The Yin and Yang of Parenting

A loud voice can be heard singing, “We’re on our way. We’re on our way, on our way to Grandpa’s farm…”

The person belting out children's verse with such abandon isn’t my daughter. It’s my husband. He has a beautiful, childlike quality, which is one of the reasons I fell in love with him. Now that we have Claire, it makes him an awesome dad. He can instantly get down on her level and have fun.

I can’t even begin to imagine being so excited about a children’s song. I think I came out of the womb all serious and adult-like. When I play with Claire, I am keenly aware of how I’m informing her development. In other words, I’m one step removed. I’m thinking about Claire’s fine-motor skills and how we are incorporating imaginative play into our activities instead of fully immersing myself in the play-doh with her.

I am jealous of my husband's ability to be so fully present with our daughter, but I also don’t think it’s such a bad thing that George and I influence her in different ways. Most of the time, we strike a good balance. This morning, George took Claire sledding, while I stayed home and made lunch. I’m sure he thinks he had all the fun. I was happy not to be cold. Claire had an adventure in the snow and came home to a warm meal -- a quintessential childhood experience, if you ask me.

Our distinct personality traits offer Claire a mix of good and bad too. Whereas, George can sit and laugh at the cartoons they watch together, he can quickly take it personally when she isn't cooperating. I may feel terribly self-conscious and foolish pretending to be a Cookie Monster puppet, but I have a better ability to step back from her toddler vicissitudes (on my good days).

Following his impulses is part of George’s nature, while analysis is mine. That’s fine. We just need to remember that my analytical tendency can swing too far into the land of joyless and frosty, while his playfulness can turn impatient and unpredictable.

If we keep those two things in mind, maybe...just maybe...if we are very lucky, our different parenting styles will lead to a well-rounded child instead of hours of fodder for the therapist’s couch.

How does your personality affect your parenting style?

Photo Source: Guadalupe Cervilla, Flickr

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Welcome to The Sunday Parenting Party, hosted by Dirt and Boogers, Play Activities, Crayon Freckles, Taming the Goblin, The Golden Gleam, Prickly Mom, and The Tao of Poop. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, and caring for children, as well as honest posts about the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Links to reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link to posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)

 

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Parents, Look at the Light Side!

I send George one or two links a week to articles that, in my humble opinion, offer sound parenting advice. In return, I receive links from him to things like the trailer from the 1974 Science Fiction movie, Zardoz, starring Sean Connery. So it seemed novel to me to get an email from him with the subject, “Important article on parenting”.

I clicked on the link and found an article from The Onion.

“Hmm, The Onion”, I thought, “Not exactly La Leche League or The American Academy of Pediatrics, but I’m game. It’s better than YouTube videos of laughing puppies or burping children."

I read on in horror....

The California Parenting Institute did a study and found that, regardless of parenting style employed, it’s a child’s fate to become a maladjusted adult.

Wow, that big claim could pretty much rock my world. I needed details. Like the informed parent that I pride myself on being, I looked for the study at the California Parenting Institutes’ website.

Evidently, I was not alone. The California Parents Institute was inundated with calls from nervous parents like me. These queries were much to the organization’s dismay; however, since the article was....

A HOAX.

“Oh, right, The Onion. Silly me,” I thought. “What a relief. I can go back to being puppet master of Claire’s destiny!”

But then I started thinking some more..

“Was George trying to tell me something? Maybe, he thinks I need to lighten up a bit. Perhaps, I should just let Claire be...He’s pretty good at that.”

So I haven’t sent him a link in awhile…a day or two, maybe. And for good measure, I checked out the link to Zardoz. You should too; it's pretty hilarious.

This post was pulled from the archives

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Welcome to The Sunday Parenting Party, hosted by Dirt and Boogers, Play Activities, Crayon Freckles, Taming the Goblin, The Golden Gleam, Prickly Mom, and The Tao of Poop. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, and caring for children, as well as honest posts about the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Links to reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link to posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)

 

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Check out this week's fabulous features:

Kristi, Finding Ninee, Past Relationships

Holiday Confession: I Hate Elf on the Shelf

You can divide the world into two camps in many ways. Coke or Pepsi, Lennon or McCartney, people who steal pens vs. those who lose them. During the holiday season, it's Elf on the Shelf lovers vs. Elf haters.

Oh, wait, according to Amy at "Funny is Family", 99% of Americans are pro-Elf! Alas, she and I find ourselves among the minority regarding the newest holiday tradition to sweep the nation. I'm emboldened by her recent post, I Hate Elf on the Shelf, to add my dissent...

Elf on the Shelf is nothing more than a snitch. He's a brown-noser looking to curry favor with Santa by sharing your deepest, darkest secrets. Just when he's lulled you into complacency by looking a little too cute, he stabs you in the back without blinking an eye. I want to wipe that disingenuous smile right off his phony face.

At any other time during the year, I wouldn't invite a spy into my house. The holiday season is no different. Isn't it enough that Santa's watching like Homeland Security? 

Look, I realize I'm new to the Christmas with kids game -- and motherhood, for that matter. My daughter is a mere 18-months-old. She doesn't get that Santa or the North Pole even exist yet. Right now, we don't require the perceived threat of a pint-sized weasel to keep our child in line. 

I'm humble enough to know that I have yet to encounter what I will resort to, in order to keep my child merry and bright during the holiday season. I'm open to changing my mind about the value that an extra set of tiny eyes can add to maintaining Peace on Earth.

But, until a clear and present danger is unequivocally established, Elf on the Shelf will remain a tattletale who is not welcome in my home.

Have a confession: Link up with Secret Mommy-hood Confession Saturday.

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Home for the Holidays? Bah Humbug!

Holiday travel is not for the faint of heart. Holiday travel with a child makes me want to send my regrets to those close to my heart. 

Before we even cross the airport threshold, I've questioned our holiday plans a few times. I'm squeezing one too many things into my rolly-bag, and I wonder how it's possible that a baby half my size can require twice the amount of stuff as me. In long-term parking, I consider the fact that it took an hour-and-a-half to get to the airport, yet we haven't even begun the journey. 

The security lines are extra long this time of year ('tis the season), which is lovely because, in case you forgot, I'm carrying a lot of extra stuff. Plus a baby the size of Santa's sack. Our fellow comrades in line are neither merry nor bright, because...well, because they're in line too. Homeland Security isn't bright and merry, because...well, because they're Homeland Security. 

Waiting at the gate, I have to supervise an overstimulated baby, who manages to find emergency exit doors, random buttons to push and her way into the crowd of people rushing to their gates. Travelers bop like moving targets; my toddler walks like a drunkard. It's a video game gone awry. 

Three hours later, we finally squeeze down the too small aisle to the thousandth row of the plane (in case you forgot: with stuff and baby). I feel some sense of relief when we are finally have all our paraphernalia situated, and I get the small consolation of resting my weary bones down on an unforgiving middle seat that's the width of one ass cheek. 

But, wait, travel still has not officially commenced!

I start to wonder if it's too late to turn back. Microwave popcorn and a glass of chardonnay starts to sound like a sufficient holiday feast to me. 

Sorry dear relatives. Popcorn might not be quintessentially Norman Rockwell, but neither is getting from here to eternity during the holiday rush. We'll plan our next trip over Arbor Day when things are a little less hectic. Maybe, we'll plant a tree instead of cutting one down!

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Claire liked Thanksgiving at her grandfather's house in Florida. She would run up and down the sidewalk in front of the house in the sun. "Moon! Moon! Moon!" she called out to the big sky, even though it was the middle of the day.

Then, a popping sound brought her to a dead stop. The quality of her voice changed. "Loud," she said tentatively, while her legs carried her backwards. "Pop…Pop…Pop, Pop," rang out in rapid fire. She raced to my side and cried, "Loud!" This time with more conviction. I tried soothing her, but she couldn't get used to the sound. Eventually, we went inside.

Claire was hearing a firing range about a mile away from our gated community. It seemed counterintuitive to say to her that everything was alright. After all, gunfire should be feared. But it was unsettling to see her so upset. There really wasn't any danger anyway. And I was angry that she couldn't continue to play. I wished that I could explain to her that it was ok to ignore the popping sound, like the rest of us do.

Just like I've learned to ignore that people fear their children dying everyday. The sound of the firing range began to feel real to me too. I tried to imagine what I would tell my daughter then. I pictured what a fear-filled life would look like. I envisioned my daughter's world shrinking to fit into a small, sheltered place. I thought of the unimaginable happening.

Oh, but I think too much; I went too far with the last bit. So I reminded myself that it was only a firing range, that we were free from harm behind gates and privilege.

I felt safer again. I felt thankful for our life.

But I had gone back to ignoring. And I felt ashamed of myself.

Separation Anxiety

The rare night when George and I go out alone often overflows with conversation about Claire. Funny how that happens. We say we need a break from her, when we really can't get enough.

It's usually warranted for us to start off an evening with a back and forth about our daughter. Upon our exit, Claire acts as if we are abandoning her to a slow, torturous death at the hands of an interloper, who is clearly more fit for the role of Medea than care of a defenseless, 18-month-old child.

Or at least, this is how Claire seems to see it. She almost sells me on this angle, too. Hence the need for conversation that helps me shake off the mommy guilt of separation from her:

"Claire's certainly got a flair for drama from me," George (my actor husband) says. "I could hear her crying a thousand yards away from the door."

"Did you see the look on her face?" I say. "I didn't know such a tiny mouth could open that wide."

"Kind of like the Greek tragedy mask," George says, while getting on his smart phone..."Was it like this?" he says.

"No, the sides of her mouth went in more. I don't know how she contorts her little face like that," I say.

"How about this?" George replies.

"Even more melodrama," I say. George counters with: "This?"

"That's it!" I say, as we both lean in over the phone and nod.

If we sound flip about our daughter's pain, it's because we know that she will look more akin to the comedy side of the mask, once she shakes it off:

Or maybe that's what we choose to believe, since we really do need a break.

Thanksgiving

What day is it?"
It's today," squeaked Piglet.
My favorite day," said Pooh.”
― A.A. Milne

Teaching a child how to give thanks is important. At 18 months, Claire's a bit young, though. We won't be volunteering together or making a gratitude tree any time soon.

Anyway, she's a walking lesson in living in the moment. She finds wonder in all things great and small without any lesson from me.

I'm the one who's grateful to see the world anew through her eyes.

She hands objects to me throughout the day, a twig, a pea that's rolled under her highchair, sometimes something she's pulled out of her nose. I'm not sure if the objects are significant to her in and of themselves. Or if they become valuable out of the joy of discovery. Maybe, it's because she's given each one to me. Whatever the reason, I ponder each treasure closely in my palm and say, "Thank you, Claire."

About a week ago, I gave her a piece of apple. She looked at me and said, "Thank you, Mama."

I hadn't expected to hear these words from her for the first time then. She's not yet 18 months old, yet I have the great honor of witnessing a nascent sense about giving and receiving growing inside of her.

She is more than I ever expected on this Thanksgiving holiday. And every day.

"F" is for Friend

A guy I know keeps a glass jar on the top of his refrigerator marked “Potty Mouth”. Whenever he curses, he puts a dollar in it for charity. I need one too, or at least a precocious eight-year-old thinks I do:

“You just said a bad word,” George’s little cousin says to me (with the intent of an interrogator).

“Shit,” I think, replaying the dinner conversation in my head....“What’d I say?” I ask with trepidation.

“You said ‘stupid’,” Mary Louise says.

“Phew, ‘not as bad as I thought’,” I think.

“Well,” I didactically explain. “I didn’t call a person stupid; what I did was call something they did stupid and that really isn’t that bad.” 

(I remember learning that somewhere as a youngster, right? Back me up here, folks!)

Mary Louise listens patiently. But she isn’t buying my backpedaling. She gives me the blank stare of an eight-year-old. The look says “my world is and will continue to be black and white until I’m well beyond a teenager, so don’t waste your breath”.

I feel about two feet tall. And speaking of two feet tall, Claire is now in the full-blown mimicking stage. 

“Un, do, tree, foo”, she says, sounding like Buckwheat (only way cuter), and having no clue that she’s actually counting….Hence the thought of a jar that penalizes you. 

Mary Louise made me realize how much kids are actually listening -- even when you think they’re not. So instead of thinking about Claire using the potty, I'm worrying about my potty mouth. Of course, I want to be a good role model, which means I'm minding my P’s and Q’s. 

And F’s! That’s my favorite one…the F word. It’s versatile -- can be used in a number of ways, as different parts of speech. I often use it as a modifier, replacing words like ‘very’. 

So F and I are breaking up. He’s a bad influence. It’s going to be hard for me. If you’ve read my bio, you know I am a mom of a “certain age”. The F-word has been a companion for a f-ing…oh wait, I mean, very long time. 

The good news is that some charity will be the benefactor of my bad habit. Let me know your favorite one. I just might consider writing a check ahead of time…

Have a confession? Link up with Secret Mommy-hood Confession Saturday.

Heir Extensions

"Claire has a black eye!" I announce.

"What?" George says, trying to figure out what I'm talking about.

"See there…at the corner of her left eye…It's, like, all black and purplish," I trail off waiting for an explanation about how it got there.

"It wasn't there yesterday," George says, nonchalantly. "She probably ran into a corner of a door or something."

"Uh-huh," I say, half listening to him, half imagining my daughter running into a wall.

Thinking of my daughter hurting herself is horrifying by itself. Add to it the idea that no one was watching her closely enough to have witnessed what happened to her. Then I worry about how this disaster's going to reflect on ME.

"What's everyone going to think?" my mind races. "That bruise positively screams 'Mommie Dearest'. It might as well spell out the word 'ABUSE' in black and blue!" 

Just as quickly as I get myself worked up, I come to another realization.

"Wait, what's going on here? I'm more worried about myself than my daughter! 'Mommie Dearest' redux," I think. 

Now, I feel even worse. I imagine my daughter at the therapist's office circa 2040 talking about how she lived her childhood as an extension of her mother. Or worse, writing a tell-all book about it.

At this point…Claire has a black eye, I look like I don't take care of her, and an adult life on the couch awaits my daughter.  

"A triple crown day for me," I think. "Oh, wait. Reminder to self! It's not about ME…"

Opposites Attract

“Vee cole, vee cole,” Claire said repeatedly.

Translation: "Feet cold".

My poor little baby had cold feet for the first time in her life. Actually, I think it was her first experience with cold in general. It isn't hyperbole to say that it took me an hour to warm them up, rubbing each tiny foot over and over again in my hands. I don't know who was more traumatized, her or me. Actually, I take that back it was me.

You see my husband, George, had taken her for an impromptu THREE hour trip to the zoo in FORTY degree weather wearing ONLY canvas sneakers!

I was mortified. I considered being mad along with mortified, but I’m trying to be more philosophical since having a kid. I can definitely cut him some slack this time too. First of all, how great is it that Claire and her papa went to the zoo together? And, really, George doesn't mean to be reckless. He’s barely used to being married, let alone having a child. There's a learning curve to fatherhood, just like anything else.

Same goes for motherhood. While I'm a stickler for schedules and routines, George would probably say I'm an old stick in the mud. He puts up with my neurotic need to make sure she eats on time, always has a nap at the appointed hour and that she's never, ever cold.

In other words, that Claire has a boring mommy, who doesn't know the meaning of the word "spontaneous" and never does anything fun with her daughter.

I'm the yin to George's yang, the traditional to his untraditional. We compliment each other nicely. So Claire can go on adventures and explore with her papa, and then come home to the warmth and security of her mama.

(In the future, I will just have to be more careful that I supervise how my child is clothed more closely.)

Learning to Walk and Other Life Lessons

I barely remember a time when Claire didn’t walk. It’s been a mere two months, but the transformation could not be more enduring.  Sure, children start out with the struggle of the learning curve, but once they reach a milestone, they never look back. 

While Claire was learning to walk, I was learning about life. It was my first lesson in letting go. I wanted to help. I could hold her hand and cheer her on, but I couldn’t stop her from falling. I couldn’t show her how to find her equilibrium. I couldn’t take a step for her.

She had to discover how to stand on her own two feet and move through the world. Literally and metaphorically, isn’t this experience what we want most for our children? Why is it so hard to do?

Claire took it all in stride. She would find a tentative center and lurch forward. Her feet didn’t yet know how to keep up with her head and upper half of her body. She would stumble back down to the floor. Over and over again.

I was impatient.

Yet, falling was time well spent for Claire. She developed elegant ways to catch herself on the way down, crashing on her belly and looking up at me with a giggle. “How smart!” I thought. “She needs to know how to fall right, before she can walk.”

I started to feel in awe of her grace. I started to feel joy being in her presence and watching. I began to wonder about my own need to be right and to have things just so.

When do we begin to see our efforts as failure when what we really need is more practice? When do we replace the ability to make fools of ourselves with feelings of shame and embarrassment? When do we stop having fun in the moment and worry only about the end result?

Claire has no self-doubt. She shows complete faith in the process. She isn’t concerned about when the goal will be achieved.

The best self-help gurus preach about this stuff all the time.  They’ve got nothing on my daughter Claire.

Life of the Party

I dared throw a party one time in high school, while my mom and step dad were out of town. It wasn’t my best decision ever. I spent the whole time sober, watching drunken people do stupid things.

The other night, Elmo landed on the floor in a way that suggested he'd had one too many.

I realized that inebriated teenagers and toddlers have much in common. 

Like living with a toddler, I witnessed lots of stumbling and falling down the night of that party. I cringed each time a heavy and/or breakable object was pitched in the air. The floor became a garbage can strewn with random debris. And people couldn’t seem to keep their voices down.

I felt like the “no” police spoiling all the fun. I repeated myself a lot. I expended way too much energy waiting for disaster to happen.

After the festivities were over, I was the sole person left to clean up the mess.

Thankfully, Claire hasn’t burned her bangs off trying to light a cigarette on the stove like Angie Shivle did that night.  Plus, I was this close to throwing everyone out. Things can get chaotic around chez Demas, but my love for my daughter always keeps me from cracking.

Most importantly, having Claire is my best decision ever.

Hidden Treasure

theartreference.blogspot.com

  

Claire has turned our home into a scavenger hunt of sorts. An Easter Egg Hunt without the eggs, if you will.

When I find a random ball or blocks under a chair or table, it’s barely worth a yawn. I’m much more surprised when I open the door to the hall closet and happen upon a piece of apple. Or when I’m booby trapped by a trail of Cheerios crunch, crunching under foot, as I walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I’m most intrigued when it seems that Claire has specifically placed things in certain spots…The half of a cracker that’s perfectly wedged in the small round hole of a toy… The square piece of cheese that has come to rest exactly in the middle of the metal coaster on the side table…The sippy cup straws and primary colored crayons that seem made to go together in a cup on her easel.

I have weighed the idea of keeping her in the highchair to eat. But then I would be more concerned about how I look as a housekeeper than Claire. Really, she’s a toddler. I’m  happy to get food in her, even if it means she’s on the run and food ends up elsewhere.

Plus, I remember reading the truism that the creativity of youth is rarely tidy. Her various hidings are evidence of how she engages with and transforms her environment. Her serendipitous, little presents are like interior decorating, toddler style.

On the other hand, I am less happy to find a piece of food that’s been hanging around for awhile -- like a desiccated old man calling out for cockroaches and/or mice. Likewise, my patience wears thin when she’s hidden my keys.

I draw the line at hiding keys. Unfortunately, like most toddlers, she remains completely undeterred by this line in the sand!

Accidents Happen

 

I get hit with the astounding responsibility of having a child at random times during the day. My daughter doesn’t need to be with me either. A solo trip down slick subway steps summoned the terror recently. Behold my spiraling stream of consciousness below:

“SLOW DOWN! You’ll break your neck…

"What if I broke my ankle? I was single that time I sprained my ankle. I was ALONE then. NO ONE took care of me. But I did get to put my feet up and relax while laid up! I’m a mom now – FORGET the luxury of being laid up…

“What do injured mothers do?! It must happen EVERYDAY! Those subway steps almost got ME...

“WORSE, what about single moms? Or no family nearby? No safety net. I’d probably tie myself up in bubble wrap or something…

“There’s that Visiting Nurses Service. They visit old people when they’re hurt. How about a Visiting Nanny Service for moms? Same acronym, anyway. Insurance should cover it. Or the government! In Sweden, they’d pay for it…

I wish we lived in Sweden!”

By the time the C train arrives, I’ve imagined myself walking around in bubble wrap and/or living in Sweden. Any old irrational contingency plan helps keep my fears at bay. 

If I’m lucky, my plotting just might hold me for awhile…at least until the next chance happening occurs…

Soul Search

 

The Homage, Marc Chagall, 1972

I stare endlessly at my daughter and marvel. Her face is compelling, purely because she is mine. Sometimes, my purpose is to see how she’s grown and changed. More often, I simply wish to behold.

Lately, I’ve been looking for my father. I search for him in the shape of her eyes, the set of her mouth, the way she furrows her brow. No trace of my dad is evident there, at least not yet.

I don’t know which I fear more...that my daughter will never come to resemble him...or that I have lost the ability to recognize him altogether.

My dad died when I was eleven. I am now 45. Much of my life has been marked without him in it. I have come to identify more with his absence than his presence.

Sadly, this space only grows larger as I grow older. Tragically, I no longer miss my dad.

I long for him, though. I search for him, too. Lately, I’m searching for my father in my daughter’s face.

The Ghost of Halloween Past, Present and Future

Ah, Fall. The snap in the air is the first harbinger of the season. Then, the light takes on low, slanting glow. Life settles into a more ordered routine. My favorite time of year, sullied only by one day…Halloween.

I have been boycotting Halloween for a long while. The titular reason is that I want to avoid women dressed like ho’s and their male moron counterparts. Indeed, this statement is true. But the real reason is that I don’t have an ounce of creativity when it comes to costumes.

Opting out of Halloween as an adult has been no big deal. Now that I have Claire, it’s been on my mind again. When you have a child, you benchmark her experience growing up against your own. As the saying goes, we relive our childhood…

I remember my mom bent over the sewing machine with a knitted brow. I stood by her side, just about the height of her hands feeding the fabric through the needle. I watched what seemed a miracle transformation. She was turning one of her shiny, sequined 70’s disco numbers into a fairy princess costume for me. Come trick or treat time, I felt like the best shiny, sequined princess on the block. Later, the same piece became a tin man costume for my brother. One year, my brother and I both went as Raggedy Ann and Andy. That costume was so authentic; mom even made the wigs!

Mom, Brother Ben and Me (circa 1978)

I felt sorry for the kids who had to wear those Woolworth generated plastic items, complete with suffocating masks and an unseemly smell. They looked scratchy and uncomfortable, and made a weird rustling sound going up and down the street. But, worst of all, they lacked the hand of a mother’s love. I am haunted by the fact that Claire will now be one of those children.

I have warm feelings in my heart thinking about the love that went into the costumes mom made for us. I feel emptiness in my heart for Claire, because she will not have the same experience as me.

But I know I don’t need to be all things to her. Teaching children that we have limitations is wise. At some point, I will have to tell her that the craft gene has skipped a generation. This fact bodes well for her. Maybe one day, she will carry on the Halloween costume tradition with her own kids.

The Boob Police

 

I was suspicious. A relative was taking a curious interest in Claire’s breastfeeding habits. Her queries came at me with a jagged, little edge. I wondered about the subtext. Non-committal retorts like “uh-huh” reinforced my hunch that disapproval lurked just under the surface. As she was saying one thing, I was hearing another:

She says: When do you plan on stopping breastfeeding?

I hear: You should stop breastfeeding.

She says: Has she started asking for milk?

I hear: When she’s old enough to say “milk”, she’s old enough to eat ‘real’ food.

She says: Doesn’t she bite you with all those teeth?

I hear: When she’s cut a mouth of teeth, she’s old enough to eat ‘real’ food.

She says: Do you also give her cow’s milk?

I hear: When she’s old enough to have ‘real food’, you should stop breastfeeding.

She says: What if she won't stop?

I hear: That baby's gonna be five years old and still on the tit.

She says: What do you do when you’re outside?

I hear: You should be ashamed of yourself for breastfeeding a 16-month-old in public.

I wanted the interrogation to stop. But I just calmly provided answers to the ‘questions’. Really, I'm an unlikely ambassador for breastfeeding. I don’t want to make people uncomfortable. If other breastfeeding mamas want to make a statement, they have my blessing. I just want to feed my child.

Barbarians at the Baby Gate

The phrase “You need a license to fish, but any fool can have a baby” often rumbled through my head, as I neared the end of my pregnancy with Claire. I felt ill equipped to bring a newborn baby home for the first time. A justifiable fear, since I hadn’t changed a diaper in 30 years. George had never changed a diaper. 

We both had (and have) much to learn. Our mutual inexperience with babies has meant that we’ve had many surprises along the way. Many suggest that babies are heartier than we give them credit for. Here are a few:

1)    Babies are loud. I’ve read that they are getting to know their voices for the first time. I think they are trying to wake the dead.

2)    They don't fight fair. Yesterday, Claire took her dexterous, little index finger and found the tiny tear duct space in the corner of my eye. She reached in and tried to scoop out my eyeball. It was an unfamiliar kind of pain. Labor still beat it though.

3)    They fart frequently and in a variety of places and situations. Enough said.

4)    Their fingernails grow like wildfire -- much to my dismay, since they also loathe having them cut.

5)    They hate having their nose, mouth and hands wiped. And the plethora of appliances meant to help with the task (such as the Nose Frieda) merely plays on a parent’s desperation and adds to the resistance.

6)    They are tough mother suckers. The other day, Claire was trying to climb onto a chair and fell backwards. Somehow, her mouth was involved in the mishap. I was completely freaked out by the amount of blood that ensued. She was just mad that I made her stop playing long enough to deal with the damage (refer to #5).

7)    They're daredevils. We were at Claire’s grandma’s house. I walked out of the bathroom and found Claire crawling up the steps for the first time all by herself!

Or I could have said, “conquering the Steppes”, since the summary of this post is that babies often act like barbarians. Perhaps you’re thinking, "My child doesn't do these things. Speak for yourself!”If that’s the case, I’ll end by saying that Claire makes a damn cute barbarian.

Mommy and "Me Time"

I felt like I was having a long overdue spa day. My body relaxed into the contours of the chair. The lights on the ceiling called to me like spinning mandalas, pulsating with meditative energy. I sighed and surrendered myself to the lady taking care of…

My teeth.

Yes, I was at the dentist. I can’t say I ever imagined considering a teeth cleaning a luxurious treat. But having Claire has given the term “me time” a new meaning. These days I will take it where I can get it.

But, really, the dentist office as “me time”? It made me realize how much of the energy in the Demas household flows from me to Claire, and how I survive on fumes.

Which means that all is about as it should be with a 15 month old.

When I am my best self, I remember that one of the beautiful (albeit challenging) gifts of a child is the lesson of self-sacrifice. Generally, the act of giving comes easily, almost reflexively, with a child. What requires contemplation is the repercussion of resentment that can often follow -- especially when I feel tired, overwhelmed and lacking patience.

Sometimes, I need to remember that it's okay to metaphorically put on my oxygen mask first. Often, I must make a conscious effort to find time for me hidden in different places and smaller moments.

To the last bit, I can thank my daughter for giving me a fresh perspective about the much-maligned obligation of going to the dentist.


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The House of Yes

Claire’s balloon comes floating by her high chair. Tiny, sticky fingers reach up, grab the string and start inching it downward. George and I both see what’s coming. Should we intervene? Too late. The balloon is smashed into the tray a few times and released, replete with remnants of yogurt, sardines and rice. “Bye, Bye” Claire says and waves, as it ascends to where it came from. How about that? She has found a way of making a mess on the ceiling without throwing anything. I didn’t think that was possible. It’s pretty ingenuous, really.

The beautiful irony of the whole thing is that Claire does not paint the ceiling with sweet potato by design. She doesn’t even know she’s doing so. It’s just the innocent by-product of exploring her world. How could I possibly say no? Is it really so bad when she pulls the cat’s tail? Or takes all of the clothes out of every single drawer in the bedroom for the hundredth time that day? She doesn’t know any better, and she’s having such a great time!

I’m finding that my job as mother is becoming more and more about weighing the damage of her actions against the fun she’s having. I’ve decided that if she’s not killing herself or another sentient being or if Spray and Wash or some other heavy solvent will take out the damage, I’m down for whatever she has in mind. This philosophy does not come without a few daily cringes though. Living with the amount of chaos a toddler can generate is a learned skill. I’ve found that it’s best just to surrender to Claire’s way of seeing the world.

I’m not so sure she’s too far from the truth, either. Ask any Zen master and I’m sure he or she will tell you that order is transient anyhow. Besides, Claire will be “civilized” soon enough. For example, I’ve already begun teaching her how to put the clothes back in the drawers…Hmm? So Claire is teaching me about the meaning of life; I’m teaching her…household chores? Makes you wonder who’s raising whom, doesn’t it?