speaking, or trying, with too many thoughts to even be coherent. It is trying to get out, but most days I simply cannot find it.

Such is the problem with writing while being an at-home parent. Finding the opportunity to construct a coherent thought let alone actually write it down is challenging at best. And it's frustrating, knowing that there are potential posts, articles, goodness knows what else, locked inside, simply waiting for the chance to break free and come to life.

I may need to start having weekly Bridgehead wifi dates with myself in order to get the words out. I adore my girls, but it's important to listen to - and speak with - my own voice, too.

what happened to community?

Have we forgotten how to live in community? Have we forgotten that we are social animals?

Last night I got to hear Rodger Nishioka speak about why young people - particularly young adults - aren't going to church. It isn't a lack of faith or spirituality, but still they don't come. Why? What are we - the established, main-line churches - doing wrong?

In the course of his talk he told a story about one young couple he met while researching this topic in focus groups around the U.S. who actually were members of a Presbyterian church in Iowa. After attending one Sunday morning, they were astonished by the outpouring of care and support from the congregation after the young woman was diagnosed with breast cancer. They had no idea that such community involvement was common. As a result, they are fully integrated, grateful, involved members of that church community.

What struck me was, really, the sadness of it. Have we become so entirely nuclearized that we have forgotten to pass on to the next generation (not even really the next generation: the young couple Nishioka mentioned were only about 6 years younger than me) that this is how community functions? More fundamentally, have we neglected to tell people that we are social creatures who, by and large, crave and need community in order to be fully functional, joyful people?

On wet-nursing and unconditional love

Earlier this week, I met a baby who, at five days old, had lost two pounds.


And I nursed him.


His mother had an unexpected caesarean section and her milk production was delayed, which isn't particularly uncommon following surgical birth. But her baby proceeded to lose two pounds. Though she nursed and they were making every effort, she and her husband watched their little boy shrink. So her midwife put out the call: this baby needs milk. And my own doula and friend sent me word: a baby needs milk. She also said, "mama would also be open to cross-nursing." A few phone calls to arrange a time, and I went. With my one tiny bottle of stashed milk and my own two breasts, I went to meet some total strangers.


I wondered what it would be like to nurse someone else's child. The first time I nursed my own child it felt a little strange, such a new and singular experience: would it feel odd when the child was not my own, when I'd only met the family moments earlier? I wondered if I would feel a sense of betrayal to my own little nursling, at home with her sister and father, to be sharing my breast with another child, to be giving another child the milk originally destined for her. I wondered if the mother, who had undergone a difficult birth and was now struggling to breastfeed, would feel resentment or rejection at having me, a total stranger, nurse her child. I am certain that I would have felt so.


There are no Emily Post instructions on the correct etiquette for visiting someone's home for the first time with the intention of breastfeeding their newborn. I went, met Father and Mother, introduced myself, congratulated them on their baby, gave them the one bottle of expressed milk I had, then asked, "Do you want me to nurse him?" 
"Sure," Mother said, "that would be great." So we sat together, she and I. She handed me her tiny treasure and I bared a breast.

****

People talk about unconditional love. The Church talks about it a lot. Parents talk about it, too. There's even a particular strain of parenting theory named for it. When we talk about loving unconditionally we generally mean that our love is not contingent on the actions of the person who is loved. But it can mean something else, and should. It means that whoever you are, I will love you. My love for you is not contingent on my relationship with you. It simply doesn't matter.

One of my many acts of mothering love for my children is nursing them. Through that simple act they are comforted, reassured, nurtured and nourished. They know love. To nurse another's child is also an act of love, but differently so. In taking that little boy in my arms and nursing him, I told him he was loved. I told him that he was loved unconditionally not only by his parents - who love him for the mere fact of his existence - but by me as well, also for the mere fact of his existence. And that loving would extend as far as it needed to, even to feeding him from my own body.

Nursing him didn't feel strange. It was simple: here was a hungry child who needed milk and I provided it. I was struck by how entirely commonplace it felt in that moment. Afterward, as I reflected on my encounter with this family, I felt sure that this is, without question, what we are meant to do. Later, when I was home again with my own nursling, I looked at her as she glowed and grinned up at me and felt nearly proud of her. Unbeknownst to her, she had shared something of hers which was precious and dear. I don't know how the mother felt about watching me nurse her new and only child. It seemed too intrusive to ask. I imagine it was at least a little strange for her, to watch her son share an intimate moment with another woman, some other child's mother. Because nursing is wonderfully, beautifully intimate. But so is love. And it's meant to be shared. Like breastmilk.

****

There is something particularly delightful about nursing a newborn. Their lives are so consumed by consumption that newborns are very avid feeders, focussed and determined. This little boy, fists clenched against his cheeks, eyes closed in rapt attention to the task, mouth wide, proceeded to give a perfect example of precisely how a baby should nurse. Surely, he and his mother are destined for a happy and successful nursing relationship. Gulping and pausing, pausing and gulping, he drank until he was full and could not be cajoled into taking more. Entirely milk-drunk, he subsided into his mother's arms, smiling in his sleep. Sated.


"Thank you," she said.


"Thank you," I replied.

faux-chos

Remember this? At the time I was wheat, dairy, soy and egg-free. Now we've added corn to see if we can't get Bubby's rash to finally clear up. Here's a head's up: in North America corn is. in. everything. It's madness.

Anyway, there are some obvious, common sources of corn that this totally eliminates. Until now, I had been sort of desperately clinging to the fact that while I couldn't eat bread (sigh) or cheese (whimper) or cake (sob) I could, at least, have corn chips and Coke. Yeah, yeah, I know, cola is death blah blah blah. I ran out of vices so I cut myself some slack. Today, though, I really wanted nachos and a Coke. You know, dairy-free, wheat-free, corn-free nachos and Coke. Made of what, exactly? Made of this:







And you know what? It's awesome. My inspiration was this recipe from my friend Alyson. Here is approximately what I did:

1/2 can black beans, rinsed
1 clove garlic
2 tsp onion powder
1/ 2tsp cumin (I freaking love cumin)
2 tsp chili powder
1/4 cup vegetable stock
2 tbsp rice flour

Throw everything in a food processor and blitz until smooth. Spread on an oiled, foil-covered cookie sheet to about the diameter of a dinner plate, or 1/4-1/2 inch thick. Top with Daiya Shreds ( I used cheddar flavour because it was all we had, but pepperjack or mozzarella would make more sense) and bake at about 340*F until the edges look dry and the shreds are all melted, maybe 20-30 minutes. Serve by topping with salsa, shredded lettuce, more salsa and cashew cream. Drink a Blue Sky Cola alongside to complete the feeling of guilty indulgence.

edited 10/15/11: I have just discovered that while Blue Sky is HFCS free, the caramel colour and citric acid in it are manufactured using...corn! And the Daiya Shreds? More citric acid from...corn! ARGH! Well, we'll keep trying. It was still delicious, though.

An autumn afternoon at the arboretum

A friend recently posted a photo on Facebook of the green, vibrant campus of a Florida university. "When I see pictures of Florida," I commented, "I think, 'I live in Ottawa because...?'" Summer is decidedly over, here. Some days, though, remind me why we enjoy life here.

We took an outing yesterday afternoon. An honest-to-goodness, physically active and educational outing. Ottawa has an urban farm, the Central Experimental Farm, and it includes a sizeable arboretum. It's 26 hectares, which is about 64 acres making it around 1/13th the size of New York's Central Park, but it's large enough to be quiet and calm and get a good stretch of the legs.

Autumn in Ottawa being what it is, it was a gorgeous afternoon. The fall foliage was colourful but still mostly in the tree-tops, but the unseasonably warm weather made it a perfect day for running around outside.

We watched mallards on Dow's Lake.






We walked. We ran. We followed some dogs around. We climbed on large rocks.





We enjoyed the sunshine.
Bubby was there, too, of course.

Before we left, she needed a nurse. 

I asked Peanut where we should sit. "Which tree should we sit under?" I asked her. 
"Under the yellow tree." Hickory it was.

I love this city. And I love my girls.

sometimes it's all pretend

I read a lot of so-called mommyblogs. I gravitate toward the ones that are positive, optimistic. Peaceful. I yearn to feel like that every day, to revel and celebrate every moment with my children, with my husband, with myself. To live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, as Thoreau so beautifully put it. So, in turn, I try to write posts that do precisely that with pictures that reflect just how lovely this life - our life - can be.








But.


Sometimes it's all pretend. Or at least the attitude is. Sometimes the optimism is missing. Sometimes the inspiration falls short. Sometimes, instead, I just crave a good long break. Like a week. Alone. Or several very big, bountiful glasses of wine. Or a good scream. Sometimes my day loses it's shine and all I seem to see is dusty surfaces, grimy tables, a crumb-covered floor in desperate need of a good sweep and mop and two children who need a lot out of me. Sometimes I just. feel. spent.


So sometimes I'm just pretending. And the pretending gets me to the end of another day, and while I feel like I'm clinging white-knuckled to my sanity, something unexpected happens. Peanut brings Bubby a toy, apropos of nothing. Bubby glows at her sister. She smiles at me. Peanut rushes up to me, throws her arms around me and murmurs, "Lovee you," and then goes back to playing. The sun shines through the window in a way and at an angle that marks that we have entered a new season, a season of scarves and sweaters and hot drinks and Peanut's first trips to football games with Daddy and the comfort of crawling into a warm bed on a cold night.








And then, without even realizing it has happened, it isn't pretend. It's real, and we've lived a warm, glowing day, one that shimmers in my memory, ever so briefly, not because it was particularly notable but just because it was good. Because I accepted it for what it was and what it brought.


What has your day brought you?

100 word birth stories

The ever-thoughtful and thought-provoking Bluebirdmama recently put out a call for birth stories in 100 words or less. Since my own birth stories are decidedly un-short, I welcomed the challenge. Here are the girls' stories:


Glynis

Wake at 5am. OMG I’m peeing my bed! No control.
5:30am cramping. OMG and I’m constipated, too?! 

Nope…disbelief.

Call the midwife. “Not even 36 weeks! Not good,” but I know: we’re fine.
Labouring around the house, shower, resting, working.

This is what we do.

Midwife arrives: time to go NOW.
Doula, midwife, husband, me in the room, laughing between contractions. So excited:

I’m going to meet my baby!!

1:40pm: Now pushing on my feet, on my knees, on the bed. Happening quickly. Everyone hollering, “Slow down!” Oops: burning and pop! Relief. Head, now body. She’s here.

Love.







Scarlet

7pm:  hint of contractions. Slowly, things beginning. Powerful.
Body working, mind excited, sure: another early baby.
Cuddling Glynis. Belly henna. Laughing.

Then: not good. It’s all wrong.
Terrible stomach pain. Calling the midwife.
Kneeling on the floor. Praying. Pleading.

“This is not how I die.”

1am: call doula, call Mom, wake Glynis. No homebirth: rush to hospital.
Midwife waiting. Bloodwork. Monitors: baby is fine, body still working hard.

Severe pre-eclampsia and HELLP.

Break waters.
Acupressure.  Swaying... s w a y i n g …

So sick. But strong.

I AM going to do this.

6:45am...7am...

Sleep. Bear down. Sleep. Then p u s h …

…through fear, tissue.

7:13am

 Lift…

“You're real!"

today

Today I have

* a big girl keen to make friends at the library
* a daughter so excited by books we stayed an extra half hour after Storytime to read more books
* a growing baby who sat by herself for two minutes before flopping to the side

* a Big Sister who delights in her baby
* a Little Sister who rolled over by herself for the first time

And I have

* friends who share my passions
* a strong vote of confidence from our minister, whom I respect and admire

A good day.

the things we do, part II

You likely haven't noticed from the pictures I've posted, but Bubby has a pink face. Or more accurately, circles of pink around her eyes. And all over her scalp. And she's had some hives on there, too. It's not something a parent likes to see on her baby. After a little deliberation - including several days of thinking we were cursed with a sunlight allergy - I concluded it was likely a food sensitivity. So for the past 6 weeks I've been gradually eliminating foods from my diet. First wheat, then dairy, then eggs and now soy and, thankfully, we're now seeing a real improvement: it would seem soy is a major offender. Ever tried to eliminate all soy from your diet while living in North America? Yep, it's an eye-opener.

So I'm eating differently now. Some dishes are right out - like, say, a delicious tofu stir fry in a tamari-based sauce and virtually every prepared food out there - while others just need a little adapting. This evening, as I watched Peanut happily munching away on some oven-baked chicken fingers I realized that I really wanted some, too. But bread crumbs, wheat flour, butter, milk and egg wash are all out, so cleverness was called for.







Some crushed gluten-free cereal - corn flakes and puffed rice - a little buckwheat and arrowroot flours and some various seasonings and we were in business. But how to make it stick without eggs or milk? Honey-water! 2tbsp of warm water and at least 1tbsp of honey well mixed together, toss the chicken pieces in the solution and then into the crumb mixture. Bake on an oiled pan at 375*F, turning once.

They were delicious. Even if they hadn't been, though, this is what we do, isn't it? As I told my mother a few weeks ago, I don't care if my own health ends up suffering: I'll gladly sacrifice my own health on the altar of my child's well-being. So far my dietary restrictions haven't had a deleterious effect on my health, just occasionally on my mood and hopefully, with enough inventiveness, that won't be the case too often either.

the things we do

What do you do when you need to carry your baby six blocks? You wrap her up.




And what do you when your toddler pulls up lame a block into the walk? Well, you wrap her up, too.

This was the best photo I could get of our little five block tandem-wearing adventure. Sadly, it doesn't do justice to the insanity of the situation. A 5'2" woman wearing more than one third her body weight, with three year old feet dangling around her knees and a four month old head bobbing around near her chin, carting a shoulder bag full of cloth diapers and a tote bag with a plastic potty is a truly ridiculous sight.

The things we do for our kids, eh?

the urban family

We live downtown. I mean, right downtown. And we love it. Part of what we love about it is our proximity to all the little happenings in the city. Evenings notwithstanding, our city streets are lively and active and there are things to see and do on almost any given day or week.

This past weekend the Glebe held a little street event. So we decided to head down for a little urban family fun.

The best part of the event in the Glebe was not the activities planned for small children but a skateboarding competition. Peanut, you see, adores skateboarding. She sees it pretty routinely in a local park and thinks it is just awesome. So we checked it out.






She loved it. Also, there were balloons.



Bubby was less interested in the skateboarding and focussed more on licking the wrap I was wearing her in and just generally being adorable.




Good times.

a common era

**I left this as a comment today on our church blog where members of the congregation reflect on that Sunday's worship service.**


At the end of August, a friend posted on Facebook asking for people's reflections on how the world has changed in the past ten years. As I thought about it over the next days, and after reading another link that he posted, I was struck by the contrasts that we've seen since then: moments of hatred and violence thrown into sharp relief by expressions of love and grace. Those instances of love and grace, those moments of universality and commonality are how I choose to define these days. That view doesn't exclude the hatred and violence nor ignore it, but I refuse to believe that these Years of Our Lord will be defined by evil.

During the minister's sermon he noted that academic institutions are moving toward less Eurocentric names for the two primary eras of history, using the term "Common Era" instead of Anno Domini. What occurred to me as he spoke about this was that using this new term for our current age does not deny or ignore the Good News.

This is a common era, one in which all belong to the universal brotherhood of a world of salvation. These are the days in which salvation is at hand for every person should they so choose and accept it. As Paul writes, there is now neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, neither male nor female. We are made one in Christ, the Christ who breaks all barriers, even the barriers we ourselves have built which separate us from God.

And now here we are in a post-9/11 world and while some choose to see only division, we have seen people come together. We have seen the love and grace of Jesus Christ extended from Muslim to Christian and back again.

This is a common era, and I thank God for it.

expectation

I always thought that the use of the term "expecting" for pregnancy was odd. What are we "expecting"? Expecting a child to be born? Well, obviously. Expecting there to be a child? But the child is already in there: he or she just needs to come out. And just as the child is there, the woman carrying that child is already a mother, already loves like a mother, already worries like a mother, and the father does likewise. Shouldn't these "expecting" parents instead simply be "waiting"?

But there's another side to the word "expecting". It isn't a guarantee. Nothing is certain: nothing.

Midwifery clients in Ontario are generally given copies of the contents of their files after their post-partum care concludes. The top sheet of paper is the primary sheet of the chart with things like the mother's health history and dates relevant to the pregnancy. At the bottom of the sheet is a list of topics to be discussed at the monthly appointments. As the pregnancy progresses, one by one that list of topics is completed and checked off. When I was expecting Bubby, my midwife and I were talking during one of our appointments. I was struggling with hypertension and she was worried that I would be terribly upset if my health demanded that we abandon our planned home birth for a hospital birth. She wanted to talk about my expectations. As we talked, I told her,

"To be quite honest with you, I don't even entirely expect to get a baby at the end of this. I'm keenly aware that sometimes you just...don't." 

And in that room, while Peanut coloured at a little table under a big, happy green leaf, with glorious sunshine beaming in the window, bathing the room, we talked about stillbirth. We talked about neonatal death. We talked about mothers we've known, both in person and online, who have lost babies not early in a pregnancy but late, so late that it is unfathomable, so late that a happy outcome seemed a sure thing. We talked about mothers who have held their baby after a normal birth, awash in the glow of everything going right, who days or even just hours later held that baby as that tiny life slipped from this world.

And we wept. We wept for those mothers and fathers who had something so very precious so fleetingly. We wept as we smiled while talking about the immeasurable value of a photograph of a father holding his child, precious and perfect and entirely still in his arms. The eternal gift of a moment, of just one moment, and the image of that moment frozen, cherished forever.

There is no line-item for stillbirth and death on that page in my chart. It isn't one of the mandatory topics of discussion. But we must talk about this. We cannot live blindly, ignoring the very truth and reality that mortality is universal: it does not only belong to the old. It walks hand-in-hand with birth. The great fragility of life is part of what throws life's beauty into such relief to be celebrated.We do a great disservice to families when we speak as though everything were certain.  We needn't dwell on such terrible pain, but likewise we must acknowledge its possibility.

It's a pain I do not know and have not the gall to suppose that I can imagine. While I was expecting Peanut I felt great surety when I reached 32 weeks. "Now I am safe," I thought. "Now I can be certain that everything will be fine." But with Bubby I was not so naive. Better do I now know that nothing is certain. Nothing is safe. As I laboured with Peanut I was never concerned for her safety, so sure was I that everything would always be fine. But as I laboured with Bubby, aware that my own body was failing, I had occasion to wonder after her health. Was she safe? Was she well? What would happen? Birth is as safe as life gets...and life can be painfully uncertain.

I am struck today by the absolute appropriateness of the term "expecting". When one is pregnant one expects to have a child to hold and kiss and love and nurse and raise into being a strong and beautiful person. But we do not know. We make the best choices that we can, we best our odds for success and health and happiness...and the rest we give up to God.





Because we cannot know for certain. We have only the expectation of joy. 

examination

I have a handful of posts drafted, saved and unfinished that are waiting to be posted, but until I have time to do that, I wanted to share something new that I'm doing. I've recently become the Ottawa Breastfeeding Examiner. I write articles related to breastfeeding with an eye to local news. So if you are local and see or hear something you think should be given attention, let me know and I'll get on it!

perfect

I am alone with Bubby in the living room. Jon, having read Peanut to sleep in the bedroom has fallen asleep himself. When I'm alone with Bubby I indulge in telling her all the silly, tender things I might normally only think. As I looked at her as I held her in my arms this evening, I was struck by her realness. Her perfectness. She's here.

And I lifted her up and kissed her scrumptious round cheeks and said,

"I grew you. Did you know? I grew you...and now here you are."





I never cease to be amazed by the absolute perfection of my children. I'm sure every mother feels this way.





 I am both empowered and utterly, totally humbled by the mere fact of their existence.

reminders

I struggle with remembering to do what I ought or to have the best frame of mind. I need constant reminding. I'm trying to think of ways to keep myself focussed and this is one idea I've implemented: short passages of scripture chalked on the wall. We've had 1 Corinthians 13 already, and now we've moved on to 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18.

owning a day

I'm making an effort to own each day.  All last week, Jon was been home on vacation and we spent the whole week together. There was a dinner at the pub up the street, a ride on the Ottawa River in a motor boat, visits with some grandparents, trips to the park, and lots of daytime walks followed by naps with Daddy. It wasn't perfect, of course: few things ever are. There was some frustration while we were picking out new glasses for me on Friday and there are almost daily moments of intense three-ness. But in the midst of any frustration or tantrums or meltdowns, there is goodness. There is love.

There is beautiful simplicity in a typical morning.







We don't need to seek out beauty in our lives: it's always there, even in very bad circumstances, and it is glorious and wonderful. We simply need to open our eyes to it and allow life to be what it is.